Wafts of cool autumn air circulated through The Blade and Bludgeon as Talon pushed aside the sturdy iron-barred door and entered the shop. The first thing that caught his attention was the familiar creak of the uneven hardwood beneath his steel-tipped combat boots. With a pause, he looked up, and gave the shop a quick glance to get a visual map of the area. He had been here a million times before, and could navigate the spacious isles with his eyes closed. Not unlike most shops in Noxus, it was cavernous and filled with merchandise displayed upon 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 stores' upper level, where the setting sun shone through and gave the entire shop a vibrant flair. Bizarre mixtures of coloured light, both bright and dull, shone whimsically against the blades on display; the fading afternoon light was caught, bent, and scattered against the gleaming steel of weapons both ancient and new. It reminded Talon of what happens when one shines a beam through a clear prism, causing all the colours of the spectrum to be revealed in an instant. A well-known Ionian champion by the name of Lux had told him this once long ago, and she’d shown him her light-filled prisms too. It was a curious trick bereft of common sense that only scientists and manipulators of light fully understood, so assassins like Talon were completely in the dark on such matters.
At the moment, Talon stood patiently in the middle of the shop. He observed a fine selection of wall-mounted halberds that looked quite barbaric and ancient. Where their tips curled and weaved there could be seen ancient, runic inscriptions in a language that had long been forgotten. He stared at them, curiously. Although he was no expert at languages, he attempted to decipher them. Their patterns, shapes, and flows seemed to signify great importance. Perhaps the figures represented the names of enemies slain. Vacant-minded observations such as this served little purpose other than to allow his thoughts to wonder, and the prevailing silence of the shop atmosphere brought peace to his mind while doing so. It was in stark contrast to the incessant bustle of the Noxian streets, where drunken fools and well-to-do merchants mingled together like a sea of high-energy transaction.
Talons eyes drifted to an open display of thin daggers that had been polished to a high sheen. The weapons rested on a silky, reflective purple fabric that seemed to give the blades an ethereal appearance. 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 crept into the analytical parts of his brain, and he felt like a kid in a sweets shop. In fact, blades had been a major part of his youth, so the nostalgic connection was definitely reinforced by these almost daily visits to places such as this. His first thought when examining a blade was that no compromises were to be made. Only the finest would do.
The middle-aged owner of the shop tended to his stock behind the breadth of a large, scarred oak counter separating two locked swinging doors that had been put in place to prevent theft. His name was Malz, an Ionian immigrant who, not unlike Talon, had sought refuge within the restless streets of Noxus long ago. His visage was criss-crossed by finely woven facial scars, a lasting voucher from his former life as a veteran dualist in the Noxian arenas. His eyes were tiny beads of glinting light wrapped in brown wrinkled flesh, and the nose was all but a nicked, stubby bulb that sat squarely beneath the wide bridge between them. His mouth was a jagged web-work of chipped teeth and brown decay; clearly not a lot of maintenance had been given to this area.
The man looked up from his work and greeted Talon with a hearty grunt, a formality that signified his respect for the Crimson Elite assassin. The two did not speak all that much, but when they did, the conversation centered strictly on the business of refined weaponry, death, and fighting. Only rarely did they voyage into such abhorrently boring topics such as Noxian politics or welfare. The pair believed that the only ones concerned with the latter were those who had not the physique or skill for fighting and warfare, and were thus considered unimportant.
At present, Malz’s mindless gaze in Talon’s general direction eventually elicited a response from the assassin. Most times he simply kept to himself and said nothing. ‘Just browsing,’ Talon said dryly, lost in thought. In reality, he was taking into consideration the weapons he would need for an upcoming mission, of which he had been given very little information.
‘Oh, come now!’ the shop-keep bellowed suddenly, as if it were a knee-jerk reaction. ‘I know you are never in the mood to just browse. You come in here almost every day, Talon. You know my selection better than I do. Just get it over with.’
Talon shifted uneasily on the creaky hardwood, unsure of how to respond. ‘Malz,’ said the cloaked assassin, ‘if this is your attempt to convey some sense of hospitality, you’re doing a poor job of it.’
‘Whatever,’ grunted Malz. ‘Here, Look at this!’ he reached below the counter and withdrew what appeared to be a finely stylized fang shaped weapon. Judging by the make of it, it could have been a ceremonial Ionian weapon crafted of jade and some other foreign material that Talon could not place his mind on. It seemed to be extremely sharp, and even as Malz held it to show the assassin, he kept a delicate grasp on the ornate hilt. As the Ionians were a very delicate and sentimental people, this blade was styled by subtle design patterns and carefully inscribed characters. Perhaps it had belonged to one of noble descent. Clearly, this was not a weapon for street fighting, but for the mantle, or some special glass display case instead.
‘Not interested in the ceremonial stuff today, Malz,’ Talon replied after a moment of consideration. ‘That seems like something Akali would be interested in,’ they shared a laugh, and Malz proceeded to re-sheath the delicate weapon.
‘Alright, alright,’ he conceded, voice piqued with frustration. ‘You know what? You Elite are so hard to please, this much I know. You guys are always after my finest selection. Where’s my stock for the average joe? 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. Talon knew this, and so did the other assassins. It was not unlike Malz to offer no discount at all, but instead markup the items to a point where the discount was negated altogether. Such was the way of the shady Noxian businessman, living day in day out, to serve the masses.
‘I’ll get back to you on that when you stop giving us the Noxian Elite markup,’ he replied. Malz laughed boisterously and proceeded to tend to his workbench, which was littered with all kinds of deadly weapons and tools designed to polish and sharpen. As the man cleaned the intricate hilt of an old rapier with a file, it became obvious that his hand-eye coordination had deteriorated throughout the years. This had been due to his former profession as a Noxian dualist, a blade-dancer, but those years were long behind him. However, there was little doubt that the man could still fight. Every so often there were cases where a customer would deem it necessary to acquire shop merchandise without paying for it at all. It was cases like these where Malz was all too eager to demonstrate that he could hack and slash just as well as the young dualists out there. Fortunately, the blood stains from the would-be thieves were concealed under large, thick rugs positioned randomly throughout the shop. As time went on, word spread that loss prevention techniques at the Blade and Bludgeon were nearly 100% effective.
Talon eyed the top shelf behind the oak counter, where Malz had most often kept the new stock on display behind the Katanas and longswords. There were a series of blades and other murderous devices suspended aloft inside a clear glass box, barely visible in the fading sunlight. Next to that, there appeared to be wrist-mounted blade projectors, something that Talon had never seen before. It was definitely a recent addition. Affixed to barbed hooks and tips covered in spiky bits was a spring-loaded launcher housed within a miniature black box of steel, and the brown wrist strap was composed of finely cut leather strips with many holes and clasps for fitting. The weapon was mounted with multiple silver clips attached to a backdrop display panel of red velvet that seemed to glitter like a glass rose. This weapon was perfect for close-ranged assassination, Talon thought.
‘How much for that one?’ he mused, pointing at the barbed micro-blades. Lost in thought, Malz seemed to ignore the question at first. He then shifted his considerable weight to face the assassin once again, glanced up to see what he was pointing at, and turned back to his work. His deep concentration was not easy to break.
‘What is it now that you want, Sir Talon? Can you not see that I’m preoccupied?’ he said with a hint of smugness.
‘Oh, yes! I almost forgot Sir Talon, those are part of my new line up. Very special, very rare indeed. In fact, my importers brought it in from Ionia not long ago. Said something about some enchanted caves where they’d lost no less than three men just to get them!’ his voice leapt with jubilation, as if to emphasise the market value of the weapon. He then spoke of the dangerous sea-voyage that took place after the discovery, where the merchant vessel carrying the goods was besieged by dangerous winds and deadly sea monsters. Talon had heard the exact same story no less than a week ago, and possibly many times more than that. The repetitious tales caused him to smirk. Malz did everything he could to entice a customer. He was a true salesman.
‘Yeah, yeah, how much,’ Talon quickly replied before Malz continued his digressions. He was expecting to pay no less than double what the weapons were worth, as this had been the usual case. The problem was that he knew how to exploit Talon’s impulsive mind to the point of agitation, as if all notions of common sense were rescinded by the aperture of addiction. Such was the way of an obsessed assassin, always looking for a competitive edge to aid in the business self- perseverance, no matter the cost. In darker times, Talon would of simply garroted the fat man and taken his wares. His body might of ended up in some unknown dungeon, or perhaps a gutter.
‘Well, let me get the pocket-book, but you should know that those will not come cheap. I only have a few sets, you know,’ said Malz. As the stocky man stood up, the sturdy work-stool upon which he had sat gave forth a creaky groan of relief.
Malz walked over to a myriad of shelves and drawers located at the back of the shop, where stacks of moldy paperwork, empty cups of coffee, and cobwebs had melded into mounds of disorganization. After a moment of sorting through the mess, he retrieved from it a small black book with the name of the shop engraved in gold lettering across the spine. It was an inventory control compendium that contained all relevant stock reports created within the past several months, and since the item in question was newly acquired, Malz knew to look near the middle of the book, where updates detailing the most recent items were listed. Several columns down on page 76 was the name Ivorg Calun, the name of the Ionian merchant who’d been responsible for providing the most recent shipment of goods. He’d purchased the so-called ‘wrist rakes’ for 378 gold a piece, a reasonable purchase considering the weapons were nearly mint condition, and appeared as though they had yet to be used. Malz considered for a moment, and then thought of a reasonable asking price. He closed the book, chucked it into a messy pile, and hobbled his way back to the front of the shop, stepping over pencils, loose papers, and accumulated balls of dust as he did so. ‘Alright, well these things don’t come cheap, you know,’ he said to Talon, who was now in a different area of the store.
‘I don’t care,’ said Talon. ‘Just don’t sleaze-ball me, Malz, you know how often I come here.’ Malz proceeded to rest his stubby arms and bulky gut on the counter, causing it to shift and wane under the considerable weight. He looked up at Talon, and exhibited the most honest looking expression he could muster.
‘One thousand gold per weapon,’ he said calmly while looking Talon directly in the eye, ‘accessories extra, of course.’
‘Right,’ said Talon disinterestedly, ‘and let me guess, they’re worth a fraction of that?’ Talon raised his arms and opened his palms, as if to convey his dissatisfaction.
‘Hey, listen, don’t give me a hard time about this,’ said Malz, ‘you know I pay top dollar for these things! I am a man of humble means, sir Talon, and I would never try to rip you off!’
‘750 is my best offer, take it or leave it.’ The assassin was by no means rich, and it was at times like these that he resented his champion status within the league. It was as if everyone regarded champions as possessing unlimited wealth and generosity, but as Talon was only recently inducted into the Institute of War, this simply was not the case. Malz simply glanced downward, and rubbed his chin stubble between his thumb and index finger while in deep consideration.
Just then, Talon heard heeled footsteps clicking loudly against the worn hardwood overhead. By now the sunlight had diminished to the point of not being able to see who it was in the reflections of the windows, but the shadow of a feminine form could be seen trailing across the lower deck of the shop, moving swiftly, and heading towards the spiral staircase of bright brass rails and red carpeting. As the lady made her way down the stairs with a feline grace, shiny black boots marked with gold-clasped buckles were the first thing he observed. She was wearing triple-stitched combat pants, also black, which were slightly baggy and had a few too many pockets. They were Noxian Military issue, designed for utility and function rather than comfort and style. Upon noticing this it had become immediately apparent to Talon that the woman was Katarina Du Couteau of the Noxian High Command.
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