by Shinobi » Thu Oct 16, 2025 5:07 pm
Dust swirls lazily through the bazaar as merchants hawk wares in a dozen dialects. At the sound of armored boots striking marble, the noise dulls for just a moment.
Shinobi the Sheriff of Tanchico strides in from the south, flanked by two impeccably dressed members of the Civil Watch, each wearing sashes of deep indigo trimmed in silver.
A cluster of onlookers gathers; it’s not every day the Sheriff himself deigns to walk among the common crowd.
Shinobi removes a pair of mirrored spectacles and lets them hang from a platinum chain around his neck. “An auction, I’m told,” he drawls. “Something about Winged Guards, charity, and” he waves a dismissive hand, “sharing?”
The Watchmen behind him exchange weary glances.
Shinobi flips a coin — a titanium coin, gleaming unnaturally bright — and catches it midair with two fingers.
“Now, I’ve no intention of Sharan anything,” he says, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “But if the good Lady Berelain’s coffers are to swell, then consider them well-fed.”
He gestures to a scribe. “Mark me down Lot 1: 15k, Lot 2: 10k, Lot 3: 8k, Lot 4: 8k — and a personal note reminding the First that generosity is best reciprocated in fine company.”
Without warning, Shinobi springs into a perfect backflip! Then another! Landing lightly on his boots, cloak settling like spilled ink. A few merchants clap uncertainly.
The Sheriff dusts off his gloves. “You see?” he says, voice ringing across the stalls. “Even gravity pays its respects to wealth.”
He taps a jeweled ring against the nearest auction crate, the clink echoing.
“Carry on,” he adds, turning toward his entourage. “The city sleeps easier when I’ve spent well.”
The Civil Watch forms up, and together they depart toward the marble courtyard, leaving behind the scent of sandalwood, the faint glint of titanium, and a trail of stunned silence.
Dust swirls lazily through the bazaar as merchants hawk wares in a dozen dialects. At the sound of armored boots striking marble, the noise dulls for just a moment.
Shinobi the Sheriff of Tanchico strides in from the south, flanked by two impeccably dressed members of the Civil Watch, each wearing sashes of deep indigo trimmed in silver.
A cluster of onlookers gathers; it’s not every day the Sheriff himself deigns to walk among the common crowd.
Shinobi removes a pair of mirrored spectacles and lets them hang from a platinum chain around his neck. “An auction, I’m told,” he drawls. “Something about Winged Guards, charity, and” he waves a dismissive hand, “sharing?”
The Watchmen behind him exchange weary glances.
Shinobi flips a coin — a titanium coin, gleaming unnaturally bright — and catches it midair with two fingers.
“Now, I’ve no intention of [i]Sharan [/i]anything,” he says, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “But if the good Lady Berelain’s coffers are to swell, then consider them well-fed.”
He gestures to a scribe. “Mark me down Lot 1: 15k, Lot 2: 10k, Lot 3: 8k, Lot 4: 8k — and a personal note reminding the First that generosity is best reciprocated in fine company.”
Without warning, Shinobi springs into a perfect backflip! Then another! Landing lightly on his boots, cloak settling like spilled ink. A few merchants clap uncertainly.
The Sheriff dusts off his gloves. “You see?” he says, voice ringing across the stalls. “Even gravity pays its respects to wealth.”
He taps a jeweled ring against the nearest auction crate, the clink echoing.
“Carry on,” he adds, turning toward his entourage. “The city sleeps easier when I’ve spent well.”
The Civil Watch forms up, and together they depart toward the marble courtyard, leaving behind the scent of sandalwood, the faint glint of titanium, and a trail of stunned silence.