To Market, To Market... (Redford, Hawl)

[Tobias Stalt]

Far from the upper echelons of Radasanthian society, the market still boasted a prevalence of wealthy merchants and priceless wares. Baked goods plied their savory scents across the promenade, and the still warm stew of Coronian hare and vegetables attracted midday shoppers toward the restaurant quarter. Gold changed hands as men and women alike bustled through the dense commerce.

Tobias lingered toward the fringes of the crowd. His dark clothes kept most features obscured, though many wary eyes took note of him when he sidled past. His proclivity toward secrecy evoked feelings of suspicion in most, but hiding his face ultimately helped to keep his movements hidden. "Scuse me," he muttered as he knocked chests with another man of unimpressive height.

"Hey, watch it!" Auburn hair flipped wildly as the scowling face turned toward Tobias. "You should watch where you're going," the man sneered. He grabbed Tobias by the wrist and jerked the mercenary toward him.

"You're in my way." The flat statement sounded raw and spiked with irritation as a glint of gold glistened from beneath his hood. Each finger of the Witch Hunter's left hand flexed in turn, his chest rising and falling steadily. Tobias fought the urge to lose his temper.

It was a losing battle.

With an indignant growl, the youth flared. "What was that? A wise guy, are you?" He grasped tighter on Tobias' wrist and clenched his fist. When the warrior made no move to defend or attempt escape, the younger man grit his teeth. "You ought to apologize," the boy hissed. "You're making me angry."

He let fly a punch that caught Tobias in the jaw. "There!" he let out a cry of appreciation for his sucked punch. "How was that! Still feel cocky?" The youth grinned triumphantly as he cocked back for a second strike.

Numbness beset Tobias as the impact came and went. In years past, blows like this seemed commonplace. Thugs in the mercenary camps loved to brawl, and they hit much harder than this youth. After everything, Tobias felt little from glancing blows. His body never moved in response to the strike, but his eyes shifted toward the assailant. "Feel better?" he asked softly.

"Why, you...!" The boy did not hesitate with the second punch, this one level with the veteran's nose.

No impact came. The crowd stopped originally when the young man started screaming about Tobias' manners, and now a regular circle of bodies fenced them in. Onlookers stared with awe etched into their expressions. The fist remained extended, quaking from effort inches from Tobias' face.

"You're in my way," he repeated. The hot, acrid stench of piss wafted across his nostrils, and Tobias grimaced. "Now get the fuck out of here. You reek."

Stunned, the boy staggered back as Tobias released him. "I won't..." he began dumbly, then his face twisted with hatred. "I won't forget this!"

"Forget it." Tobias glared at the boy with dark severity in his eyes. A chorus of gasps rippled through the crowd as the mercenary slowly turned to leave. "I have more than enough blood on my hands. A green kid like you doesn't have to die. Heed me, and get the fuck out of here. I never want to see your face again."

For a moment, he recalled the brash indignation of Vincent Cain. He saw that in this boy, though far less refined. His jaw clenched and the veins in his neck pulsated. His fingers brushed over the grip of his gun, but he relented. No, he reminded himself. Just let it go. The image of Vincent fleeted away, but the thoughts remained.

Tobias turned from the scene and broke through the barricade to take his leave. With a single motion, he drew the pipe from his clothes and stoked it. "I wonder how he's doing," Tobias muttered quietly as he filled his lungs with toxic air.

His gaze moved quietly across the blacksmithing stalls, his intended destination now within sight. Warm sunlight bathed the streets as the crowd dispersed to their daily routine, and laughter broke out anew. Tobias let his lips twist into a smile as he laid out his gold on the counter.

"Good day," he began, "here's what I need. Sword, high grade metal. What have you got for me?"

[redford]

John towered over the other men bustling in a narrow street that served as a backwater market for Radasanth. It was warm with bodies and sunlight as he lumbered through the street, attracting stares as he went. John aimed himself at a particular blacksmith’s stall a ways off, chewing on a piece of bread that he’d procured from a very nervous merchant a few yards prior. Overall, it was a pleasant day, aside from the incessant speaking of the tiny creature perched atop his shoulders.

“I definitely do not need a dagger,” Hawl said insistently from his shoulders. A small hand bonked against his head. John was unmoved.

“Yes, you do. It’s bad enough you want to join, and if you do, I’ll not have you getting yourself killed.”

“I have a stick though, it’s amazing! What do I need a dagger for?” she exclaimed, brandishing it in front of his face. It waggled with John’s steps. “And besides, you Tarot guys are pro-” John held up a finger, interrupting her.

“Shh, first of all, we don’t go around telling everyone who we belong to. And second of all,” he said, easily pulling the stick from her hand, “a man who wants to kill you won’t be afraid of this stick,” he handed the thing back up to her. “you’re getting a dagger if you want in, and that’s assuming that you get in in the first place.” John cursed his luck again as he remembered letting it slip to the tiny Hawl that he was in a business that specialized in procuring magical artifacts, a group very secretive and ancient, steeped in eons past. Hawl, being the curious girl that John then realized she was, would not stop her inquisition until she knew all there was to know about the Tarot. John’s patience eventually wore thin enough and he’d promised to take her to the House of Cards, provided that she didn’t tell anyone. Somewhere in the agreement there was a threat of death, but they both had chosen to ignore that particular part of their conversation.

A scuffle had broken out nearby, but John scarcely looked toward it. People disagreed all the time in this slightly seedy market, and it was not uncommon for people’s violent words to become violent deeds. A few punches were thrown, and John looked away, setting his eyes instead on the ever-nearing booth where Hawl would find a weapon. A person yelled from a ways off, and John looked over to see one of the combatants walking away, while the other passed him, stopping at the same booth he was headed to. John turned to it, having to stoop a little to see under the awning. Hawl had to scrunch up to see as well, hands clutching his head.

The blades he saw were of good, basic craftsmanship. There was little flair to them, instead they were made of good steel and were functional. More weapons designed to kill effectively than to look nice. John grabbed Hawl by her shoulders, lifting her over his head and downward to the ground as if she was as light as air.

“Pick something out, and we’ll see,” he said, turning to look at the man beside him. Oddly enough, he recognized the face, though he could not quite place it. Hawl began to speak to the blacksmith incessantly as John tried to sift through his memories and put a name to the face beside him.

[Hawl]

Hawl’s eyes with wide with wonder and amazement at the shop before. The small girl had spent a lot of time with her extended family, on ships and stores and massive warehouses with walls to keep out the weather and walls to keep out people who couldn’t be trusted. This store, entirely unassociated with the long reach of her family’s *business, was somehow entirely different. She couldn’t put her finger on what exactly was different with the clean, well kept store; something about the wood beneath her feet or the air or how things were organized. She even bumped into one rack of weaponry that was placed in the wrong location, causing a slight rattle. The girl huffed at the rack of warhammers, chastising them for being in her way. Any one of the weapons probably weighed twice as much as she did.

“Hello!” She raised a hand above the counter. The blacksmith, blinked not seeing the girl at first. The blacksmith was a stocky, bordering on portly man, but when he moved seemed like he was carved out of marble, rather than fat. He blinked, spotting the waggling hand, and a flash of hair. There was a hop and a flash of bright eyes before they disappeared under the horizon of the counter again.

“Mmm… ma’am?” he sounded like he was taking a guess. The blacksmith paused, then groaned as that shook of pale blond hair appeared again in a hop. He stood, taking the stool out from underneath him and reaching over the counter to give it to his customer. There was a shuffle, and a young girl popped into view! She was beaming, pleased that they had solved her severe height deficiency. The blacksmith matched the infectious expression after a moment.

“Hello!” The girl repeated herself, pausing to smooth out the poncho she wore over tailored traveling clothes. Her Aunt Jess’ words echoes in her head. Always be presentable! Control the conversation! Don’t eat in bed! “Hi!”

“Hello!” The blacksmith couldn’t help himself, widening his stance as he relaxed. It was the posture of a retired Corone Ranger, something Hawl recognized.

“Uncle John-“ The girl shifted slightly, managing to emphasize the giant man who brought her to the store in the first place. She pauses in mid sentence, her breath coming into a deep gasp. She makes grabby hands at a smooth wooden handle and tugs. She grunts, and manages to drag a massive axe that was longer than she was tall *off of the counter. It falls to the earth in a clatter and the girl drags it away quickly, running to the leg of her massive friend. She tugs at his leg for a moment, grunting as she manages to heft the thing above her head, teetering!

“No,” John raises his eyebrows, plucking the weapon from her grasp like an apple. “A dagger, something to fit your size.”

“I can handle it! I can be the strongest!” Hawl hops up, trying to get at the weapon. John lifts it slightly up and out of her reach. She hops a few more times, then pouts at him.

“Well, maybe when you’re the strongest you can buy your own, but if you can’t kill me with that thing,” said John, laying the hefty axe out of her reach on the counter, “Then a dagger’s all I will pay for,” He states simply. John nods at the blacksmith, an unspoken word crossing between the two blacksmiths. One of his gauntleted hands picks up the girl by the scruff of her poncho, turning her around and gently pushing her to the blacksmith. He was chuckling under his breath. The man smiled at the small girl as she despairingly stepped onto the stool again, her head barely above the counter.

“Let’s find something a little more appropriate, hrm?” A calloused hand reached down, ruffling her hair. He turns in his spot, plucking several knives and daggers for the girl to inspect. She visibly perks up, lifting several of them up and making cooing noises at the work. Hawl didn’t have much idea what exactly she wanted, but the smooth wood felt nice in her small hands. It was

John noticed her indecisiveness, and spoke. “You should get one with a thin blade, it will be easier to stab with, like this,” he said, holding out an armored finger. The metal on the finger extended, and a slightly curved, narrow blade formed.

“Huh?” Her body turned around as she processes the words. She smiles at her Uncle John, nodding vigorously. She turns back, separating out the blades with a direction to go in! It takes her several minutes, audibly venting her indecision. She pulls up a thin blade after what seemed like an eternity for her. It was long and thin, slightly curved and shined to something like finely polished silver. She could even see her smile in it!

“I would like this one, please!” She thrusts it out, the blade sideways and harmless. Her eyes were locked onto the blacksmith, every other choice forgotten. She steals a quick look at John for his approval, nodding and sure she made the right choice!

[Tobias Stalt]

Tobias watched blankly as the two stepped up beside him and commanded the shopkeeper's attention. He smiled softly after a moment when he realized that it was for the young girl, the look on his face warmer and far more human than any he'd worn in a long time. "Sorry for the trouble, sir, I'll be right with you," the pot bellied blacksmith offered kindly, to which Tobias merely offered a dismissive wave.

"No problem," he replied. The girl seemed to struggle over the quality of blades, and even looked to the monstrously sized man she was with. Tobias reached over and tapped the tip. It knicked his flesh, but he barely bled. "It's a well forged blade," the mercenary told her, "Good for cutting, but not stabbing."

He looked back absently to his gold on the counter, which now took the fat man's wife by the eye. "Ah, pardon my husband, sir," she said brightly as she shot the man an annoyed look. "He ought to be more aware of his clientele. A sword, you said? Any particular material?"

"Metal," he joked. She laughed, but thinly and Tobias knew she was feigning. His lips set in a thin smirk. At least she knew something about being a merchant. "A longsword, preferably. The best you've got."

The woman and her husband exchanged glances. "Well... there is one we've been meaning to get rid of. Word has it, the blade bears a wicked curse."

Tobias narrowed his eyes. Doesn't bother me much. It can't be any more cursed than I am. "Show me."

The woman disappeared toward the back of the tent and returned several moments later with a black scabbard, struggling with the hefty weapon. "Here," she managed to say, the struggle in her speech evident. "Ain't got a name, but there's a legend surrounding it..."

Tobias smiled at the small girl as she glanced over at him, head tilted in slight interest. "Indulge me a bit," he told the woman, "if I'm buying it, I ought to hear it."

The large man studied Tobias, and the Alerian exile glanced toward him with a questioning look. "Do I know you?" John asked suddenly. Tobias looked the large man over, then flicked his gaze away.

"Doubt it," Stalt stated. "I'd remember."

"Don't doubt that," the large man snorted.

"The sword was forged by a legendary Akashiman smith," the woman began, and Tobias snapped his head round to gaze at her intently. "It's said he was Exiled for communing with demons, and that some of his greatest work was perverted by profane pacts."

"And this is one such weapon?" Tobias raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. The sword seemed unassuming, and radiated no dark presence. He would have sensed it.

"It is," she confirmed. The blade exited the sheath and he appriased the dark edge with a stern gaze.

"Titanium," he murmured.

"Good eye," John added from beside him, drawn to the weapon. "He must have been a damn good smith. Few I know who can shape metal like this."

Tobias nodded quietly. "The legend goes, he communed with the spirits of a Titan, one sentenced to the pit for evil deeds. A Hecatoncheir."

"The eight-armed Titans who ate men." Tobias recalled the stories his father used to tell him. "What sort of enchantment would he manage from such a pact?"

Tobias gripped the blade and its bloodlust came to life. His eyes widened as the world pulsed in his mind. The sky became red for a second, and he let the weapon go. "The beast sought freedom from his prison. In exchange for that, he became the soul of this sword."

"Eight arms to drag others to hell with him," Tobias muttered discontentedly.

"Come on, is the sword good, John?" Hawl asked impatiently.

Tobias blinked, then glanced toward the girl. In the midst of all that, she seemed disinterested in the frightful tale. He let out a laugh; the eagerness of children always amused him.

Around them, the flow of people through the market changed. "Almost lunch hour," he said thoughtfully. "I think I'll take the sword."

The woman deadpanned. "Really." She sounded unconvinced.

[redford]

John wondered again if he knew the other man who’d been inquiring about the sword. He bore no distinctive marks that John could see, aside from the telltale gaze of a man hardened by war and blood. Almost the look of a man who hates himself just as much as the enemy, John thought as he inquired about a sword again. The woman answered hesitantly, bringing up an old superstition about mythical blacksmiths and the gear they created. John usually put no stock in such rumors, but with his own situation where his armor was living metal, such things that seemed so fantastical years ago now held a little more weight. Despite the man’s impression on John’s mind, he could not place the man. He spoke plainly.

"Do I know you?"

"Doubt it," He looked away, almost like you’d look away from someone you didn’t quite like. "I'd remember."

"Don't doubt that," John replied flatly; after all, most didn’t soon forget the metal-clad giant that pretended himself a regular man.

He continued discussing the legend of the sword as hawl drew his attention, and he busied himself with aiding her in her purchase, mostly transferring the funds since the little Hawl was too short to adequately reach across the counter to pay the portly man. Hawl cast a glance at the large axe, but seemed quite satisfied with how her dagger shone in the light of the shop. She smiled and slid it into its sheath as the blacksmith set about finding some way to affix it to a belt that was simply too small for all of his standard fittings. John saw all of this in passing, his thoughts still musing over the man he’d conversed with a few minutes prior. It was on the very tip of his memory….

Suddenly, a flash; metal on steel, a behemoth driven back by the man three feet away, now handling a titanium sword. He turned back to him quickly and stepped forward, placing his palm down on the table in front of who he now knew bore the name Tobias. He looked at him knowingly, and down to his armored palm. The armor rippled, and receded until the hand was clear of the silvery metal, broken circle scar visible. But what John was showing Tobias was the ring of Moxillus, a jade ring bestowed upon himself as well as Tobias as a reward for slaying the monster. He pointed at it with his other hand as hawl tugged at the hem of his shirt, the highest she could reach given her circumstances.

“You have one of those, do you not?”

[Hawl]

"Maybe a little..." The blacksmith furrowed his brow, staring down at the young girl. The dagger looked smart in her hands, like a short sword rather than a side arm or even a kitchen knife to a regular man. "Perhaps a little bit more difficult than I thought..."

"Can’t I just carry it everywhere?” Hawl looks up with a wide smile. The blacksmith stares at her for a moment, breaking his gaze away from the girl first. He didn’t actually see her blink at all, and it gave him a shudder. “I mean that way it’ll always be ready!”

“Well, then you should try this, put this on.” The portly man tuts, reaching behind him and pulling down the smallest belt he hand in his inventory. It came from a good friend of his wife’s an older ranger woman who operated her shop down the street. He hands it over to Hawl, who takes it with with wide eyes. She holds it up over her head, letting the leather belt fall past her shoulders, then her thin hips, then to catch around the stool she stood on. The girl froze, looking down, then shooting a glance to John and then to the blacksmith. Her face was beet red, radiating embarrassment.

“I can wear it over my shoulder!” She cries out, hopping off of the stool and trying to tune out the snorting laugher of the blacksmith. She thrust it back onto the counter, struggling to get back onto the stool and then drape the weapon across her shoulder. It fit, though a bit loosely and awkwardly. Her fingers fumbled as she attached the dagger. It hung at a jaunty angle, but was stable! “This’ll work! Yeah!”

Hawl didn’t wait for an answer, skipping off of the stool and back to John and the other man. She moved straight through the tension in the air, hardly noticing the delicate situation they were in.

“Uncle John! I need a little more for the belt…” She steps between the two, her forehead and eyes barely coming to the table’s edge. Her eyes fell open the scar and the ring, staring at them with a cock of her head. She looked up and up and up at John, a confused look on her face. The gaze from the young girl drops, back to the ring and scar, then back up to the man she didn't know. “Is this a friend?”

“Hello!” She hops, a smile appearing for a moment above the table. A tiny hand reaches up for the man to shake. “My name is Hawl!”

[Tobias Stalt]

He was quick to notice the child's innocent reaction to a tool meant for murder, but slow to smile in response. They began so young these days, even Tobias forgot where the line truly blurred. By the time she understood the implications of her excitement, it would be too late. The blade would have tasted blood more than once, and if she were unlucky enough, it would already have taken life. The sweet kiss of steel had as much allure as flesh, if not more. Tobias knew the truth of it better than any man alive.

John held out a piece of jewelry that stole Tobias' attention from the grim allegory for injustice, but the mercenary merely frowned in reply. "It's a ring," he stated blandly, more than aware how obvious his statement was. He took a half step closer and appraised it with a careful gaze. "Albeit a much different ring than I've seen before."

The killer in him remained ever vigilant about revealing his identity to others, especially those who knew him but he could not say the same for. His golden gaze swept over the giant of a man and dissected the myriad methods of murder that might topple him. Tobias could smell no killing instinct on him, nor did he feel a sense of ever present danger. Whatever or whoever this was, it became quickly clear that he was no threat to Stalt.

"I may have crossed paths with someone who held one before you," he answered in half truth. Storm Veritas, a man he traveled with very recently also had such a charm. Still, Tobias intended to be rid of his quickly, as it linked him back to a cooperative effort with Logan from the Tarot Hierarchy and could be used to identify him by any would be assassins. "If I did, I don't remember who, or how long ago."

He accepted the longsword deftly and slid it into the scabbard. When he lifted his cloak to fasten the weapon to his belt, the ensemble of deadly weapons stood out like a severed head on a pike. Two long knives sheathed in a cross pattern at the small of his back, a strange firearm carefully holstered at his hip, and a dagger hung from his thigh shuffling as he tied a knot. When he let the vlince fall, only the newest acquisition remained in view.

"Expecting company?" John questioned with a raised eyebrow.

"Always," Tobias answered concisely. "So it's never a surprise."

As he spoke, the girl extended her hand and introduced herself as Hawl. Tobias squinted for a moment as he struggled to recall her face. Not so long ago now, he had seen it. "Tobi," he offered the affectionate name Vince often referred to him by. "Tobias Stalt."

He shook the child's hand and realized she was pointing to his thigh. "I know you!" she proclaimed, "I know you! I do! You bought that one from us at the auction," she told him proudly.

"One of the Sorie family," Tobias muttered in recognition. His eyes widened. "You were the auctioneer."

"Yep!" She practically beamed.

"Small world," Tobias shrugged. He patted her on the head gently.

John watched Tobias carefully, and seemed to stare when his hand touched the girl. He relaxed a bit when the mercenary retracted it. "I see. Tobias," he nodded, "Hawl and I are here on business."

"Most people are, in the Radasanthian market," Tobias smirked. "I was just preparing for a job. Freelance work, at the moment."