Alaric was a merchant, or more accurately, a peddler, and to be even more precise, a smuggler.
Describing Alaric’s smuggling activities could be summed up in one word: deception.
Alaric had dedicated nearly two decades to perfecting his craft, trading shoddy tools with Goblins for fur, which he then sold for his first pot of gold. He then moved on to peddling counterfeit softeners to werewolves and, in recent years, found a new market—trading poor-quality crucibles and human herbs that didn’t grow in demonic areas for vampires’ family heirlooms.
Smuggling, a crime punishable by death in the Kingdom of Heracles, calls for discretion—the fewer who know, the better. Even Alaric’s own family didn’t know the nature of his business. Valuing his life, he personally took charge of each smuggling operation, never outsourcing to outsiders.
Years of solitary and stressful trafficking led Alaric to fall prey to gluttony, and his physique quickly inflated like a Heraclean behemoth, topping more than 200 pounds—a deceiver of strength, not stealth.
Lately, Alaric had found camaraderie in fellow smugglers—normally competitors, but perhaps the thrill of shared lawlessness or the mere fact of operating in different territories made them friends to a certain degree—true friends, at least when borrowing money wasn’t involved.
After several months of conspiring with his partners in crime, Alaric decided to undertake one last big job before going straight, and they all pooled their resources, purchasing herbs and experimental tools, ready to clean out vampires’ castles in one fell swoop and bid farewell to this illicit life.
Alaric knew the essence of a lie: truth laced with fiction. He sold real, effective herbs, but at prices slightly exaggerated.
On their way to the Crimson Mountains, they were ambushed by a gang—more precisely, werewolves and spectral bandits.
For a brief moment, Alaric thought this was karmic justice for his fake concoctions. Yet, he noticed the werewolves seemed to have face blindness towards humans and appeared to have ulterior motives for capturing them.
The captured merchants were tied up like dumplings and delivered to a damp dungeon in the Miasma Swamps. As Alaric braced for his final dance, a new job opportunity presented itself.
For Alaric, this was a stroke of luck. His new enigmatic employer offered a less dangerous gig, and head-lopping worries seemed a thing of the past. With assurances from a high-ranking kingdom’s bigwig and whispers of the old Demon King's treasure, Alaric felt invigorated, his bad habits relenting. Before setting off on this run, he even managed to slim down a bit.
Clutching the thirty crystals he risked his all for, Alaric strode confidently back into his own territory—Count Reed’s domain.
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While not the richest in the Kingdom of Heracles, Count Reed's land was middle-of-the-road, with many, nobles aside, craving such luxuries as those held by the Guild Chairman and the Head of the Adventurers’ Guild.
Being cautious, Alaric first discreetly sought a magic item appraiser through his connections.
The old appraiser, monocle in place, examined the crystal for a long time before reaching a delightful conclusion—it was authentic and valuable.
The appraiser, smitten by his own assessment, immediately offered to purchase the very crystal he'd evaluated. Alaric's joy knew no bounds, and after he described the crystal’s stored image, the elderly assessor bit faster than a fish, and their first trade sealed for sixty golden coins—a friendly price, considering the appraiser’s wince.
Magic item appraisals didn’t come cheap, especially if one sought expertise outside guild channels, like Alaric had. From the appraiser's rueful look, Alaric sensed his pricing could climb higher, yet the old man might balk at parting with more coins—an insight bolstering Alaric’s confidence.
Outwardly the owner of a storefront, Alaric’s real identity as a smuggler was hidden in plain sight—always claiming to be delivering or receiving goods. Some, like the Guild Chairman of Reed domain, were wise to his act, turning a blind eye and offering shelter in exchange for fat cuts of profit—satiating the wolf for now with forty percent.
Sighing at this grim reality, Alaric knew the Chairman’s greed was a yawning chasm. As Guild Chairman, he abided by the principles of sustainable exploitation, harvesting just twenty percent in lean times and now, with Alaric flourishing, swelled his take to forty. If things continued apace, Alaric feared total capture by his ambitions—an undesired sight for any far-reaching merchant.
Fortunately, Alaric had already eyed a new turf and planned a gradual severance with the Guild if business stabilized.
For now, there were deeds to do.
Under cover of night, donning his black cloak, Alaric knocked on the gate of a quaint estate just outside the City of Gath. After being frisked by two servants, he was ushered before Joel, the Guild Chairman of Count Reed's domain.
A stark contrast to his congenial work façade, Joel greeted Alaric with a stern face, asking brusquely, “Back, are we?”
“Yes, back indeed. And you see, Chairman, I came straight to you, first thing.”
“Good. What's this round's profit?”
“Please, Chairman, listen to me, the profit’s all tied up in new stock, so the gold, well…”
“Cut the crap. Just spit it out.”
“Yes, yes, right away. The profits have been traded for unseen demonic crystals... from succubi, yes...”
Chairman Joel was an arrogant fool, blind to the intricacies of Alaric’s business and only imposing his power, demanding his share of profits. So deceiving Joel was a walk in the park for a seasoned con like Alaric.
“Oh? You've seen succubi? Are they as breathtaking as legends say?”
Quick on his feet, Alaric bluffed, “Ah, Chairman, not at all. The succubi were gaunt, desperate, and ugly as sin—willing to sell their ancestral crystals for a bite of bread…”
“Ancestral crystals? That's what you've brought me?”
“Yes, sir. Every succubus family has one—a crystal chronicling ancestral glory.”
In Alaric’s tall tale, succubi were reduced to fools auctioning their heritage without a second thought—a story that Joel swallowed hook, line, and sinker. In the end, Joel pocketed two crystals as his cut, "at cost" for seventy-five gold coins each, totaling one hundred fifty gold coins, and promised to introduce Alaric to the Head of the Adventurers’ Guild soon.
All within Alaric’s calculations. Stepping out of the estate, he drew a deep breath of relief. The least impressive crystals were off his hands—he longed for an end to such days.