[Fable]

(Freestyle, yuh!)

Several leagues away at one particularly rowdy port town, in the shady corner of one rowdy bar, Diabhal sat looking very out of place, his legs crossed elegantly and a gem encrusted cup of tea in his hands.
Directly in front of him sat a fellow as undesirable to Diabhal as this monstrous little pub, a large, red faced man with a huge unkempt moustache sprawled across his face who was evidently feeling quite poorly, judging by his slumped posture and frequent fits of coughing.

Diabhal flexed his lean fingers around the edge of his teacup, pausing just long enough to give a good impression and smiling, a polite, curt smile that one wore with strangers.
"I assume you brought it? Do say yes. I didn't crawl to the back end of nowhere in the miserable corner of the world to be disappointed, did I?"
The man smirked, causing his moustache to contort spectacularly as he placed a wicker case on the table between them, embroidered quite nicely and locked with a huge and somewhat unnecessary padlock.
"Indeed sir!" he growled, causing another coughing fit,"however, as you are well aware, I can only trade for something of equal value, as is my trade"
He then proceeded to rub his hands together gleefully, causing his knuckles to crack audibly, much to Diabhal's disgust.
"Yes yes. Of course, I am painfully aware of your trade, and as promised, something of extreme value."
With that, Diabhal held out a hand (weighed down by various rings) and displayed what seemed to be a tiny glass bottle holding a purple liquid.
The man squinted at the thing with much skepticism and began to frown angrily.
"And? Just what is this!?" he asked with indignation, rubbing his nose in a fury.
"Oh? You don't know?" cooed Diabhal with a dismissive shake of his head.
"Why... That is a very rare antidote from the southernmost and very deadly regions of this continent, it has many uses, but of course, mostly it is used to counteract the worst poisons known to man."
The man gripped the edges of the wicker case defensively, drawing it nearer to himself.
"What!? Poison! HA! What kind of poison?"
Diabhal looked out the window absent mindedly, closing his hand into a fist and hiding the bottle from view, before coughing politely.
"Ahem. Poison rather like the one found in your midmorning breakfast, you may have noticed it tasted unusual, but I suspect you put it down to old age. You know you really shouldn't eat porridge every morning Mister Davren, it makes you rather predictable, but then it's all your dear wife knows how to make, hm?"
Diabhal smiled with a childish yet triumphant glee, and drummed his fingers on the table expectantly.
The man appeared ready to give a shocked answer, but instead he burst into another fit of coughing, this time laced with blood, and realising the urgency of his situation he quickly relinquished control of the case and key.
"Wonderful!" beamed Diabhal as he took them willingly, before somewhat reluctantly handing the glass bottle to the dying man.
The merchant hurriedly downed the bottle of purple liquid and once it appeared to have no affect he collapsed, and spent the next five minutes quietly dying below the table.
Diabhal frowned to himself as if suddenly remembering something, but he soon recovered and took a sip from his cup.
"Ah! The Ribena here is Divine isn't it?"
Putting his feet up on the still warm corpse
he had a good long think about his next move, before finally remembering why he had came here.
"Ah!" he said happily as he pulled the case of the late Mister Davren towards him, and took the key in his hand.
Bursting with anticipation, he inserted the key in the lock, and was soon rewarded with a look inside. It contained little more than a thirty piece dining set, complete with a multitude of decorative tea cups, and pots, each one with a unique design.

"FANTASTIC!" he blurted, showing a rare burst of genuine emotion as he spilt juice everywhere.
Perhaps it wouldn't be such a dull day after all.