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 Posted: Wed May 16, 2012 10:27 pm
That had been enough truth for Rosalie at least, perhaps -- the words had left the breath hissing out of her, a slow and disappointed sigh. Maybe she'd been hoping that genuinely these three hadn't pulled anything. Or maybe it was just that she didn't want Rost to be the one who'd solved this so neatly, effectively without her help, other than as a -- what. The carrot? The stick. She looked up at the ceiling to avoid the slap, impassively considering the sound of flesh against flesh.
"...I did say a certain...ah." Her eyes slid back down onto the fury on Rost's face, and she straightened, tugging her shirt neatly into place. Perhaps this was more of a personal matter, but they'd brought her in and she could hardly back away now. So she stepped in beside him, reaching up idly to catch his hand and consider the apprentices. Not mercy, precisely, but she needed a bit of order.
Too much chaos.
"Where, then, are they?" No kindly forgiveness, no sweet gentle eyes. No promising femininity, reassuring them that they weren't in trouble. Rosalie's tone was cool and absent and held a certainty behind it -- that they would, eventually, tell her. And she was probably right.
"Sold or waiting?"
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Posted: Thu May 17, 2012 4:24 pm
Rost glared at first, nostrils flared and stormy eyes wide, arm caught by the smaller woman in his next downward swing, words of furious disappointment halted on his lips by her swift action. He swallowed then, the heat of a different fire spreading across the freckled back of his neck. A few angry breaths and his shoulders relaxed, wordlessly tugging his wrist free with more shame than indigence. He leaned away, arms crossing over his chest, staring off at the kilns instead of at his apprentices.
"Neither." Hesche answered sullenly, not looking at Rosalie.
Arla scoffed, dark eyes widening at her cousin's admission, "Shut up." She hissed, looking nervous.
"She's a Sword." He growled back, cowed into fear less by just one of the figures of authority and more by both of them together. He looked to his fiery-haired master who did not meet his gaze, "We gave 'em to the Flimean Brothers."
"Waiting." Feln groaned, rubbing his beaten face with tears down his cheeks.
The glassblower said nothing, muscles in his jaw working with contained fury at their willingness to betray his secrets to a competitor. What gain could there be in that?
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Posted: Thu May 17, 2012 7:53 pm
Alas. Rosalie breathed out, folding her own arms slowly across her chest as she took in the crying youngster, the sullen expressions. It didn't help that she didn't know the Filmean brothers; didn't know where their shop was, or how much money they made. Didn't know their families or their social status. Rosalie was better with brawls than with social niceties, and in situations like this, that could be a problem.
"...what's the value of the stolen goods?" This was back to Rost, instead of the duo in front of them. She turned, finally, to get her gloves. Either this was done or she was going to have to go asking more questions. "And, beyond that, the value of what's been lost?"
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Posted: Thu May 17, 2012 8:37 pm
"I can't put a price on technique!" Rost practically groaned, tossing his head angrily, ever the artist at his core. A fire that could quite possibly melt glass burned resentfully in his chest knowing that it was not the glassware's value that had been stolen, but the mixture of minerals that had made a pleasing color that had been taken without his permission. There was no value he could place on that.
He ignored the Sword's question and took a step forward, snatching the collar of Hesche's shirt and lifting him to his toes, "What did they promise you that I haven't already provided?" His other hand shook in a white-knuckled fist at his side, though he somehow had retained the sense not to raise it.
Hesche glared at the man he called master, defiance in the angle of his chin but fear in his eyes, "More time at the kiln on our own instead of holding the hand of an angry cripp—"
"More pay!" Squeaked Arla in time to cover the obvious insult, though the damage from the indignant boy had already been done.
Rost snarled and tossed the apprentice against the drafting desk behind them, barely contained as he turned toward the dark-haired woman. They'd brought her here to keep the peace, knowing full well he'd have hurt them otherwise. In her presence, his physical wrath was forcibly pinned. This obviously added injury to his insult,
"That's at least a month's wages from each of them—for just the twelve pieces. In total, however," He paused to breathe through clenched teeth, seething, "it took me a few years to perfect that mix and I doubt any of them have the brains combined to come up with something better."
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Posted: Fri May 18, 2012 1:39 pm
If before he'd gotten under her skin, now Rost was met with an impassive expression, an easy detachment, a comfortable settle to her posture that implied he was having absolutely no affect. Rosalie easily buckled her sword belt back into place without even looking, her own green eyes raking him over only briefly before looking at the children.
"We cannot put a physical price on secrets, I fear." It might have been a goad -- because of course they could. To some degree, at least. When secrets meant a loss of livelihood...but he'd annoyed her, and he'd dissolved into enough outbursts to leave Rosalie less inclined to waste more time in his building. She smoothed down the front of her shirt and shook her head.
"You've lost the twelve pieces and potential business. Settle it at a year's wages, each, which means a year of service, each." The cloak was last; she swept it over her shoulders, heavy and purple, with a familiar and careless gesture. "To be compounded with living costs."
Her eyes finally resettled on his face, somewhat absent. "If you'd like to sell the service upward, I suspect I could find someone to buy it off of you."
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