A figure bustled out from behind the counter, radiating an energy that felt slightly out of sync with the weary cynicism surrounding him. Taylor. Blond hair, maybe a touch too perfectly arranged, framed a fair face dominated by startlingly light green eyes. He sported a fresh, angry-looking sunburn across his nose and cheeks, as if he’d spent the day admiring the sky instead of tending shop. He was slender, lacking the calloused hands or hardened look of the other merchants or soldiers. He smiled broadly as Luke approached, a bright, practiced expression.
“Greetings, traveler! Welcome!” Taylor’s voice was bright, enthusiastic, maybe a decibel too loud. “Seeking refuge from the battlefield’s grime? Or perhaps looking to make a statement? A well-dressed warrior strikes fear and admiration, wouldn’t you agree? What sartorial splendors can Taylor provide for you today?”
Luke blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sheer force of the man’s personality. It felt less like a greeting and more like an opening monologue. He gestured vaguely at his own deplorable state – the torn, filthy remnants of his starting clothes barely visible beneath the new cuirass. “Need upgrades,” he said, keeping it simple. “Helmet. Boots. Something that won’t fall apart if I trip.”
Taylor gasped, hand flying to his chest in mock horror, though his eyes sparkled with something Luke couldn’t quite place – amusement? Calculation? “Gods preserve us! Did a pack of ghouls use you for target practice? My dear fellow, those threads are an affront to civilized attire!” He tutted, shaking his head dramatically before whirling into action. “Fear not! Taylor shall see you properly outfitted! A warrior must look the part, after all!”
He moved with surprising speed, pulling items from neatly stacked shelves within the tent. Unlike other stalls overflowing with mismatched junk, Taylor’s inventory seemed curated, organized. He presented a simple but sturdy steel helm, greaves that looked well-made, and thick leather boots with reinforced soles.
“Now this,” Taylor announced, holding up the helmet with a flourish, “is the Provoker’s Helm! Solid steel, yes, but enchanted with a touch of Wit! Keeps the mind sharp, helps one notice… opportunities!” He winked, a gesture that felt slightly conspiratorial. “And these greaves, standard but sturdy! Boots built to last, even if you find yourself wading through less-than-pleasant terrain!”
Luke examined the items. They were definite improvements. Then again, anything was an improvement over what he currently had. The Wit bonus on the helm was particularly intriguing. What “opportunities” might a keen mind notice, especially for someone walking the path of a Death Merchant? He donned the gear, the unfamiliar weight settling over him. The helmet restricted his vision slightly, the greaves felt stiff, the boots solid but heavy. It was the feeling of real armor, clumsy but necessary.
“Magnificent!” Taylor declared, clapping his hands together. “Ready to face whatever horrors Rahu throws at you! Though perhaps,” he added, eyeing Luke’s remaining funds with a subtle shift in his gaze, “we could elevate this ensemble even further? For a discerning warrior such as yourself, standard gear is merely a starting point!”
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Luke felt a prickle of caution. “What do you have in mind?”
“Custom work, my friend! Always custom work!” Taylor leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more earnest, more persuasive. “Imagine armor crafted not just for you, but to you! Tailored to your strengths, compensating for weaknesses, perhaps even resonating with your unique… talents?” The word hung in the air. “Standard gear protects the body, but custom armor protects the destiny! For a modest additional investment,” he glanced meaningfully at the pouch Luke still held, “I could create something unparalleled.”
The offer was tempting. Armor attuned to his path… it sounded powerful. But Taylor’s sudden shift, the way his eyes seemed to gleam as he spoke of “talents,” felt manipulative. “How would you know what I need?” Luke asked, his voice carefully neutral, testing the waters.
“Ah, the crux of the matter!” Taylor beamed, seemingly oblivious to Luke’s suspicion, or perhaps choosing to ignore it. “To tailor perfection, one must understand the wearer! Your chosen Class, your path – it dictates everything! Material resonances, enchantment affinities, structural necessities! Without knowing your foundation, I’m merely guessing. But with that knowledge…” He spread his hands wide, the picture of helpful expertise. “I could craft protection that truly sings with your potential!”
*~ Permit Taylor access to your class information? ~*
Yes / No
The prompt felt heavier this time. Luke hesitated, Taylor’s bright green eyes fixed on him with an intensity that belied the cheerful smile. The tailor’s eagerness felt less like professional pride and more like… hunger. He was fishing for information, Luke was certain of it now. Why was his provisional Class so interesting to this seemingly harmless tailor?
Yet, the strategic advantage of custom armor was undeniable. This world was lethal. He needed every edge. And Taylor had been upfront about the initial price. Maybe the suspicion was just camp paranoia rubbing off on him. Taking a calculated risk, feeling the invisible weight of Fate pressing down, Luke mentally confirmed: Yes.
He watched Taylor’s face closely. The reaction was instantaneous and profound. Taylor blinked, the cheerful mask crumbling completely for a shocking moment. His eyes widened, pupils dilating. A flicker of raw disbelief, rapidly chased by intense, almost feverish curiosity, then something akin to fear, warred across his features before he forcefully wrestled them back into an semblance of professional calm. The smile he plastered back on was strained, brittle, failing to reach his eyes, which darted around as if assessing potential threats or opportunities Luke couldn’t see.
“Death… Merchant?” Taylor practically squeaked the words, clearing his throat hastily. “Provisional! Goodness! How… singular! Truly, utterly unique!” His laughter sounded forced, slightly hysterical. “My apologies, just… haven’t encountered that before! What a fascinating… niche! Yes! A wonderful design challenge!” He wrung his hands, his earlier smooth movements replaced by a jerky energy. “Right! Yes! Custom armor! Absolutely! Something… discreet, perhaps? Powerful but unassuming? Or perhaps something that announces your… arrival? We shall discuss! Later! When you return!”
He hastily deducted 50 gold from Luke’s remaining pouch, his fingers trembling slightly. He thrust the bundled helm, greaves, and boots at Luke. “Excellent doing business with you, Luke! A pleasure! Do return! For… for measurements! And consultations! Safe journeys!”
Luke took the gear, nodding mutely. The interaction left a bitter taste in his mouth. Did he make a mistake? Taylor wasn’t just curious; he was deeply affected, possibly even frightened, by the Class designation. Why? What did he know? What power, or danger, did “Death Merchant” represent in Rahu that would rattle a seemingly ordinary tailor to his core?
He walked away from the bright red tent, the cheerful facade now feeling like a painted skull’s grin. The upgrades were necessary, but the cost might have been far greater than 50 gold. He had revealed something significant, something potentially dangerous, to someone whose motives were suddenly deeply suspect. He needed weapons, yes, but more than ever, he needed to understand the path he was on, and who else might be watching his steps. The shadows in Rahu felt deeper now, and some of them wore deceptively bright smiles.