Before the inferno stood the smith. Her, because to his utter surprise and not at all what he was imagining it was indeed a her, back was to him initially, muscles defined beneath a practical leather apron, her lithe figure moved with a fluid grace as she worked the bellows. Sweat plastered strands of escaped auburn hair to her temples. When she turned, retrieving a glowing piece of metal with practiced ease using long tongs, her vivid green eyes met his. They held no surprise, only a direct, assessing intelligence, maybe a flicker of challenge, and a startling lack of the weariness that seemed etched onto every other face in this camp. Soot smudged her cheekbones, highlighting the sharp lines of her face, making her look fierce and focused.
Luke felt that familiar awkwardness creep in, heat rising in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the forge. “Uh… looking for weapons,” he managed realizing he had been staring at her, his voice sounding rougher than intended over the forge’s roar. “Something… better.” He gestured towards his newly acquired armor, then down at the inadequate steel daggers still at his sides.
Calista set the glowing metal onto the anvil, the clang momentarily silencing the rhythmic hammering. She studied him, her gaze sweeping from his Provoker’s Helm down to his sturdy new boots, lingering for a moment on the Wanderer’s Cuirass. “That cuirass,” she remarked, her voice clear and carrying, “has seen some miles. Good leather holds its stories.” She then flicked her gaze to his daggers. “And those? Barely qualify as cutlery. You planning on buttering toast or surviving a fight?”
Luke flushed slightly but held her gaze. “Surviving, hopefully. These daggers,” he tapped their hilts, “I like the weight but this last battle I felt like I had to be right next to the enemy to do anything. Granted, it was my first battle so what do I know.”
Calista nodded slowly, tapping the tongs against the anvil, sparks showering briefly. “ hmm.” she hummed. “ Those are too short for you.” she said tapping them with her tongs as she walked around Luke, appraising him. “The eternal compromise. Reach versus speed. Power versus precision.” She leaned against her workbench, folding her arms, the movement emphasizing the lean muscle beneath the leather apron. “Most soldiers grab the biggest cleaver they can find, thinkin’ brute force wins the day. Sometimes it does. More often, it just gets ‘em killed faster by someone quicker, smarter.” Her green eyes seemed to pierce right through him. “You look like you might grasp that concept. Got that look about ya – cornered, maybe, but thinkin’.”
She turned back to the heavy, iron-bound chest Luke had seen earlier, rummaging within. “Short swords can be clumsy if you’re used to a dagger’s balance. Messes with your wrist work. But longer blades… aye, there’s options.” She pulled out a matched pair of long daggers, unwrapping them from the oilcloth. The dark metal seemed to pulse faintly in the forge light, absorbing rather than reflecting the flames. The eighteen-inch blades were wickedly sharp, lethally elegant. “Shadowsteel Anelace,” she said, holding them out slightly. “Forged ‘em myself from a single shadowsteel billet found near… well, near a place I wouldn’t go myself lets say. Order of the Shadow is not to friendly.”
Luke’s breath caught. Shadowsteel.. The look of the metal was mesmerizing. : “Order of the Shadow?” What is that?
Visibly Luke could see her stiffen a little before regaining her natural poise.
“The Order is.. Lets just say its best not to get tangled up with them.” She said dodging the question.
*~ Item Scanned: Calista’s Anelace (Pair) ~*
Theses twin daggers were forged from the same set of material and receive a bonus when wielded together.
-Base Damage: 10
-Dual wield bonus: Base damage + 5
While classifying as daggers these long anelace are capable of striking vulnerable locations on enemies for increased critical damage typically associated with daggers and other close range weapons.
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“They’re… perfect,” Luke said, his voice barely a whisper. He reached out instinctively.
“Ah ah ah! Hold yer horses,” Calista said, her tone shifting, becoming all business. She didn’t pull them back, but her stance firmed. “Shadowsteel ain’t cheap, and my time ain’t free. These’ll cost you.”
Luke’s hope plummeted. He knew, absolutely knew, his remaining 50 gold wouldn’t cover blades like these. “How much?” he asked, dreading the answer.
Calista named a price: 300 gold. Plus a rare reagent she needed for another project, something called “Echoing Dust,”
Luke’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t have anywhere near that,” he admitted, the defeat heavy in his voice. “I only have fifty gold left.” He held out the small pouch, the meager coins clinking softly.
Calista looked at the pouch, then back at Luke, her expression unreadable for a long moment. The silence stretched, filled only by the crackle of the forge. Luke expected dismissal, maybe pity, maybe scorn.
Instead, she surprised him. “Fifty gold,” she mused, tapping a finger against her chin. “And a trip to a place most folks avoid like poisoned ale. to fetch me Echoing Dust..” She looked him up and down again, that sharp, assessing gaze lingering. “Alright, Luke Renoka. I’ll make you a pact. Not a loan. A pact.”
“A pact?”
“Aye. Business is business, but sometimes… sometimes you invest in potential. Or desperation.” A wry smile touched her lips. “Here’s the deal. You give me the fifty gold now. Consider it… collateral. A binder.” She held out her hand for the pouch, her grip firm when he placed it there. “These blades,” she indicated the Anelace, “are bound to me, and now, to you.”
She gestured for his hand. Hesitantly, Luke offered it. Calista produced a small, intricately carved piece of obsidian from a pouch at her belt. Murmuring words Luke didn’t understand, words that felt ancient and carried a strange resonance in the forge’s heat, she lightly touched the obsidian to the back of his hand, directly over where the Mark of Fate shard seemed to reside beneath his skin.
He felt a sharp, cold jolt, not painful, but startlingly intimate, like a connection being forged on a level beyond the physical. The air hummed faintly.
“Done,” Calista announced, tucking the obsidian away. “The pact is sealed. These Anelace are yours to wield. However,” her voice hardened, losing its earlier warmth, becoming purely transactional, “if you meet your permanent end out there, ya know” she gestured one finger across her neck “the blades return to me. Magically. Don’t ask how; just know they will. If you survive, and return from whereever you are in such a hurry to get off to , you owe me the remaining two-fifty gold, plus interest for the risk and the binding. Or,” her eyes gleamed with shrewd calculation, “you owe me a service. Something specific. Could be fetch this or do that but We’ll negotiate that debt when, and if, you walk back into this forge. Understand?”
Luke swallowed hard. This wasn’t generosity; it was a high-stakes gamble, secured by magic he didn’t comprehend. She was betting on him, yes, but ensuring she didn’t lose if he failed. It felt… fitting for Rahu. Pragmatic. Dangerous. Exciting. “I understand,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “Deal.”
“Good.” Calista handed him the Anelace. The cool weight of the shadowsteel felt potent, earned, bound to him by more than just leather straps. He equipped them, his old daggers disappearing into his inventory with a faint mental chime. He tried sheathing the longer blades at his hip; it was awkward, clumsy.
Calista chuckled, the sound genuine this time. “Need the right rig.” She produced the leather harness system. “Made this for the scout too.” As she helped him adjust the straps, fitting the harness over his cuirass, her fingers brushed against his shoulder. He felt an unexpected jolt, different from the pact’s cold touch, startlingly warm. He glanced at her face, noticing for the first time the spray of faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, almost invisible beneath the soot. Her green eyes met his briefly, holding a spark of amusement, maybe something else, before she focused back on tightening a buckle. Luke quickly looked away, feeling his cheeks heat again.
“There,” she said, stepping back. “Criss-cross carry. Quick draw, stays out of your way.”
He practiced drawing one blade. Smooth. Fast. He glanced at his reflection in a piece of polished scrap metal. The new armor, the dark harness, the shadowsteel blades gleaming over his shoulders… he looked the part. Or at least, a more convincing version of it.
“Less like fresh meat, more like… slightly seasoned meat,” Calista commented dryly. “Maybe you’ll last.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Luke replied, managing a wry smile.
He thanked her again, the word carrying more weight now, acknowledging the pact they’d made. As he turned to leave the forge’s oppressive heat, stepping back into the relative cool of the night market, Calista called after him.
“Luke!” He paused at the tent flap. “The Echoing Dust. If you find any out wherever you are… bring it back. Might knock a bit off your interest.”
He nodded, then stepped out, leaving the red tent and the fierce smith behind. He felt better equipped, armed with blades that resonated with his strange potential, bound by a pact that added yet another layer of consequence to his journey. The market sounds seemed muted now, the flickering lights less inviting. He was armed, armored, and utterly alone, facing a deadline and a trial that promised either power or permanent oblivion. He adjusted the harness, the weight of the Anelace a tangible reminder of the bargain struck. Northeast. Towards the Cliffs. Towards destiny, or damnation. The timer ticked. 45:56:15. He started walking.