Day 020: Fair Trade
Summary: Wherein the possibilities of trading for goods and trading for services are briefly discussed among Arlin, Chesa, and the newly arrived Bruns.
Date: 06 June 2016
Related: None
Bruns Arlin Chesa 

Village Center — Coesbur, Trikru
The village of Coesbur is a middling-sized settlement of the Trikru clan. It has two major entry points, both of which funnel into the village center. The first entry point is from the west, and is across the Cioesbur Bridge which stretches over one of the branches of the divided Potomac. The other entry point is from the east, and provides a direct route to the road to Polis. The village center is really nothing more than a large dirt courtyard surrounded by a variety of structures. While most of these are Grounder-built, there is one that survived the apocalypse. It is a tall, octagon-shaped stone building made of brown and red brick. It's roof is domed, and made of tarnished, greened copper with inlays of colored glass. Broad, white steps lead up to the two-door-wide entrance to the building.
Day 20

In these times of uncertainty, it's likely the village of Coesbur has lookouts to note approaching people. The man who approaches could never be mistaken for one of those who fell from the sky. For one, he's not nearly young enough. For two, he's wearing a long leather jacket that's been patched a half dozen times. He's laden with gear and, most notably, has a young deer draped around his neck, legs dangling in front. That's a lot of weight for even a strong man to carry, so his journey into the town proper is rather slow.

For certain, there are lookouts, but one particular man in his middling twenties isn't of their rank. Dressed in what is best described as Grounder grunge meets U.S. Army surplus, he comes into view at the east gate, expression seemingly sour (as befits someone with Resting Jerk Face), and keen hazel eyes watching the horizon. They narrow a little at the sight of the deer-laden stranger, features smoothing into something more assessing. For the nonce, he watches and waits, and pulls a puff from the joint he draws to his lips.

Bruns continues his slow trek towards the gate. As he gets closer, the variety of satchels strung about his person become more obvious. He's got a well-used, beaten-up, metal-framed crossbow strapped to his back, along with a kit bag. It really is fairly impressive how he manages to make any progress at all carrying all that, plus the carcass. He squints at the figure who smokes up ahead, and when his shuffle-steps get close enough, he grunts out, "Hey. Got a kill to sell. N'some other stuff, too."

There's more in the way of produce to be brought to the village from out on the farm, and Chesa is headed in to do just that. Humming under her breath, she seems to be enjoying the walk, letting the horse carry the packs of vegetables she's got. Spying Arlin and Bruns both, the first gets a nod, though the second a curious glance over. Someone not recognized off the bat.

By the time the trader arrives, smoke has smoothly been inhaled and exhaled a few times, and a nod of greeting is offered to Chesa. Something at the corner of Arlin's eyes is suggestive of question marks as he regards the other man. More than a vague curiosity but at least not a wary pondering, looking as though he might be trying to place Bruns from somewhere. Faintly, his lips purse into something two ticks shy of what once upon a time was called duck face. (It happens sometimes when he's musing.) A few heartbeats later, he asks in a rough-textured baritone, "Need a hand? Or a shoulder?" A flick of his chin indicates the deer.

Bruns shifts his weight and hefts the deer up on his shoulders. He looks at Arlin for a long moment, blows a bit of hair out of his face, then grunts. "No. But you could tell me if someone's gonna shoot an arrow at me if I try to enter town." He glances sidelong towards Chesa, but doesn't immediately engage in conversation.

Chesa is quiet, letting the two men talk, but at Bruns' comment, she hmms, "I think you're safe enough." He's a Grounder, not one of the Delinquents, so all is good. Right? They can hope, at least. "What's your name?" She asks of him, seeking to find out more about the man willing to sell the deer.

"I could," Arlin agrees before tacking on, with a cheeky smile, "but I can't guarantee the veracity of any such statement." He isn't a guard. This also hasn't been his village in some 12 years. Hazel eyes dart to Chesa as she speaks, and then he gives Bruns his unsolicited opinion, "If the Green Lady here says you'll likely be fine, you'll likely be fine." It's still not an assurance. And being that he's been given a solid once over by the trader, up this close his weariness probably is evident, tired at the edges in a manner different than the fuzzy chillaxin' of pot.

Well, since they're having a chat… Bruns takes a deep breath, then hoists the dead deer up and off his shoulders, then on to the ground with a thud. The thing with dead eyes, a small rack and slightly open eyes stares blankly up at Arlin. He rolls his shoulders back, then unhooks the fasteners that keep his pack on him. This, he lowers more carefully to the ground. "Bruns." He says his own name as a half-grunt to Chesa, along with an upnod. He looks back to Arlin. He just sort of looks at the other man in a way that might seem unnerving. "Helpful," he says, flatly.

"Chesa." The woman offers with an answering nod of her head to Bruns, her hand soothing her horse that sidles closer to her. "You said you had other things to sell?" Hey, might as well get the jump on any possible goodies he might have!

In all fairness, Arlin is used to looks of all kinds, including those of Azgeda warriors charging at him with murderface and brandished weapons, lungs bellowing out a want for his blood. All things being relative, an annoyed(?) trader doesn't rank high enough on his threat level assessment to garner more than the usual you really wanna throw down over this, 'cuz I don't, but I'll readily oblige if that's how you wanna roll counter-look. The medic has enough knives on his person to suggest his expression probably isn't bluster. Even so, he's not angling for escalation. Instead, he follows suit with an introduction, "Arlin," and an explanation, "And nah. Just being honest. Helpful is patching you up should someone decide to shoot you or shank you." Which probably also isn't big talk if one were to judge by the medical satchel cross-strapped from left shoulder to right hip.

The joint is then offered to Bruns to partake a drag, should he wish. It's primo stuff — medicinal grade — and rolled by someone who really knows how to roll. "Welcome to Coesbur."

Bruns breaks away from that eye contact to look over at Chesa. Now he looks more bored than annoyed. "Yeah. What you looking for? Mostly tools. Herbs and stuff. Some leatherworks. Ornaments." Whatta salesman! He mumbles through that pitch. It might be more obvious the longer he stands still, but the trader is clearly dead on his feet with exhaustion. It can't have been easy to hoof that deer and his whole pack through the woods, not to mention the effort of travelling here in the first place. He sniffs at the air and points at the joint. "Got me some more of that, too."

"Tools? I'd like to take a look at what you got, especially if anything farm related." But Chesa will be kind, seeing as the traveler is nearly dead on his feet, "But maybe tomorrow, hmm?" Surely there's a guest place for him to stay once he's made introduction to those that need to know he is in town, right? Arlin and his joint does draw her attention, "Been meaning to talk to you.." Utoh, this could be bad.

Bruns doesn't want a puff? Arlin's not exactly offended, but there might be a bit of damn, bro, just trying to be friendly, but suit yourself to the shifting nature of his eyes, brows, and lips. Quickly enough, it passes into dismissal, "I'm good, thanks," and the joint is offered to Chesa. "Now's as good a time as any for me," he replies to the farmer. "Is it a good time for you?" Faintly, he smiles.

"Yeah, but it's at the bottom of my pack. Come see me later," says Bruns. He tries to sound more pleasant, but the weariness eats through. He looks at his pile of gear and the deer, sighs, then hefts up his pack again. Rather than pick up his kill, he spins a piece of leather around the feet and then prepares to drag it. Not practical through the woods, but dragging it a few hundred meters into the town isn't going to hurt the creature any more than it already is. He nods once to Arlin and says, "I got a nice pipe you might be interested in," and then, without a goodbye, the weary trader starts to haul himself and all his gear towards the town proper to find somewhere to kip.

"Later then, Bruns." Chesa offers to the traveler before he heads off. With the offer of the joint, Chesa accepts, taking a hit off it before passing it back to him. A moment later, smoke is blown out, and she smiles, "Good for me, yeah." A pause, and she says, "Was thinking the other day, if you need a spot to grow the stuff you need for your healing work, I have an area that I can prepare and watch over for you? Maybe… you could help my father a little here and there?" Fair trade, perhaps!

"Might could be," interested in a nice pipe, "but I'm far more interested in whetstones, quality needles, and materials for gauze and bandages." Bruns is looking to be on his not-so-merry way, however, so Arlin concludes with, "Another time, though."

Attention then shifts fully to Chesa, eyes narrowing a smidge with consideration, brow crinkling a touch with something else, and his tongue darting out ever so slightly to wet his lips before the bottom one is faintly and briefly taken betwixt his teeth. The breath finally released has some heft to it, and there is a slight hitch and roll to the medic's shoulders. "Truth is that I probably won't be here long enough for any such harvest." That's certainly his hope. "But you probably have stuff I'm willing to water your plots with some of my sweat for in trade." Which is to say he's open to negotiations.

Such consideration is returned as Chesa awaits his answer, though she nods, "Still, even if you're not here, can't hurt, hmm? And if nothing else, they might be stuff another healer could use who might pass through?" That said, she laughs, "I can always use an extra pair of hands around the farm, but my father's been having other problems lately, and if there's anything you might know that could help him, then I'd be in your debt." A pause, and she explains, "A horse threw him about a year ago. Been having problems with his back. Here lately, he's not been able to feel his feet at times, they go numb."

Chesa mentions a horse, and Arlin turns a shade shy of baleful. "Fuckin' horses," he mutters with vim to the ever-present grit of his voice, then turns a razor sharp and thin gaze at the farmer's steed, looking as though he might want to punch it as a matter of principle. Were he more uncouth, he'd hock and spit for emphasis. Instead, his nostrils flare in a snort and his mouth takes a sour downcast as he telegraphs to the animal I hate you all.

He loves his weed, though, and taking another pull from the joint will probably help him get over the fact that horses exist. The rest that Chesa says perks him up and draws back his attention. "Just his feet?" The gears are turning within those hazel eyes, the medic already working on a preliminary diagnosis.

The horse at her side, doesn't seem to care much about Arlin. He's an old one, gentle, compliant. For the most part. Chesa nods once, "Yeah. He got spooked and that was it. Caught my father while he was distracted." Not the horse's fault all in all. She offers her poor horse a pat when glared at by the healer.

Turning to the topic of her father, the farmer nods, "Mostly his feet, though he's mentioned feeling a burning sensation down the legs." Nerve damage in the lower back from the fall off the horse. "Makes it hard for him to carry things and bend over to work. When it's bad, it's hard for him to walk at all."

Don't make excuses for them, Chesa. They are all evil. Maybe, with the utmost grudging admittance by Arlin, a necessary at times evil, but still evil. The sentiment floods his face as though it were the gospel truth. It's also secondary to what else is at hand. "Sounds like compressed nerves." Frowning a little, he notes, "Not a whole lot to do about it, other than take anti-inflammatories, start some physical therapy, and stop doing work that will exasperate the injury." The medic, though, clearly suspects number three on that list will be outright ignored, if his yeah, yeah, I know, I know expression suggests anything. "I'll take a look, though."

Chesa merely snorts. Be it to his obvious dislike of the horse, or the suggestion that her father sit back and not do work, it's hard to say. "Well, I've taken over the farm, so he doesn't do quite as much." But still, there are more bad days here lately than good for the man. Enough to have his daughter worried and asking the healer for options. "I'd appreciate any ideas or thoughts you have on it. Maybe he'll listen to you better than he listens to mother or I." You know, he's a guy and all. He might understand how to talk man talk and get the old farmer to actually listen for once!

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License