Beyond Chaos – A DiceRPG

“You see? What did I say? I knew they would come back, for I acquire only the finest of weapons!” The merchant laughed, his silver tooth almost sparkling with greed. As the chattering behind gave way once the curtains were drawn, the children standing at attention outside, making sure no one could eavesdrop. 

“Yeah, well…” Adam cleared his throat, doing his best not to roll his eyes. “Right now, I’m looking for a really nice spear, and a nice sword. The spear should be of decent steel, something that is much better than a typical spear, and the sword? The sword should be nice to train with, and even better to use once someone has learnt it and mastered the way of the blade.”

“There is little money in spears, but…” The merchant motioned a hand towards the guard, a man in his late thirties who wielded a silvered blade with a blue handle, the kind that made Jurot bow his head lightly. The guard bowed his head in return, and slipped into the back. 

Jurot continued to try and place the sword to the man, but was unable to recall him, as the fellow stepped out with a scarf wrapped around a spear, as well as three long boxes. The guard revealed the spear, with its almost black wood, and its spear tipped in sanguine.

“bloodsteel?” Adam asked. 

“bloodsteel,” the merchant confirmed. “I know the Iyr enjoy its bloodsteel, but this is forged from the anguish born in Aswadasad.”

“How poetic,” Adam said.

Jurot leaned in to whisper into his ear. “It is forged literally from anguish.”

“Oh?” Adam replied, raising his brows. ‘Damn.’

“It is a good thing the metal is still hard to form and forge and that there are many steels like hardrasteel, which are favoured, but because it is less favoured, and because it still holds a fortuitous viciousness, it is well suited for a spear, and arrows.”

“Arrows, huh? You got any bloodsteel arrows then?”

“I have a few. Ten bloodsteel arrows for ten gold.”

“Hoo, boy,” Adam replied in surprise. “Ten arrows for ten gold, eh?”

“Ten bloodsteel arrows,” the merchant replied with his brows raised. “One gold for each arrow, and when they strike true, you are happy for such. There are arrows of firesteel, icesteel, which are of similar quality and similar price, and though they are always so useful, sometimes, when you can only shoot one arrow, and you must pray to the Divine, there is no other arrow you may wish for than this bloodsteel arrow.”

“How many?” Jurot asked.

“For you?” The merchant eyed up Adam and the rest. “How many do you wish to procure?”

“As many as we are able.”

“Ten, twenty, more?”

“More.”

“Fifty?”

“More,” Jurot said.

“I could sell you them all, but I I must keep a few, in case someone of high importance appears to procure a few, and I do not wish to offend. If it is acceptable, fifty?”

“Okay.” Jurot bowed his head. 

“The spear, an appetiser of one hundred gold. Fifty arrows, for fifty gold? A dessert. What I have for you, Iyrman, and Iyrman’s brother, will make your stomachs burst!” He snapped his fingers, motioning a hand towards the boxes. 

One was a blade, its quality noted by the three, but only truly appreciated by Jurot and Adam, and the merchant did not speak, allowing them to admire it. A long blade of a pale silver, almost white, its handle a red wood the Iyrman appreciated, with a beautiful silver hilt formed in the shape of a blooming flower, and a pommel of silver, that of a rose. Jurot and Adam noted the white of the blade was not like that of a typical silver blade, nor those of truesilver, moonsilver, or even the other silver blade on offer, that of quicksilver. 

“Divinesteel,” Jurot whispered, causing John to raise his brows slightly. 

“Well, damn,” Adam said, stopping as Jurot grabbed the half elf’s forearm, for he could not speak of this. 

The next longsword held a slightly longer and thinner silver blade, almost a rapier, though still thick enough to be considered a longsword, with a green wooden handle Jurot admired, and a silver hilt in the shape of an S, and a pommel that was smooth an almost perfectly spherical. 

The last blade, however, was slightly different, and had caught Adam’s eye in the same way the blade made of divinesteel had. This blade was golden, with a golden hilt, which was a solid block engraved with intricate details, a plain black handle, and a solid gold block of a pommel, also engraved with intricate details.

‘Oh,’ Adam thought, feeling the tingle within his heart, revealing he was still very much a boy. 

“The one who commissioned such a blade passed and so I was able to procure it,” the merchant whispered, meeting the Iyrman’s questioning eyes. “They will confirm the matter.”

Jurot nodded his head slowly, for if he was able to procure such, legally, from that temple, then he was quite the figure, and it made sense as to how this figure had come to find such fine weapons within this little spot. 

“If you wish to buy them all, one thousand and eight hundred,” the merchant offered. 

“Okay, sure,” Adam said, motioning a hand towards Jurot.

“All three?” Jurot asked.

“I mean, are they worth it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, which should we gift to John?” Adam asked. 

“For now, none. He should gain such a fine blade once you have trained him into an Expert, so he is not so easily killed wearing such a blade while walking through the towns and cities.” Jurot spoke the words so matter of factly, even Adam’s boyish heart quickly dropped.

“Ah… right.”

“We will procure one another weapon of simpler details,” Jurot said, and the merchant smiled, motioning for the guard to step within, finding a fairly basic, but well made longsword. Jurot took a moment to unsheath it, feeling its balance, and after a single swing, he nodded to the merchant, and handed the blade to John, who calmly plucked it from the Iyrman’s hands.

The merchant glanced between the trio and he motioned to the guard. “Bring another bloodsteel spear, and two silver daggers.” 

The three blades lay within their sheaths, within the simple, identically crafted boxes, the two spears within scarves, the simple longsword clutched tightly within John’s hands, the fifty arrows, each tied together within their own scarves, and finally, two silvered daggers of simple designs. 

The merchant raised two fingers towards the Iyrman, who nodded, for the three swords and two spears were worth at least that much, so the silvered daggers, fifty arrows, and the longsword were essentially gifts to them. 

Jurot picked up each item, handing them over to Adam and John, and he bowed his head to the merchant, who hid the blades in scarves for them, and allowed them to step out with such prizes. 

“You may speak,” the merchant said once the group left, not handing over a single gold. 

“I was just wondering why,” Ruben admitted, shrugging his shoulders lightly.

“Do you know who their grandfather is?”

“The Iyrman seemed familiar, but I don’t recall.”

“The Mad Dog.”

“Oh,” Ruben whispered, suddenly finding the merchant’s actions made more sense. “So even you fear the Mad Dog?”

“No. The Mad Dog has many tales, but the rumours of him threatening merchants is overblown. He has troubled us with words, but he never drew his axe, never threatened to kill us. If you were a merchant, you were safe from Mad Dog. You? He would have killed you where you stood.”

“I hear he’s a cripple. I think I could take him.”

“No. You could not.” The merchant’s tone was soft, but in the way that was far more stern than if he had spoken sternly. “The Mad Dog’s fangs have dulled, and with one arm and one leg, he is weaker, but…”

Ruben followed the merchant’s gaze, to where the Iyrman’s eyes once met his before he left. Ruben had recalled Jurot had given him a respectful nod, with some recognition, though his eyes had been stuck upon his sword instead, which made sense.

“How old was that young man?” the merchant mused.

“Twenty three?”

“I think so too. Twenty three, twenty four, twenty five. Not a man of thirty, but a young man in the middle of his third decade. If he, the grandson of the Mad Dog, fought you, Ruben, wielding the blade you wield, who would win?”

“You should visit the temple,” Ruben said, flashing a wide, cheeky smile. “I wouldn’t lose to a boy like him.”

“I would bet upon him.”

“You would lose your gold.”

“There is a reason I am the merchant and you are the guard,” the merchant replied, still staring at the ghostly outline of the Iyrman’s eyes. “He saw you, looked at your sword, tried to recall you, but not once did I see him imagine himself losing to you.”

“He’s still young.”

“There are rumours he clashed with the the King.”

“I could clash with the King.”

“No, you could deflect the King’s blow, but you could not clash with the King,” the merchant stated, still staring at the space. “Last year, his grandfather killed a Vice Commander near Red Oak.”

“I heard the rumours.”

“They are not rumours. His brother, the half fae beside him, the Crazy Father, killed a Vice Commander too.”

“You believe those rumours too?” Ruben asked, though furrowed his brows. ‘He was the Crazy Father?’

“When I look in his eyes, I see it. A man, not yet thirty, who, like the Mad Dog, like the Crazy Father, could kill a Vice Commander.” The merchant turned to look into Ruben’s eyes, and after a moment, noticed Ruben’s frown, for Ruben, the inheritor of the blade he wielded, could not clash with a Vice Commander, but he could not kill a Vice Commander.

This merchant seems good at his job. Ruben? Stick to wielding your sword, buddy.

Shout out to Big I who subscribed so enjoy this additional chapter!