Arsène
02-29-08, 11:36 PM
...if the sword is very short, and the pen is very sharp” - Terry Pratchett
It was butcher's work that needed to be done, and Arsène needed the proper tools to commit the acts of butchery. The bazaar was loud, noisy, smelly; all these things had been mention countless times before by drolling idiots and withered simpletons who needed some meaningless catalyst to start conversation with their equally bumpkin comrades. The man had time for none of it. His mind was focused on a task with such singularity that even disgust or contempt for the common man around him took a backseat.
His face was grim and worn like the chilling specter one would expect to see upon death. Dried tears had caused his face to become irritated by the salt, and even the warm rays of sunlight could not lift his lips from skulking they warped his figure.
He had arrived at a rather quaint shop door, with a bell atop that jingled so cheerfully whenever a customer entered. Arsène pulled on the door with such force that the bell went flying through the air, its jingle cut short by its smashing into the ground. The stomped into the store, and as soon as he entered he regained some composure; enough to not be thrown out.
"Tell me," he asked tritely, "how much would steel bastard sword cost?" His narrow eyes scanned the room for all it's wears. "I'm looking for something cost efficient."
It was butcher's work that needed to be done, and Arsène needed the proper tools to commit the acts of butchery. The bazaar was loud, noisy, smelly; all these things had been mention countless times before by drolling idiots and withered simpletons who needed some meaningless catalyst to start conversation with their equally bumpkin comrades. The man had time for none of it. His mind was focused on a task with such singularity that even disgust or contempt for the common man around him took a backseat.
His face was grim and worn like the chilling specter one would expect to see upon death. Dried tears had caused his face to become irritated by the salt, and even the warm rays of sunlight could not lift his lips from skulking they warped his figure.
He had arrived at a rather quaint shop door, with a bell atop that jingled so cheerfully whenever a customer entered. Arsène pulled on the door with such force that the bell went flying through the air, its jingle cut short by its smashing into the ground. The stomped into the store, and as soon as he entered he regained some composure; enough to not be thrown out.
"Tell me," he asked tritely, "how much would steel bastard sword cost?" His narrow eyes scanned the room for all it's wears. "I'm looking for something cost efficient."