In the small amountof time that Sylvan had wandered the world he had learned many different feelings. The gammut of human expression often times overwhelmed him, his humanity beuing sometimes more than he could bear. But as he learned to know those feelings and understood why he liked some more than others he was able to realize the one that made him the most uncomfortable. Shame. Maybe because the task of carying for the body of a god would have already tiered even the most avid meditators, he had expeted much of his self-training in the ways of mental clarity. But clarity of mind was something best achieved in an average situation. Keeping such composure in battle was the real challenge, a challenge he struggled to accept to be beyond anything achievable of him at the moment.
It hadn't been long since he put his self-discipline to the test. He had fought a confident man he would later know to belong to the Ixian knights, and organization whose imperious acts of charity had lead Silvar to twich each time he read them off the papers. A fact that only made his defeat against the man he knew as Elric all the more humilliating. Elric had used a sort of soccerly in his combat that was not much unlike Silvar, the harnessing of elemental magic. However the man had had an unfair advantage against Silvar, or so he told himself. Although Sylvan's mastery of water was much more sophisticated and absolute, the man had utilize the power of thunder as the brunt of his attacks against the inexperience of the god-keeper. To his own face he would lie and colsole himself by blaming this disadvantage. However further inside he knew that water's ability to manipulate thunder was beyond the understanding of many warriors, and understanding that Sylvan had not taken long to experience himself in his long hours of solitary training. However understanding the concept and applying it are fundamentally different things, and in the chaos of battle a weak mind follows a weak application. Sylvan knew better and he failed regardless.
And it was because of this he found himself at Bazaar. In his last battle he had but too much faith into the inherent powers of his bodie's owner, and although he had grown to worship water a greater part of materying one's craft was understanding its limitations. This point being all the more poigniant as he inspected the remnants of his former bow. It was a fine bow, crafted decently, but at the end of the day it was nothing than a hunting bow, something fitting a man of the fields, not a man of battle and the world. And because he knew the eventually he would inevitably find himself having to overcompensate for the limitations of his element, that he needed a fine weapon.
There was no shortage of bows in the weaponry district of the large trade avenues of what people charismatically challed the bazaar. Infact it was nothing like the Bazaars silvar had ever seen. Grandiose weapons, some made with exotic woods from fallien, other's incrusted with beautiful jewels; their beauty and worthlessness both befitting a nobleman. There where armor pieces of different shapes sizes and flavors if one could dare have a taste of the rugged leather sets. Swords and shields littered the floors and decorated the walls. Throughout the place was an honest testament of the human spirit, bustling with movement and trade, glorifying the craft mortals where the experts at, the fatality of war.
After walking in and out of stores and browsing for hours Silvar ended up at a misterious little shop almost at the end of the weapon district. he hadn't had much luck in finding a bow that was both fitting of his deffesive style that also shared the utility of a close range deffensive weapon. Sylvan had once had the priviledge of seeing a weapon that was as masterful in design to acomodate for these needs once in Fallien. It was a weapon made of a mysterious metal with the hue of silver and the brilliance of diamonds. Unlike the extremely garish weapons that he had seen previously, this weapon had been incredibly tasteful and modest in the was it was styled. Despite the ornate nature of that weapon, he knew the metal was chosen for its rare flexible and enduring properties. Sylvan was no fool however. Although he had dreamed of ever obptaining such a weapon, he knew that such a rare object was a hard find, much less one as wonderfully designed. However, he had been given some promisse by other merchants whose wares he had found dissappointing. Inside that small run-down shop worked a wonderous smith that at one point created a series of bows of the likes no others. Sylvan knew this to bee an overstatement ofcourse, as no bow is still unlike all others and still retains the name of a bow. But he had in the man even if he did fear his encounter with such a pictoral personality. The other merchants had told him of his skill, but they had also warned him of his vices, wich in the end had lead his workshop into the brink of bankrupcy. His inability to keep up with the grandiose comissions of his former patrons had almost driven him mad and dropped him in tight grasp of alcoholism. And others had claimed that it was actually the cause and not the effect of his missfortune, but regardless he had once been known to be among the best in his craft.
still bearing the bruises of his shameful encounter he entered the rickety old shop with an air of confidence that was perhaps shallower than his knowledge of the bow-crafting subject. Inside was a small counter where the remnants of what seemed to be the lunch of weeks prior. empty bottles littered the flors, and the many wares throughout the shop, be them in display or further in through what could be seen of the actual shop seemed indistinguishable; A thick blanket of dirt and tobacco ashes seemed to cover everthing. And within everything was silent, save for the sound almost indistinguishable from a bear roar. A loud dry snore comming from the back.
Fully prepared for what would transpire next Silan dared to raise a shout, "ANYONE IN!?"
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