Denlo can’t help himself sometimes. As someone living in the kin-ghetto of Tiarta-Urgrin, he doesn’t really have the luxury of relaxation, of slowing down. But he can’t help himself. Not when he sees something real nice. And sticking out of the ground near the ruined fort is something nice indeed. A sword hilt. His old friend Akvry would pay something for a hilt, but a lot if there’s a blade attached. He hoped. She actually judged and made sure things were what she wanted before paying him, but she paid better than a lot of the friends who give money to friends and are given goods in exchange. Importantly, it isn’t trading. Kin aren’t allowed to trade. Old laws rigidifying the social strata. It’s giving a gift in return for a gift.
Denlo checks his surroundings. If no one else noticed the little black leather-wrapped grip sticking ever-so-slightly out of the ground, he didn’t want a beeline towards it to show anyone. Seeing that none of the bigger guys on the crew, nor any of the citizens overseeing the crew, were looking at him, Denlo walks over to the hilt. He keeps his head down and his gait even. Drawing notice would likely mean losing the score. If any of the citizen overseers saw the hilt, they could claim it as salvage and pay ‘even copper’ for it. A steal for some things. Statuary, elaborate cutlery, the like. Things friends in the ghettos don’t generally desire day-to-day. But weapons are much more valuable. Around his town, friends often want nice weapons, and so gifting weapons quite often get you nice gifts in return from certain sorts of friends.
The hilt’s rough. Clearly it’s been here a while. Perhaps since the former fort fell. There’s a broken log nearby, a good target for hauling. Good cover for carrying whatever the hilt is, too. He tugs the log out of the embankment, and over to the hilt. Setting it down to ‘catch his breath’, Denlo draws the sword from the dirt. First, it is more hilt. Then, after a bit, a blade begins to emerge. As he pulls and pulls, he quickly realizes a problem. His log is not nearly long enough to hide this thing. This sword is massive. Possibly a longsword. Or even some kind of thin greatsword. Denlo can see the money awaiting him, if he can just figure out a way to remove the blade from the ground. Sliding it back into its hole, he knows exactly what he has to do. He’s going to come back out here later, at night, and just take the dang thing. It’s not like anyone will miss it, after all.
The rest of the day, Denlo works in the breakdown. Hauling the shattered lumber from across the rocky beach to the milling pile. It isn’t glamorous or easy work, but kin from the ghettos have few options around here. Either scav work like this, building work, or less legitimate enterprises. With the day coming to a close, Denlo and the rest of the laborers gather around the tent, where they’re served a healthy gruel. Denlo isn’t surprised that it tastes good today. Today is Si’ika, the last day of the moon. One does not insult the feasts of the moon, not if they wish to last until the next one. That is why so many kin who don’t normally work the scav were on the beach today. For a lot of these men, this is the best meal they’ll have for a long while. And it is complementary with the work. A solid deal for some.
Si’ika is also a favored day for those engaging in less legitimate work. With the moon absent from the sky means it’s generally abnormally dark at night. That means that, generally hired guard types are stationed around areas of heightened risk. And what sort of sane person wants to steal from a shattered scav site. That’s what Denlo hopes in any case. As the sun falls down to the horizon, Denlo walks back towards the slums. His fellow laborers travel north, towards the Port. There cheap beer and other forms of entertainment are prevalent throughout the night. Si’ika is a day of joyfully celebrating the possible end of time. Not originally. In the old days, the Elfish hallowed feast was a somber one of respect. But when the dwarfs arrived, they brought with them a sense of joy in the face of the end, of celebration of the past rather than somber navel-gazing the elfs so love sometimes. But Denlo can’t afford the time it will take to walk to the port and back. Instead, he heads towards the cliffs to the west, back to his home.
The small shack isn’t the nicest place around, and certainly isn’t the most permanent, but it keeps the rain off his head and it provides at least some protection from the world around. With nods and smiles greeting his smaller and more slender neighbors, Denlo slips through the cloth door into his cramped home. Pulling a box out from under his cot, he starts getting ready for tonight. Dark leathers, just in case of emergencies. A black blanket, to hide the blade. A masked helmet, to hide his identity. Everything just so.
And he waits. Too soon, and the light will still be shining. But there is no such thing as late, so long as he doesn’t wait until sunrise. So he takes some time to relax in his house, waiting for time to head out. Lying down in leathers isn’t particularly comfortable, but he sits on his cot and leans back, imagining how much he will be able to do if the sword is particularly valuable. He smiles as he imagines what could be.
Eventually, Denlo decides he’s waited long enough. It’s time to head out. Heading to his doorway, he peeks out. He can wait a little longer if people are watching. It isn’t like any of his Kin neighbors would willingly talk, but he’s heard rumors about the Authority. Rumors he doesn’t want to test. With no one on the street, he quietly slips out to head back to the scavsite. Sticking to darkness cascading from the starless night, he moves his large body like a shadow, silently shifting down the side of the road, yet remaining always just beyond perception. A ghost of a sort.
Arriving by the open beach, he looks around. There isn’t much in terms of cover, so sneaking in and out will be harder. But, with no one around, he’s confident he’ll make it. Keeping low in case of wandering eyes, he hurries across the rocks to the hilt, barely sticking out from the ground. Laying the blanket on the ground beside the hilt, he starts to pull. It is surprisingly light to draw from the ground, given how long it turns out to be. Fully removed, Denlo lays the blade on the blanket. The blade alone stretches across the blanket. Nearly as tall as he is. That’s not ideal. Less likely for Akvry to want it outright. She’ll probably want him to hold onto it while she finds an interested party. Still, that generally means more profit for everyone involved. He wraps it up in the blanket and, holding the blade near the top, starts to head back to town. Almost immediately, he’s stopped. An arrow imbeds itself in his leathered shoulder.
Denlo looks at where it flew from. A pair of hired thugs. Interestingly enough, they don’t look to be professional guards. “Hand it over,” the dwarf says gruffly. He has a rough face, worn by years of work and struggle.
“Or don’t,” the human beside him adds, much more pleasantly. Or, it would be pleasant, if she wasn’t the one who just shot Denlo unprovoked. In the context, it feels less pleasant and more violent and threatening.
Denlo does what feels right to him in the moment. With this beautiful blade in his hand. “You want it?” he asks, smiling behind his mask. “Here.” And with a smooth motion, he hurls the blade at the human. The moment it leaves his hand, he sprints across the rocks, following the blade. Using his other hand, he breaks the shaft off of the arrow in his shoulder-piece, discarding the broken wood. That will just get in the way of what happens next.
The woman is shocked, but only for a moment. The shock is replaced with pain as the blade impales her through the chest. Alive, though likely not for long.
The dwarf readies his axe towards the coming mass of muscle. Denlo reaches the pair. As he’s reaching for the sword, the dwarf strikes. The axe cuts through the leather, and deep into the man’s side.
In response, he in one smooth sweeping motion, pulls the sword out through the human’s clavicle and towards the dwarf’s legs.
The dwarf hops out of the way, back from the wild strike. Maneuvering back and dropping into an attack position, he looks towards the hulking figure before him.
Denlo, holding the massive blade up at the ready, cocks his head. “That all you got?” he asks the dwarf before him.
“Rarg!” The dwarf’s warcry echoes as he charges back at Denlo. Not ideal for sneaking.
Denlo swings the surprisingly light blade down on the charging dwarf. It cuts through his armor and flesh like butter. He’s surprised at exactly how effective the sword is. He’s had some practice with swords in Akvry’s shop, but that was easy. Then, quickly, he remembers the cry. The Authority will undoubtedly be by soon. He runs back, grabs the blanket, wraps it loosely around the bloodied blade, and hurries back to town. He figures he’ll need to wait a little bit before selling the sword. It’s nice. Ideally until the heat has died down. He hopes the thugs will turn out to be foreigners, or at least noncitizens like himself. Then it will be forgotten within weeks. Otherwise he’ll have to wait much longer. If the dwarf ends up being a somebody, he might even have to head out of town. That wouldn’t be that great. So, as he sneaks back into town, back towards his home, he prays that they’re nobodies.
He reaches his home and gets inside without being noticed. It’s only as he begins to remove his armor he realizes the biggest problem. He bled during the fight. If any got on the ground, that might spell trouble. Because, according to the rumors, the Authority could determine ancestry from blood. Not enough to find out who he is, but that isn’t the problem. The problem is if they do that to his blood, they’ll see he’s Y’ika, not Kin. They’ll see that his father was an orkish raider, not a human one. They won’t think this was criminals killing each other. They’ll think this was a new raid. And they’ll investigate it all the harder. After what the orkish raiders did last time they came to Tiarta-Urgrin, the Authority will likely lockdown everyone. Instate marshal law. And that would mean no new income for anyone in the kin-ghettos. That would mean a large portion of them would starve. Because Denlo got careless. He finishes getting undressed, working the arrowhead out from his armor, and dressing the wound in his side. Nothing he can do now. Someone’s already arrived there, undoubtedly. He puts the equipment away under his cot. Taking the wrapped sword, he slides it in between a pair of logs in his shack’s wall. Out of sight. All he can do is hope. Hope there isn’t any of his blood at the scene. Hope that if there is, they won’t notice it as being different from the rest of the blood. Hope that if they do, they won’t care enough to test it. Hope. Lying down on his cot, he spends the night staring restlessly at his roof, waiting for the other shoe to drop and hoping that it doesn’t.
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