An explosion greeted Rhangyl upon entering the city of Kolt.
Black smoke spilled out of a shop’s broken window at the end of a cobblestone street, near the bustling city gate. A man then ran out of the building, dropping to his knees with loud coughs. He was covered in soot and part of his shirt sizzled with tiny flames, which he quickly patted out before they burned his flesh.
The other passersby barely acknowledged the event. There were hundreds of humans at this junction alone, all too busy with their own affairs to care about anything else.
Rhangyl swallowed, hesitating to steer his neighing horse deeper into the city. It had been four months since he started his journey. This was the deepest he had delved into the outlands in all his life. He hadn’t even seen paved roads in months. Backing away now would be simply ridiculous.
According to his research, Kolt housed the best gunsmiths in the region due to its wealth of brimstone, a necessary component for blackpowder, which guns used for ignition. Explosions were probably a common occurrence. Rhangyl brushed it off and carried on ahead, searching for an inn near the city square. He was going to spend some time here so he needed to get used to these random blasts.
Kolt rested near the base of an inactive volcano, which cast a large shadow over the city during the afternoon. The place itself was rife with clashing architecture. Many buildings were made out of wooden beams and gray stone, no taller than two stories, while the more elaborate ones used red brick and mortar, sporting mechanical clock towers and tall metal archways to support their weight. Because of this, Rhangyl quickly deduced that Kolt was going through an economic growth spurt, since a lot of the new infrastructure was built around outdated technology.
The construction work was serviceable… for humans. Many of their bricks were misaligned and didn’t fit perfectly into one another, the type of detail a human would overlook but an elf would find abhorrent. It was better than most of the smaller towns he had visited, though. This was a proper city. Thousands of humans lived here. There were many bars, tailors, and miscellaneous services throughout its cobblestone streets, along with advertisements for hot springs along many of the back alleys. They seemed to be one of the key attractions in the city, aside from guns, which everyone seemingly carried in the open. Rhangyl considered visiting a hotspring later. His back felt sore from riding all day but there was much work to be done at the moment.
When entering a new market, Rhangyl found it useful to study both the most renowned and most obscure establishments in the area. Some would think the greatest businesses would be the fastest, or the biggest, or even the most profitable, and those people were wrong. Rhangyl learned throughout his career that the greatest predictor of success in business was the clientele. More specifically, how well their wants and needs were being fulfilled.
Anyone could grow a business when the market was optimal. Longevity, however, wasn’t assured that way. The best merchants usually beat the competition by understanding why exactly their clients bought their products. It required empathy, patience, and kindness. Afterall, a small trader with a handful of quality clients could make way more money than an enterprise with hundreds of mediocre customers.
Rhangyl needed to find who were the best gun retailers around and determine what part of their process made them attract their clients. He wouldn’t be able to emulate everything, but the research would be invaluable for when he founded his own shop.
The reason for studying the obscure sellers was more subtle, though. If someone can run a sustainable business while being a worse businessperson than their competition, it’s usually because they’re doing something very right. They could be overpriced, work inconsistent hours, and lack manners, but if their product filled a niche, people would still pay for it. These types often thrived on overworking themselves or underpaying their employees. Usually both.
In other words, Rhangyl could easily steal talent from them.
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George finished polishing the mythril barrel. It wasn’t his best work but it would have to do. Mister Terk wouldn’t notice. He wanted this piece done by today at all costs. The customer wasn’t familiar with firearms so it’s not like they were able to spot a quality piece. If they wanted that, they should’ve gone to Frederick’s instead. George shook his head, inspecting it with disappointment. Every time he assembled something that wasn’t up to his standards, he felt like he got worse at his trade.
Mister Terk often told him, usually through drunken slurring, that an adequate but finished product was better than an excellent one that went unsold. Taking the time to make the perfect gun wouldn’t put food on the table.
It made sense, sure, but George couldn’t see how he would make something amazing that way. He wanted to be a great craftsman. The best in the world. Unfortunately, it wasn’t his job to experiment or learn. He just needed to do what he was told. Mister Terk had taken him in as an assistant for almost a decade now. The old curmudgeon never went out of his way to teach him anything, choosing to drink until the mortgage was due. Then he stepped in to do everything himself without explaining anything. In fact, he only instructed George with steps that he couldn’t do himself because of laziness or his trembling hands. Everything else he kept close to the chest.
George had to deduce the rest by himself, which left a lot of gaps in his knowledge. He just didn’t feel confident selling his guns by himself. If he got someone killed, no one would ever buy from him again. This would change with time. Hopefully. George sighed. He had saved his money to make his own prototypes but, after repeated failure, his optimism had weakened with time. Sometimes it felt like he would be stuck like this for the rest of his life.
The front door swung open, ringing the bell.
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A client had entered the store. George glanced at him from behind his workstation. It was the old bearded gentleman that ordered the revolver. His posture was incredibly upright for his age, with an elegant fluidity in each of his steps. Mister Terk distracted him with pleasantries over at the register, glaring at George from across the room to finish assembling the piece. It didn’t take too long. The revolver was mostly done. George even had time to oil it a bit before bringing it to the front.
Mister Terk snatched the revolver and handed it gently to the client. “I trust it’ll serve you well.” He smiled. “It’s one of our finest works yet!”
George looked away. He knew better than to comment.
The client nodded, examining it. “It’s lighter than it looks.”
“Yes,” said Mister Terk, “but you could use it as a bludgeoning instrument if you run out of bullets.”
“Wouldn’t my target be far away?”
Mister Terk laughed. “Better than being empty handed!”
The client stared directly into the barrel, closing one eye while fingering the trigger.
George winced. That was hard to watch. It wasn’t his place to educate him on gun safety, though. Doing so had gotten him shouted at in the past.
Mister Terk cleared his throat. “So, about payment…”
“Yes,” the client gave him a small pouch, “fifty gold. It’s all there.”
Mister Terk plucked it out of his hand instantly. He started counting out loud, ignoring the client. Once he was finished, he said:
“Thank you for your patronage, sir.”
“One more thing…”
“Yes?”
“What about ammunition?”
Mister Terk shook his head. “Most people make their own bullets.”
“What if I don’t have the time?”
“Alfred, further down the street, sells them in bulk. They’re made for his guns, though, so I can’t guarantee they’ll be a perfect fit for your revolver. They should work, though.”
“Thanks. I'll give him a visit.”
George chimed in. “I… I have a pouch of them, if you want. Gunpowder too.”
Mister Terk scowled.
“Brilliant!” said the client. “How much?”
George shrugged. “Nothi-”
“One gold piece!” said Mister Terk. “A fair price, considering we don’t normally sell them.”
“Of course!” The client gave him a coin. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Mister Terk grinned. “No worries!” His smile lasted until the client left the store. He then craned his head at George with a deep scowl. “What the hell is your problem?!?”
“W-what?”
“We don’t sell bullets! Especially for free!”
“I mean, it’s cheap. Selling the revolver made more than enough to cover it.”
“That’s not the point! Next thing you know, everyone’s asking for ammo. Never do that again.”
George didn’t argue further. He went back to the furnace room and started sweeping all of the store.
Mister Terk found it beneath him to manufacture bullets. They took no skill and didn’t make enough profit to justify wasting time on them. People came to him because he was the only gunsmith in the city who had access to mythril. His skill wasn’t anything to balk at, either. Mister Terk spent decades training as a blacksmith under dwarves and had made all sorts of weapons throughout his career, gaining some respect in the region. If he took a job seriously, the end product could look like a masterpiece, an elegant mixture of style and function that few in Kolt could dream to match.
George respected his skill, but nothing could convince him that this stingy attitude was in any way beneficial. They didn’t lose anything by giving a few bullets away. A customer might value the convenience enough to come back for another order. And even if they didn’t, sending them to another gunsmith still felt like bad business. George had to stay quiet, though. Mister Terk just wasn’t interested in anyone’s opinion.
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Rhangyl stared at his new collection of weaponry. Rifles and handguns from all over town were spread on the table of his inn room. He’d tested them all on a local shooting range throughout the month, familiarizing himself with both the people of Kolt and their guns.
Some were only built to be aesthetically pleasing. These had fine engravings on the barrel and custom grips of polished wood that were tailored to the owner’s hand, which made them harder to make in a timely fashion. While functional, these types were crafted as luxury items only meant to be displayed by wealthy people. Any sort of heavy use would quickly reveal their limitations.
Other models were more pragmatic in their design, sacrificing a lot of their flair, but their simplicity had a unique allure that made them easy to appreciate. These were meant for hunting… or killing.
Most of them were well calibrated. Rhangyl immediately discarded the ones that weren’t. These gunsmiths, although not the worst, served no use to him. Middle of the road craftsmanship just couldn’t afford to ignore these kinds of details. It meant the sellers were only meeting demand, not leading the market. The characteristics by which Rhangyl valued their guns was a combination of how long they took to make, how effective they were and how nice they looked. He wasn’t particularly fixated on superficialities, but he knew that a worthwhile customer base wouldn’t buy an ugly product.
That left him with a small list of gunsmiths to investigate. A young man by the name of Frederick seemed to be the talk of the town. Every single gunsmith in town, young or old, mentioned him in one way or another whenever Rhangyl asked about high quality work. He worked completely on his own in a small shop, almost hidden from sight, but charged a big premium for his custom-made weapons. Apparently, the quality made them worth it. His guns were built to last and, although they obviously required maintenance, rumors floated around that they were more powerful than any other. Some even whispered that he had been blessed by a god.
Strangely enough, the other piece that caught Rhangyl’s eye was a mithril revolver he bought from a gunsmith called Terk. It wasn’t the best, only slightly above average, but it was custom built in two days. The barrel wasn’t as polished as it should be and the hammer had a rough edge that could’ve been smoothed over more. Details that could be forgiven due to its quick assembly.
Rhangyl wasn’t interested in the old gunsmith, though. His apprentice was what drew his attention. The young man had been one of the few people that went out of his way to be kind. He also demonstrated how well he understood every other gunsmith in town by catering to the customer’s needs. More than that, he probably didn't do it on purpose. His goodwill and business savvy shined through that small detail without even realizing it. Rhangyl knew the young man was exactly what he wanted:
An underappreciated talent.
Recruiting either of the gunsmiths would still be a challenge, though. Rhangyl had to approach them with finesse. His objectives needed to be kept hidden. At least for now. Telling a human that he was an elf who wanted to profit off guns sounded like the easiest way to get killed here.