Quarter Fords|A Lovely Mid Morning!
“Mister Alkrim, sir.” The ships Captain addressed Demkaih with a nod, wooden pipe tucked into his palm and green eyes regarding the tall Mugrobi from a tawny face. Hessean, the older man sported a greying short cropped beard, his long grey hair tucked up into a high topknot. The Mugrobi merchant trader stood at the bow of his ship, hands behind his back, piercing blue eyes scanning the bustle of the docks. He never tired of entering the Rose, fascinated by its hustle and bustle, whilst keeping one eye on the lingering faces of Silas Hawkes gentleman. Demkaih could never—would never—get in bed with that one, but he paid the taxes due as asked and kept his nose clean. It kept the peace, and should there be extra cargo on one his ships that hadn’t been expected, as long as it didn’t hurt his business the tall dark wick-in-galdor-clothing turned a generally blind eye.
“Captain, thankyou for allowing my time on your vessel this trip. I haven’t sailed in months, and it is good to see the Rose from Hulali’s blessed waters.” The Mugrobi merchant had chosen to dress in more Anaxi acceptable attire before coming into dock, his usual bright colors traded for a longsleeved cream colored tunic shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and loose dark brown jodhpurs. Over the top he wore an long sleeveless navy silk vest, unbuttoned and adorned with intricate gold thread embroidery. Belted at the waist with a turquoise silk scarf, the Mugrobi had worn his round blades on each hip and a collection of wooden bead necklaces around his neck. As always, a small figurine of Hulali was carried in a bright red silk pouch on his belt, this one freshly carved out of an uliam thigh bone. His feet were protected by leather woven sandals and plain wooden bracelets knocked gently on either wrist.
“No problem sir, always a pleasure. It’s your vessel, not mine. I just sail her.” Puffing on the pipe, he waved at the harbour as Demkaih began to heft a beige canvas satchel over one shoulder.
“Should you want passage back, we’ll be headed out in about a ten-day.” The Mugrobi took a deep breath, bowing respectfully to the man in his employ.
“Should I require it, I will ensure I am here before then. May Hulali watch over you and your crew Captain, till we meet again!” Throwing a single hand up in a wave, Demkaih followed his feet down the gangplank and onto the docks. He wove through the sailors and stall merchants alike, dipping a hand into a vest pocket to retrieve a slip of paper.
Niccolette. Quarter Fords…
His eyes scanned the eloquent script of Rayowa pezre Lasha, Uzoji’s mother more than eager to assist the tall business man when he had approached her regarding Niccolette those days ago. When last he’d seen the brunette widow, their conversation had been brief, and her sorrow still keenly felt. Demkaih, ever ensuring he did not step on toes during this time, had joined her in a small kofi ceremony, before taking his leave. But her face haunted him, her broken heart troubled him. When he had said as much to Rayowa, looking for the woman when he found her home empty, the older woman had been more than willing to share her location, worried for her sons widow. They had prayed to Hulali for her good health, and without hesitation Demkaih had made arrangements to catch the first of his fleet leaving for Anaxas that same day.
He hadn’t visited the Rose in years, having settled into the business like the prodigal son he was, throwing himself into the expansion of their spice routes and trade talks with Gior—the ever elusive Gior. It was almost refreshing to stroll through the sand touched streets, making his way in the summer heat towards the finer buildings that constituted the Quarter that the galdor’s address was posted in. It was clearly occupied by those with wealth, though his glamour caprised various ranges of fields around him. Other glamours too. He knew the Rose was not like Vienda, that those in power didn’t necessarily have to be galdori. As he walked, he nodded respectfully to a couple of Seventen officers, though they didn’t nod back.
Counting house numbers to himself, Demkaih paused in front of a large house, set away in the quieter part of the quarter. There were trees overhanging the entrance, wilted and in dire need of Huliali’s touch, tucked behind a walkway that was clearly not a common thoroughfare. Ducking his towering frame under the branches of a sad branch, the Mugrobi checked the address once more, shifting his bag on his shoulder. He had brought enough to stay in Anaxas for at least a few days, and had coin should he need to purchase accommodation or more attire, not to mention a few gifts from home for Uzoji’s widow. Surely a good strong kofi and some Muluku sweets would be welcome to the young woman, or at least be good for her. Reaching a knuckled hand up, he rapped thrice on the door, before stepping back and calling out.
“Niccolette Ibutatu? It is Demkaih Alkrim!” He said loudly, before waiting patiently for the doorway to open. Faintly, he reached out with his modest glamour, hoping to give the woman some warning should she not be expecting company.