The Unbargainable Merchant
While the Griffons live their lives without a care in the world it is only when the merchant rears his boney head that they begin to stare him in the face. It is only when death begins to near, their life’s end starting to get closer and closer, feathers dropping cheeks sinking. Their youth dries and age’s marks fill their bodies like the mark of a thousand tiny battles each day.
Yet once it begins to take space in their mind they begin to act kind and generous, many a griffon have seen as their grandparents begin to shower them in compliments gifts and praise. But their gestures are hollow as they are not aimed to please them but someone else, the one following them from under the shadows, watching your every move like a hawk.
And once you finally die, once your essence begins to drain away and your body turns cold as ice. There he meets you like an old friend, knowing you better than you know yourself.
He speaks soft words to you, he takes your heart and puts it on his scale, testing its weight against bits. Starting at one and counting up till the weight of the heart and bits are equal. The heavier your heart the more expensive death becomes, every sin an unremovable weight that takes you down a notch.
Most nobility survive this process, their deathbeds surrounded by chests upon chests of bits to use. The middle class do fine as well, their hearts usually having only small sins bestowed upon them. But the poor, the poor are forced to sin and then be punished for not having enough bits for it.
Truly even in death the Griffons lust for bits cannot be sated, the merchant of death’s skeletal stomach filled to the brim with bits clinking about as he walks Tartarus in his free time. Watching those who could not pay up burning in the flames. All will pay the price for their sins, one way or the other.
For the Unbargainable Merchant’s job is simple, ever since the world began this has been his work. For all that die must pay the price of life.
But even the Merchant himself has his troubles, for what happens when a chick dies in birth?
Or when a street chick who has survived their whole life off of stealing and thieving now has to pay for their crimes.
When the nothingness that was his heart stirred he would simply smile at the youngling. Ask them to close their eyes and hold out their claws, by the time they opened their eyes their claws would have a pile of bits and the merchant’s stomach felt a bit lighter. He would tell them “I’m glad you can pay! Now go on then, the path to the light is this way. And yes, Joseph your mother and father are waiting for you…”
For when your craft is death and your trade is blood, the small moments of forgiveness are worth more than all the bits in the whole world. He’ll let Boreas yell at him later if he likes.
It’s always the young ones, the ones who have just finished with their schooling and have that shine of life in their eyes that twinkles in the dark, there is no need for complex movements nor plans. No need for big stories, for they get sucked in not by stories but ideas.
When you wish to have them purchase something you must plant the seed first, let them think it’s theirs and as the night goes on all you have to do is water it until it bursts forth. But it always begins the same. I sit in my corner of the bar, having a cigarette and letting the smoke pool on the ceiling, their eyes wandering to the older more veteran looking griffon of the corner. They look into my eyes, they see something that can be taken and like all griffons the promise of success and wealth is irresistible.
The droning of others speaking, the constant static of the bar speaking, silencing all doubts yet feeding the questions. They sit down ahead of me and I raise a claw, quickly a barmaid gets me two drinks, one for the bespeckled youth in front of me and a heavier one for yours truly.
They ask me my name, I tell them it’s Ram and they expect me to ask them for theirs. So when I ask them using their name, what they're here for, they are taken off balance, nervousness mixing with curiosity in an intoxicating blend that will kill any feline.
I tell them of success, of life, death, philosophy, knowledge, education, I regale them for hours with tales and concepts beyond them. Cementing myself as the knowledged veteran of us two. Their trust makes their wallets open, ready to be filled using the tactics I bestow upon them. I tell them of a business opportunity, all they need to do is trust me and why wouldn’t they?
We’ve been talking for hours now, come on we’re friends aren’t we? Oh, I don’t need your bits, just your help. I'm no scammer nor trickster, no huckster looking to fill a bag with the gold of others. Trust me here pal, let's make the deal of a lifetime and get rich.
They trust me, their eyes filled with longing and practically leaping off their leathered chair at me for that promise. Their life’s ahead of them and here they are ready to strike a business opportunity so elusive and powerful they might be set for the rest of their life.
And so I reach into a backpocket, pulling the contract out and unfolding it for them. Just sign here, here and here and your wildest dreams will come true. A haze of drunken trust and hours of discussion having ripped apart their mind’s defenses at their seams they pick up the pen and sign for dear life.
Once they are done, they pass out and spill onto the flooring, the contract burning to dust. Another night’s work well done, I throw their limp body a bag of bits and leave. Telling the bartender that a drunk has passed out in the corner. And as I leave I truly feel accomplished, both sides have won tonight. They have grown richer in gold, while I’ve grown richer in spirit.
As the Griffons all entered the great Cathedral Of Boreas, the sight was intoxicating: the stained glass windows, of the marvelous spires and arches, of the gold-plated chandeliers and intricately-built statues, three hundred years of work to complete this marvel of Griffinnity. The light of the sun entered from all sides, coalescing into a spectacular light show that amazed any churchgoer. This was created for their one true god, Boreas. An offering to him that, even in his most greedy of phases, he would accept as a great deed.
Yet the Prelate did not seem happy. As hundreds of Griffons entered and seated themselves at the benches, there seemed to be a weight upon him that cast his gaze down upon his flock. His eyes closed, his body solemn upon the podium, the knights surrounding him bearing the crests of the great church in their gold speckled armor, he waited. The Church was a glowing sensation of gold, artifacts and Griffon beauty.
Yet as the Prelate did not stirr, the griffons of the crowd began to look at each other with concern. Finally: Movement. The Prelate squirmed and rose his gaze upwards, smoothening the creases on his great uniform of the finest fabrics. Weaved in Ponaidhean, it had golden embroideries sown in it, with images of great stories from the holy books. His eyes filled with a sparkle of piety, his whole body speaking to the true path of religion, he began to speak:
“I am saddened to say this, but Boreas is disappointed in his people... disappointed in his children! For he has given you the gift of this world, the gift of life, the gift of fertile fields to grow your crops in! He has given you the church you sit in and the air you breathe! He has given you all that you have and all you can ever ask for yet you do not change your ways!!”
He stopped for a moment, letting the silence hang in the air as the atmosphere fell to an anxious wordlessness. The crowd did not even breathe in fear of offending their great god, as if Boreas himself was in the room and they could feel his disappointment looming over them. That sadness of not having made a mistake but of having disappointed someone else lingered in their minds.
“He gives you these gifts yet you still commit sin. You get drunk in the pubs and drink yourselves to spiritual destruction. You break your holy vows with your soulmates, breaking your holy oaths for a one night fling. You destroy his creation in pursuit of unpious national expansion. War itself is antithetical to the message of Boreas! Boreas does not want his flock to destroy itself in warfare so that the scarred living may stand atop the bodies of the fallen!”
The strike hits swiftly: a spear at the hearts of the crowd. Some begin to cry - some, silent and with pious dignity; but some begin to wail and weep loudly, ashamed of themselves for all the ways they insulted their mighty, all seeing god.
“He gives you the flame of life and you spend yours extinguishing others, he tells us to be kind and have good lives yet we spend our lives greedily sopping up bits and spending them on hedonistic pleasures of the flesh and greed. Do you not feel sick? Do you not feel anything? You do all this yet come here on the day of prayer as if to mock Boreas himself!“
“Do you not think he can see, do you not think he knows! He knows all that you have done and sees it! He sees your lies sins and the misery you inflict upon others in his omniscient grace! Yet you continue! Continue to sin and ruin all that you touch, your heart filled with so much sin that the merchant would ask you to pay every bit in the world for mercy!”
Contagious weeping infected everyone in the cathedral: Young and old, rich and poor, all of them struck with the burden of their sins and the might of their crimes against their own god. It was as if he gave them a gift and they spat in his face asking for another.
“You will not find salvation on this path and only eternal damnation, your souls are forfeit and your lives will be over. You must repent, repent!” The last word hung as an echo around the cathedral. Hammering them with the call to holy mercy as the knights struck their shields with their blades.
“Repent! Repent! Repent!” It was insufferable: The Hammer of Boreas falling upon the people lashed to the anvil of their sins.
“But, there is a path to salvation even for you sinners.” The Prelate said, the sadness suddenly paused, the weeping abruptly ended. All looked upwards, seeing the great Prelate speaking from his high podium, like an angel from the heavens themselves.
“To forgive your sins you must cast away your greed, cast them away and… Pay for your sins. The only way for Boreas to forgive you all is for you to pay him back for all that he has given you.” Two new knights carried in a large, beautiful gold-encrusted chest laying it at the open center of the cathedral.
As they opened it, all the griffons crowded around it. A storm of bits flew into the awaiting coffer, everyone rushing to chime in for holy forgiveness. The chest filled to the brim with coins, and once they all had exhausted their wallets, the chest finally closed and locked, taken away to the back as the Prelate smiled widely at his flock.
“Your salvation is here, for Boreas forgives you of your grave sins. Feel free my children, for your souls are wiped clean and you may begin anew. Go on, enjoy your lives of sinless happiness.” And so the Griffons thanked the Prelate loudly for saving their souls and began to stream out.
As the knights prepared to leave their posts as well, they heard the Prelate speak to himself: “I wonder where I'll put the golden spires…”
But there was something they couldn't see. Neither them, nor the mighty Prelate. Waiting in the shadows, watching and remembering. The only being allowed to trade forgiveness for gold. In the darkness, the Merchant sees all.
