[Trade] [EVENT Ch3 - KARMA] - Courtly Offerings

The court’s hall was never meant to feel welcoming.
It stood carved from dark stone, the kind that seemed to drink light instead of reflecting it. Shadows stretched across the walls like tapestries, broken only by shafts of pale firelight caught in crystal sconces. The courtiers themselves, long-necked, bright-eyed, adorned in silks and polished metals, watched every arrival with a blend of fascination and suspicion. For newcomers, trust was not given freely. Trust was a treasure locked behind expectation, tithe, or service.
Barb, Thistle, and little Razaya knew this well. The three companions had traveled far across crag and forest, bringing with them their own peculiar strengths. Yet as they stood at the mouth of the hall, all three felt the weight of dozens of eyes upon them. Even the air seemed heavy, perfumed with incense that masked the musk of too many bodies in close quarters.

Barb was the first to step forward. Her build was broad, formidable, with hide like a mossy growth and a row of quills that clattered softly when she shifted her weight. Barb had always been direct and stubborn, her thoughts running more toward action than diplomacy. She knew the court’s ways were layered in performance, yet she also knew that sincerity, if wrapped in the right show, could pierce suspicion.
From the satchel slung across her flank, Barb drew forth a bundle wrapped in woven reed. She carried it carefully in her jaws and laid it at the base of the dais where the senior courtiers sat, their jeweled claws resting upon cushions. When the reed bindings fell away, a collection of hammered copper discs gleamed in the firelight, each one polished until it mirrored the faces peering down at them.
“Metals,” murmured one of the courtiers, his crest lifting with interest.

“They were scavenged from a ruined encampment by the riverside,” Barb explained, lowering her head in respect. “The humans left them behind, but I gathered what I could. Their tools, though battered, still hold worth. If reshaped by skilled claws, they will serve.”
The court exchanged looks, some intrigued, others skeptical. Metals were always valued, but the sincerity of the giver mattered as much as the gift itself.
Thistle stepped next. Smaller and wirier than Barb, his hide shimmered with a silver sheen, catching black and gold when the firelight struck just so. Unlike Barb, Thistle understood that not all tribute had to be material. Service, too, was a currency.
When a page hurried past with a tray piled high with roasted grains and carved fruits, only to trip upon a loose edge of carpet, it was Thistle who darted forward. Swift claws caught the tray before it struck the stone. With surprising grace, he righted the arrangement and, with a low bow, carried it the rest of the way to the high table himself.
“I will serve, if the court wishes it,” he said, his voice steady. “I can bring food and drink, or keep the floors clean. No labor is too small if it pleases you.”
A ripple of approval passed among the courtiers. Service was a sign of humility, and humility was a quality they respected in outsiders, so long as it was not weakness.
Little Razaya, meanwhile, had lingered back. Smaller than both Barb and Thistle, her feathers were streaked with gradients of dark brown and cream, a proud pale cream crest rising high. Razaya was no stranger to distrust, her sharp red eyes and sharper tongue often made others wary. But she also knew that fear could be tempered by fascination.

From her harness, she withdrew a bundle wrapped in leather. With deliberate slowness, she laid it upon the floor and opened it, revealing a scatter of human trinkets: a small knife with a bone handle, a carved wooden idol, and a mirror framed in tarnished silver. The courtiers leaned forward, their jeweled ornaments clinking.
“These are strange tools,” Razaya said, her voice carrying clear. “I do not know their full purpose, but I thought the court might delight in their mystery. Those things might have had a high value to humans once, I risked much to carry them here, abandoned buildings are risky places to wander around.”
The mirror in particular drew whispers. Courtiers preened, craning necks to catch their own reflections, entranced by the way the silver captured and warped their features.
Razaya dipped her head just slightly, acknowledging their intrigue but never groveling. Where Barb offered strength and Thistle humility, Razaya offered wonder.
Yet the court was not so easily won.

The Chancellor, a tall, severe figure whose scales bore the burnished hue of old bronze, rose from his cushion. His gaze swept across the three arrivals.
“You bring metals, service, and curiosities,” he said slowly. “But know this: gifts alone do not buy trust. Service alone does not win favor. To stand among us, you must prove yourselves more than gatherers or servants. The court must see that your loyalty is true.”
The words hung heavy in the hall. All three companions bowed their heads, but none retreated. They had known such a challenge would come.
Barb stepped forward again, quills rattling softly. “Then grant us a task. Let us prove ourselves in deed, not only in word.”
The Chancellor’s eyes narrowed, considering. Finally, he inclined his head. “Very well. The court’s armorers have been hindered by filth. The lower chambers where the armory lies are choked with dust, and no servant dares go near after rumors of vermin nesting within. If you will clean and prepare the armory, restoring its order, you will have shown a measure of loyalty.”

Barb, Thistle, and Razaya exchanged glances. The task was not glorious, but neither was it impossible.
The armory lays in the depths of the court, reached by winding staircases slick with condensation. The air grew cooler as they descended, carrying the faint scent of oil and rust. When at last they reached the wide chamber, they found it in disarray: racks of spears toppled, helmets scattered, the floor strewn with dust and discarded cloth.
“This will take work,” Barb muttered, pawing at the floor.
“And claws,” Thistle replied, already gathering the scattered helmets into neat piles.
Razaya gave a low laugh. “Better this than being turned away entirely.”

They set to work. Barb used her strength to right the fallen racks, her thick hide shrugging aside the dust. Thistle moved quickly, his nimble claws sweeping the floor, polishing metal, and stacking shields by size and type. Little Razaya examined the weapons themselves, discarding those too rusted to be saved and carefully arranging the rest. She even paused to hang the small human knife beside the larger blade, a subtle gesture that mingled her gift with their arsenal.
As hours passed, the chamber grew orderly once more. The piles of dust and cloth were gathered into baskets. The weapons gleamed under torchlight. The armory no longer looked abandoned but prepared, ready to be used.
When the three companions returned to the court above, their hides bore smudges of soot and dust. Yet they carried themselves proudly.
The Chancellor surveyed them, then dispatched attendants to inspect the armory. When word returned that the chamber was restored, a low murmur of approval spread among the courtiers.
“You have done well,” the Chancellor admitted, his tone grudging but sincere. “Perhaps there is room for you yet among us.”

Barb dipped her head, Thistle bowed deeply, and Razaya merely inclined her crest, eyes glittering with satisfaction.
The court was not yet theirs, but a door had opened. Trust was a slow-growing vine, but with metals, service, and curious wonders, they had planted its roots.
And in the wary gaze of the courtiers, there was, at last, a glimmer of respect.