So Thick, You Could Cut It With A Knife

[Zook Murnig]

The thick smoke of the City of Industry seemed kinder this day than most, as it refrained from falling to the streets and choking its inhabitants. Still, the sky was far from visible, and one would only know it was late afternoon by the tall clock towers and their hourly tolling of the bells.

The soot-covered streets were filled with all manner of pedestrians and equestrians, though the latter were set apart by more than their mode of transportation. The very clothes they wore shouted of high station, high collars and fine coats over lacy white shirts accenting the dark drow complexion as they rode along the cobbled avenues in a graceful canter.

In stark contrast, a group of round-eared, pale children huddled in a side alleyway, sharing a worn blanket in an attempt to keep warm in the chill of the dying day. Their ruddy faces glanced up fearfully as a robed man passed, a low hood disguising his features. Then, to their surprise, the stranger stopped, turned and knelt down by them. "Children shouldn't be outside at night," he warned. His voice was kind, and his actions reinforced this as he passed a handful of gold coins to the group. "Find yourselves a room at a tavern, okay?"

With that, he stood and continued on a few steps before entering a building made from slabs of granite. Above the humble wooden door hung a sign depicting a pair of crossed weapons, a gun and a sword.

[Ataraxis]

For the carcass of a store as prestigious as the Flint and Fire, there was little left in the way of furnishings. From the pitiful perch of his creaky stool, Helviana considered the bareness of the floorboards, the oiled smudges on the walls, the half a dozen squares and rectangles of unstained wallpaper where rich and lurid paintings were once hung. Even when he closed his eyes to sigh, the Drow could still feel the assault of all that was pathetic in this vacated hellhole that, to him, smelled more unsavory than the most rotten of taverns, reserved for the worst of lowlife pariahs. "Smells of dung shat by dung, it does," he grumbled from his corner, certain that could could hear the wallpaper peel. "You hear me Shairin? The feces of feces, the stool of stool, the-"

"Yes, shit of shits, you've said so already," a voice rang from the back room behind the scuffed counter, still immersed in unmoving gloom. Nothing strange, as they had already run out of candles to light the main room, their glow so scant that ghastly fireflies seemed to hover in broken patches of darkness. "From my tavern to the streets, to the carriage, all the way here, nattering on and on about droppings - how could I forget? I've heard no better wooing from you since our engagement."

Emerging from the dark was the sun-kissed face of Shairin Melarn, wreathed in soft locks the hue of flaxen fields. Her expression was nowhere as light as the image, alas. "You've spent the last half hour pointing out all the flaws of my brother's shop, the looks, the smells, even the texture of the walls for Aurient's sake, but you haven't heard the ruckus I've been making back here? Cleaning? Helviana Erelisstra, if there's any shred of love for me in that pampered pebble of a heart, then you had better get in here and clear out this god-forsaken pigsty!"

The Drow jumped from his stool, urged by the ear-splitting shrillness of his fiancé's fury. He muttered a string of curses under his breath, easing up as he neared Shairin but resuming with a vengeance as his body crossed the doorway and vanished into the storage room. "Still, no matter what you say, he still did double-cross us. 'You can keep the place, even my wares', he says. 'Keep me a small cut of the profit, and you can do with the store what your heart desires', he says. Well there's not much we can do, with the way he's run it into the ground; the Flint and Fire's nothing of what it used to be. Nobody's going to come, and your damn brother knew that all too well! What profit? That slimy weasel, what profit? Only debts! But hey, it's not all bad. We get the big cut."

"Don't talk like that about my damn, slimy brother!" she screamed, though there was no hiding her displeasure at this rather blatant betrayal of blood. "And we had to take it, what with you losing your job at Ankhas! I can't cover your life expenses with what I get from the Moru Úr - I can barely cover mine!"

"Made so little as a reference librarian, I might as well have thrown my crowns out the window..." he muttered back as he emerged from the thick shadows, arms laden with an old crate that smelled of must.

Before Helviana could wallow in self-pity or Shairin could slap him upside the head, a shuffle of cloth and a thud of boots sounded from the entranceway. Someone had entered the building and climbed up the wobbly, creaking rise of steps. What the stranger saw upon his arrival at the ramshackle shop, however, had most likely broken his expectations. "Why would anyone go up... oh, it's the signboard, isn't it? Crossed arms, pistol and blade. That damned thing's spreading through Ettermire like a hackneyed blight."

"Forgive the prick for being a prick," Shairin said from behind the counter, greeting the robed customer with a heart-breaking smile. "I'm sorry to say, but the Flint and Fire's going through a change of management. Still, the previous proprietor left his stock with us, so we might be able to accommodate your needs?"

[Zook Murnig]

The Flint and Fire looked as though its name had taken the place. Dark smudges all over the walls, an awful stench filling the air, and the less than pleased disposition of the male proprietor attested to this. Still, when Caduceus entered the place, what he noticed in stark contrast to his surroundings was the sincere smile on the drow woman's face.

She spoke swiftly, but softly, her voice as sweet as that of any lass, though with a cautious edge. It was as if she were trying to make up for the shop's shabbiness and her quarrel with her mate all with sound and smile.

"It's quite alright," he said, and it was. It was plain to see that an unfortunate mishap had occurred, as such things were prone to do surrounding a shift in ownership (often being the cause of the shift), and it was no fault of their own. "I need an athame." He paused, then realized that the elven couple may not know what he was talking about. "That is, a dagger with which to perform summonings," he explained. "Prevalida would be preferred, and of above average quality. No enchantments are necessary, though one of returning would be nice if you have one with such magicks upon it."

[Ataraxis]

"An athame, you say?" Shairin questioned absently, eyes rolling upward as she picked her brain, trying to remember of the what wares she had just seen in storage. She could vaguely recall seeing a crate fraught with small, blue-tinted weapons on a bed of straw. "Let me have a look in the back, I'm sure there's something that could work," she called out, raising her voice as she vanished in the back room once more. There was a renewed ruckus of wood grating against wood, the shuffle of cloth and clanking of metal. "As for your enchantment of returning, I'm sure Helviana here can help."

"Ah yes," the Drow began in a drawl, lavender eyes glimmering proudly as he shifted from his stool. "You see, the Flint and Fire won't be selling armours and weapons for long, since I'm turning it into my very enchanting establishment. I haven't thought up the name yet, but it shouldn't be too difficult to outdo the last proprietor." As he stood up, Helviana dusted off the back of his robes, a tailored piece of black and scarlet silk, patterned in silver threads. A flash of crimson flashed in the candlelight, its source the oval gem adorning his chest, something reminiscent of a dragon's carbuncle. "A charm of returning is child's play; if things go as I wish, then all Alerarian weapons will be outfitted with such enchantments by the end of next year, and more."

In a splurge of vanity and arrogance, Helviana produced a weapon from a fold in his robes - an athame of his own. It was a thing of beauty, lean and straight and shimmering in hues of powder blue, and had a rounded hilt, ornate with silver designs that seemed a tangled sphere of snakes, beset with milky-veined crystals. "Ah yes, I count myself among the scarce ranks of summoners in this world; only, demons and beasts do not sell as well as sorcerous blessings." With an unmindful flick of his wrist, he sent the blade flying, hearing only moments later the pleasant thunk from the door. Seconds later, the weapon vanished in a transient puff of smoke and reappeared in the Drow's hand with the same silver burst, only leaving behind a deep notch in the wood. Helviana smiled. "And that's nothing compared to what my other summoning instruments can do."

Shairin emerged from the darkness, setting a crate on the counter with a loud, vibrant clang. "I looked around, and we have quite an assortment of knives and daggers and dirks, then other such weapons with names that frankly don't mean anything to me, but none of them seem to fit my image of an athame. I thought I'd still bring these to you, just in case." The robed man stepped forward, leaned over the crate with an appraising eye, nudging hilts and pommels away here and there, before stepping back. He shook his head, apologizing. "No, I'm the one who's sorry. And here I actually expected our first customer would leave satisfied..."

Helviana watched them exchange apologies in a match of courtesies, silent until the client made his move toward the doorway. "Wait," he grunted, annoyance lacing his words. THere was a new thunk, this time coming from the scratched counter. The Drow had dug his athame's tip into the wood, letting it shudder to a stop. "Good grief... 470 crowns, before I change my mind." From the corner of his eye, he could see Shairin's tender smile, full of gratitude, with a hint of surprise. Didn't think I had it in me? Ah well, I don't blame you... neither did I.

[Zook Murnig]

"It's quite the instrument, indeed!" exclaimed the magician, impressed with the teleporting magic entwined in the metal. "I'll take it!" His hand went to his side, pulling out his pouch and pouring its contents out on the counter, gold glinting against the smoky wood.

[Ataraxis]

Zook loses 470 GP
Zook gains a Prevalida Athame with a returning charm that works as long as the weapon is within 50 feet of him.

Zook gains 76 for mediocre interaction.

HAH.

Joke, Zook gains 100 XP.

[Witchblade]

DONE!

Zook reaches level 2!