The rain hadn't stopped by morning, but the streets were alive anyway, a persistent drizzle turning the cobblestones slick and shiny underfoot, puddles reflecting the gray sky like shattered mirrors. Guild days were like that — too much business to put off just because the sky was angry, merchants trudging through the wet with cloaks pulled tight, their voices muffled but determined as they converged on the hall.
I stood near the steps of the guild hall, the stone facade cold and unyielding, water trickling down its carved edges. The slow stream of merchants and assistants made their way inside, hoods up, folders clutched against the damp. She arrived almost exactly on schedule, her burgundy dress darkened by the rain, hood drawn up to shield her face, a leather-bound folder under one arm like a shield.
She noticed me before I spoke, her eyes sharpening under the hood. "You're early."
"Better to be here before they start whispering," I said, falling into step beside her as we ascended the steps, the rain pattering softly on the overhang above.
The guild hall's main chamber was wide and high-ceilinged, the air carrying the slow mingle of parchment, ink, and damp wool from rain-soaked cloaks. Tables were set in a horseshoe arrangement, polished wood scarred from years of heated debates, with the central space left open for speakers, a single podium at the head like a judge's bench. She moved toward the right side, her steps confident, claiming a seat near the end where she could see the room without being cornered. I followed at a polite distance, taking the chair beside her without invitation, my presence a silent statement.
The man she'd argued with days ago was already there, his broad frame hunched over a stack of papers, speaking with two others in low tones, their faces tight with shared grievance. His eyes narrowed when he saw me, a flicker of suspicion crossing his ruddy features. "Didn't know you'd brought help," he said to her, his voice carrying across the table like a challenge.
"Consider him an observer," she replied evenly, unfolding her folder with deliberate calm, her fingers steady on the pages.
[Influence level with target: 40% → 43%. Presence reinforcement detected.]
The meeting began with a rap of the guildmaster's gavel, the sound echoing off the high beams, calling the room to order. Voices hushed, chairs scraped as bodies settled. I kept my mouth shut, letting her work, my posture relaxed but alert—arms folded, eyes scanning the faces around the table. She was good — direct without being abrasive, her voice cutting through the murmur like a well-honed blade. She laid out her case for the warehouse allocation near the docks, citing figures from her notes, each point backed by dates, agreements, and precedents that left little room for refute.
The man opposite her kept circling the same issue, his arguments repetitive—claims of favoritism, hints at undercutting rates, his allies nodding along with forced enthusiasm. She countered each point calmly, her tone level, dismantling his logic with questions that exposed the gaps: "And where is the record of that shipment delay?" or "How does that align with last quarter's guild ruling?" The room shifted gradually, murmurs of agreement rippling from neutral parties.
At one point, during a particularly heated exchange, she glanced toward me — not for help, but to see if I was paying attention, her eyes meeting mine for a brief second, seeking silent solidarity. I met her gaze steadily and gave a small nod, my expression unchanging but supportive.
[Influence level with target: 46%. Positive association with support detected.]
By the end, she'd secured the allocation, the guildmaster's gavel sealing it with a final thud. The man left quickly, his jaw tight, chair scraping harshly as he pushed back, his allies trailing with muttered excuses. She lingered just long enough to sign a few documents, her pen scratching across the parchment with precise strokes, before walking out into the wet street, the rain now a fine mist that clung to everything like a veil.
"You didn't speak," she said as we stepped outside, pulling her hood up again, the air cool and heavy with the scent of wet earth and distant smoke from chimneys.
"You didn't need me to," I said, matching her pace down the slick cobblestones. "And if I had, they'd have made it about me, not your point. Better to let your words stand alone."
Her lips curved slightly, a rare crack in her composed facade. "You understand positioning."
We walked without speaking for a time, the rain softening to a mist that beaded on our cloaks, the market around us subdued—stalls half-covered with tarps, vendors calling out half-heartedly to the sparse crowd. She stopped at a stall selling small glass bottles of infused oils, the vendor's table lined with vials in hues of amber and green, their contents shimmering faintly. She selected one with a practiced eye, uncorking it briefly to inhale before nodding.
"Try this," she said, holding it out to me, her fingers brushing mine in the exchange.
I uncorked it and inhaled — warm spice and something floral beneath, rich and layered, evoking distant trade routes and hidden gardens. "You use this for yourself or for trade?"
"Both," she said, paying the vendor with a silver coin. "It sells well, but I like it. Reminds me of better deals."
[Influence level with target: 50%.]
We reached her shop — a clean, well-ordered space tucked between a bakery and a cobbler, its sign a simple carved plank reading "Elara's Wares," the doorframe polished despite the weather. She unlocked the door with a key from her pocket — a clean, well-ordered space with shelves of goods stacked by type: spices in one corner, fabrics in another, small trinkets gleaming under the window's muted light. She stepped inside, pausing in the entryway to shake the rain from her hood.
"Come in. I have tea."
The interior smelled faintly of cedar from the shelves and the oil she'd bought, a comforting warmth cutting through the damp chill outside. She moved behind a counter to set water heating over a small stove in the back, her movements unhurried now that she was on her own ground, shedding her cloak to reveal the burgundy dress hugging her form.
"You know," she said without looking at me, measuring tea leaves into a pot with precise scoops, "most men in this town try to impress me with what they have. Land, coin, connections. You haven't once told me what you own."
"I find it's better to show what I can do than list what I've collected," I said, leaning against the counter, watching her work—the way her hands moved with efficiency, the silver streak in her hair catching the light from a lantern she lit.
She glanced over her shoulder, studying me again, her eyes lingering on my face, tracing the lines as if reading a ledger.
[Influence level with target: 55%.]
We drank tea at a small table near the window, the rain pattering softly outside, steam rising from our cups in lazy spirals scented with black leaves and a hint of citrus. She asked questions — where I'd traveled (east to the river towns, north to the hills), what I'd traded (spices mostly, but furs when the season allowed), what I thought of the town (promising, but stifled by guild rules). I gave her answers that were truthful enough to hold, but open-ended enough to keep her asking, each response laced with subtle Desire Tongue to draw her in deeper.
"You see things others miss," she said at one point, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "That's rare."
"Rare can be useful," I replied, holding her gaze.
When I left, she walked me to the door herself, the rain still falling in a steady sheet outside, the street lamps flickering to life early under the gloom.
[Influence level with target: 60%. Projected bond completion within 2–3 encounters.]
Back at The Copper Flagon, the serving girl was all smiles, a subtle reminder of the bond completed yesterday—her eyes lighting up as she spotted me, moving with an extra sway in her step. She made a point of standing closer than necessary as she brought my food, her hand brushing my arm in a way that lingered, drawing a curious glance from a nearby patron.
Two threads, two very different games. The serving girl was proof of what the system could do quickly—immediate loyalty, passive benefits rippling outward. The merchant woman was a lesson in patience, her walls high but cracking, each interaction chipping away until the foundation gave.
Tomorrow, I'd push her to the point where she invited me in without business as the excuse. The rain would continue, but the momentum was mine.