>SELECTED: 2 sequins. 2 sequins for each human life. Almighty have mercy on your soul, how can you say no to the holy knights request? The price of the educated slave (once decided on) will be increased by 50%, this extra amount will be spent at Brother Rousseau’s discretion. [COUNTER-INTRIGUE AUTO-SUCCESS] + [PERSUASION AUTO-SUCCESS]Unlike Brother Rousseau, the old Merchanta basketweaver Eski Demir sees no reason to go easy on the foreign challenger on his home turf. A number of similarly wizened old locals gather around to watch the match, but you quickly realise that it’s not because this is a close or even interesting match. They’re here to see the foreign barbarian thoroughly trounced in a game of Princeps, and they are not disappointed.
You understand now that the kindly old Comitas holy knight had mollycoddling you in your first few friendly games, politely refraining from utilising some of the more punishing combinations and strategies known to any seasoned players while you were still grasping at the basics. At least you know enough now to realise just how handily this Princeps master is running rings around you, quite literally in some cases as your pieces are encircled and broken apart like a turtlewolf with a soft-shell
crab.It doesn’t help that you’re learning enough about the language so that now the content of the jeers and laughter directed at you from the audience doesn’t entirely escape you. You’d not stand for half of what they say were they a belted knight you could take to task, but what are you supposed to do? Challenge these common born old relics to a duel for losing a game?
At one point, as the game draws to a close, you manage to further compound your embarrassment. Eski Demir effortlessly rebuffs your feeble attempt at a last stand, condescending explaining an apparently well-established rule that the moment your hand leaves a piece your movement is considered locked. You stand up suddenly as your temper gives out to your ill-concealed outrage and, quite <span class="mu-i">accidently</span> you swear, knock the table and spill several of the small pieces that have left you vanquished. You find little humour in the hammed up gasps of indignation and insults from the gathered crowd, hammed up at your expense, and storm out muttering darkly under your breath.
Being laughed out of that khave shop by common foreigners older than you and Father combined is one of the more humiliating moments in your life. You barely even hear the old basketweaver say that you’re welcome to come back anytime, once you’ve learned how to actually play worth a damn. Your foul mood lasts for much of the day, even when considering substantial purchases at the market, and you know you’ve added another blemish on your conscience to be addressed in your next confession.
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