Darsia

17 years later...

Clang, Clang, Clang. The sound of metal striking metal resounded through the stifling blacksmith shop.
“Alright Jacob, heat it back up,” Taima instructed.
The human lad was scrawny with gangly limbs and a mop of straw hair atop his head, but what her father's apprentice lacked in size he made up for in enthusiasm. Grabbing onto the bellows, the young boy began to pump air into the burning embers until they glowed a fiery red.
Wiping a dirty rag across her face, Taima cleared the grit and dirt from her scaly hide and pulled the glowing blade free of the hot coals. Laying it across the anvil she began her work in earnest once more. Each clang of her hammer served to further shape the steel blade. At six foot eight, Taima hadn't the stature of her father, but she was an imposing figure none the less. Toned and well muscled, Taima had both the strength of a blacksmith and the litheness of her mother all in one.
It was nearly midday by the time Taima was at last finished. Lifting the blade up to get a look at it, she seemed satisfied with her work as she dropped it into a basin of cold water. With a sizzle of steam the hot metal swiftly cooled. For two weeks she had been working on the sword between other odds and ends about the shop.
“Go on, once that's cooled get it fitted with a hilt and take it out back to sharpen it,” Taima told the lad.
“Is this one mine?” Jacob asked.
Taima chuckled and clapped a hand against the boys shoulder. “It is, and you don't want to be running off to the academy with a dull blade do you? But be quick about it, we still need to shoe your father's horse.”

By the time evening had stolen over the place, Taima was thoroughly spent. Working her fathers blacksmith shop while he was out of town and also helping at the farrier's while the man's son was sick with fever left Taima little time for recreational activity. She never complained though, after all it was a good days hard work that made an honest person honest. Besides, she thought to herself, her father would be back in another week and the farrier's son was on the mend; there would be plenty of time for hunting soon enough. Maybe she would head up to cedar reach for a few days. Rumors had been circulating of Strakken sightings up that way, and she was keen to have a look herself for signs of the creatures.
Most of the other businesses had already closed down for the night and only a few remnants of light still lingered in the sky outside, but as Taima went about closing up her father's shop she caught ear of someone at the front door.
“We're closing up for the night,” Taima called out.”We'll be open again at first light if you want to come back tomorrow.”

In times past, a Gunslinger making his way through the country was an image of icon, an event to be celebrated. Gunslingers held up a moral code, kept the law in check, and hunted dangerous criminals down, for mere pieces of information on valuable artifacts. It used to be that the Gunslingers were given free room and board, merely for advertising their presence in a town. It kept the evils away.

Legends often lit the Gunslingers in wonderful lights; held them on pedestals of the purest marble. The men and women with their powerful guns that spouted magic and fire, the impossible reflexes that had them able to shoot any projectile out of mid air, the indomitable spirit and mystery behind the trench coat and hat they wore.

These days, the legend of the Gunslingers was as dusty as the man who walked the trail.

Anzo Tinzdale’s boots kicked up small tufts of dirt as he walked along the road, twin gleaming revolvers sitting at his hips in dark leather holsters. Widely regarded to be the most dangerous slinger alive – and one of the youngest, as it happened – he often had to rely on his own presence, rather than that of the legend, to see him through each township.

It was a method he disliked, immensely.

Glancing down at a scrap of paper, retrieved from a trench coat pocket, Anzo read the address quietly, his mouth moving slowly, carefully, as he sounded out the words upon it. Once the yellowed page had served it’s purpose, he crumpled it and put it in his trouser pocket, letting out a deep sigh.

Smithy. Aecris = family heirloom. Two generations.

Taima

"You sure you got the right adress?" From behind him, another similarily dressed man walked, his hands resting on his own deep red revolvers. A piece of straw was sticking out of his teeth, and it bobbed with his footsteps. Anzo's gloved fingers stilled around the piece of paper, his eyes closing slightly. For a man so used to travelling alone, the company wasn't exactly welcomed, but tolerated. Dusk was a younger Gunslinger, brought in in the wake of the Civil war, and largely untested. But he had a good heart, and for that reason alone, Anzo walked with him.

"Reckon we'll find out right quick if I don't," Anzo's reply came. Dusk's piece of straw moved from one side to the other, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck to pool at his throat. He absently scratched at his elbow, squinting into the sun.

"I don't like the draconian, much. Their eyes are creepy. Could we wrap this up, quickly?"

"It'll take as long as it needs to. Show respect, bow as you're taught, and you'll do fine."

"Yeah, but a head for time wouldn't go amiss-"

"As long as it takes." Anzo gave a patient gaze to his pupil, a look as stern as the older man was likely to give. The look said stop talking, now. Wisely, Dusk heeded the silent advice.

Side by side, the Slingers moved towards their destination. Their path led them true; into the waiting doorway of the smithy his contact had identified. Bidding the younger man to wait outside while he conducted the necessary gestures, Anzo stepped into the dim light. Before he could say a word to announce his presence, however, a voice greeted him.

As the woman spoke, the gunslinger hesitated, a gloved hand resting gently on the brim of his wide hat, his brown and grey hair curling wildly away from his face. The two dark blue revolvers gleamed in the low light, the gunmetal barely visible through the thick leather of the twin holsters.

"Beg Pardon, ma'am." He said, in his hoarse, too-loud voice. "Came across this 'stablishment's name in my travels. Heard you could tell me about what I'm lookin' for. Won't take five minutes."

Hesitating, the human looked around the shop, taking in its occupants. "If this ain' a great time, I can always come back."

Taima gave the man an appraising glance before nodding. “Well come on, get inside then. How can I help you?”

"Thank you, ma'am." The man said, bowing. "Folks call me Anzo. Anzo Tinzdale. I'm a Gunslinger, ma'am, lookin' for a sword of some value."

He paused, then, giving a deep inhale through his nostrils once he was over the threshold. "Always loved the smell of metalwork. Business good?"

“I can't complain. I'm Taima, but if it's a sword you're looking for, it's Rhogar, my father, that you want to see," the draconian woman explained. "He won't be back in for a week, but he is indisputably the best weapon smith that you will find this side of Terra.”

Taima nodded towards a weapons rack on the opposite wall. “Those are some of his works." The rack held a wide assortments of weapons ranging from small daggers and swords to bulkier assortments of polearms and axes. Each one had been carefully laid out on display for potential customers.

Letting out a low, impressed whistle, the man walked towards the rack, examining each work with the eye of one experienced with such weapons. Carefuly, his gaze traveled up and down the rack, taking in the reflections of the weapons as the light danced off of them.

"Fine craft. I believe that claim." He said, smiling at the draconian. "But, unfortunately, this ain' the kind o' sword ya craft. It's the kind o' sword ya find."

He withdrew a small scrap of paper from his pocket, laying it carefully out on a nearby table. "Legends tell 'bout this sword, with a conscience, that binds to its weilder. Last person to weild this sword was a draconian named Balasar, something of a legend himself."

He pointed a finger at the paper, detailing the design of the sword and some background information about the female who once was the weilder. "I hear tell that his descendants live in this village, and came searchin' for 'em."

He gave her a slight smile. "You wouldn't know where to find them, ma'am?"

Taima reached out and slid the paper over to get a look at it. The drawing of the sword it contained was exquisitely done with each intricate detail painstakingly etched into it. There was no mistaking what sword it was that Anzo was looking for.

“If it's his ancestors that you're looking for, you're speaking to one, but you won't find any answers here. The sword has been lost for generations.” Taima slid the paper back towards Anzo.

Anzo collected the scrap, putting it back into the pocket from which it initially emerged. Giving her a slight smile, he hooked his thumbs in his belt, rocking backwards on his boot heels.

"Ah, y'see ma'am, I ain' lookin' fer th' sword's location. Got the trail on that, or somethin' mighty close to it. What I'm looking for is permission or accompanyment to retrieve it. In cases like these, my organization and I like to get the permission of the true owners of artifacts before retrieving them. But since the artifact in question is a bit higher value than my standard findings, reckoned I'd make sure first."

He swept the hat off of his shoulders, revealing chestnut brown hair that fell to nearly his shoulders in a mangy, tangled mess. "By your leave or accompanyment, I'd seek the sword, ma'am."

Even Taima's draconic visage couldn't mask her surprise. “But how? There hasn't been more than rumors into its whereabouts for generations.”

The gunslinger smiled slightly at the tone of voice, bringing the hat down to rest near his waist, gripping it with both gloved hands. "Ma'am, the gunslingers thrive on rumour. S'our business ta know where any artifacts o' that type are. In this case, we got lucky."

He tapped the pocket that the scrap was in. "Someone tol' us, a while back, tha' they knew where ta find th' trail fer th' sword, but the contact got shuffled aroun' some when th' war came about. I managed ta track him down, bu' he's proving a might bit difficult to talk to."

His smile widened more. "Figured you might be interested in tryin', though. Folks say that he knew your great-great grandfather. If nothin' else, journey might be worth it for a bit of a reunion."

“He knew Balasar?" The thought that someone was still alive that knew her great-great grandfather was amazing all in its own right. Anzo had her curiosity piqued but youthful idealism and adventurous dreams quickly gave way to reality and responsibility. She sighed heavily. “I would come, but my father won't be back for another week and someone has to watch the shop until then.”

Anzo nodded, placing the hat back atop his mangled head holding a hand up. "Say no more. I ain't expectin' you to uproot your life to come along."

Gloved fingers adjusted the hat further, until it settled in a manner that hid the messy hair from view. "Me and my partner have to go; it's a trek back to where we need go. I'll be stayin' in town tonight, down in the old barn, if things change."

He tapped the brim of the hat, bowing slightly. "Thanks for showin' me the shop, ma'am. Mighty fine weapons y'all are craftin' here." With that, the gunslinger turned on his heel, walking out of the smithy.

It was the following morning and the sun had only begun to creep over the horizon to fill the morning skies with its red glow. Taima as usual had risen at the crack of dawn and made her way to the smithy to begin the days preparations, but today she found herself distracted from the morning's chores, her mind wandering to the man she had met the night before. The gunslinger had come out of nowhere, weaving words of fantastical legends and tales from an age past. She had spoken practically when she declined to accompany him, but the draconian fervor burned hot within her breast and she couldn't help but entertain the thoughts of adventure and renown. The thought of recovering the ancient relic of the draconian people, to fight in wars and battles like her ancestors, to bring honor to her family, it was the passion of every young draconian. With dreams of grandeur to fill her head, Taima meandered through the morning hours cleaning up the front shop before the days customers began to arrive.
Meanwhile a figure approached the small structure on silent feet, the early morning providing the cover of an empty area in which to work. Quietly, he pointed a hand to the front of the door, tugging off one of his gloves as he did so. Letting himself breathe outwards, relaxing his spirit, the figure manipulated the metal in his opposite hand, forming six long bars that fastened themselves along the door, keeping it from opening outward.
His work done, the figure moved around to the side of the shop, reaching back into the sack that held the metal, he placed three bottles at the side of the house, leaning against the wood. He took four cautious steps backwards, examining his handiwork. Then, he grinned.
With a whirl, he drew a single long-nosed revolver, a small rubber cap enclosed around the tip. When he pulled the trigger, the revolver made nothing more than a short whiffing sound, the bullet smashing into the three bottles, one at a time. The bullet scraping against the scrap of flint inside each ignited the liquid inside, and the flames hungrily latched onto the wooden shop, quickly beginning to eat away at it. Strolling around to the back, the figure drew his second pistol, and waited for his prey.
As the first wafts of smoke began to fill the room, Taima set her broom down. She hadn't noticed it at first, but the temperature of the room was on the rise. Her instincts had her on edge as she made for the front door. Giving it a push, the wooden frame didn't budge. Frowning she threw her shoulder into it to try and unjam it, but still it didn't budge. She could hear the crackling of flames now, and though she couldn't see them, the room was growing stiflingly hot.
Suddenly, a loud boom came from the forgery area, flying over her head and to her left. Another shot sunk into the wood, closer to her skull. A third shot rang out, slamming into the emergency lantern that was kept near the door, sending flaming drops of oil over the draconian's head. She threw her arm up to shielding her face from the burning oil, but she was swiftly driven back from the door by the rain of fire. Taking shelter behind the edge of counter she patted out the flames upon her clothes. The smell of oil was thick upon her and her hide had been scorched. Meanwhile the spilled oil was rapidly beginning to burn, sending trails of fire licking across the floor as it followed the rivets of flammable liquid.
Grabbing a cleaning rag from atop the counter, Taima swung it for the flames upon the floor to try and put them out before they could spread further, but another shot rang out missing her hand by a hairsbreadth. Swiftly jerking back behind her rudimentary cover, Taima abandoned her attempts to stem the flames. The earlier fire was spreading rapidly now having reached the thatched roof outside, and smoke was beginning to choke out the room as the burning oil lit up the dried wood paneling of the floor boards. Covering her snout with her arm, Taima stifled a cough.
"Come on out, now." A voice growled in the distance.
The draconian was trapped. If she stayed she would be burned alive, but if she made for the back, her assailant lay in wait. Her eyes burned and watered from the sting of smoke and another cough wracked her form. Overhead she could see the red glow of embers through the burning thatch.
"Ain't no use hidin'. You either die in there, or die out here, friend. May as well be here; quicker, and I'll make it painless." Another shot was fired into the smoke. "Don't be shy!"
As the smoke grew thicker, visibility grew poorer and Taima was wracked with wheezing coughs. Squinting through the haze of smoke, she made out the shadowy shape of the weapons rack across the shop. There wasn't any cover save for the smoke, but it would have to be enough. Abandoning the counter, Taima quickly made for the weapons rack, grabbing up a hefty axe. She could barely make out the red embers through the smoke, but she had known this shop since she could crawl. With a grunt, Taima sent the axe hurtling end over end where it struck the support beam near the back entrance. With an audible crack, the blade bit deep. At first, nothing further seemed to happen before a loud creek filled the air and the support beam gave under a rain of fiery embers and burning thatch to block the doorway.
With her assailant's line of sight marred, Taima turned her attention to the front door. In a reckless and brazen disregard for the flames, Taima hurtled herself forward, slamming the full brunt of her draconian form into the door shoulder first. In a splinter of wood, she landed outside, her clothes smoldering. Villagers were already beginning to take note of the fire as shouts rang up through town, and several townspeople rushed forward to help her to her feet.
“I'm fine,” she growled gruffly between the rasping coughs.
A gloved hand raised to tug down a wide brimmed cap. Two hands twirled a pair of guns, slipping them into leather holsters. A small smile was visible on the figure's face as the man turned, slinking into the shadows of early morning, making his way away from the scene of the crime.

---

Anzo came walking up the path, his gait hurried, eyes wide, to see the charred-out remains of Taima's shop, being fought and tempered down by the villagers. Among them he spotted Taima, fighting the fire with the others. Quickly, he closed on the Draconian, his holsters popped of their safeties, hands at strategic positions along his belt.
"Taima!" He called. "What in the River happened here?"
“Here, take over for me,” Taima told a townsman as a bucket was passed into her hands. Hurling the water at the dying flames, she quickly passed it back. The townspeople had mobilized quickly and for all the urgency and chaos of the situation, there was an organized efficiency to things. The flames had died down to a dim glow of embers, though the damage to the structure was extensive and the building was little more than a charred husk.
“Someone attacked me and burned the shop down,” Taima growled lowly as she approached Anzo. That the incident had happened the morning after Anzo had arrived in town was grounds for suspicion. “You wouldn't know anything about that?” she asked.
Anzo raised his eyebrows. "I wouldn't, no. Reckon I could help, though. How did the attack happen?"
“He used magecraft, I didn't see much,” Taima admitted.
Nodding, the gunslinger's eyes roved the charred skeleton of the shop, resting on two broken bottles that were tossed off to the side, blackened by smoke.
He pointed a gloved finger. "What're those?"
Taima turned her own gaze to the indicated bottles and made her way over. Squatting down next to them, she picked up a piece of broken glass, running her finger along the inner surface. There was a thick oily sheen on it that she rubbed between her fingers. Giving it a sniff she frowned. “It smells like oil, but there's something else that I can't place.”
The gunslinger followed her, crouching on the other side of the broken glass. Shifting one of the bottles to reveal a small insignia in the shape of a shattered heart, Anzo tapped his chin.
"Apothecary oil, used as a firestarter on the road. Popular with guerilla warfare." He raised his eyes to Taima, a worried expression in his gaze. "Way I figure, someone overheard our conversation yesterday, figured you were better off charred meat than with the sword."
He wiped his glove off on his pants and surveyed the crowd, silently. "Made any enemies of late, ma'am?"
“Of course not, this is a peaceful village. There have been a few rumors that the Strakken are encroaching into cedar reach, but that's about it.” Taima scowled as she stood up, wiping the oil off her fingers.
Anzo shook his head slowly. "This weren't Strakken, that's for sure."
He turned towards her, his expression grave. "To be blunt, ma'am, I believe you're in danger if you stay here. Whoever burned the shop down came a long way to do it, and I reckon they ain't done yet. I think it's now in both our best interests for you to come with me."
“And leave just like that? Someone could have been hurt, or killed. And what of my father? If there's danger here and I leave, he could be walking right into it. Whoever it was needs to be found,” Taima replied.
Anzo nodded. "I agree with ya, a hundred percent. But think abou' it. They didn't burn down any of the surrounding businesses, which to me meant that this was a specific attack. The faster you leave, the faster everyone here is safe. Though, if I'm truthful, I don' know 'bout your father's safety. All I reckon is that this is personal."
The gunslinger rubbed at his lower lip in thought. "I'll send a message to your father, let him know what happened here, so at th' least he'll be prepared for a possible encounter."
“But how? Even I don't know where to find him,” Taima replied with a touch of apprehension.
The young draconian was torn. The part of her that was driven by duty and responsibility urged her to remain here in Darsia, but the fervent fire that drove the draconian people to greatness urged her to leave. It whispered softly to her that her father would understand, that the path offered to her was greater and more important than anything she would be leaving behind.
Anzo smiled, before putting two gloved fingers to his lips and emitting nothing but a short blast of breath. Suddenly, a shape swooped down towards them, getting larger and larger as it closed the distance. A small bird, its beak hooked and sinister and its eyes black, shot towards the two, before pulling up at the last moment, landing smoothly on Anzo's outstretched forearm.
"This," he said, with affection, "is Moriarty. He's a messenger hawk; the Gunslinger's best friend. All he needs is a trinket o' yer father's, and the intent to find him by you, and he'll deliver the message straight and true. He hasn't failed yet; have you boy?"
The hawk spread its wings and screeched its assent at Taima, before beginning a complex looking preening ritual.
It all seemed so simple to Taima, Anzo had an answer for everything. Youthful inexperience, or just reckless disregard left her overlooking the seeming convenience of everything at hand. Even the coincidental timing of Anzo's arrival the night before a mysterious man attacked her was pushed to the back of her mind. With a glance towards the smoldering wreckage of her father's smithy, Taima made her decision.