…..:::::|. Havvenchael Seventh Sector Gate .|:::::…..

Halycind approached, for what seemed a full half-day—coming upon droves of travellers and loud children—a great silver-speckled grey city with very high walls and jagged wood logs on top of its bulwarks. Upon crossing the bridge into the many city gates and being blindly pelted with fresh petals, Halycind turned up a very pained eye to see rope and wire rigs strewn across the tops of the bulwarks like a web of hemp and metal. Upon the bulwarks walked men and women in gleaming blue and grey armours. More armoured men stood at the gates next to the portcullises as children dressed in colourful shade of blue attire fit for the best performers turned cartwheels and flashed sparks in joyful glee to the groups of crowding travellers. She turned her eye scanning them all. Something in this liveliness tried to comfort her but the newcomers and children and colourful pennants were all just too loud.

A certain rage washed over her instead.

Even while death still clawed at her, she managed to stagger in through the gates of Havvenchael. Woe to her misfortune for she now knew the cause for all the ships docking in Cloudsfall, before. Havvenchael, the crown capital of the Queendom of Cat'a, was enjoying the full throes of May Rising.

The city's annual independence celebration hurt and she drudged forth dragging the skin and meat of her kill on make shift covered carts through shoppers and fair-goers at the gates. No one seemed to mind her in the crowds save the greeters shoving her herbal teas and sweet-roots and rose-coloured cakes. With her one good eye and the other pinched shut from swelling, she shook a blood-filled head to them.

There was a beautiful woman standing near a stall handing out drawn maps of the town. The honey-orange of her long legs extended in a relaxed stance under poofy red shorts. Two long red and flaxen tails, as those of steeds, fell backward over her shoulders from ribbons in her hair. She looked to be fully Buraam in all her fine foxen features. The look in her eye, as Halycind approached, told her she'd seen battle before. Halycind knew it, now, this woman was a dedin scout.

“I need an armourer.”

“Just across the courts there.” The girl pointed with slim honey fingers. There was a large gallery partially obscured by a great stone mast where many of the hemp and metal wires were tethered. In front of the gallery stood a crowd of people gawking at an array of mannequins donning colourful armours; more colourful than any armour should be. “Rumors say he's also a master Stainpull.” The woman said knowingly.

“I knew the master Stainpull, and he's dead. Whoever this guy is just needs to be good enough to sew some skin together.”

The woman shied her look away from the amber-eyed girl. “He's the striped one to the left of the crowd, nearest the tight-ropers.”

“Ever your heart.” Halycind said with a coarse bite on her well-wish. She truly didn't mean to crush the girl's vibrancy but everything was just so loud.

Too loud. She forced herself toward the courts where the woman pointed. The thumping of the drummers warbled through her and she abhorred the vibration. If her ears hadn't been clogging with blood she'd have heard what must have been the most beautifully crafted musics that ever crossed her hearing but her ears were becoming full and she could swear one wasn't working at all, anymore. Up near the black spot in the top of her vision, where she was also sure she was losing sight in her good eye, she viewed a massive crowd with mummers and tight-ropers and mages bursting sparkles at the crowding onlookers.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

She dragged the skins up to the left of the crowd with some of them dispersing from both the smell and sight of this carrion carrying a carrion. Some thought her apart of the show and danced drunkenly about her. She stuck a sword-tip out to trip whomever thwarted her walk toward the very clearly denoted amoursmith's gallery. His backdrop of tall spired towers and awnings all dressed in flying pennants for the May Rising celebration, drew in crowds to his door to gawk at the wonders he had created.

A fair-haired man stood barking at prospective customers and waving them toward his heavily decorated establishment. He was terribly flamboyant in his striped dress, though given the celebration in town she understood the garish nature of his attire.

“I hear you can smith a suit of armours.”

Interrupted from his spiel and barkery, the flouncing armourer stopped to take notice of the gory girl at his lofted rail and riser. Under one nostril a trail of blood started to trickle down over her lip. She licked it.

“A-Are you certain you don't need a medic--”

“A suit...of armour.” She glared. One of his assistants peered over the flamboyant man's shoulders as he was sewing up the sleeve of a new piece. He furrowed his brow to the woman for she truly looked as death walking in from collecting bodies.

“Why certainly but--”

“Can you do it from this?” She pulled back some of the large leaves she’d thrown over the heaping pile of raw white hide on her handcart. The assistant glared at it then back at her. One man in the crowd yelped for repulsion and removed himself closer to the mummers.

“Please you're scaring my most illustrious...” The flamboyant man sneered.

“I heard you were the best. A master. I need Agency Armours.”

He and all his assistants gave her full attention and he nodded slowly. “Is that a--”

“Ghostgale. Its meat still sits on a cart at the gates with the guard.” Halycind huffed a hot breath and one woman in the crowd fainted.

“No one's ever--”

“I'm aware of that. Can you make Agency Armour?”

“Certainly. It will take some time upwards near a fortnight to tan alone...five risings to draft a design, a full three days to place and pattern and drape--”

“Just do what you have to. I've a feeling I'll be staying put for a while.”

“It will...also...”

“I'm a Weroance from—”

“From Ashok.” The assistant sewing up the sleeve finished.

“How?”

“Your eyes, they're wolvkin.” He stuttered staring at her starkly amber eyes.

“Right, I forgot they do that.” She said almost to herself. “Then know that the procurement costs will be covered by--”

The assistant whispered advisories to the flamboyant smith and he furrowed.

“Is it possible when you...clean up,” He said with some open doubt, “that in return for this armour, you procure a most unique pigment for one of the commissions I need to fill?”

“I'm not a Stainpull.”

“You carry Stainpull tools.” He pointed to the cases on her hip and the leather rolls on her satchel.

“I was raised by—” she held her spinning head.

“Are you sure you don't need a medic first before we—“

“Listen, you just make the armour, I'll get your stain.”

“Certainly.”

In that, she gladly dropped the makeshift cart and after collecting herself from the shift in weight, shambled off toward the inns and taverns. A thought, a sort of anger kicked up her middle and she turned back to the master Stainpull and armourer.

“...And put an edge on it.”

She'd only gone about fifty paces before seeing a sign for Havvenchael's infirmary down a side street—wondered about a drink at the tavern—then wisely pushed on the door of the clinique.