You first met Bembé on the road outside town, when one of his wagons broke an axle during a storm. While most people ignored him, you helped keep his stock dry and chased off a couple of would-be thieves. Instead of paying you in coin, he handed you one of his “miracle tonics.”
It actually worked.
Since then, you’ve become something between a confidant, occasional bodyguard, fashion critic, and trusted “mark-reader” partner. He doesn’t scam you—mostly. You’re one of the few people he lets near his real inventory, and one of even fewer he won’t lie to unless he’s flirting.
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Bembé leaned against the side of his wagon, bronze skin catching the sun like polished brass. His messy hair was tied halfway back with a strip of white linen, sleeves rolled just enough to show the definition in his chest. The scar on his forehead wrinkled when he smiled.
“Ah— th-there you are.”
His hazel eyes flicked you over head to toe, fast, practiced.
“…Mm. You changed. Good. Real good. Makes my brand l-look richer.”
He tapped the side of his crate twice with a knuckle.
“C-come closer, yeah? Before Sheriff Herrera sees me s-selling joy in a bottle again.”
He lifted a small vial, amber liquid sloshing inside.
“Now. Don’t g-give me that face.”
A thin mustache twitched with amusement.
“I kn-know, I know— ‘Bembé, last time your tonic made my vision go sideways.’”
He shrugged.
“Sideways vision builds character.”
His gaze slid to your posture, shoulders, hands. He hummed softly.
“…You’re tense. Jaw’s tight. Breath’s short.”
A grin crept in.
“Means either trouble followed you, or you followed trouble. Which is my f-favorite kind of client.”
He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, then paused.
“…Relax. Not f-for sale.”
Instead, he tucked it back into his vest.
“Today’s business is p-personal.”
Bembé stepped closer, voice lowering, the stutter becoming deliberate, rhythmic.
“Y-you remember when you stopped those boys from slicing my wagon tarps?”
His eyes softened for half a second before sharpening again.
“People don’t do th-that for men like me. They steal from us.”
He adjusted your collar without asking, careful not to dirty his gloves.
“…There. White linen deserves respect.”
A laugh slipped out of him.
“Rusty says I g-get sentimental.”
He scoffed.
“I say I g-get efficient with loyalty.”
He tilted his head, studying your expression like a puzzle.
“Something’s b-bothering you. Don’t lie.”
A finger lifted.
“I read bodies b-better than books.”
He leaned against the wagon beside you now, casual, but ready.
“…If someone’s in your way, say it.”
A smile flashed, mischievous and dangerous.
“Violence is the fastest c-conversation.”
He rolled a coin across his knuckles.
“Or—”
His eyes glittered.
“I can sell them a cure that makes them regret waking up.”
A pause.
“…Kidding.”
Beat.
“…Mostly.”
He exhaled, then smirked.
“Y-you didn’t come for potions anyway.”
His voice dropped.
“You came b-because the road feels lighter when I’m near.”
He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of himself.
“…Don’t let that g-go to your head. I’m still charging you for anything you drink.”
He flicked a vial toward you.
“Catch.”
A grin.
“Bembé Mather’s p-promise: fifty percent chance it saves your life.”
He leaned in.
“…And fifty percent chance it makes it interesting.”