Envoy

It was not often that she got letters from home. That was not to say that she had a strained or distant relationship with her family. More that she was constantly on the move, which made mail difficult to deliver, and her family and tired of paying for the increasing fees of sending a post moogle from city to city to track her down. She did not blame them, and consistently sent letters as a means to ease their minds.

So when she did receive a letter requesting her aid, she knew it was important. Rerouting her current wandering course to Gridania had been as painless as rebooking airships could be, and she had made it back to the city ready to help in any way she could. The entire way there had been spent wracking her brain over what could have gone wrong.

Her family were a rather simple clan of people. They were shoemakers and cobblers. They had been for generations. It was not a glorious line of work, but one that was forever consistent. Everyone wore shoes, and unless something insane happened that was unlikely to change. They kept themselves busy, especially around Starlight festivities. And it had drove her insane, while leaving her with the unfortunate burden of knowing what an aglet was.

The shoemaking business was also one without many sources for trouble. Sometimes a shipment was delayed, often due to troublesome beasts on the path of the convoys. Or a customer could be stubborn about paying their due. Both were generally resolved by bringing the matter to the proper authorities and waiting. A handful of times her parents had employed a group of adventurers to resolve an issue, but the matters were always solved within a day. So little work was involved that it wouldn't have even produced a stanza of song.

"Miss Morrow, the owner will see you know."

Frieda dragged herself out of her thoughts, offering the receptionist a gracious nod. She stood up, towering over the chairs in the waiting room she had been stuck in for the past hour. Their regular partners must have been universally lalafel. As she strode back into the hallway she was directed to, she attempted to pat more of the dust out of her shirt, surrendering when she realized that no matter how much she patted, no less was being produced.

A guard at the end of the hallway opened a door, motioning for her to step into a small office. Its centerpiece was a beautiful desk made of fine Gridania oak, the owner of which was slowly skimming through a pile of notes, looking down through spectacles that were perhaps as large as her thumb. He glanced up at her, and motioned for her to take one of the two seat in front of the desk. Which she did, awkwardly sitting down in a chair far too small for her for the second time now.

"Miss Morrow, it's wonderful to see you," he muttered, looking back down into his stack of documents. "If you don't mind me asking, why were you sent over your mother or father?"

"They were otherwise occupied," she said, trying to sound confident and ready for negotiations.

In truth, they didn't want to bother. And her brother didn't want to bother either. All of them hated having to deal with any business regarding their supplies. If it wasn't directly involved with making a shoe, it became a terrible game of trying to pass the task to someone else. One she had unfortunately lost.

"Understandable, everyone I know is so busy," he said, finally leaning back in his chair and looking up at her.

"As you likely understand, my father is not pleased with the new arrangement that you sent him," she said, not waiting for him to prompt her into explaining her visit.

"I am aware," he said, "But as I made clear to him in my messages, this is a dire time for such vital supplies. I have started new enterprise elsewhere, and they are taking up our resources, which means prices are bound to go up."

"And we believe we should be allowed some priority and better prices due to our consistency," she said coolly, "Our grandfathers worked together, and theirs before them. Whatever this enterprise is, I'm sure it is not worth destroying other reliable business for."

"It may surprise you," he said, leaning against his desk. "I've found an amazing new market in the last few years. It took some time to get production set up, but I have been shipping new styles of shoes into Doma, they are sweeping the markets by storm."

Frieda took a moment to process that, nodding in understanding, "But you know these trends come and go, no? In years, perhaps even months, they will either be tired of them, or start making them locally. And then your demand their will drop, but your partners here will have moved on."

The lalafel produced a quill, making a quick note, "Is that something you've noticed before?"

"My father adapted to making Ishgardian garments when the relations with them cooled, and Doman sandals when the travel and trade was reopened. They were certainly popular, but the people's interest is so fickle."

He tapped his quill, considering what to notate. Eventually he dove into composing a long letter, folded it up, and slid it into an envelope, sliding it across the desk. "I see your point, miss Morrow. I am willing to reconsider, but the price will still need to increase slightly, for inflation. Present this to your father, and I will see about getting a new shipment to him as soon as it is returned signed."

She held in the urge to sigh, grabbing the envelope and sliding it into her satchel. With only the slightest of nods she stood, and departed the office. As she stepped back out onto the scorching streets of Ul'dah, she tried to avoid thinking too hard about how long she was spending on a crate of shoe laces.