Chapter 137: 135 – Ironclad Truth

Seeking more substantial objects of interest, Zefaris came upon a pair of items on a particularly new-looking shelf. One was sort of gun-shaped, but was not a gun - it was a chunk of antler, starting at the bulb that had connected it to its owner’s head, curving slightly, then going straight before the antler gradually changed to a spiraling front half of amber-coloured gemstone.

 

SCORCHLANDER BEAMWAND

Consumes Ignis to produce a focused beam. 

War souvenir from the Second Colonial Uprising.

240g

 

The other was… Something. She wasn’t sure what.

It was a mess of various things in a simple metal box, including a proper leatherbound journal - despite this, the label attached stated “details booklet work in progress - ask at the counter”. Even the price tag just said “NEGOTIABLE”. 

On the exterior of the box was an inlay, though it had been mostly scratched out. Using the Homunculus Eye Zefaris could make out what it said, however.

IRON RIDER 

ACALA

When she tried to make a sense of the box’s contents, her confusion only grew. An immensely overbuilt belt with Fog-infused scaly hide as the body, through which she was certain ran metal wiring or even small-gauge braided cables. At first it seemed that it had a simplistic buckle made of cold-iron and a chunky, mechanical part that would sit at the back, but from the shape of the mechanical portion it was clear that the wearer was intended to operate it somehow, so… Was that supposed to be in front? She couldn’t tell.

The boxy thing had all sorts of slots and chunky buttons and what looked like perhaps a lever or a switch, and even what might have been a connection point for a standard-type essentia transfer cable. Besides the belt itself there were six miniature brass tablets, each inscribed with a subtly different Fog Storage glyph. There were also several vials of ink, for some reason.

Unable to stifle her curiosity - and knowing full well that Makhus would probably love such a bizarre thing to rack his brains over - Zef took both the wand and the box to the counter, finding the pawnbroker to be waving his metal-inlaid, bone-carved prosthetic hands over Zel’s cleaver. Myriad hair-thin tendrils of glimmering spirit-stuff reached down from his palm, tracing every conceivable point of the Lightning Butcher’s surface. 

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Then, he withdrew his hands and stopped, letting out a long, Fog-filled sigh.

---

“Regarding your Ritualism and Fuel Additive hypotheses, I think it is both to some degree. I suspect that whatever enchantment permits the cleaver to process and amplify lightning was created in the moment of it being used to split a lightning bolt, and the enchantment is thus tuned to that specific form of Fulgur, which you happen to be capable of producing due to your own partial absorption of the aforementioned lightning bolt. Its nascent soul is likely also just more willing to work with lightning, which is… To be expected, considering how temperamental living weapons tend to be.”

“How’d you figure it out so quickly?” asked Zel.

“Call it personal experience,” smiled the man, placing his hand upon the handle of a sword at his side. His eyes shifted over the Zef, drawing attention to the small pile of items that she had neatly stacked up inside that belt’s box.

“Go on, put it down on the counter. Let’s see what caught your eye,” nodded the Pawnbroker just after Zel took her blade back and sheathed it. The slayer flicked the merchant a coin, who caught it and stowed it away under the counter without ever breaking eye contact with Zef. 

“Beamwand…” he murmured as he picked up the wand from the top of the pile, spinning it in his hand and looking at the tag. A raised eyebrow. “Two-forty? That must be an old price tag. I’ll give you this one and two others just like it for that price. I’ve had a box full of the damn things sitting in cargo since we picked up a group of escaped colonials on the way here.”

Zef remained grimly silent, only nodding that she would take the offer, and so Zel did much the same. She didn’t recall details, only that colonials referred to those people with pitch-black skin and glowing veins.

The Pawnbroker slowly stood up, walking back through the curtain. His robe only went down to just below the knees, tattered and soiled by sand in contrast with his feet and calves. Carved bone, richly inlaid with symbology rendered in silver, gold, and gemstones - just like his hands.

After some shuffling and clattering, he returned with two more wands similar to the first, excepting the small details that one was mostly straight, while the other curved at a nearly ninety-degree angle. Without another word he laid them on the counter next to the first and moved on with the rest of the goods. Sorting through the other small articles went without incident… And then he got to the actual contents of the metal box.

“Ah, one of these. An Iron Rider belt. I believe these came out of the Iron Brotherhood, they use ‘em to don and doff their heavy armor or even pull out and put away weapons as necessary, though I hear the quirks of the system make it scarcely worth using for those without the technical know-how… And the willingness to get a number of tracking glyphs tattooed all over.”

“Iron Brotherhood, was it?” Zef raised an eyebrow. The Pawnbroker nodded, eagerly continuing to talk… A little too eagerly.

“So it is, yes. They’re part mercenary company, part religious sect. As the name suggests, they specialize in heavy armor - tremendous caravan guards, personally recommend them if you ever need that sort of thing. They’ve grown especially widespread now that their Iron Riders can fill in for the usual limitations of their doctrine… I believe they were also among the mercenary companies that sent a few detachments during the war. I can cut you a deal if you just take it now.”

“Why? You seem awfully eager to get rid of it.”

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