Vanyel Greyjoy (The Dragonborn) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
drehnifusbahi) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nexus_crossings2016-10-10 09:33 pm
drehnifusbahi) wrote in nexus_crossings2016-10-10 09:33 pm
Because Heroics Don't Have to Be Big and Loud and Dramatic
Here's a face that hasn't been seen around the Nexus in quite some time - since the mass de-aging event, in fact. But that's long since passed, and the Dragonborn is back to his usual self, if a little more warmly dressed in deference to the autumn chill. (Armor without true sleeves is perfectly fine for Snow Elves, not so much for southborn Imperials.)
He's currently seated at a Convenient Nexus Table&trade, on which he's set up his alchemy equipment. There's a satchel full of ingredients on the bench-like seat beside him, which he dips into every now and again, grinding and blending and decanting in fluid, repetitive movements. He works steadily for a while, by all appearances absorbed in his task, churning out potions to cure disease, along with more general healing potions.
After a certain point, though, he sits back, idly rubbing feeling back into hands that are starting to cramp. "I can't promise they'll be entirely effective against diseases that aren't actually of Tamriel," he says, addressing the Plaza at large, "But I've potions of Healing and Cure Disease, for any who need them, and also a healing spell I could try."
[So, as stated, Van's brewed up some healing potions and is also willing to make with the Healing Hands for anyone who spoke to -or just got too close to- Rotund'jere. But it'd be a little boring if he could just fix it all in one go, right? So to make this a little more interesting, and avoid god-modding on my part, I figured we could let the RNG decide how effective his attempts are or aren't on a scale of 1-10, with 10 being 100% healed and 1 being a complete failure.]
He's currently seated at a Convenient Nexus Table&trade, on which he's set up his alchemy equipment. There's a satchel full of ingredients on the bench-like seat beside him, which he dips into every now and again, grinding and blending and decanting in fluid, repetitive movements. He works steadily for a while, by all appearances absorbed in his task, churning out potions to cure disease, along with more general healing potions.
After a certain point, though, he sits back, idly rubbing feeling back into hands that are starting to cramp. "I can't promise they'll be entirely effective against diseases that aren't actually of Tamriel," he says, addressing the Plaza at large, "But I've potions of Healing and Cure Disease, for any who need them, and also a healing spell I could try."
[So, as stated, Van's brewed up some healing potions and is also willing to make with the Healing Hands for anyone who spoke to -or just got too close to- Rotund'jere. But it'd be a little boring if he could just fix it all in one go, right? So to make this a little more interesting, and avoid god-modding on my part, I figured we could let the RNG decide how effective his attempts are or aren't on a scale of 1-10, with 10 being 100% healed and 1 being a complete failure.]
Rolled a 5
Even through his sleeve, he feels a sudden chill, and tries to surreptitiously tug his coat a little tighter around himself with his free hand. "No, not too volatile at all. At worst, it won't do anything at all, and at least you'll have found out they were duds before you actually spent any money on them."
He drinks the red liquid in a few quick gulps, and frowns thoughtfully. "Well, they aren't the strongest I've ever made, but they'll do in a pinch - though I would, of course, understand if you didn't want to pay the full proposed price for potions that promise to be half-effective at best."
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"Oh, bravo!" The results still illicit a smile and a polite, brief clap. "I can barely mix a decent drink on the best of days. Or nights." Was that a wink? "And here you are, whipping up healing potions like it was nothing! I'm very impressed."
Vanyel might be thankful (or bewildered?) to feel that strangely chilling aura
withdrawingebbing. Maybe it's his potion working its magic! Maybe it was just a bad crossbreeze earlier."Lucky for you, I'm a man of my word. If I said 100 coins, I shall pay a 100 coins." Necrophos pulls a richly embroidered purse from his sash, pulling the ties and beginning to count out the gold on the table.
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And it does come as a relief to feel that chill ebbing somewhat, whatever the reason. It even relaxes him enough that he can smile wryly at the clapping (and flirting).
"Lucky for me indeed," he agrees, tucking his hands into his sleeves as he watches the monk count out the coins. And that too niggles suspiciously at the back of his mind; the clergy are rarely that well-payed, in his experience.
But he's not about to make an issue of it; he knows better than to bite the hand that feeds.
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The priest does indeed seem to have a surplus of money; he's counted out several hundred in denomination now for all the bottles. And he still has plenty left over by the time he cinches the purse closed again. "While not a hundred actual coins, per se, I assure you they're worth that much back where I come from. I'm not in the habit to cheat handsome merchants, especially if I hope to do returning business."
Though Rotund'jere pauses, tapping a long finger against one cheek. "Are you terribly familiar with this place, by the way? Been here long? I'm a fresh arrival myself and now I worry I won't know my way around as best to help others." Where is he going with this.
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And the money -both coins and not coins- is swept neatly into a satchel he hauls up from under the table. The Nexus being what it is, there's sure to be someplace that'll accept it as currency.
He thinks he might just see where this is going, actually. "I'm a fairly frequent visitor, but I've not explored as thoroughly as I ought. I have too much on my plate back home to justify staying here indefinitely, no matter how interesting it is."
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"If nothing else, there's a lovely place down the way that serves a marvelous mulled wine. Quite nice with the growing cold."
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In truth, he can think of few things he'd rather do less, but it doesn't strike him as terribly wise to say as much. So he's left casting about for a suitable excuse.
"Ah, well, I'm flattered, but..."
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Either way, there's a Legion officer strolling over to inspect your new commercial enterprise, Vanyel. He nods politely to both Dragonborn and customer; he may be gauging their interaction before interrupting, but he does have the air of expecting due attention...
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The actual transaction being over, he sets the money pouch aside and slides the existing bottles toward Rotund'jere. "But it appears I have other business to attend to, at present," he finishes smoothly, and scoots down the bench so that he's no longer directly across from the monk.
"Good afternoon, Tribune." This is the point where Stratos might note that the Dragonborn seems... distinctly relieved to see him.
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"And to you. It's been a while since we last spoke; I'm glad to see you looking more yourself." Last time, after all, Stratos was rather shorter. "This is a new side-venture, I take it?"
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"I could say the same to you." Vanyel recalls; so was he, though admittedly not to the same degree.
"Well, something like that. I couldn't help but notice that quite a few folk are suddenly taking sick, and since I have the means to do something about it..." He waves a hand at the equipment.
"The good monk there," he nods in the green-robed man's direction, "insisted on paying me for my work, but it wasn't precisely intended as a for-profit venture."
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Further comment is put on hold though, as he pauses at Vanyel's latter words. He gives a distinctly puzzled look after the departing... well. "Monk? Are you sure?"
That's a... very ostentatious monk.
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Mudcrab chitin and vampire dust retrieved, he sets about preparing them - though in truth, there's not much that needs to be done to the dust. "He called himself Rotund'jere the Necrophos, and evidently he's a new arrival," he continues in the same conversational tone as before.
It's also worth noting he seems to have relaxed considerably with the man's departure.
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There's also the sharp look he gives Vanyel at that title. Looks like he likes the sound of that no better than the Dragonborn does.
"Interesting name. He certainly leaves an impression," he says, then - and he doesn't look like he's teasing, "Was he a pleasant customer?"
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The sharp look is met with a level one from Vanyel. he's fought more than enough necromancers to be well aware what nasty characters they can be; he mislikes the idea of one setting up shop here, of all places.
His mouth draws into a thin line at the question and his gaze drops down to the remains of the chitin, half-mashed into paste. "A bit too pleasant, if anything."
Not that he minded other men flirting with him, or hadn't done his fair share himself. But there was something deeply unsettling about that particular man.
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"I see." No more polite little evasions. When someone brings a concern to him - deliberately asking for help or not - he takes it seriously. "Perhaps we should keep an eye on him. I would be interested in hearing of it, should you have any more encounters with the man." He can hardly order Vanyel to report anything; it's more of a quiet invitation, to speak with him if the Dragonborn finds any more cause for concern.
Besides, even if the 'Necrophos' isn't up to anything shady at all, Stratos needs to start keeping better track of significant persons in the Nexus. Which includes Vanyel himself, for that matter.
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Which is why, when that quiet invitation is issued, he looks up at Stratos again, hands stilling. "He... I think he was making me ill, or trying, the entire time we spoke."
He doesn't know it for sure, of course, but he didn't fell the slightest bit ill before encountering the mysterious monk. And there was the matter of the potion, too; it had been made correctly, he would lay money on that, so why hadn't it worked as it should have?
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"That's no minor concern, Stendarr knows. The last thing we need is some new Thrassian plague... How do you feel now?"
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"Better. I drank one of the potions - how better to test its efficacy?"
Though he's still not entirely right; there's still a tightness in his chest and a soreness in his throat, but it's nothing life-threatening. Once he gets to a decent stopping point, he'll cast a quick healing spell on himself.
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And there's also the little fact that the outbreak seems to have coincided with the arrival of a man who can make others sick by his very presence. Could be a coincidence, but he rather doubts it.
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"But? Oh come now, life's too short for 'buts'. I'd simply like to hear a bit more about you and what you do! A name would be nice as well, all things considered." Eyebrows raised expectantly.
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And though he does a decent job looking like he means it, it must be note that he's been inching down the bench in Stratos' direction the entire time he's been talking.
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"Should you wish to find me, simply ask around for Rotund'jere, the Necrophos. I'm sure I'll turn up, especially if I hear your name in turn. Until then..." Another knowing smile as he turns and swishes away, his scythe tapping with his steps. Now, where's a good place to destroy and/or dump out these potions...
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That title -Necrophos- has his brows rising for just a moment. The same root as necromancy, from the sound of it, which makes him all the more glad for a decent excuse to turn down the man's invitation. Still, all he actually says is, "Rotund'jere the Necrophos. I'll be sure to remember."
He watches surreptitiously as the old monk -if indeed he is a monk- walks away, and only once he's out of sight does he allow himself to relax.