RP:Draconic Docility Specialists

...continued from A Business Trip (Not an Adventure).

Summary: After a tense moment in customs, Zedidiah and Orikahn finally complete their delivery, and MacOwen, their buyer, invites the two to stick around and discuss additional terms.

Southern Gate

Zedidiah finds himself once more driving the cart, having prepared a hearty breakfast of bacon for the two bipeds. In the interest of expedience he didn't try to call for a stop for second breakfast OR elevensies, but it has been just a non-stop snack fest on trail mix at the front of the cart. Not even the threat of awakening Hoarlash's hunger is enough to keep him snacking now, and a tiny fire seems to light in the halfling's eyes, or perhaps belly, as they approach the dwarven city. Somewhere, not far past these gates, halflings are cooking. Some part of him, a sense deeper and more primal than mere smell, is drawn to it like a lodestone. He pulls the cart into a line of traffic with trade goods waiting to be checked into the city, tariffs paid and whatnot. Casually, Zed turns to question Orikahn. "So do we have an official contact in government here to waive the import fees on exotic animals? Whose name do I drop?"

Orikahn had no-so-privately resolved never to accept an offer of food from Zedidiah ever again but, true to halfling hospitality, the cart-driver knows just the way back into Kahn's good graces. A little bacon, and all is forgiven. By and large, they reach the yawning mouth of the mountain, and the cat comes to share in Zed's anticipation. Even Hoarlash's spirits seem lifted, and the lizard will sometimes nuzzle its head up onto the bench to sniff at the sack of trail mix there. "MacOwen." Orikahn grumbles back at Zedidiah. "We ask for MacOwen." The hunter, too, is watching the halflings and their cooking fires with hungry eyes. "He meets us at the gates." The rackwagon ahead of them (a bunch of gabbling goblins and barrels stained with dark leakage) pulls up, and the custom inspectors step out to greet them with writs in their hands and batons on their belts. "You don't have," Kahn looks cautiously back to Zed, "any 'contraband' do you, little lord of lizards? Things they take and don't give back, like elf legs and spirit mushrooms."(edited)

Zedidiah laughs loudly, a quick, defensive laugh, at Orikahn's suggestion. "Perish the thought, perish the thought. No elf legs here." Mentally he does a quick review of his activities before meeting Orikahn, and seems satisfied that there should be nothing in the false bottom of his cart except for a few sacks of manure. Besides, he doesn't typically deal in contraband, just avoids paying pesky taxes on normal goods. "We Gawkrogers are an honest lot, you know. Hard workers, reliable. Sweat of the brow and all that." He pauses and munches on more trail mix to fill the time while the goblins get a thorough shakedown. "Is there a market for elf legs?"

"There ha' better not be." A gruff answer comes from the other side of Zedidiah's cart, and there stands a dwarf in the light battle gear of a custom's officer. "An' don' ye hope down, mister halfling sir," the officer looks Zed's horse over, "an' we'll see if ye have elf legs o' no." There's an unpleasant odor--they've popped open one of the goblin barrels, and now there's something of noisy squabble as one of the goblins is cuffed in manacles. Much cursing and shouting follows, in goblin and dwarven alike. This action occupies Orikahn's attention.

Zedidiah beams a charming, guileless smile down at the custom officer, a smile that speaks of innocence and a childlike joie de vivre. A smile that took many hours in a mirror to perfect without looking forced, on his pudgy halfling features, "Hah, no sir, the only legs you'll find here are firmly attached to our bodies, or those of our charge, master Hoarlash here." Zed nods back at the dragon. "Two good friends of MacOwen like ourselves wouldn't have any business in the leg trade. Not like goblin folk, am I right about that, officer?"

"Hmm, ye don' say," the officer climbs up to stand beside the cart's seat and peer in the back. His eyes go wide. "An' tha's master Hoarlash, is it?" About this time, Orikahn realizes they have company of their own. The cat is clearly torn between watching the feud over the cart ahead and attending whatever matters may regard his own. "Delivery," Orikahn chimes in, "'it is a good delivery." The officer is unconvinced by Orikahn's assertions, but a second look at Zed has his stony rebuff crumbling before it can even leave his beard-shrouded lips. "Harpies last week, dragons this week. Well well, go on," he hops down. "Get on around," the others are already pulling the goblin cart off to the side, and one of the barrels tips off, rolling and quickly gaining speed as it bounces down the mountain pass. A crash sounds somewhere below, with more shouts and cursing. The guard's face falls. "Get on with it," he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, "MacOwen's havin' a smoke."

Zed wasted no time in escaping his most ancient foe, customs agents. With the same grudging acquiescence with which it does all things, his horse begins to pull the cart in the indicated direction. Once hopefully out if earshot of the customs officers and their notoriously unwelcome ears, Zed tried to engage his previous line of inquiry. "So are there just bands of one legged elves roaming around somewhere?"

Passing through the great gates, the halfling and cat find themselves on the wide way down into the dwarven mountain. "Are there?" Orikahn pulls his hood back, and his ears perk eagerly at the idea. "They sound like an easy catch!" The very thought has him licking his chops.

Craughmoyle

"So this is the pitiful thing ye bring me back now, Kahn," MacOwen pokes the dragon in the haunch with the stem of his pipe before returning it to his mouth. He puffs sourly, blowing wide, rolling rings of overwhelmingly sweet smoke. MacOwen's a fellow with a great, wild mane of red hair and a red beard to match. He wears comfortable looking leather coveralls and has already, without asking, helped himself to a handful of Zed's trail mix. A jeweler's loupe and a magnifying glass hang from his pocket chains, and there's a ticking watch somewhere on his person. "How'd you let this alleycat rope you in, then?" Zed finds himself the recipient of a rather sharp look as MacOwen makes himself much too at home in the back of his cart. Hoarlash, to its credit, is surprisingly well-behaved. Kahn stands behind the cart, peering in from behind. "Good strong dragon," he repeats for the half-dozenth time, "fierce beast. Good fighter."

Zedidiah watched MacOwen for a quiet moment, silently judging the dwarf while maintaining his demeanor of a sweet innocent. Taking snacks before they're offered? And now cutting into teatime with haggling? Zed does not like him. The halfling merely smiles and shrugs, "In his wisdom, yon master feline sought out the expertise of a dragon tamer. Zedidiah Gawkroger, of Gawkroger Draconic Docility Specialists. Yes, yes, that Gawkroger." Zed waves off the praise that he imagines MacOwen was just about getting ready to start giving. "I assure you beneath the veneer of civility I have cultivated for the purposes of transit, using trade secrets you understand, the young master Hoarlash is as fierce a beast as you've ever seen. Feel free to remove his muzzle yourself if you doubt it, but my client will take his payment upfront in that case to save him the trouble of collecting from your next of kin."

MacOwen puffs. Oh that Gawkroger, his eyebrows seem to echo. He squints one eye shut and pops the loupe in the other to study the dragon's eyes a little more closely, check something behind its ears, under its chin. "So you're the cat's agent now," the dwarf mutters before jumping back suddenly to doge an attempted headbutt, courtesy of Hoarlash. "Well don't think I'm paying that bucktoothed buffoon a copper more than we'd agreed," MacOwen sits back, pops the loupe back out, and scratches his beard. His eyes shift between Zed and Kahn. "I bet ten glowing stones this runt won't live past a year." Despite these misgivings, a clerical-looking associate outside the cart is already weighing out the gold, presumably for payment. "If you want to keep a good recommendation, master Gawkroger, I'll need to see that you can keep to a contract. Hop down, and we'll talk about long-term business. Do you smoke?" Another associate appears, offering Zed a cigar, and with each passing moment, the company associates seem to multiply. In no time, Hoarlash is out of the cart, leashed, measured, and weighted.(edited)

Zedidiah accepts the cigar with aplomb, chewing one end thoughtfully between a few puffs. "Would prefer a good pipe, but when in Craughmoyle as they say. So what are the particulars here, precisely, MacOwen? You don't mind if I call you MacOwen. my dear and fearsome friend is a cat of few words, you understand, and quite driven by one task at a time." Zed glances over to Orikahn, giving him a friendly smile and a thumbs up gesture.