Peregrine

Waiting for Wit
Original poster
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Invitation Status
  1. Looking for partners
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per day
  2. Multiple posts per week
  3. One post per week
  4. Slow As Molasses
Online Availability
On fairly regularly, every day. I'll notice a PM almost immediately. Replies come randomly.
Writing Levels
  1. Adept
  2. Advanced
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Primarily Prefer Male
  2. No Preferences
Genres
High fantasy is my personal favorite, followed closely by modern fantasy and post-apocalyptic, but I can happily play in any genre if the plot is good enough.
The North American Trade Convention took place in the same location every year. Right in the heart of downtown Toronto resided a massive structure, a behemoth made up almost entirely of glass and triangles. Even at a passing glance, anyone would be able to see that the architects had tried to make the building as “modern” as possible, which naturally meant that the exterior of the building seemed far more interested in expressing itself aesthetically than it was in actually being functional.

Luckily, even though the outside of the building looked far more like a glass mosaic than it did a wall, the people who had ultimately come to take control of the convention center had not spared any expense when it came to the building’s security. Wards were placed so thickly across every surface that a trained eye would see nothing but a blaze of light through the glass. Two spirits had been bound to the front door, and while they would simply politely open the door for anyone with permission to enter, anyone who tried to force entry would soon find themselves laid flat by the spirits’ powerful energy. The interior of the building had been painstakingly alarmed to ensure that, even if anyone with harmful intent did make it past the wards and door spirits, any trace of battle magic anywhere in the building would lead to the offender being swarmed by the door spirits that littered the building’s interior. No one doubted that the Toronto Convention Center was the ideal place to hold a large gathering of any form.

The complex was much longer than it was wide, running the length of almost five city blocks, but only heading about two deep. This made it easy to divide up the NATC into different sections, ensuring that business trading, manufacturing, agriculture, health care, and research and education each had their own wing. The titans of each industry would set up their home base, before wandering out into the convention at large to make small talk and drink with each other, making sure they left just enough time to actually discuss the necessities of the coming year.

Of course, there were plenty of other people who showed up to events like these. Politicians from all over the nation were prompt to arrive, taking the occasion to schmooze and solicit donations for the coming elections. Partner businesses within each of the major industries would show up to help ensure their bosses’ needs would be met for the coming year. Entrepreneurs who had successfully pulled off the next big idea would wander from location to location, trying to promote their good or service while they struggled to look as though they had always been here. And that didn’t include the numerous security workers who watched for trouble from the corners, serving staff who wandered from room to room with the refreshments, or the massive number of behind-the-scenes workers required to prepare, maintain, and clean up after an event of this scale.

But the event was not limited even to such a broad range of people. Ultimately, anyone who could afford one of the exorbitantly priced tickets could turn up, whether simply to socialize with the business elite, or to conduct business themselves.

One such individual was Nora Tempestari, a wavy black haired, pale skinned woman who, despite her obvious youth, was easily one of the most influential people in the current room. Seven years ago, Nora’s father Deron Tempestari, the former CEO of the North American Weather Company, had found himself unexpectedly inflicted with the symptoms of an ancient curse that had been placed upon the Tempestaris 19 generations ago, when the small weatherwitch family had offended the master of a mountain village. Five years ago, the curse had progressed to the point where even a stubborn, prideful man like Deron was forced to admit that he no longer had the capability to manage the spells that were needed to create nation-wide storms. Deron had ended up handing NAWCO over to his daughter, against strong opposition from the other board members, because he thought he’d be able to continue to manage the company by controlling her.

Unfortunately for Deron, Nora was a lot more competent of a businesswoman than he had suspected, and, finally free to make a few of her own decisions for the company, Nora had struck out on her own. Battling through the attempted hostile takeover of the company, Nora not only maintained the company but caused its profits to skyrocket through a combination of her own powerful weather magic and sheer ingenuity.

Now no one, except perhaps her father, questioned Nora’s right to run NAWCO, although the battle and subsequent firing of her former board of directors had left Nora with a number of bitter enemies who were quick to lash out against her in any way they could.

But such matters were of essentially no concern, especially not in the agricultural wing of the NATC. The four middle aged men who had gathered around Nora now were full of nothing but praise and flattery, hoping that a few rightly placed words might enable them to make a deal with the Weather Queen of North America.

“But Ms. Tempestari, you should consider it. Creating an extra storm a month would allow California’s rice paddies to flourish from the extra moisture,” one of the men propositioned for what had to be the fourth time since they had started talking fifteen minutes ago. “I’m sure we would be able to use the extra profits from the field this year to offer a… contribution to the Rainy Days Charity Fund.”

“The rice paddies, perhaps, but the vineyards require very carefully monitored, carefully controlled watering during the harvest season, otherwise it will reduce the quality of the grapes. An extra storm would be devastating on this year’s quality,” another man all but spat in the first’s face. He turned to Nora a moment later. “Ms. Tempestari, I would be more than glad to send you a bottle of our finest product, but I cannot do that if the weather pattern changes like that.”

Nora lifted the glass that was in her hands to her lips, before carefully swallowing the last of the liquid. It glided over her tongue without her even tasting it. However, right about now Nora was wishing she had a real drink in hand. The mild buzz it would give her might make listening to middle aged men talk in circles and try and buy her out with more and more outrageous gifts all the more tolerable.

However, if there was one thing that her parents had solidly beaten into her during the years of her training, it was that it was absolutely essential for her to maintain a clear head when it came to matters of business. When it came to a company the size of NAWCO, even a small slip of the tongue on her part could end up having far reaching, potentially even catastrophic, consequences.

But at least the empty glass gave her an excuse to get out of this conversation, and she would make sure not to return before these men were able to find other people to have these conversations with.

“Gentleman,” Nora said softly, a smile playing across her lips. “You know I can’t make a decision like that without first speaking to the weather division of both the US and Canada. Unless you are suggesting that your own business, Mr. Huang, is going to front the bill.”

Nora couldn’t help but let out a faint chuckle at the look of momentary panic that crossed the rice merchant’s face, or the look of victory on the wineseller’s. “As I thought. Now, you simply must excuse me for a couple minutes while I go and get a refill. Please, do continue without me.”

With one final, alluring smile, Nora stepped away before either of the men had a chance to object, and maintained a steady stride until she had escaped the room, and the ten other men who had been waiting in the wings to rope her into another pointless conversation as soon as she had a free moment.

Of course, that didn’t mean she had the opportunity to relax once she left the room. The hallway was just as crowded as every other part of the convention center, and people of every creed lined the hallway in groups of three or four, passing gossip and meaningless flattery back and forth. Nora did not let her steps falter or her purposeful gaze waver as she confidently walked forward, and the few people who tried to intercept her were forced to step away at her focused expression, unwilling to impede her in whatever her goal may be and risk bringing down her disapproval.

Of course, Nora also acted as though she couldn’t feel all of their gazes turned upon her, as though she didn’t notice the way that most people paused briefly in their conversations as she passed by, either to nod once in her direction before returning to their own conversation, or to stare as soon as they’d passed beyond the range of her vision, only to start whispering to each other the moment they believed she was out of earshot. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t been subject to stares and whispers all her life.

However, she was forced to slow as she drew closer to the very heart of the convention. This was not because she wanted to, but was simply due to the abrupt increase in the number of people filling the room. If she hadn’t slowed, she would have been bound to run into something.

The heart of the convention was not a place for business, except for the most shady of kind. The pounding sound of the music made it almost impossible to hear your own voice, let alone a neighbor’s, without some kind of magical intervention, but most of the people who occupied this area were too drunk to notice that the trade convention had transformed into little more than a glorified party.

Nora wound her way through the edges of the transformed ballroom, towards the bar on the far wall. While there were other, less crowded and sweaty, places for her to acquire a drink, the noise was actually a benefit to her. It would ensure that no one noticed that she was getting a drink that was far closer to water than alcohol, and might mean that someone else would let something slip, believing her sufficiently intoxicated to try and take advantage of.

The line at the bar was short despite the number of people, and it didn’t take Nora long to work her way to the counter. She lifted two fingers, flagging the nearby barkeep, before lifting her voice slightly to ensure the man could hear her.

“What can you make me that looks alcoholic but isn’t?”
 
Damian Arzt scowled, green eyes narrowing sharply as his nose scrunched and his lips thinned into a long, tight line. To anyone who knew him, the growing dips in his dark eyebrows and the steadily whitening knuckles showing where his fingers gripped the workstation behind the bar would be loud warning signs—giant beaming notices in red and yellow flashing in repeated alerts to “ABORT ABORT ABORT” or “JUMP SHIP” or “PLEASE STOP EVERYTHING YOU’RE DOING”—but to the lush who grinned at him, dark eyes hooded in a not-very-well-veiled attempt at flirtation and begging in one breath, it was somehow a beaming admission of “why yes I am heavily interested in you and would definitely give you free booze if you just said one more—“

“Ooh, I hope you make that face in bed, baby ‘cause that is one sexy as—“

A loud crack interrupted the man’s sentence and he jumped in surprise, eyes widening as the bottles that had been lazily levitating around the bartender’s station abruptly ceased their dance and stood to a stark attention, one of the thinner ones now sporting a large crack down its length. The soft green glow that had held them aloft was now thick and violent, sparking with irritation, and Damian had to take a long, slow breath before he set the dozen or so bottles of wine, rum, scotch, brandy, vodka, whiskey, and a particularly excitable jar of moonshine down onto the various shelves and counters that surrounded him. “You’re cut off. I would recommend going back to your room—this stuff is clearly more potent than you’re used to.” He growled, giving the man a sharp glare.

As though realizing his mistake, the drunk businessman at his bar gave a sheepish smile, shrinking slightly, before the smile grew a bit too curled and he uttered in a long purr, “Aw baby, don’t do me that way! I get that you’re upset but hey, don’t worry about the bottle—we all lose control sometimes.”

The tequila—with its cracked surface—flew up and broke in two above the man’s head, drenching him with sharply magicked alcohol that fluoresced through an entertaining series of blues and greens as the lush sputtered and spat, eyes wide with insult and surprise. He began to snarl a series of slurs and threats, but they fell on deaf ears as Damian turned away from him and gestured to a nearby bucket and rag that eagerly flew over and began to soak up and clean the tequila on the counter and floor. They did not make any effort to save the soaked and no-doubt pricey suit whose owner’s yells were ratcheting up in volume and fury, but before he could demand that they did, his voice came to a stuttered halt. Two spirits, glowing behind their shades and beneath their primly pressed black suits, had stepped out of the bar and into the solid world. They stared at the drunkard as he dripped, and his adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow before, with a gesture from the spirits, he scrambled off his chair and bolted. The pair turned, inclining their heads politely to the bartender, who gave them a lazy salute, before gliding off after their new (and soon to be removed) charge.

For his part, Damian gave a scowl and a snort and turned back to his work.

Damian Arzt was an unusual person to work the bar at the North American Trade Convention—NAT-con to anyone who wasn’t so business-oriented as to find saying the whole thing fun—though not at first glance. He was above average in height, dark haired, aesthetically pleasing both in face and body-type with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and arms fitting of someone who juggled heavy bottles and lifted kegs for a quarter of his living. His nose was straight, he had a very slight amount of dark scruff (just enough to get the burn, as an ex-girlfriend had once teased), and his near constant scowl, naturally-downturned eyes and the faint pout of a fuller bottom lip gave him enough of a “I just woke up and am not happy about it” look to completely gut his danger-card and make him seem considerably more approachable than he would like to be. These, as you would expect, were traits that added to his appeal as a bartender. He was approachable, handsome enough to flirt with, stubborn enough to never give away free drinks, attentive enough to know when to cut anyone off, a skilled entertainer and well-known not only for his levitation and tricks but for his specialized tonics, elixirs, and the line of artisanal alcohols he brewed and distilled himself, and yes he was a bit grumpy and a bit stand-off-ish and very difficult to get close to but as a bartender, he was an easy hire. The trait that made him an unusual choice here however, was his family name.

The Arzt family was quite well known in the medicinal world. It was his mother’s maiden name—his father, in the tradition of all of those who married Arzt women, had taken his mother’s last name—and it was a name synonymous with very very old knowledge and skill. The Arzts were “true” witches—magic users that utilized potions and brews, elixirs and other such catalysts for their magic—and were of a very long and remarkably pure line. Their history stretched back so far that no one was entirely sure where it had originated, and up until the last century it was exclusively true witch to true witch, making for very powerful generational magic and a veritable army of innovative minds set to improving the world of medicinal-grade potions, elixirs, and brews. It was exceedingly rare to find one of them outside of the medical world at all—even the male members of the family, famously unable to utilize the magic of brewing—were almost always involved in the apothecaries in some way. Yet here was Damian, who not only had inherited his father’s levitation, but was the first male Arzt in two generations to be capable of brewing, working as (a nicely paid, he would add with no small amount of approval) bartender.

It was, without a doubt, a bit of a risky gamble for the NAT-con executives, but one that (to their great relief) was panning out rather well. It would have been safer to select a less exciting family name to work the crowds, but no one could deny that Damian made a dangerously good mojito (amongst other things), and the fact that his more expensive mixes came with self-curing hangovers made them a very worthwhile investment.


Long, slender fingers twisted together the lengths of three dried shemeji mushrooms—his family’s own specially grown type, known for a longer stem and slightly lacy gills—and stirred them through the brilliantly gold and bronze contents of a cocktail glass. The alcohol already mixed into the drink, an expensive variety of vodka distilled in Antarctica by shapeshifting brothers, shone with icy blue wisps of magic that grasped the mushrooms, glowing up their stems before settling into their tops and setting them with a soft, pleasant glow that offset nicely against the metallic drink. Damian smiled and, with a wink, handed the drink off to the woman who’d ordered it. She hummed appreciatively and touched a finger to the cool, mushroom tops. “Bite the tops off before you’re done with the glass,” Damian mentioned as he counted and put away her money, offering her change that she waved away and he accepted with a grin, “They’ll prohibit the morning hang-over and are charmed to help you get back to your room if you have too much fun tonight.” She grinned at him, her teeth crisply white against her blood-red lipstick.

“Excellent—I can get drunk off my ass and still impress my bosses in the morning.” She laughed, a sharp but happy sound, and winked at him before wandering off to join a gaggle of similarly excited coworkers. Damian snorted quietly, hoping he’d made the charm strong enough for the girl’s plans, and set to cleaning his used utensils. As he was considering grabbing the attention of one of the barhops to grab him some more tree frogs from the back, however, a quick flag drew his attention. He frowned slightly, still considering if he had enough frogs for the next thirty minutes, as he made his way over to the woman at the far end of the bar. His frown deepened into slightly more of a scowl as he recognized the head of the North American Weather Company. The rumor mill wasn’t too friendly about her take-over or her icy disposition, and he’d heard stories about how cold-hearted she could be.

“Anything.” He replied curtly, giving her a once-over as he crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head slightly to the side as he stared, “Unless you’re looking for an amber drink most of the cocktails could look non-alcoholic.” He lifted a brow, working his jaw slightly to keep from gritting his teeth, “Disclaimer though: the charms don’t work without the alcohol so if you’re looking for any of the benefits you’ll have to go without.”
 
The look the bartender gave her didn't appear to phase Nora any more than the glances and whispers that had trailed her as she made her way to the bar. It wasn't hard for her to imagine what the man was thinking. It was probably about the same as everyone else who gave her a look like that.

As she had begun the process to replace the board of directors and regain control of NAWCO, those she would soon drive from their post had done everything to ensure they would retain their positions, and see Nora’s head on a pike. At first they had simply tried to do what she had done, and forcibly acquire her majority shares. But not only the shareholders, but Deron Tempestari had been surprised to learn exactly how deep her pockets went, and how far her reach extended. At that point, as all of the former owners of the corporation began to realize exactly how far out of their control the company was getting, they--- both the board of directors and Nora’s own father--- had decided it would be better for NAWCO to cease to exist altogether if they couldn't have it. Out of view of the public eye they had funded local weatherwitches and small scale weather companies all across North America, attempting to drive NAWCO to bankruptcy by depriving it of its major clients, who would turn to thelocal witches if the price was better. It was at that moment that Nora had begun to personally oversee the production of the storms, and she was somehow able to create clouds that, while somewhat more unstable than normal weather, were also able to cut operating costs by over 30%. This allowed NAWCO to maintain its contracts with both the US and Canada until the board ran out of money altogether, causing them to succumb to the final takeover.

Finally forced to realize that there was no way they were going to be able to beat Nora at this game, they turned to another one, the shame game. In a last desperate attempt at revenge, the board turned to the media. Nora, busy with maintaining the company and unwilling to sink to the same level as these men, had attempted to combat these rumors by starting the Rainy Days Charity Fund. A fund which had immediately come under question in the public, although perhaps it would be more accurate to say the media’s, eye. Many said, and most believed, that the charity was nothing but a front to hide the bribes she supposedly received. Despite the fact that Nora had granted permission for the charity’s proceeds and expenditures to come under rigorous inspection, the news that it was perfectly clean had never reached the public, outside of those who bothered to dig a little deeper. Very few cared enough to put in the work.

After a few very public and dramatic refusals of her money domestically, Nora had repurposed the funds from local to international disaster relief, and had given up on trying to perform damage control on the media’s field day with her name. She tried to tell herself that it didn't matter.

One thing that was for sure, though, was that Nora had stopped going out after that point, unless it was a work related event. She told herself it was more effort than it was worth to maintain an unruffled expression in the face of the looks of ridicule when she didn't have to, but in truth it mostly just made her sad. She couldn't help but wonder if one day she would become a bitch for real, instead of just in name. It would certainly be easier to deal with her feelings about all this if she felt as much contempt for everyone else as they seemed to feel for her.

Her smile for the bartender was perfectly polite, and perfectly fake. “No, I don't need any of your… benefits.” The momentary pause in her voice was far from long enough to be considered rude. What it was perfectly sufficient for, though, was making it clear that she was not convinced on exactly how beneficial his so-called benefits would be. It was almost the truth. Having no intention of getting wasted or ending up in bed with some man she barely knew, Nora couldn't really see what his party drinks would do for her, other than most likely making her say something she would regret in the morning.

“An envy cocktail will do nicely, I think.” The faintest traces of humor passed across her face at the words. She couldn't help but take some pleasure at the many double meanings hiding in her request. The bartender, along with many others out there, would likely consider this a simple act of arrogance on her part, as though she were one to be envied. But in truth, she was nothing but a woman under such rigid self-control that she would not even allow herself a taste of alcohol. Almost anyone would be worthy of more envy than her.