[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/230709/b2d64c98395f01e2c7cbdf98293c4c91.png[/img] [color=saddlebrown][b]Time:[/b][/color] Early Afternoon [color=saddlebrown][b]Location:[/b][/color] A village outside Roshimi[/center] [hr] It wasn’t everyday that Scathael allowed himself a midday nap. Or any sort of rest outside of sleep, for that matter. Industrious dark elf that he was, he usually did all he could to stay busy, even if that meant crafting arrows and casting musket balls until his mind went numb. But today was different. Although the late-morning sun still bathed all in its radiance – as it was wont to do – the heat of its rays wasn’t as stifling as their intensity suggested. Thatched roofs and leafy branches rustled softly in the wake of a cooling breeze whispering through the village’s only street. Overhead, bulbous clumps of cotton-white clouds drifted across a sky of clear azure. The long shadows they casted as they floated beneath the disc of iridescent-white provided even more respite – however temporarily – from its rays. As loath as Scathael was to use the word, he could only describe the weather as perfect. Coupled with the lilting birdsong and vague murmurs of village life filling his ears, it felt as if the world itself was inviting him to rest. And who was he, mere dark elf that he was, to decline such an invitation? A contented sigh quietly left his lips, barely moving the dirty rag he had draped over his face. Seated on a wooden chair in the front yard of the village smith – the same man from whom he rented a room – he was surrounded by tools and materials of the familiar trade. Leaning back, he rested his legs on a scuffed and battered anvil, and his head against the cold face of an unfired furnace. Bundles of freshly-whittled arrows, all neatly tied with strips of cloth or leather, laid strewn across the table beside him. He drew in a deep breath, filling his nose with the comforting scent of metals and charcoal. Gentle winds washed over his body and tousled his wiry, pale locks. Memories of better times surfaced in his mind, and a wistful smile came over his face. A twist of pain pinched his heart, but it could neither stay, nor did it last in the face of the soothing calm which completely filled and enveloped him. Such peacefulness was addictive. Much more than the greatest vice. And so of course, it couldn’t last. The crunch of approaching footsteps tapped on his eardrums. [color=saddlebrown]“Smith’s not in.”[/color] Muffled by the rag, his gruff words came out as a barely comprehensible mumble. He crossed his legs on the anvil, and his arms over his chest. Quiet, strained creaks ticked from the chair’s suffering joints. [color=saddlebrown]“If you’re here for a delivery, leave it by the door. Otherwise, come back later.”[/color] Silence, broken by the shuffling of feet, was all that answered him. “O-Oh, I’m not looking for the smith,” a small and timid voice squeaked. It was that of a child, by the sound of it. “I-I um, I was hoping you c-could help me, mister Arash.” That got Scathael’s attention. His eyes snapped open and he swung his legs off the anvil with a grunt. His rousing muscles ached, and drowsiness made his head a leaden weight. But he forced himself to sit up all the same. Idle hands were unbecoming of an artisan, and his had been idle for long enough. Granted, he wasn’t quite sure what sort of work a child would have for him, but it would certainly be better than lazing around and doing nothing. [color=saddlebrown]“You can drop the ‘mister’. Just call me Scathael.”[/color] A muted yawn left his mouth as he rubbed the lingering sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. [color=saddlebrown]“Anyway,”[/color] he said tersely, and spun around to look at the child. [color=saddlebrown]“What do you– Oh, it’s you.”[/color] Large, upturned eyes looked back at him, their vertical irises dark against a sea of amber, and their brows knitted in worry. A pair of long, furry ears laid flat against her messy head of saffron-coloured hair, and she hugged a crossbow – which was almost as long as she was tall – close to her waifish frame. Over-patched and ragged, her simple dress hung loosely from her narrow shoulders. Just the thought of her lugging the cumbersome weapon all the way to the smith was enough to bring a snicker up Scathael’s throat, but that was as far as he allowed it to go. “Yes, it’s me,” the vulpine demi-human girl said, eyes peering over the crossbow’s arms. “I-I’m–” [color=saddlebrown]“Vallana. I know.”[/color] Scathael finished her sentence as he stood up. She looked at him in surprise, and so he continued, [color=saddlebrown]“You keep introducing yourself every time I pay your father a visit.”[/color] He pushed bundles of arrow shafts aside to clear a space on the table. [color=saddlebrown]“And I know that’s his arbalest that you’re holding. Hand it over and tell me what’s wrong with it.”[/color] The girl’s arms trembled precariously as she lifted the heavy weapon towards him. Her lips were pressed together and her eyes squeezed shut in effort and strain. Scathael sighed and shook his head. [color=saddlebrown]“Don’t hurt yourself,”[/color] he said drily and with both hands, carefully took it from her with a grunt. Vallana shook away the soreness in her arms. “I-I was cleaning the house, and I-I was trying to get around it and I think I-I ac-accidentally knocked into it and it fell and I heard a crack and it didn’t look right and so I brought it t-to you as quickly as I could.” The panicked words tumbled from her mouth like water breaking through a dam. As she spoke, her voice cracked and tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. “Please fix it, mister Ara–Scathael! F-Father will kill me if he finds out I broke it!” [color=saddlebrown]“No, he won’t,”[/color] Scathael said matter-of-factly as he hefted the arbalest, wincing as he felt the full weight of it pull on his arms. A cumbersome thing, it boasted two long and powerful steel arms that launched heavy bolts with both speed and accuracy. Great for a hunter prowling the woods not far from home, but not for a wanderer like Scathael. [color=saddlebrown]“He dotes plenty on you. Even I can see that, and I only talk to him when I have to buy hides or meat. So calm down and stop worrying. It’s distracting.” [/color] The fox-girl stifled a sniff. “Really?” [color=saddlebrown]“Yes. Now stop crying. If you have to, do it quietly.”[/color] “O-Oh, sorry.” [color=saddlebrown]“Thank you,”[/color] the dark elf mumbled. He shook his arms loose, drew in a deep breath, and with teeth gritted so hard that it felt as if he would grind them to dust, he lifted the arbalest and aimed it at the sky. Squinted eyes battled the sun’s glare, and sweat pooled on his brow. Within moments, his aching muscles begged for rest. Scathael ignored them all, and instead focused on aligning the sights of the arbalest. In no time at all, he identified the problem, but still he slowly brought the weapon down onto the table. There were steps to fixing such things – he had made them up himself. To not abide by them was to invite careless mistakes or missed defects, both of which were unforgivable errors as far as he was concerned. Beside him, Vallana fidgeted. Curious eyes ran over everything in the yard at least twice. He ran a hand over the stock. A solid piece of oak hewn into something vaguely resembling a stock, it was rough, it looked – and likely was – unfinished, but it could be braced against a shoulder and sat under an arm well enough. Then, he gripped the bowstring tightly and gave it a strong tug. The resistance, the pull against the meat of his fingers, those were all expected. What wasn’t, however, was the imbalance he felt in the string. With furrowed brows, he carefully released the string and pulled it again. Yes, one side was certainly pulling harder than the other. That was all the confirmation he needed. “Father says you’ve been to a lot of places,” Vallana piped up as she stood on the tips of her toes to peek over the table’s edge. As unwelcome as the interruption was, Scathael wasn’t as annoyed as he would be had she been just a few years older. It amazed him enough that the child had held her tongue for as long as she did. [color=saddlebrown]“I have,”[/color] he replied simply and brushed Vallana away from the table. “You must have seen amazing things.” The awe in her voice was palpable. “Being an adventurer must be a lot of fun! I want to be one too, when I get bigger.” [color=saddlebrown][i]Aching legs. Cold Fear. A crack of thunder. Pouring rain lashing his cheeks. A thousand thoughts crashing through his mind. His boots slipping against soft mud. Hanging thorns cutting his face. The sight of a cave entrance through the vines. In his relief, a second wind. The scent of moss. The scent of blood. A body he recognised, trapped beneath rocks. Dead for days. A scrawled apology, red ink darkened to brown. Shock and pain. Anguish and despair. Crushing regret.[/i][/color] Scathael exhaled sharply and pushed those memories aside. [color=saddlebrown]“No, you don’t,”[/color] he said drily and beckoned for her to stand beside him. [color=saddlebrown]“And you have bigger things to worry about now. You’re right, your father’s arbalest is damaged.”[/color] He dragged the weapon over to the edge of the table and tipped it over just enough, and for just long enough, for her to see the hairline cracks on one of the arms. Terrified realisation came over the girl’s face, and her lips began to tremble. Sighing, Scathael pushed the arbalest back onto the table. [color=saddlebrown]“Relax.”[/color] His tone was flat, and not reassuring at all. [color=saddlebrown]“It’s not entirely your fault. One fall wouldn’t have done this. Not unless it fell off a roof. Damage like this builds up over time. Your father must’ve knocked it about more than a few times.”[/color] A subtle bitterness crept into his words, and he swallowed whatever else he had to say about the matter before continuing. [color=saddlebrown]“Anyway, I’ll have to make new limbs for it. Not difficult work. All the materials are here already, so I should have it done by this evening.”[/color] Vallana’s face was still scrunched up in anxiety. “But…But father will be home before then…” Scathael shrugged. [color=saddlebrown]“It’s the best I can do.”[/color] His expression softened upon seeing the girl’s downcast eyes, and her ears lying so flat against her head that they disappeared into her hair. Sighing, he – albeit a touch reluctantly – added, [color=saddlebrown]“You’re welcome to stay and watch until I’m done, but only if you’re quiet and don’t touch anything. Cause trouble and I’ll throw you back home myself.” [/color] Relief flooded over Vallana’s face, and she nodded enthusiastically. “I promise, I will! Thank you! Oh, and I can pay…” She pushed her hands into her dress’ pockets. Coins clinked together, the sound only slightly muffled by the thin fabric. “I-I’ve been saving. It should be enough–” [color=saddlebrown]“Don’t bother,”[/color] Scathael cut her off. [color=saddlebrown]“I can already hear that you can’t afford this.”[/color] Neither was this a job so challenging that he felt he needed to ask for payment. Repairing a damaged crossbow limb was about as mundane as jobs went. It almost felt insulting to be rewarded for something he could do from start to finish in his sleep. [color=saddlebrown]“If you really have to pay me–”[/color] he grabbed a few bundles of arrow shafts and handed them to Vallana [color=saddlebrown]“–you can bring these to the bowyer and ask for a crossbow string for your father, and a bowstring for me. You know who’s the bowyer, right?”[/color] “Mister Tesh? Yes, I know him.” Vallana nodded as she tried to balance bundles in her arms. Each was the length of her forearm and almost just as thick. “Krawin and I play together sometimes. That’s his daugh–” [color=saddlebrown]“I don’t need to know that,”[/color] Scathael interrupted. [color=saddlebrown]“Just go to the bowyer and exchange the arrow shafts for the things I told you. One crossbow string, one bowstring. Tell him I sent you.”[/color] “Okay!” Vallana sounded far too excited for the task, but it was endearing, in a way. With the arrow shafts tucked precariously under her arms, she hurried away from the yard. Scathael watched her leave, his face impassive even as she stumbled a few times on the rough and uneven ground. Soon enough, Vallana was consumed by the milling crowd, and he lost sight of the little girl. Only then did he bring his attention back to the weapon on the table before him. He chewed on his lip. Such peacefulness – such normality – was indeed addictive. A small, but noticeable part of him was already busy weaving fantasies of a simpler life. One where he wasn’t on the move all the time. One where he could rest his head on the same bed, under the same roof every night, and awake to the same sights, and same scents every morning. Such a fantasy wasn’t one that was strange to him, but it certainly was one he despised. He knew it was unattainable. Impossible, even. Yet, his mind refused to stop tormenting him with imaginations of a life he simply wasn’t fated for. A wistful sigh left his lips. He gripped the arbalest firmly by the stock and carefully unhooked the bowstring from one of the limbs. Perhaps, in a way, it was good that he was reminded of that painful dream. It was a sign that he had stayed in the village for far too long – long enough for him to get comfortable, and for him to start getting ideas. Ideas that were poison to an elf like him. It was time he left. [hr] [center][color=saddlebrown][b]Time:[/b][/color] Early Afternoon [color=saddlebrown][b]Location:[/b][/color] The Nest; Roshmi [color=saddlebrown][b]Equipment:[/b][/color] [hider]His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots A hooded, oilskin cloak His bow, unstrung A musket Two pistols Two hatchets His travelling pack[/hider][/center] A few days later, Scathael found himself in an environment that was the exact opposite of the village. Cacophonic, musty, and filled to bursting with people who either drunk their inhibitions away, or had drunk themselves insensate, the Nest – to him, at least – truly encapsulated the nature of Roshmi’s slums. Wild, ever-changing, and unpredictable, it was the sort of place most people took pains to avoid. But it was also the sort of place where one could find things – or people – that weren’t easily found elsewhere. So long as one was also ready to have the thrill of danger excite their blood. Or have it spilled over the ground. It was a toss-up between the two, really. Scathael was in search of neither. Whatever items he needed, he could craft. And unless there happened to be someone wandering the dark web of streets with a convenient mithril mine hidden in their pockets, it was highly unlikely that he would find anyone that interested him. Rather, he was the person who was sought after. A semi-regular at the Nest – he made it a point to pop in at least once every time he was in Roshmi – those who recognised him knew him as someone who would fix and repair weapons, armour, and tools with no questions asked, and all for either just a token sum, or information about – of all things – rare minerals and materials. Those who didn’t recognise him, soon did for the arrows, bolts, and bullets he sold at such a low price that he may as well be giving it away. [color=saddlebrown]“Tell me again, what did you do with this?”[/color] Scathael turned a pitted and heavily-scarred sword over in his hands multiple times. Shadows danced across its dull blade in the dim lantern light, but Scathael could still tell that none of the damage done came from battle. [color=saddlebrown]“Did you chop down a tree with this thing? Or did you oil it with butter?”[/color] The light elf sitting opposite him squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, his turquoise eyes averted. That gave Scathael his answer, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at the youth in barely-disguised disgust, and also a modicum of surprise. “It was a difficult time, okay? I had no choice!” The light elf suddenly blurted out. [color=saddlebrown]“I understand cutting down a branch, but the butter?”[/color] Scathael shook his head and rested the sword upon the table. [color=saddlebrown]“Doing nothing would’ve been better. How long have you been adventuring?”[/color] The light crossed his arms across his chest. “Long enough.” [color=saddlebrown]“It’s going to become ‘short enough’, if you keep being an idiot,”[/color] Scathael said and pushed the sword over to the light elf. [color=saddlebrown]“Next time, use animal fat if you really have nothing else. Go buy yourself a new blade. It’ll cost you almost just as much if you want me to reforge the damn thing, and I’m not wasting my time doing that on a buttered blade.”[/color] The light elf grumbled, but took the sword and walked away. Scathael sighed and shook his head. That was the price of doing business in this part of the city. Most who came to him were criminals – or at least, they dealt in matters that made approaching a legitimate smith a problem – and for the most part, they weren’t the sort to be able to afford to take proper care of their tools of the trade. Granted, this was the first time Scathael had seen a sword oiled with butter, so perhaps it was that particular light elf who was special. He leaned back in his seat and looked over the crowd. There was still plenty of time left in the day. He just had to be patient, and he would make enough to buy passage to– [color=a187be]"Who the fuck dared to pour water on me!?"[/color] That shout, so full of rage, put a quick end to Scathael's planning. Casually leaning over to one side, he peered between shoulders and craned necks just in time to see a leporine demi-human turn a table into splinters with her hammer. Her body was soaked, and her hair matted wet. The culprits – Scathael assumed – a light elf woman and a green dragonborn, laid on the ground before her. For a moment, he tensed up, half-expecting a fight to break out. His eyes darted to the various exits and entrances of the Nest. But it all proved to be unnecessary. For now, at least. The demi-human didn't seem too upset by her rude awakening, and she didn't seem to be in too violent a mood, the table aside. With a shrug, Scathael looked away from the scene and leaned back in his seat. Strange things happened everyday. In the Nest, moreso than other places.