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The Duke wiggles his toes. It’s snowing, a thin white dusting the trees into a fine lacey shroud. He isn’t cold - he’s not really there, after all. Just sitting, with his wagon opened like a window to the world. If he focuses, really focuses, he can catch the hint of woodsmoke in the air, the prickling edge of frost on his skin. But it’s too broad a net to maintain, and he gets cut off, pushed back as the elastic surface tension on unnaturally still waters resettles.
Best to save his energy for business, anyways. Much easier to punch a small hole through that uncanny barrier, through which to trade items and coin. He has no doubt someone looking to trade is on their way now. The man he’s met before—Winters.
The Duke leans back slightly, looking up at the sky, grey and cloudy. The love of a father, he muses. Little Rosemary is a lucky girl.
He’s heard the story before, of course. Done this a thousand times, with a thousand different daughters.
Well. One thousand fifty two, to be exact. He always was good at numbers. He is the merchant, after all.
His gaze wanders to the foreboding skyline in the distance, where wrought iron gates bear sigils of nightmares.
Monsters, he thinks idly, no real feeling behind it. He knows what they are, what they do, repeats his horrible warnings dutifully, but it’s all just a role to play, really. Every story needs its villains.
He much prefers his own part, archetypal as it is. Predictable, comfortable, with room for honest sympathy to those who seek him out.
He has a home, and the sunset, and a plump sausage laced with rosemary, sprigs between the flesh, and a crumbly hunk of bread to cut the fat. What else is there for life, apart from simple pleasures?
He recalls, vaguely, an earlier time, when he fought his fate—trapped in place, appearing where he needed to be. Someone else’s need, never his own. His own needs don’t appear to be a part of the narrative. Or perhaps they’re already met, because if he truly needed what he didn’t have, would he still be here?
Just a fixed point on the map, a pin through his center. He eats because he can, one of the few senses he can truly enjoy. His body grew, first up, then outward, large and then larger. Something of a theme, if the rumored height of Lady Dimitrescu is true. Once, horrified by his size, he had stopped eating for a long, miserable week—and for what? There was no way to move about. The only way to lose mass was starvation.
He couldn’t do it. And why should he? His body was his own—heavy arms, yes, stomach bursting at the seams. His feet, too swollen to fit into shoes—not that he could reach them anymore. But what use were shoes when you couldn’t take a walk?
No, his body was more than that. It housed his mind, his expressions, the eyes that saw the world and found beauty in a delicate teapot, the trim waistline of a bust. His tongue sparked with flavors, and when he was alone, sang words that pleased him. The funny songs are his favorites, but seem a bit inappropriate for some of the places he appears, so he knows a few haunting dirges as well, just to fit in.
He has an appreciation for aesthetics.
And who knows? If Ethan Winters can change fate, perhaps The Duke can too.
He holds out a hand, focusing hard, and feels the light kiss of a snowflake before it melts on his skin.
He will stay sharp, stay sane, and wait for the right opportunity to arrive.
For the right price, of course.
After all, everything is business, and business is a pleasure.