Logan held a peculiar position in the grand scheme of the upcoming super mercenary group, he was merely the supplier, hovering on the fringes, his voice barely a whisper in the roaring discussions of power and logistics.
The real players, the titans of strategy and commerce, were busy charting the caravan's monthly journeys from the human kingdom to Canyon City, a robust system where profits would be tallied and shared without delay. The whole operational blueprint was solidified after an arduous three-hour negotiation.
Meanwhile, figures of renown like Elf Pleti and Lion David concluded their roles with the setting of the sun, departing promptly post-discussion. Only Fisher lingered, a contemplative shadow in the now quiet room.
"Don't you have places to be, Fisher? What keeps you here?" Logan inquired with a teasing glint in his eye, his tone light, betraying the familial warmth he held for his brother-in-law.
Fisher, troubled by a thought, fixed his gaze on Logan. "The maltose... should we introduce it to the joint caravan's offerings?" He had assumed Logan would seize the opportunity to feature his exclusive maltose, yet it had gone unmentioned, a detail conspicuously absent from the agreements.
A smile crept across Logan' face, amused by the suggestion. "You think we should?" he mused aloud. He had indeed toyed with the idea, enticed by the prospect of a hefty 10% profit, a lucrative alternative to the mere pittance of ten silver coins per pound he earned from wholesaling directly to Fisher.
Yet, familial ties often weaved a complex web, and Logan was loath to sour relations for mere financial gain. "In all honesty, I hadn't planned on it. You know, beyond the allure of coin, there are bonds of kinship to consider."
Fisher's expression softened, his earlier tension dissolving into understanding. "I'm not pressing the matter. Your decisions have always considered my well-being, especially with the liquor arrangements," he confessed, his voice laced with gratitude. Indeed, Logan had always been a considerate figure, even when other paths beckoned.
"It's settled then. Let's keep the maltose arrangement as it is. This caravan... it's just a temporary solution anyway," Logan concluded, his decision firm yet gentle, considering the bonds that tethered them.
Fisher, puzzled yet respectful of his brother-in-law's cryptic finality, nodded slowly. "What does that mean?" he asked, a crease of confusion marking his brow.
"Nothing to fret over," Logan reassured, his smile dismissing the clouds of doubt as he steered the conversation away from business and towards the familial comfort of their shared bonds. Fisher, still somewhat bewildered but trusting, let the matter rest, understanding that some currents in the river of family and business were better left to flow unchallenged.
Fisher paused, mulling over the generous offer he was about to make. "How about this, Logan? I'll give you 30% of the profits from the future sales of maltose," he proposed, his voice carrying a hint of resolve. He felt it only fair since Logan had always shown him such unwavering support. Besides, Logan wasn't just any business associate; he was soon to be family, his sister's future husband.
Logan' eyes lit up, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Oh? Are you sure you can part with such a share?"
"Okay, I'll be heading back to the tribe in a couple of days. Would you care to join me?" Logan offered, a hopeful note in his voice.
Fisher mulled over the invitation, his mind cluttered with responsibilities. "I appreciate the offer, but I must decline this time. I'm tied up until the Windrunners United Mercenary Group is officially established," he said, his regret evident.
"Understood. I should return and help my brother with the mercenary group's formation," Logan replied, nodding in understanding.
With their plans set, Fisher soon departed from the Kasha Hotel. Over the following days, Logan found solace in the bustling environment of the third steamed bun shop owned by his sister Jane, a stark contrast to the formal atmosphere of the hotel. Here, he concocted several new pasta snacks, boosting the shop's daily revenue significantly.
...
The slave market was a dismal place, and today it played host to Logan, alongside Titon and Kadia, as they followed a greasy, corpulent fox-man through its grim alleys. The man's flesh-laden face seemed incongruous with the poverty of their surroundings. They stopped before a decrepit door, the smell of decay strong in the air.
"Dear guests, the person you wish to meet is inside," the fox-man announced, his voice unctuous as he pushed open the door.
Logan's nostrils flared at the odor as he entered the dark, damp room. The dim light barely illuminated a disheveled Beastman who was rising from a tattered sofa, flanked by equally unkempt Beastman women.
"You wish to see me? To discuss significant business?" the Beastman slurred, attempting to muster dignity.
Logan, disdain clear on his face, kicked away a chair before him, his movements sharp and dismissive. Tyton hurriedly dragged another worn-out sofa from a corner for him, but Logan eyed it with contempt before sitting.
"You, the famed slave trader, wallow in such squalor?" Logan taunted, his voice dripping with scorn.
The Beastman's eyes narrowed, tension rising palpably. "Are you here to provoke trouble?" he growled, as several formidable figures appeared at the doorway.
Logan leaned back, crossing his legs with a smirk. "Impressive, having two sixth-level warriors under your command in such a ramshackle den," he mocked, his tone mocking yet cool, fully aware of the power dynamics at play.