To Enable Them May Justifiably Be Declared The Purpose Of Society
What Mr. Atkosol wanted from Stadeskosken, Dirant had been briefed, was a Ritualist capable of handling goods from multiple suppliers including but not limited to Stadeskosken, with “handling” understood as revoking the Preservation Rituals which kept perishables safe, fresh, and inedible for transport and storage. The excavation had its own Ritualist, one who specialized in sorting through the dust and refuse of millennia and was therefore best kept away from the yams.
“I find the same applies to any employer, and so I do not complain as much about easy assignments as my pride demands I ought,” Dirant said, and in that the Stadeskosken employees enjoyed a perfect alignment of opinion regardless of the role assigned them within the company. Moved by camaraderie, by a lack of rituals to perform, and most of all by the impossibility of manning a popcorn station since Mr. Atkosol had declined that option, Dirant went so far as to contribute a small amount of manual labor, something more often required of him than his profession or his stats foretold.
> Ritualist
>
> Priest of Holzd
>
> LV 9 160/1000
>
>
>
> HP 293
>
> Muscle 36 (+2)
>
> Coordination 44 (+5)
>
> Verve 43 (+4)
>
> Sticktoitiveness 57 (+6)
>
> Discernment 69 (+5)
>
> Gumption 27 (+4)
>
> Tit-for-Tat 42 (+1)
>
> Receptivity 88 (+7)
>
> Panache 46 (+4)
>
>
>
> Class Abilities
>
> Ritual Judgment
>
> Ritual Completion
>
> Ritual Memory
>
> Ritual Delay
>
> Ritual Substitution
>
> Divine Guidance (Hunch)
>
> Ritual Humility
>
> Ritual Revelation
>
> Ritual Development
>
> Ritual Flair
>
> General Abilities
>
> Adaban (Fluent)
>
> Heweks (Fluent)
>
> Yumin (Fluent)
>
> Tabidgeir (Intermediate)
>
> Dvanj (Intermediate)
>
> Drastlimez (Intermediate)
>
> Usse (Intermediate)
>
> Desurvyai (Basic)
>
> Saueo (Basic)
>
> Mercantile Fundamentals
>
> Horse Riding (Intermediate)
>
> Class Perception (Divine)
>
> Negotiating Fundamentals
His 36 Muscle impressed nowhere near as much as his extravagant Receptivity, the sole requirement of the Ritualist class, but the opportunities given to exercise stats are unequal. So too are the chances to boast about them. “Ah, my Receptivity? 88, as uninteresting as it is.” The opening to say that had not come up a single time in Dirant's career. He feared that if it ever did, he would botch the execution from want of practice.
The warehouse was equipped with its own living area insofar as a couple rooms furnished with bunk beds each might be described as such, which was as far as anywhere in the camp outside the administrative quarter went. “We have locks even. Less because of crime than animals,” Mr. Goskol informed Dirant.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“By such failure of hospitality, do we not deny ourselves pleasant dinner guests?”
“Yes, they and the mites which invariably accompany them.”
As luxurious as the accommodations were presented as being, Dirant opted before retiring to acquaint himself with the camp's layout and major figures, a program which his colleagues enthusiastically recommended. Without a manager to stand between the personnel and the client, demands might come in at any time no matter the inconvenience. Embarrassment might be avoided if the employee saw a commanding sort of gleam in a client's eye, but that relied on knowing who was who and how important each was.
They themselves would be pursuing other entertainments, they unnecessarily assured him before they parted for the evening. Dirant strolled to the administrative quarter, the proper place for such exalted persons as Atkosol Tellanstal and, if not one of Stadeskosken founder Haderslant Rikelta's nine sons, certainly Ritualists, he allowed himself to believe. At the same time, all the workers, closer to two hundred than to two or a hundred, began returning to the camp, trodding up the long, winding downward path determined to be the safest and fastest available route to the ruins.
Accessibility had hindered the initial university-backed excavation also with the result that it failed to make any real discovery before the funds ran out, and it was a scheme of eventually completing at great expense a road straight from Ividottlof to the bottom of the exposed ravine and relocating the camp there which convinced Atkosol to take over. That was all according to interviews. The matter had been entrusted to the genius engineer Taomenk Genarostaf, and pictures of him as he stood beside Atkosol in those same articles allowed Dirant to identify the two men.
They stood in the open, taking the central parts in a discussion which involved several other men and women, none of them former representatives from the venerable state of Opstliknetta to the governing body of the confederation of Greater Enloffenkir, also known to the impatient as the GE or Grenlof. Atkosol, who was, looked as if, rather than slowly going bald, he had promptly dismissed all his front-facing hair when he realized the gains in convenience to be made when it came time to wipe his forehead. He was doing so just then. The rest he allowed to remain so long as it refrained from infringing upon his ears. That remainder was dark brown as was typical for a Rik, a member of one of Greater Enloffenkir's five major tribes. The other GE tribes attributed to Riks a high degree of intelligence which Atkosol's expression seemed to reflect, though the thoughts he formed resulted not in anxiety as the stereotype suggested but in determination, to judge by both his purposeful demeanor and his present enterprise. While the phrase “former Entessihotka representative” usually applied to the retired, he appeared to be of middle age just as he belonged to the middle height.
Taomenk Genarostaf resembled his employer in those last two traits if in no others. He had, like Dirant, the black hair of the Adaban, or had had; it was going gray. Age did not diminish the amount of it, extending as it did into impressive muttonchops and even into a beard, something unusual in modern GE fashion. His frown gave the impression of having plain habit as its cause rather than any proximate spur to displeasure.
As for the others, none of them had attained the fame required for someone like Dirant to know by sight, a deficiency on his part to be sure rather than theirs seeing as they belonged to the category of people allowed to speak with Atkosol Tellanstal. They took the chief part in each exchange as well, suggesting some action and receiving an answer such as, “Yes, do that.” Atkosol had mastered the lessons of Life on the Top, the classic treatment of optimal behavior for people in positions of responsibility which claims that visibly exercising leadership in most cases proves it to be poor, for one ought never to have hired underlings who require close supervision.
Observing the scene was a cluster of people easy for anyone to recognize, not with respect to their individual names but to their profession. The reporters assigned to the excavation stood there or sat on stools they hauled over for the purpose, relaxed but ready to spring an interview upon anyone who staggered and became separated from the pack. They glanced at Dirant but turned away when they detected no sign of approaching news.
One of them glanced a second time. “Hello there, newcomer. You look familiar, something like that handsome Fennizener in town who handles the logistics. Related to him by any chance?”
The question needled Dirant. Not because he wished to be known as the handsome one, knowing that to be impossible, but because the fact of Silapobant Rikelta's preeminence among his brothers in terms of looks had the feeling of a family secret for all that it was evident on their faces. He answered civilly despite his irrational irritation. “It is so. Our meeting is a blessing for me. Dirant Rikelta, brother of that very Silapobant Rikelta and similarly employed by Stadeskosken, a company which offers a variety of goods and services in addition to our fundamental mission of providing reliable transportation of goods.”
“Even more for me. Kodol Hinpabafnoren, and you can call me Pots if you have something you'd like printed under a name not your own.” The man nodded and turned back to watching for developments. Kodol was the most reporter-looking of them all, though determining exactly why was difficult for anyone not a Pinpointer engaged in politics or criminal detection. It was not his black hair swept back somewhat in the Yean Defiafi fashion though not so severely as that kingdom's fashionistas suggested, which was a common enough style in the GE if less prevalent than what Dirant exhibited (that is, allowing one's hair to fall over as much of the forehead as possible). His open coat and shirt had nothing distinctive about them either for all that a smart vest might have done him some good. Perhaps it was his manner, for even while speaking to Dirant his head twisted around in emulation of an owl in search of mice, unwilling to miss anything and unconcerned whether his intentions were known. To do one's job is nothing shameful after all, though a reporter possessed of a nickname must be suspected of zeal bordering on the indecorous.
That ended local interest in Dirant. The other reporters looked over during the exchange because they trusted Kodol's judgment regarding what was worth consideration, and just as easily they agreed there was no more to say to the new arrival, thereupon returning their attention to Mr. Atkosol. With that issue resolved, Dirant expected them to ignore him henceforth and thereby proved his ignorance of their type.
“Pardon me. Our meeting is a blessing for me. Aptezor Ristaofen.” A young reporter, possibly the sole person Dirant had seen that day younger than he was, removed himself from the society of his fellows. Unlike Kodol, Aptezor adopted an investigatory tactic of staring at his subject with an intensity reserved by most for coins as they roll over the desk or bread as it leaves the oven. His technique had its result; when he suggested they move a short distance way to converse, Dirant agreed instantly so as to have a reason to look elsewhere.
“It's an unreasonable request of course, but I hoped that in your position as the son of the founder of a prominent mercantile concern, you might be willing to offer a businesslike opinion for the readers of the Amlizen Crier, a reputable publication within the state of Likstalmitlof.” From the way Aptezor rushed through that without a single breath, Dirant imagined for him a past in some choir or other, or perhaps he had been an authentic town crier before working his way up to the metaphorical version.