Harlod glanced up from his work, his hammer held mere inches from his anvil. His bushy black eyebrows raised on his soot-covered face, staring at the approaching customer. Her black clothing and peculiar hat jogged his memory as to who she was. He nodded to her before focusing his efforts back to the task at hand. The ring of his hammer on metal sent sparks flying as he spoke aloud, "Welcome back. I see Nick isn't with you this time. That mean you're here to buy something?"
"Yes and no," the woman, Cynthia he believed, said with a bit of a cough, "I was hoping to ask you to appraise something for me. I am willing to pay if I have to. I...hold a moment please."
Harlod took the tongs at his side in hand, grabbed the hot nail on his anvil, gave it a short observation, then placed it in the barrel on his right. Steam rose with a hiss as the hot metal met water. He glanced sidelong at the tall customer, following her as she crouched to the ground. He felt his eyebrows shift higher as two children came into his sight. A boy and a girl, they wore ragged clothes riddled with holes, but their skin was surprisingly clean.
His gaze turned to Cynthia as she spoke to them, "Horace, Gloria, I need to speak with this man alone for a bit. Can the two of you stay outside while I do? Don't go too far and watch out for each other. Ok?"
The children nodded their heads before walking outside. Cynthia didn't take her eyes off them the entire time, looking over her shoulder as she walked up to Harlod. It was only when they disappeared around the corner did she turn to the blacksmith.
Harlod chuckled, "Well now. Don't think I remember seein' you with any young uns' last time."
"That is because I took them in yesterday," she shrugs, "They have not been with me for long."
"Ah," the blacksmith nodded in understanding, taking the metal out of the barrel. He placed the tongs to the side while sliding the cool metal turned nail into a gloved hand. He straightened his posture, rubbed the sweat from his forehead with the back of his gloves, and moved to the back of his forge, "That makes sense. Truth be told, was a bit worried Nick was hiding something from me."
He laughed, tis black hair underneath a white cloth wrapped around his head shaking with his body. Cynthia smiled at the man's happiness, though she wasn't entirely sure what he meant. He walked to the forge, and carefully moved the tongs inside. He spoke as he rotated the nail over the warm fires, "So, what do you need from ol' Harlod? Looking to get the young lad a training sword? Good idea, but I'd suggest starting him with something made of wood instead of steel."
"I appreciate the offer, but no," Cynthia shakes her head while reaching for her right hip, "I was actually hoping you could take a look at something for me."
Harlod took his tongs out of the forge and turned to watch Cynthia. His head tilted to the side as she brought up a rapier he didn't remember seeing when she stepped into his forge. He briefly questioned where she kept it while walking forward to look at the thin blade. He gently placed the heated metal back on his anvil, and leaned over the offered weapon, grunting as his eyes roamed the sword. The material it was made of shined brightly even in the dim light of his forge. It had a rounded, dome-shaped guard with a winding handle curving around a straight pommel. Everything about it was immaculate and unquestionably made for one of high stature.
However, one thing bothered Harlod.
The universal signs of a weapon being used in battle were the various marks that accumulated along its blade. Chipped off pieces of metal from a blocked strike here, a rusted edge from spilling blood there, a nick from scraping a wall there. No matter the weapon, it would always have some damage to tell you its story.
Yet, there were no nicks on this one
"Have you seen anything like this before?" Cynthia watched the blacksmith as he placed a hand on his chin in contemplation.
"Can't say I have," he admits, standing straight and moving his eyes to his customer, "Where did you get this?"
"A...ruffian broke into my home. I drove them off, but they left their weapon behind," Cynthia added the second part after she saw Harlod's eyes narrow. She didn't wish to elaborate. It could draw unwanted attention.
"Hmm," Harlod took his hand off his chin and held it out, "May I get a closer look?"
Cynthia blinked then shook her head, "I'm afraid not. Sorry, I...think it might be enchanted. And I wouldn't want something to happen to you." She was telling the truth, just not giving a full explanation. She's unsure how Harlod would react to learning she defeated a Dhampir and stole its weapon while suffering no adverse effects. Better to keep him in the dark.
Harlod stared her down, trying to spot anything that could betray her true reasons. He shrugged when he found none, "Understandable. Besides, it's not like I can say you're wrong. I'm no mage. Can tell you one thing though. There's not a single scratch on the blade. Either this thing has never seen a real fight or whoever made it knew what they were doing."
Cynthia nodded in understanding, thinking back to her weapons and the periodic maintenance she performed in the Dream. Even the silverite edges of the Rakuyo and Burial Blade required regular investments of Blood Echoes to keep ready for use. If this weapon had truly seen battle yet carried no obvious damage, while being able to bypass armor, then it is indeed made of impressive material.
Then again, it is a Mamono weapon. The silver the rapier is made from is likely meant to increase a foe's lustful urges so they can be transformed.
But perhaps there is a way to work around that.
"Thank you, Harlod," Cynthia clipped the weapon to her hip again, "How much should I pay for this?"
Harlod waved a hand dismissively, "Consider this one on the house. Besides, you just had me look at the thing. I'm not that snake Montgomery."
Cynthia raised an eyebrow at the mention of the Merchant and made a mental note to find some time to speak with him at length. She gave the blacksmith a short bow, "Thank you for your generosity. Do you know of anyone else I can go to for assistance in this matter?"
He stepped back to his forge. He put his hands on the bellows, muscular arms grabbing the handles with a tight grip. His white apron crinkled alongside his long black trousers as he pumped air into his forge, stoking the fire to a roaring inferno. He spoke at length to Cynthia, "If you're looking to keep it, find a girl named Tanis. Hers is the second building down the street on your right. She'll tell ya if the blade's cursed or something. If you're looking to just sell it, Maeve is right across the street from her. She'll buy it off you cursed or not, and give you a fair price for it."
Cynthia thanked the blacksmith again. She was preparing to leave when she heard two tiny sets of footsteps headed her way. She turned and knelt as Horace and Gloria ran past the shop's threshold and into her arms. She hugged them tightly against her, looking up as four people stepped into the forge.
The green eagle painted on their breastplates marked them as the City Guard. Cynthia had seen two of them guarding the gate when she first arrived at Pran. These guards looked identical, with the same iron breastplates, flat pauldrons, and matching gauntlets.
Three of the guards tightened their grips on the spears they wielded as the Huntress stood up from her crouch, whispering to the children to remain calm while she handled this. Harlod stepped away from his forge, shouting incredulously, "What in the name of the Gods is going on ?! What is the Guard doing here?!"
The guard in the center stepped forward until he was ten feet away from the Huntress. One foot stomped the ground as he brought a scroll up to his face. His eyes quickly scanned the parchment, stopping to take a glance at the Huntress a few times, before he nodded and shoved the scroll into his pocket. He spoke with as much authority as he could muster, which was diminished when his voice cracked multiple times, "Citizen. We ask that you come with us to the Guardhouse. The Captain would like to ask you some questions on the recent murders that have occurred in the city."
Harlod's eyes went wide as they darted between Cynthia and the guards at his door, clearly shocked at the turn of events. In contrast, the Huntress showed no outward distress whatsoever. Her voice was as unnaturally slow and composed as she asked, "And why, exactly, do you believe I had anything to do with those events?"
"Witnesses say someone of your size, stature, and attire was seen at each incident," the guard said, hiding the surprise he felt at the Huntress' demeanor, "As such, you are currently the prime suspect."
The Huntress was silent as she contemplated her next move. She didn't have time for this. She had managed to bathe the children, but she still needed to purchase food for dinner and take them to a tailor for proper attire. Not to mention that she couldn't simply leave them home alone when there was no telling how long they would keep her. Who would look after them? She would have to defeat the guards here and move on. It should be a simple matter. Their headgear was little more than leather wrappings. A good punch to the temple would be enough to-
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This isn't Yharnam.
She froze at her own words echoing in her mind. She remained that way for but a moment. Then she turned around looked Harlod in the eyes.
With a pleading smile hidden by her bandana, she said to the blacksmith, "How much would it take for you to watch over my children?"
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When the Huntress reached the Guardhouse she had expected to be locked in chains, shoved into a dark cell in the back, and forced to wait for the Captain to call for her.
Which is why she was surprised when she was brought to a large, open room with a single table set up. This only increased after she was seated at the table, and the two guards who escorted her walked out of the room.
She examined the area around her, looking for anything that might give her a clue to what was happening. A cast iron door on the opposite side of the room stood closed with a single door handle its only feature. To her left was a single training dummy, the flour sack that formed its body covered in small cuts. To her right was a single window with a white potted flower set on its sill, swaying in the gentle breeze. Next to it was a shelf with books lining the top while the bottom was taken up by...a large black and orange cat.
Confusion and curiosity came over the Huntress as she stared at the creature curled up with its eyes closed. Its body rose and fell gently with every breath while its tail laid hanging off the edge. The Huntress stared at the feline for about five minutes, questions of how it still slept despite the noise when she came into the room circling through her mind.
The Huntress whipped her head away from the feline as a door opened on the opposite end of the room. An old man with a green cloak stepped around a corner to the left of the cast iron door, hands held at his side. His face was covered in dust, small brown flecks of it held within a blond beard that connected to the same color shock of hair. Bags sagged under his brown eyes above a nose that tilted to the right. She saw no obvious weapons on his person but didn't let her guard down.
He snorted at the sight of her and pulled out a chair across from the Huntress at the table. His black jerkin ruffled as he sat down. A whistle left his lips followed by a blur of orange fur zipping past the Huntress onto the table. The cat from the shelf sat at the man's right side, sharp green eyes glaring at her with what she swore was malice.
The Huntress turned her attention to the man in front of her, "Am I right to assume you are the Guard Captain?"
"Aye," his reply was curt, with a gravelly voice.
"I see. Might I ask your name?"
"Felix," he rested his head on his left hand while using his right to pet his cat.
The Huntress resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It seems he was going to make this difficult, "Might I ask the reason I have been brought here?"
"You can cut the formality. Though I certainly appreciate it," his chortle made the Huntress frown behind her bandana. He took his head off his hand, his tired eyes staring at her above flat lips, "I'll cut to the chase. You're here because you've been terrorizing the city and killed at least six people in the slums."
The Huntress looked the man up and down weighing her response to his accusations, before shrugging with indifference, "If you are sure of this, then why wasn't I led through that door behind you?"
"Oh, we'll go down there if you don't tell me what I want to know," Felix jerked his head towards the door behind him, "But if you do, I might decide to be lenient. And the first things I need from you are confessions."
"Rather transparent."
"Either you tell me what I want to know, or I throw you into a cell for a few days and then ya tell me," he stopped petting his cat to shrug, "A few days down there tend to loosen lips. So, what's it gonna be?"
Felix's cat meowed then hopped into his lap, disappearing beneath the rim of the table. The Huntress glared at the man from beneath her hat. Though his thinly veiled threat was weak considering what she could accomplish, it would ultimately cost her time. Time which she could be spending taking care of Horace and Gloria.
She nodded to Felix, "Very well. What do you wish to know?"
"Nothing. Your actions aren't exactly low profile," Felix's fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the table, "As I said, all I need out you is a confirmation that you did all this."
The Huntress tilts her head in confusion, "And what evidence do you have that it was me?"
"Nothing concrete, but...," Felix lifts his hand and starts counting off on his fingers, "A few days back, my men report the new arrivals in the city. The same day we get word from the citizens that someone was threatening a young woman in the Market, but we find no one. Two days later, my men are patrolling the slums and discover a dead-end alley with dismembered bodies all over the ground and a woman missing her hands. And just before that, we received a report of someone walking through the Market covered head to toe in blood with two children on their shoulders."
He closed his hand into a fist, a smug smile on his face, "Eyewitness accounts in all incidents described a tall, black-clothed person, with a strange hat and mask. And you not only match the accounts, but you were among the new arrivals my men report. It isn't exactly hard to figure things out from there. Do you deny any of this?"
"No," she caught the man's eyes widening as she confessed, "However, I would like to clarify a few things. Firstly, I have threatened no one. My interaction with the young lady was likely a misunderstanding. Second, I dispatched those people in self-defense. They were members of a gang calling themselves 'The Vipers' and had cornered me. They threatened my life and I acted accordingly."
Felix was silent for a few seconds. Then he chuckled while shaking his head, "Well that saves me time. Not surprised it was the Vipers. They seemed to have gotten bolder ever since Lescaite fell." His cat meowed to get his attention, so he lifted her back onto the table and started to scratch her back.
The Huntress spoke as the feline began to purr with delight, "Does this mean I am going to see that dark cell you mentioned?"
"Normally yes," Felix leaned back in his chair, "but I have another idea if you're interested."
The Huntress' raised an eyebrow beneath her hat, "If I say I am?"
"Pran's understaffed," he said plainly, "Since the monsters took Lescaite, I've been forced to up the number of guards watching for monsters near the town's borders. If they spot anything, I send a report to the Order."
"Do they tend to reply?" she asked honestly.
"They do. Most of the time it's just a nice way of saying 'Fuck off and deal with it yourself'," he shook his head while cursing under his breath. Then he looked at the Huntress with a glint in his eyes, "However, sometimes they send something useful. This usually comes after I tell them something interesting. Like, say, how an entire pack of werewolves was found dead near Pran. A pack of werewolves that I had previously sent them a report about, only to be told they were busy with 'important matters'."
"And, what did they say back?" she asked, though she make some accurate guesses.
"Just that they're sending two Heroes alongside a couple of Inquisitors to investigate what happened. No doubt they'll tear Pran inside out looking for a hint of who took out the werewolves. And I don't think the townsfolk would appreciate being interrogated."
"Do the people here dislike the Order?" the Huntress' curiosity was flaring up.
"They tolerate the Order," he answered with a shrug, "No one wants to deal with them, but they're leagues better than the monsters. Not to mention how most of the Heroes are affiliated with them one way or the other. Can't exactly fight off a monster offensive without at least one of them."
"So, if I understand this correctly," the Huntress began while placing an arm on the table, "You wish for me to step forward as the one who killed the werewolves to placate the Order. In return, you won't put me in the dungeon, thus pardoning any crimes I may have committed?"
"Glad to see we're on the same page. Though, I am gonna have to ask you to be a bit subtler with the things you do. Last thing I need is for people to start thinking we guards are incompetent," Felix nodded while taking his hands away from his cat. The feline meowed and hopped up the Captain's arm to perch on his shoulder. He asked the Huntress, "So, what do you say?"
The Huntress was silent for a few minutes as she mulled over the offer. If she said no, he'd likely place her in the dungeons for a few days. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn't be much of a problem. She could simply enter the Dream to keep herself occupied, or fight her way out if needed. However, she'd lose her chance to speak to people apart of the Order and leave Horace and Gloria alone for multiple days. Meanwhile, agreeing would let her avoid jail time and give her a chance to learn about the Order.
Taking that into account, the Huntress nodded to Felix, "I agree to your deal. When will the Heroes get here?"
"In two days. They'll enter through the south gate. Likely be here by morning. Make sure you're up," Felix stood up from his seat and held his hand out for a shake. The Huntress took it and shook heartily.
"Before I go," the Huntress said as she stood up from her chair, "Can I ask one thing of you, Captain?"
"Sure, what is it?" Felix shrugged.
She tried to keep the nervousness out of her voice as she said, "May I...may I pet your cat?"
----------------------------------------
"Horace?" Gloria stared at her brother, knees hugged to her chest.
"Yeah, Gloria?" Horace replied, his eyes focused on the blacksmith as he hammered away at a burning weapon. His sister sat next to him on the stairs leading up into the man 's home.
"Where did the guards take Ms. Cynthia?"
"I don't know."
They were silent for two minutes.
"When are they going to let her go?"
"I don't know."
Silence.
"Is she going to come back for us?"
He forced his reply down. His hand moved to hold his sisters in a tight reassuring grip. He smiled at her, "Of course she will. She promised, remember? She doesn't break promises. She told me so."
He couldn't tell if Gloria could see through his false confidence. She merely turned her attention back to her knees, mumbling uncertainties under her breath. He felt his chest tighten at the sight and turned his attention to the blacksmith. His eyes followed the sparks leaping from the metal every time the hammer came down. The blacksmith's wife, a large woman gravid with child, called the two of them up for food. Gloria's stomach growled making her look away from her brother in embarrassment. He laughed and told her to head upstairs ahead of him.
She didn't argue, standing up and letting his hand go before walking her way up the stairs. He waited until her footsteps were a good distance away. Then he stood up with a determined look on his face. The advice Nick had given him rang in his ears as he approached the blacksmith's anvil.
The tall man put his hammer down when he noticed the child. He knelt to be level with the boy's eyes before asking, "What's wrong lad? Didn't you hear Gilda? You should go upstairs, lest she tan both our hides for letting our food get cold."
"Sword."
Harlod frowned and moved his ear closer to the boy, "What was that? If you've got something to say you're gonna have to speak up boy."
"I want a sword," Harlod's eyes widened in surprise as he turned them to observe the lad standing before him. Horace's hands were curled into fists, but his body didn't shake in the slightest, "I want a sword. Can you make me one?"