I panicked. Words left my body and even my soul exited stage left. I quickly picked up a scrap of paper, grabbed a piece of charcoal, and wrote:
150 GP
Cypher stared at it.
Then he frowned.
"…Only 150?"
I nodded. Once. Very firmly. Like a bobblehead whose batteries were dying.
"That doesn't seem right," he said, lifting the sword slightly and testing the balance. His brows knit together in concern. "The craftsmanship alone—"
'Stop analyzing it. Please. I am begging you.'
Of course righteous, painfully honest Cypher would try to overpay a masked street vendor in a town notorious for scams, theft, and organ harvesting.
I shook my head quickly and jabbed a finger at the paper again.
150 GP.
He hesitated, clearly conflicted, then sighed and handed over the coins.
"…I still don't feel good about this," he muttered.
In the end, he gave me 500 GP anyway.
I stared at the coins in my hand like they had personally betrayed me.
