The weather cleared overnight, leaving the streets washed clean, the air crisp with the scent of damp earth and faint woodsmoke from morning fires. Sunlight caught in puddles between the cobblestones, turning them into shimmering mirrors that reflected the blue sky above, vendors wiping down their stalls with renewed energy after the rain. Good day for being seen in the right places, where casual encounters could build reputation without force.
The merchant woman's influence was sitting at sixty percent. That was enough to guarantee she wouldn't brush me off, but not enough for her to see me as part of her inner circle. To get there, I needed to demonstrate value in her world — not just as a man, but as someone who could move in her professional space without tripping over the rules, blending in like a trusted advisor rather than an outsider.
The serving girl caught me before I left The Copper Flagon, her red hair tied back, apron smudged from the breakfast rush.
"She came in early this morning," she said quietly, leaning close as she cleared a table nearby, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
"Who?" I asked, though I already suspected.
"The merchant you've been talking to," she said with a knowing look, her green eyes flicking up to meet mine. "Bought bread and left. Seemed in a hurry—something about a shipment delay."
That meant she was working today, dealing with the frustrations of trade. And in her world, work meant people she needed to impress, negotiate with, or outmaneuver. If I could stand beside her in that environment, it would matter, showing I understood the unspoken rules of her trade.
[System note: Social Gravity passive can be leveraged to increase perceived competence in group settings.]
I started at the market, the stalls bustling with mid-morning energy—vendors calling out deals, the clink of coins exchanging hands, a horse-drawn cart rumbling past with crates of fresh produce. I made a point of talking to a few vendors I'd seen her speak with before. Not about her — that would be too obvious — but about their stock, their routes, their trade partners. At the spice stall, I haggled lightly over a jar of cinnamon, laughing with the seller about last week's storm delaying shipments. It was about planting my face in their memory, so when I turned up later with her, they'd already have the impression I belonged there, a familiar figure rather than a stranger.
By mid-morning, I saw her moving between stalls, her burgundy dress standing out amid the muted tones of work clothes, checking quality on bolts of fabric and speaking with a supplier from the river ports, her posture straight, voice firm as she pointed out a flaw in the weave.
I didn't go straight to her. Instead, I positioned myself so that she saw me in conversation with a leatherworker she knew — laughing easily, my posture relaxed, arms crossed as I nodded at his tale of a tricky customer. The leatherworker clapped my shoulder, sealing the moment with familiarity.
When our eyes met across the aisle, I let her make the choice. She walked over, basket in hand.
"Making friends?" she asked, her tone neutral but with a hint of amusement, eyes scanning the leatherworker's stall briefly.
"Just learning the landscape," I said, turning to face her fully. "The leatherworker has a shipment coming in tomorrow — same docks your goods come through. Might be worth checking if there's overlap on the manifests."
Her brows lifted slightly, interest sparking. "And you know that how?"
"Asked the right questions," I said, keeping it light, no boast in my voice.
[Influence level with target: 65%.]
She didn't invite me to walk with her, but she didn't move away either, lingering a moment to inspect a belt on the stall before continuing. We made a slow circuit of the stalls, and I kept my conversation light — nothing that pulled focus from her business, just occasional comments on quality or trade routes that showed I paid attention without overstepping.
When she stopped to speak with a silver merchant, his table gleaming with polished rings and pendants under a canopy, I stayed just outside the conversation, nodding at the right moments but letting her lead the negotiation on a set of clasps. The silver merchant's eyes flicked to me a few times, registering the quiet confidence I projected without saying a word—arms loose at my sides, gaze steady but not intrusive.
It worked. When she stepped away, clasps tucked into her basket, she said, "You know when not to speak. Most men don't, especially around deals like that."
"Speaking is easy," I said, matching her stride as we moved toward the fruit vendors. "Not speaking at the right time is harder. Lets the real work shine through."
That got me the faintest smile, a curve of her lips that softened her sharp features for a second.
We ended the morning at a stall selling fine paper and ink, the vendor's shelves lined with reams of varying textures and bottles of deep blues and blacks. She chose supplies while I browsed nearby, picking up a quill and testing its point. As she paid, the seller glanced between us and asked if I was her partner, his tone casual but probing. She didn't correct him — just glanced at me with an unreadable look, her eyes holding mine briefly before turning back to collect her change.
[Influence level with target: 68%.]
We parted with no set plans, her heading toward her shop while I lingered at the stall, but I knew she'd be thinking about it—the way I'd fit seamlessly into her routine, adding value without demanding credit. That was the point — not to push for an immediate invite, but to make her imagine the next time we'd be seen together, how it would feel natural, beneficial.
Back at the inn, the serving girl had left a folded note under my drink, slipped discreetly during the lunch service. Just a short message: Tonight? Her handwriting neat, the paper scented faintly with the inn's soap.
I burned it after reading, the flame from the candle consuming it quickly. No need for anyone else to see, no traces left behind.
That evening, as the sun dipped low and the common room filled with the dinner crowd—merchants unwinding over ale, locals sharing gossip—the serving girl finished her shift early, her apron discarded, hair loose around her shoulders. She approached my table with a mug in hand, setting it down before sliding into the seat across from me.
"Tonight?" she asked softly, her foot brushing mine under the table, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
I nodded, standing and leading her upstairs without a word. The door to my room clicked shut, the space dim with evening light filtering through the window, the bed unmade from the morning. She turned to me, her hands immediately on my chest, pushing me back toward the bed.
"I've been waiting all day," she moaned softly, her lips finding mine in a hungry kiss, tongue slipping in as she pressed her body against me.
"Me too," I murmured, my hands sliding to her waist, pulling her closer, Desire Touch igniting the contact. "Show me how much."
She gasped at the warmth, her fingers fumbling with my shirt buttons. "Like this?" she whispered, nipping at my neck, her breath hot.
"Yes," I groaned, stripping her blouse, cupping her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until she arched, moaning louder. "Keep going."
Her hands dropped to my belt, freeing me, stroking firmly. "Feels so good," she breathed, dropping to her knees, taking me in her mouth with slow, teasing licks.
I tangled my fingers in her hair, guiding gently. "Deeper," I said, voice rough, her moans vibrating around me.
She rose, pushing me onto the bed, straddling me, grinding against my hardness. "Want you inside," she panted, positioning herself, sinking down with a long moan. "Ah... yes!"
I thrust up, hands on her hips. "Ride me," I commanded, her movements quickening, breasts bouncing as she gasped, "Harder... please!"
We flipped, me on top, pounding deeper. "Like that?" I asked, her nails raking my back.
"Yes! Don't stop!" she cried, climaxing with a shudder, pulling me with her in release.
We lay tangled after, her head on my chest. "You're mine now," she whispered.
"And you're mine," I replied.
The system chimed again afterward.
[Bond maintenance successful. Passive bonuses stable.]
Two games, both working. Tomorrow, I'd be ready to tip the merchant woman into the 70% range — and once she crossed that line, the real opening would appear, her walls crumbling under the weight of subtle influence.