Open Chronicles Suspicious Kapmadillo in Vel Anir

[Tiff Noomron]

The morning fog lingered over the cobblestones of the Vel Anir market district as Tiff Noomron arranged his stall, a shaky wooden cart covered with a blood-stained velvet cloth. With a dramatic gesture that caused his gold-trimmed purple hat to teeter atop his head, he retrieved a collection of small frosted glass vials from his coat.

Each one radiated an unsettling deep violet glow, capturing the faint sunlight in a manner that proclaimed its potency. "Come forth, masters of the shadows! Seekers of the quiet demise!" Tiff’s voice was a sweet, raspy whisper, slicing through the noise of the bustling morning crowd.

He raised a vial high between his clawed fingers, examining it through his monocle with focus. "Directly from the obsidian labs of the deep drow hives! The fabled Midnight’s Kiss. Just one drop, and your foe will be joining their ancestors before they can take another breath. I gambled my scales and my very soul to deliver this to the surface."

A passing sellsword paused, squinting at the display. Tiff didn't blink. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Aristocracy pays ten times the price for half the potency, friend. But for a man of action? A special pioneer's discount" Had the sellsword examined it more closely, beyond the menacing stare of the Kapmadillo, he might have spotted that the Drow Sigil on the label was nothing more than a poorly drawn spider with ten legs, trembling beneath a coat of cheap ink.

Had he uncorked it, the aroma would not have been of neurotoxins, but rather of stagnant pond water mixed with a hefty splash of beet juice. The so-called frosted glass was simply a crust of dried salt and grime meant to conceal the absence of thickness.

However, Tiff was an expert in shady dealings; before the mark could raise any questions about the sediment resting at the bottom of the bottle, the merchant was already tallying the silver and slipping the deadly mixture into the man's hand with a sly wink.

 

[Ovlan Vare]

Ovlan breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, luck had smiled on him; even if it had been a very tentative one, reluctantly granting him his boon.

He clenched his fist on the prize of Republic coin he'd sifted from the nearest tavern. Now he could really do with some breakfast.

But instead, his easily-distracted eye caught something else. A strange merchant selling even stranger wares. Ovlan thrust his hands into the pockets of his beaten, scarlet coat, sauntering over.

One sellsword marched away with a vial and a nasty smirk. Ovlan blinked. Meanwhile, the slumbering Scarly began to stir beneath his collar, the small cockatrice wriggling in his daily ritual of rousing.

"I don't suppose you sell anything else but, uh, poison..?"

Tiff Noomron

 

[Guillaume d’Aubrac]

Guillaume had learned long ago that markets were where truths slipped their leashes.

He moved through the streets of Vel Anir with an easy, unhurried stride, cloak drawn close against the late-day chill, eyes half-lidded as if bored—yet missing very little. The smells of spice, sweat, and cheap metal mingled in the air, familiar and faintly unpleasant. He was just turning his attention toward a particularly loud stall when someone collided with him hard enough to jolt the breath from his lungs.

“Watch it,” the other man snapped.

Guillaume steadied himself smoothly, one gloved hand briefly catching the stranger’s arm. The sellsword was broad, scarred, and armored in the practical way of someone who expected violence more often than comfort. His hand hovered near his weapon, irritation sharp in his eyes.

“Ah—pardon, mon ami,” Guillaume said, his voice warm but lilting, the words shaped by a thick elvish cadence and softened by French inflection. “Zeh crowd, she drifts as it pleases, non?”

He released the man at once, palms open, posture unthreatening.

The sellsword snorted, clearly unconvinced, but after a moment his stance eased. His gaze lingered on Guillaume—measuring, weighing—before he turned away with a grunt and melted back into the press of bodies.

Guillaume watched him go for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Recently armed, he thought. Recently annoyed. Et très recently… parted wiz his coin.

That last detail drew Guillaume’s attention naturally to the stall nearby.

Ah.

There it was.

A Kapmadillo merchant, shell gleaming dully beneath layered cloth and dangling trinkets, voice pitched just a touch too high, gestures just a touch too theatrical. The violet-glowing vials sat front and center, catching the light, begging—no, imploring—to be believed. Guillaume stepped closer, hands folding behind his back, posture relaxed yet attentive.

He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing—not at the glow, but at the glass. The thickness. The seal. The faint residue clinging just beneath the lip.

Intéressant…

He inhaled carefully. Not the scent one would expect of a true drow-brewed toxin. No bitter iron. No biting floral undertone. Instead—sweet. Almost harmless.

Guillaume straightened, lips curving into a faint, private smile.

“Midnight’s Kiss,” he murmured softly, the words rolling with a musical accent, as though savoring a fine wine’s name. “Quel drame…”

His gaze flicked briefly to where the sellsword had vanished into the crowd, then returned to the Kapmadillo and his wares.

Either you are a fraud, Guillaume thought, ou… something far more amusant.

He remained there, studying, waiting—patient as only an elf could be—curious to see which truth would slip its leash first.

 

[Ovlan Vare]

"*Only* poisons? Well tug me in the tail. I was rather looking for something to eat that won't kill me. What? My tail? Oh, no, no, I don't *have* a tail. It's an, eh, expression where I'm from. Very well, good, yes; and you, farewell."

Finally disentangling himself from the sketchy merchant, Ovlan near walked into Guilliame's chest. Scarly hissed, wearing the collar of his coat like an impromptu cloak and hood.

"Oh, 'scuse me, I--"

With a piercing screech somewhere in the realm of an incensed turkey and an ill-tempered salamander, Scarly the Cockatrice revealed himself and hissed at Guilliame, tongue lashing through his beak, floppy rooster-wad dangling violently from his chin, yellow, serpentine eyes narrowed with hostility.

The motion and reveal drew a collective gasp from the crowd. Fingers pointed and voices clamoured:

"Drakeling!"

"Snake!!"

"Uncle's rooster!!!"

All wrong, of course. Fortunately, not only didn't Scarly cut an impressive enough figure to be identified correctly as a cockatrice, he also failed to live up to the legend of being able to turn people to stone with his baleful gaze. At most, he might have been able to sour milk slightly with his wrinkled, slit eyes.

Ovlan promptly grabbed the creature's beak before he could snap at the hedge knight, then engaged in a furious melee of flapping wings and feathers in his face to attempt to stuff his pet back below his coat.

"Come on here, you overbloated chicken, get down there -- you're causing a scene!"

Guillaume d’Aubrac

 

[Guillaume d’Aubrac]

Guillaume did not look at the Kapmadillo when the question was asked.

His attention lingered instead on the man who had spoken—scarlet coat worn thin by travel, posture loose in the practiced way of someone who wished to appear unbothered. He was doing well enough. Not perfectly. Guillaume’s eyes caught the faint movement beneath the man’s collar as well, a subtle wriggle, alive and impatient.

Ah… voilà, Guillaume thought. You carry a petit secret, oui.

Only then did he allow his gaze to drift back to the stall. The violet vials glimmered softly, like promises murmured in candlelight. He leaned closer, fingers hovering just shy of the glass, head tilting with courteous interest.

“Poison,” Guillaume repeated aloud, the word rolling slowly, shaped by a thick elvish cadence and softened by a heavy French inflection. “C’est… quite an ambitieuse claim, non?”

He straightened and turned at last toward Ovlan, studying him openly now. His eyes were calm, curious, touched at the edges with faint amusement. “A merchant who sells only one thing,” he continued gently, each syllable measured, “rarely sells it honestly. Surtout when zat thing is meant to kill… quietly, yes?”

His gaze slipped—brief and deliberate—toward the space where the sellsword had vanished, then returned to Ovlan.

“If I were him,” Guillaume said, voice smooth and warm, vowels drawn long, consonants softened, “I would prier zat I had somezing else to offer. Antidotes, perhaps. Tonics zat presque work.” A pause. A restrained, knowing smile. “Or stories. Ah… stories are cheap, and zey sell très well.”

He folded his hands behind his back, posture relaxed, unhurried, as though Vel Anir itself were keeping time for him. “But I suspect,” he added softly, eyes settling once more on the Kapmadillo, “we shall soon learn whether he answers your question… or if he prefers to danse around it.”

Guillaume remained where he was, attentive now—not only to the merchant, but to the man beside him… and to the quiet, restless life stirring beneath scarlet cloth.

 

[Ovlan Vare]

He folded his hands behind his back, posture relaxed, unhurried, as though Vel Anir itself were keeping time for him. “But I suspect,” he added softly, eyes settling once more on the Kapmadillo, “we shall soon learn whether he answers your question… or if he prefers to danse around it.”

"Who, him? No, I don't think he will. In either case, he only sells . . . strange . . . wares . . ."

Ovlan was distracted with stuffing Scarly into his inner-most pocket, despite the pitiful sqwuaks of the creature. In the meantime, the kapmadillo merchant had struck upon a new mark, saucing up another customer for his faux wares. Ovlan smiled to himself; satisfied that Scarly was now under control, and placed his hands on his hips.

"Ah! There we are. That'll sort him." He frowned nervously as some pedestrians still shot him weird glances. He attempted to blend in by conversing with the accented warrior. "You, uh, you think you're . . . going to procure anything?"

Guillaume d’Aubrac

 

[Guillaume d’Aubrac]

Guillaume’s eyes followed the faint commotion at Ovlan’s chest with open curiosity, one elegant brow lifting as the small creature was unceremoniously persuaded into silence.

“Mm,” he hummed softly, the sound thoughtful, almost amused. “Your compagnon does not seem entirely in agreement wiz ze arrangement.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward the Kapmadillo, who was already lavishing theatrical enthusiasm upon a new customer. Hands waving. Voice rising. Coin preparing to change ownership.

“Strange wares, you say?” Guillaume replied, his accent thick and melodic, vowels long, consonants softened by his homeland’s lilt. “Ah… but strange is not always useless. Sometimes it is merely… badly explained.”

He watched the exchange at the stall for a moment longer, noting the way the merchant angled the vial to catch the light just so.

When Ovlan placed his hands upon his hips and attempted something resembling casual conversation, Guillaume turned his full attention upon him again. Calm eyes. Patient. Measuring.

“You ask if I intend to procure somezing?” Guillaume repeated, the faintest curl touching his lips. “Non. I do not buy what I already understand.”

His gaze flicked toward the glowing vials.

“Zat liquid is too sweet by scent. Too clear at ze base. If it were brewed in ze deep places he claims, it would bite ze nose like iron and nightshade.” He gave a slight shrug. “This? It bites nozing.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying Ovlan anew. “But perhaps you consider it worth ze risk? For your… pocketed friend, hm?”

The faintest hint of amusement warmed his tone.

“Or perhaps,” Guillaume added smoothly, folding his hands behind his back once more, “we wait. A false merchant often reveals more zan he intends… when he believes he has secured ze room.”

His attention drifted once again to the Kapmadillo, though he remained keenly aware of the man beside him—and the muffled indignation from within scarlet cloth.

 

[Ovlan Vare]

He tilted his head slightly, studying Ovlan anew. “But perhaps you consider it worth ze risk? For your… pocketed friend, hm?”

"What? For Scarly? Nah, he just eats rats and mice mainly. Maybe the odd cat. As for me, I was mainly looking to get breakfast of the human kind. Eggs, bread and meat, if I can help it. Preferably with no drow poisons in it, thank you very much."

Ovlan squinted an eye, looking up at Guilliame. He was quite short himself, head reaching about the same height as the knight's surcoat. A hand nuzzled at his own little, sandy chin-beard, considering.

"You having a beef with this merchant, eh? Out to out him?"

Guillaume d’Aubrac

 

[Guillaume d’Aubrac]

Guillaume’s gaze dipped—slowly—toward the small man at his side, measuring the height difference without comment. One corner of his mouth curved faintly.

“Eggs, bread, meat…” he repeated, accent thick and musical. “Ahh, a noble ambition. Much safer zan violet miracles in glass, oui.”

At the mention of cats, one brow arched ever so slightly. “Your Scarly has… discerning tastes.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the pocket that held the indignant creature, then returned to Ovlan’s squinting stare.

“Beef?” Guillaume echoed, the word shaped carefully. “Non, non. I do not quarrel wiz merchants merely for ze sport.” He tilted his head slightly, gaze sliding back toward the Kapmadillo, who was now deep in performance for his newest customer.

“I simply dislike lies zat pretend to be artistry.”

The faintest shift in his posture suggested quiet irritation—not anger, but principle.

“If he sells colored syrup as poison, zen he insults both poisoners and fools alike. One should at least respect ze craft, hm?”

He folded his hands behind his back once more, cloak stirring faintly in the marketplace breeze.

“To out him?” Guillaume mused softly. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I only wish to see how bold he is. A liar in a city like Vel Anir must either be very clever… or very desperate.”

His eyes slid back down to Ovlan, cool and assessing.

“And you, mon ami? You ask as though you hope for spectacle.”

A faint, knowing smile touched his lips.

“Or are you merely hungry?”

Ovlan Vare

 

[Ovlan Vare]

"...Hungry, mainly! Though a little spectacle never goes amiss."

Ovlan guffawed briefly, abruptly cutting his own laugh short when he noticed others were eavesdropping on their conversation. He nudged the knight at his elbow, made a throw of his head towards the nearest inn, a few clicks of his mouth and jab of his thumb towards it. Any one of those gestures would probably have been enough to carry the message across. But for reasons entirely his own, Ovlan opted for all four at once. Perhaps thinking their wildly differing cultures might go amiss in any communication.

"How's about we find some, hm? A little chat over a meal never hurts. I'm starving." And curious, he thought. Dragon's spit, this knight might actually be someone of importance. And Ovlan liked knowing people of importance. A little bit of influence, a contact or even an acquintance could go a long way in a foreign city. "If you got the time, we can exchange stories. I don't think I've heard anyone here talk quite like you do. Where's that accent from?"

If the knight accepted, Ovlan would begin sauntering towards the nearest inn with him.

Guillaume d’Aubrac