Wafts of cool autumn air circulated through The Blade and Bludgeon.
Talon pushed open the sturdy iron-barred door and entered the shop, where the first thing that caught his attention was the familiar creak in the uneven hardwood beneath his steel tipped combat boots. He looked up and gave a quick once-over for the sake of convenience, though realistically he’d been here a million times, and could navigate the spacious aisles with his eyes closed. It was a cavernous shop filled with old oak tables covered by thick, heavy fabrics of differing style and colour. This mismatching of tablecloths was in accord with the multi-coloured stained-glass windows affixed to various locations on the walls of the store’s upper level, where the setting sun shone through and gave the entire shop a rustic flair that was altogether lacking from most establishments. Bizarre mixtures of colour shone dully against the blades-mixtures of colour, both bright and dull, were caught, bent, and scattered against the gleaming steel of weapons both ancient and new. It reminded Talon of what happens when one shines lights through clear prisms.
Lux, in her childish exuberance, had once shown him her light filled prisms, but that was long ago.
At the moment, Talon stood patiently while observing the shop’s fine selection of wall-mounted weaponry. The inventory hadn't changed much since his last visit, but such vacant-minded observations allowed his thoughts to wonder, and the silence of this place compared to the bustle outdoors brought peace to his mind. He eyed the gleaming weapons as a masterful architect would examine a building. Considerations of blade geometry, differential heat-treating, taper, blade harmonics, and points of balance had inadvertently crept into the analytical parts of his brain.
No compromises were to be made; only the finest would do.
Behind the counter, a middle-aged shop-keeper stood. The man’s visage was interlaced by precise facial scarring, indicating that he was a veteran blade-master. His eyes were tiny beads of glinting light wrapped in wrinkled flesh, his nose a nicked stub that sat squarely between them, and his teeth a jagged web-work of brown decay.
He regarded Talon with a hearty grunt, a formality that signified his respect for the assassin. They did not speak much, but when they did, it was strictly to do with the business of refined weaponry, death, and fighting.
‘And what can I help you with today, Sir Talon?” he posited with a wide grin of chipped teeth offset by a curled mustache that nearly extended to the corners of his cheeks. His thick Ionian accent was deep, low, and grated by years of alcohol abuse.
‘Just browsing’ responded Talon.
‘Oh, come now, I know you are never in the mood to just browse!’ came the man’s booming response. ‘Look at this!’ he retrieved a finely stylized fang of what appeared to be a jade-like material, so sharp that it had to be kept sheathed even when on display.
‘Not interested in ceremonial stuff today,’ came Talon’s swift reply. ‘Save it for Akali,’ he laughed.
Disgruntled, the man withdrew the dagger and examined it in the fading sunlight, as if to entice Talon to make a purchase. Talon was aware of his tricks. ‘Not interested.’
‘Alright, alright, you Elite are so hard to please, you know that, always after my finest selection, and how am I supposed to make any money with you and your city discount?’ he complained. Talon smirked and said nothing. The discount was a joke, by all means.
‘I’ll get back to you on that when you’re through giving us the Noxian Elite markup cost,’ he replied smugly. The shop-keep laughed and proceeded to tend to his workbench, which was littered with all types of deadly implements, and tools designed to improve them. As the man cleaned the intricate hilt of an ancient rapier, it became obvious that his hand-eye coordination had deteriorated throughout the years, which properly explained why he managed a shop now instead of partaking in blade-dances with Noxian dualists. Those days were long behind him.
And then something caught Talon’s eye. It was hanging on one of the top shelves, behind the Katanas and longswords, up above where it was only barely visible in the fading light. It was definitely new.
‘How much for that one?’ Talon mused, motioning to the serrated micro-blades. The rune-inscribed weapons had wrist-mounted straps. Perfect for close range assassination, he thought. The shopkeeper, lost in thought, at first ignored the question as he finished filing the edge of some unknown weapons before shifting his considerable weight to face Talon once again.
‘What is it now, I am busy Sir Talon,’ he retorted smugly. The man was so preoccupied in his work that he forgot to realize that Talon alone was responsible for keeping the shop in operation.
‘Listen, what is that, up there?’ Talon said, pointing skyward to the glass-encased blade device.
‘Oh, yes! I almost forgot Sir Talon, those are part of my new line up. Very special, very rare. In fact, my importers brought it in from Ionia not long ago. Said something about some enchanted caves where they’d lost 2 or 3 men just to get them-’ he explained, breath smelling of some stale lager and rotten tobacco.
‘Yeah, yeah, how much. ‘Talon quickly replied before the shop-keep could finish his random musings. The impulse struck Talon’s mind to the point that everything else was a distraction.
‘Well, let me get the pocket-book, but you should know that those will not come cheap. I only have a few sets, they are highly-‘
‘I don’t care,’ Talon quipped.
‘Right,’ said the shop-keep, disappearing into the back office to retrieve his pocket-book. Just then, Talon heard heeled footsteps tapping loudly against the hardwood. The footsteps grew louder. Talon wasn’t the only one shopping for blades, and then he heard a voice that he immediately recognized. It was Katarina.
‘Charge it to my tab,’ she voiced in a superior tone, a tone inconsiderate on the matters of cost or concern. ‘And have them delivered to my quarters.’
‘Yes m’lady,’ came the voice of the shop-keeps' son, who sounded and appeared altogether meek compared to his burly, barrel-chested father. As Katarina’s footsteps neared him, Talon said nothing, and did not turn around. This was not out of lack of respect or disregard of the revered assassin-no, something else compelled him to shy away- maybe he wanted her to notice him, for whatever reason. Or maybe he didn't want to be noticed at all.
‘And if they aren’t delivered by exactly the time I specified, I’ll be-‘ she stopped mid-stride and mid-sentence as she noticed Talon near the counter. She cocked her head slightly, knowing full well that the soldier had overheard her conversation with this shop-keep, and with a quizzical expression upon her face she considered what the Noxian was up too. She stood for a brief moment, her legs relaxed to a more comfortable arrangement, and faced the assassin. ‘No surprise to be seeing you here,’ she said dismissively, with a hint of playfulness that belied her often-cold personality, for but a brief moment. It would not last.
‘Not really,’ Talon replied, turning to meet her eye-to-eye. 'I come here a lot, if you didn't notice.' He gazed briefly into her pale emerald eyes, now obscured by faded shades of purple and red courtesy of the stained-glass kaleidoscope. In in instant, he took note of her overall appearance in the fringes of his peripheral vision before looking back to the shop keep. She was dressed formally as usual. Well, formally for Katarina. A bit extravagant and form-fitting for the average Noxian female, considering her tightened black corset that seemed to wear itself almost too perfectly around her slender figure, where some shapes were left to the imagination, and others not as much. Talon, being the ever courteous gentleman, was careful to maintain eye-contact with her, at least most of time. At least he liked to think so.
Less than interested, Katarina expressed a smugness that Talon had come to expect, as she returned to her dealings with the shop-keep's son. Her form fitting outfit stretched and shifted as she moved her arms while walking and talking at the same time, and her hair basically had a life of its own when she moved. It looked heavy, but once one took notice of the natural motion with which it swayed, even inside a room where no breeze was present, they might conclude that her crimson tresses were an illusion conjured of air, but the fact that it smelled of some fruitful fragrance, which Talon altogether did not care for, indicated that her hair was no act of sorcery.
'Unless it's hair-scent witchcraft,' he mused carefully, tapping his chin. Katarina caught wind of the comment and spun her heels and body around to face him, eyes squinted, looking quizzical.
'What did you say?' she inquired while jotting down some instructions regarding the delivery of her weapons.Talon merely shrugged his shoulders, and pouted his lower lip to better convey a sense of confusion.
And many hundreds of years later, in an entirely different part of the universe on a planet known as earth, this interaction might be referred to as 'Trolling'
Back to business. Talon pointed to that special blade he'd been admiring prior to being intruded upon by Katarina's alluring presence, not that he disliked it.
'How much?' he asked clearly.
‘For the whole set, or just the display model?’ replied the shop keeper, who was now teetering dangerously upon his tiny metal stool, partially due to drunkenness, and partially due to his current preoccupation with staring down the unbuttoned fabric of Katarina's dark purple blouse. Ignoring the question altogether, Talon said nothing. It should have been clear to the keeper that display models were not to be considered. Then, an unexpected reply from the red-head.
‘Actually, it’s sold out,’ she hinted dangerously, 'as I've already claimed that model.’
Talon, experiencing something akin to a confused anger, turned to face Katarina, who appeared as though she'd just been granted the satisfaction of obtaining lunch-money from a helpless child on the play-ground. Head tilted slightly, she furrowed her brows and crossed her arms, looking as though she'd done nothing wrong at all. Only now did Talon notice that the assistant shopkeeper, who'd been dealing with Katarina the whole time, was carrying several ivory-coloured boxes under one arm, and was totalling up costs of the precious weapons with a pocket-book and quill in the other.
‘Cute,’ said Talon in an uninspired tone. Katarina’s actions were often less than amusing to him. ‘And you intend to use all of them at once?’
‘Of course not,’ she replied, tilting her head back as she flipped her waist-length hair over her slender shoulder, where it crashed down and spilled across her back in a sea of red, ‘one must use backups for when the others break.’ She smiled coyly, and reached into a small brown sack of gold, retrieving far more than was needed to purchase the weapons.
Talon simply stood there, observing the exchange, and the Shop owner, looking slightly bemused, scratched his head. After the transaction she headed towards the door, without so much as a thank you - good-bye. Before she left, she looked back once more.
'And if you're lucky,' she mused playfully before exiting, 'i'll let you borrow a set for the mission.'
Maybe her antics were more amusing than Talon cared to admit. Not that he cared.
-=-=-=-=-
He wondered around the crowded streets in search of something sharp, something deadly, either poison coated, serrated, or perhaps spring-loaded and unique. He collected blades-they were his thing, his calling, and there was nothing he could do to satisfy his habit but acquire more of them. Many assassins shared the same affinity for spiked objects, but Talon took this interest to the next level. He loved blades, and mostly all other weapons as well. Perhaps it was the reassurance they represented-the security in knowing that it was far better to invest ones allegiance to an inanimate object than a living person, for it was quite obvious that a weapon would never turn its back on its owner. It could be depended on in all cases, and whereas people were susceptible to negligence, corruption, greed, hatred, ignorance, and stupidity, a blade was simply a blade. He enjoyed the shape of blades; refined craftsmanship was something he admired.
Generally speaking, the majority of the blade making community around Noxus catered to a very high-profile clientele. Assassins weren’t easy to please, and their implements of death were expected to be of the utmost in quality and construction. Substandard devices were simply not to be considered, and were more often than not dismissed altogether. Counterfeit producers were known to be active throughout the lesser known shops and shoddy street corners, where quick deals and sketchy words were shared on whim and drive for a quick buck, but if you were in the know, then there was a good chance that you weren’t going to be stuck with a piece of junk that would sooner break than do any significant harm. Talon liked to think he was in the know, but as the counterfeiters were crafty and devious in their practices, he’d been stung more than once. Imitation razor-stingers and rip-off rapiers filled the waste-bins of his workshop. Usually, the creators of these low-quality weapons were never heard from or seen again, for whatever reason. Their bodies often ended up in non-descript gutters.
The side-walkers and street people shifted by in a hazy buzz of voices and ruffled movement. As it was getting late in the afternoon, the more refined and prestigious Noxian citizens had all but retreated to their mansions in the uptown to retire for the evening, whereas the scraggly and drunken lot were left to toil in their own foolishness as nightfall drew near. It was a day not unlike any other, and there was nothing keeping the working class from roaming around to visit shops and make impulse purchases, though it appeared that this activity was becoming less and less frequent compared to a week prior.
Recent diversions of funds for war had made things tough on the average person, especially when these preparations were never fully explained in detail to the public. There were rumors that more attention was being given to the prospect of offshore skirmishes-Ionia specifically- and not even the most ignorant Noxian had missed that tidbit of information.
The costs of exploration, equipment, supplies, and warfare in general were of course high, and this was especially true for a society as militaristic as Noxus, but this was to be expected. Nobody complained, for if they did, it would most certainly fall on deaf ears, be ignored, and more often than not be met with hostility. No mercy was given to those who protested the seemingly unjust activities of the Noxian high command, for the only injustice was in their questioning of political activities- often met with hostility, imprisonment, and sometimes death. As was well known, all Noxian officials maintained a stringent policy of secrecy, and the sharing of private information with the public was simply not tolerated to any degree. Talon, however, could care less, as his recent success in the League of Legends had given his personal coffers enough stimulation to not only grant him a comfortable life, but also the freedom to pursue his rather expensive habit of blade collecting. And there were so many blades waiting to be collected-rare ones that nobody had seen before- he knew it. They were waiting for him under some non-descript shop table or within the travel-satchel of some offshore tradesman. They must belong to me, he thought.
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