Come on Barrow, get it together. He smiles again, reminding himself that this is the alternative to stealing it or hoarding what he can scavenge from this or that former field of battle.
"Well. Lyrium," he says pleasantly, "the, you know, consumable sort."
"Correct," Colin says with an eyetwitch. Usually people can say what concentration they need, or at least an amount. "How long have you been a Templar?"
"Well that's the thing," the man replies with a wince, rubbing the back of his neck, "I wouldn't quite say I'm a Templar, these days. But I hear that... around these parts, that might not matter anymore."
He's a bit disgusted by the cravenness of his own response: Maker, it's the one thing that can bring this out of him. Propositioning sex is easier.
"So about... (whatever the sensible dosage for a large person should be) would do the trick." He pauses. "...what does lyrium usually go for, on the." Not black market. He makes a little see-saw gesture with his hand. "You know, the up and up?"
It's absolutely ideal, that this man says he is no longer a Templar. Something visibly relaxes in Colin when he says that. He starts rooting around for the concentration necessary. Of course the more concentrated it is, the more careful he, as a mage, has to be in handling it. He makes sure to pass it off quickly and name its price.
"It might give you a bit of a...thrill," he says as a standard warning, though the man should know this by now.
That gets a laugh. "A thrill," the man repeats, emptying his coinpurse into his palm so he can count out the right amount, "if that's what you want to call it." He hands the coins over with a jovial look, confident now that he hasn't been recognized-- the poor shopkeeper's half shaken out of his boots. "I take it you've had some involvement with the Circles," he guesses amiably, "such that they are. ...were."
Teeth grind as the stranger guesses correctly. He wants to deny it, to say he has simply had a year's experience legally selling lyrium, but he knows that the more he says, the more he can trip over his own lies. He counts the coins before putting them away.
"As have you," he answers noncommittally. "But you wouldn't be the first ex-Templar to join us."
The young man's reaction is an open book: he's a mage, then. Rather than frighten off his only source of lifeblood, Barrow chooses not to acknowledge it, instead just answering the shopkeeper's question with a resigned spread of his hands. Guilty as charged.
"That so?" he asks, interest piqued, "well, times are changing. Can't imagine there's much for a proper Templar to do nowadays." Bringing a little box out of his satchel, he unclasps it to carefully put the lyrium vial inside.
There's a faint laugh at that. He would like to think Templars obsolete, but as seconds tick by, he starts feeling a bit uncomfortable with the statement.
"What's a proper Templar?" he asks. Last he knew, there were plenty of proper Templars, some of which are actually employed in proper work by the Grand Enchanter and the new Divine. Simon and Knight-Commander Norrington, among others.
"Oh, you know," Barrow hedges, "the kind who..." Still cares a lot about mages going free or not, maybe hunts them, is incapable of moving on with life, would have him court-martialed for desertion if that's still a thing,
"...perhaps the, er, less said, the better." He smiles, winningly at that. "You can call me Barrow, by the way. I imagine we'll be seeing more of each other." Patting the spot where he's tucked his lyrium box, he turns toward the door, but pauses.
"...and if you didn't... mention this to anyone," he adds, over his shoulder, "it. Wouldn't go amiss."
Definitely no longer a Templar. Doesn't even want people to know. Why? Did he do something? Colin's brow furrows and he gives a nod, though he'll need to keep an eye on him.
"Fereldan, right?" Judging by the accent, though sometimes a Marcher accent can be mistaken for one.
Though he's nearly out the door, Barrow pauses when addressed again. Raising his eyebrows, he gives a little nod accompanied by the smile he still wears, and makes his exit. With this one it's probably best that no one talks too extensively about previous lives.
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"This is that place, yes." Does that make this man an ex-Templar? Current-Templar? He sort of doesn't want to know. "What do you need?"
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"Well. Lyrium," he says pleasantly, "the, you know, consumable sort."
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He's a bit disgusted by the cravenness of his own response: Maker, it's the one thing that can bring this out of him. Propositioning sex is easier.
"So about... (whatever the sensible dosage for a large person should be) would do the trick." He pauses. "...what does lyrium usually go for, on the." Not black market. He makes a little see-saw gesture with his hand. "You know, the up and up?"
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"It might give you a bit of a...thrill," he says as a standard warning, though the man should know this by now.
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He hands the coins over with a jovial look, confident now that he hasn't been recognized-- the poor shopkeeper's half shaken out of his boots. "I take it you've had some involvement with the Circles," he guesses amiably, "such that they are. ...were."
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"As have you," he answers noncommittally. "But you wouldn't be the first ex-Templar to join us."
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"That so?" he asks, interest piqued, "well, times are changing. Can't imagine there's much for a proper Templar to do nowadays." Bringing a little box out of his satchel, he unclasps it to carefully put the lyrium vial inside.
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"What's a proper Templar?" he asks. Last he knew, there were plenty of proper Templars, some of which are actually employed in proper work by the Grand Enchanter and the new Divine. Simon and Knight-Commander Norrington, among others.
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"...perhaps the, er, less said, the better." He smiles, winningly at that. "You can call me Barrow, by the way. I imagine we'll be seeing more of each other."
Patting the spot where he's tucked his lyrium box, he turns toward the door, but pauses.
"...and if you didn't... mention this to anyone," he adds, over his shoulder, "it. Wouldn't go amiss."
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"Fereldan, right?" Judging by the accent, though sometimes a Marcher accent can be mistaken for one.
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With this one it's probably best that no one talks too extensively about previous lives.