Bradikkar Faje's page

'Old Korvosa' is bemused and then suspicious of the half-elf's unusual manner of writing, frowning at the arcane inscription and turning the parchment over from back to front, but the wording is sufficient. "'Gristav, bearded male, elf blood'" he repeats, his eyes darting between the half-elf's face and the paper to verify the accuracy of the description, With a grunt of satisfaction, he folds the parchment. "I recommend you not shave the beard," he advises.

"A pleasure doing business, Faje. Have you a title? They all jump too fast to acknowledge a command.", Gristav smiled toward the door. "What might I call you?"

"'Sir,'" Faje growls, his eyes hard; then, after a beat, a predatory grin surges across his face. "Or Mr. Faje. This isn't Korvosa," his voice drips with contempt. "No hierarchy here where one man thinks he's better than another because of his title or family name. In Riddleport, they let water seek its own level." He heads for the door to the hallway, the audience seemingly over. "You have business here again, you show that badge," he instructs. "Can't promise service with a smile, but it'll get you past the goons at the door with your nose unbroken." As he swings the door fully open, a knot of eavesdroppers quickly disperses itself, leaving the corridor clear for passage. "Roldheim shouldn't give you any more trouble at the Gas Forges. See yourself out." He strides back the way he just came, once again neglecting to look back to see if Gris is following.

The man's hand is already halfway out to pick up the parchment in question; with a vague expression of annoyance on his face, it makes a detour to give Gristav's proffered appendage a brief if bonecrushing shake. "Faje, Braddikar Faje," he grunts, distracted, as he runs his eyes over the note from the Gas Forges. With a grunt, he turns and opens the door to the hallway again, shouting down it, "I need the box of courier badges in here!" He leaves the door ajar, and Gris can hear the flurry of several men rushing to fulfill the order.

"This is nothing; have you out of here in no time," Faje assures him. "Damn dwarf could have gone ahead and taken your damn commission, saved you a trip back." It is a matter of mere moments before one of the thugs from the corridor appears at the doorway with a small strongbox, breathless and crowded by several of his fellows who want credit for having jumped at the order as well; Faje takes it from him without a glance and sets it on the table, unlocking it with a key from his belt. Inside are several shiny pot-metal badges, along with a ratty quill and a stoppered pot of ink with at least as much of its contents hardened on the outside as useful on the inside. "Here," he says, unstoppering the ink with a dirgeful shower of black flakes and setting it on the table with the quill. "You sign your name to Roldheim's parchment, and I give you a badge. Easy as that."