Arriving at Duskhaven after another perilous expedition, Argon's weary eyes were alight with determination. With the currency of hard-won cores clutched in his sachel, he navigated through the city's heart to the exclusive Seric merchant area.
The merchant district, nestled within the heart of Duskhaven, served as the vibrant nexus connecting the sprawling city and its many facets. It is a bustling centre of trade, a place teeming with life and activity, with stalls offering everything from fresh produce to intricately forged weapons. However, its true significance lies beyond its role as a marketplace. The merchant district is the solitary gateway to the Centre, Duskhaven's most secured and coveted enclave.
The Centre, encased by a towering wall of weathered stone, is the city's beating heart. It is home to the city's elite, housing its key political figures, the Seric soldiers, and Seric nobles. It is a world away from the squalor of the slums, characterized by grandiose architecture, opulent furnishings, and meticulously landscaped gardens. It is a symbol of power and prestige, its towering spires reaching out to the sky, a stark contrast to the lowly shanties and winding alleys of the outer city.
Access to the Centre is strictly controlled. The gate is heavily guarded by Seric soldiers, their black armour gleaming under the sun, their stern expressions hidden behind visored helmets. Entry and exit are monitored and recorded, with each visitor subjected to rigorous checks and searches. It's not just the physical gate that poses a barrier; the social divide is just as evident, with only the city's elite and their trusted associates granted entry.
Despite this segregation, the merchant district was a crucial intersection between the two worlds.
Indeed, the merchant district was far more accessible than the Centre, though not without its own set of unwritten rules. With the constant hum of commerce, even the poorest of Duskhaven's citizens had the chance to participate in the bustling economy, so long as they had something of value to trade.
While the wealthy didn't personally dirty their hands haggling with the lower classes, they had their trusted merchants to do the job. These merchants served as the middlemen, buying goods from the peasants and selling them for inflated prices to their wealthy clientele. The district was a spider web of commerce where everyone was entangled in the threads of trade, from the grubby beggars to the affluent aristocrats.
The cacophony of haggling voices, the metallic clinks of coins, and the amalgamation of fresh produce scent with the unavoidable stench of crowded bodies painted a picture of vibrant chaos. In this part of the city, survival didn't hinge on might or magic but on the power of commerce. It was a realm where everything had its value, and every denizen, no matter how high or low, played their part in the relentless machine of trade.
The aristocracy relies on the merchant district for trade and commerce, and the district, in turn, thrives on the patronage of the Centre's affluent inhabitants. It's a delicate balance, a symbiotic relationship born of necessity and mutual benefit, which, despite the stark disparity in wealth and status, keeps the city functioning as a cohesive whole.
Argon arrived at the gates of the Seric merchant area. Duskhaven's affluence was on full display here, far removed from the poverty-stricken slums that comprised most of the city. This was the heart of Duskhaven's economic prowess, guarded with an iron fist.
The guards, decked in resplendent armours, glanced at Argon with disdain. His clothes, tattered and bloodied from his recent fight, reeked of poverty. "Clear off, you ragged wretch," one of them sneered, his contempt plain.
Argon protested, his voice steady despite the dismissive treatment. "I've got business here," he argued, his gaze meeting the guards with determination.
Scepticism danced in their eyes. In a city as ruthlessly capitalistic as Duskhaven, a pauper had no place in the prosperous Seric merchant area. In response, Argon reached into his satchel, revealing a glimpse of the treasure he carried. The glimmer of numerous cores, their mystic energies pulsing softly, was enough to elicit a gasp from the guards. Their derision was swiftly replaced by surprise and grudging respect.
"Go on, then," one of the guards muttered, stepping aside to let him pass. As Argon walked past the guards, he couldn't help but reflect on the stark contrast within Duskhaven. The city was a playground for the wealthy, a fortress for merchants, while the slums were left to fend for themselves.
The Seric merchant area was a labyrinth of opulence and opportunity, its every corner gleaming with the promise of wealth and the hint of danger. Charles was at the centre of it all, a merchant renowned for his affluence and discerning eye for artefacts and cores. Argon, usually inscrutable, couldn't help the spark of anticipation that flickered in his gaze as he approached Charles' impressive store when he saw it.
Charles, seated comfortably behind his exquisitely carved teakwood table, radiated an air of authority. He was a man in his late fifties, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair meticulously combed back and sharp hawk-like eyes that missed nothing. His clothes, though elegant and understated, whispered of immense wealth. His hands, though adorned with rings of power, bore the marks of years of careful handling of artefacts. He exuded an air of authority. His hawk-like eyes, as sharp as the precious gems adorning his rings, gleamed with a lifetime of cunning trades and shrewd judgments.
Argon, on the other hand, was a study in contrast. Youth clung to his features, yet his eyes betrayed the wisdom of someone much older. His tall frame was sheathed in rags, scars and dirt, speaking of many a harrowing adventure. Although young, Argon carried an aura of quiet resilience that commanded respect even in the opulent heart of Seric.
"You're a young one", Charles commented, his gaze flitting over the bundle of cores in Argon's possession. His voice was seasoned with patronizing amusement.
Argon shrugged, his gaze steady. "Age doesn't determine the courage to venture out of the ruins," he replied, his voice imbued with an unspoken challenge.
Charles chuckled, his laughter echoing through the luxurious expanse of the Seric market. "No, but it does question one's wisdom in amassing so many cores. They're dangerous, you know?" His eyes bore into Argon's, probing for fear or hesitation.
Argon met his gaze squarely, his young face set with determination. "Dangerous but valuable," he countered, mirroring the merchant's shrewdness.
Charles studied him for a moment longer before his face broke into a grin, all hints of patronization replaced with newfound respect. "You've got the heart of a seasoned scavenger, lad. Let's get down to business." He gestured towards the cores, adding, "They are, after all, the lifeblood of artifacts. The heart of all that power."
With that revelation, a new understanding dawned upon Argon - the stakes were higher than he'd thought. And Charles, seeing a potential ally and future business in the young man, offered a fair trade.
His newly lined pockets now afforded him entry into more prestigious circles. His first stop: the Adventurer's Guild. It was a hub of explorers, mercenaries, and treasure hunters, where opportunities were ripe.
Before venturing deeper into the cutthroat world of artefact seekers, he took a detour to the humble forge of Greg the blacksmith was tucked away in the corner of the city, smoke billowing from its chimney. His reputation was well earned, his skills unmatched. Argon needed sturdy gear for the adventures ahead, and he knew Greg was the best man for the job. With newfound wealth, Argon's pursuit of power had truly begun.
The blacksmith's forge was nestled within the lower districts of Duskhaven, tucked between stone buildings and the city wall. Greg was a mountain of a man. His broad shoulders and brawny arms were a testament to decades of labouring over hot iron and steel. His bushy, peppered beard contrasted starkly with the shine of his bald head, and his eyes were like smouldering coals under bushy brows.
As Argon walked in, Greg barely looked up from his work, the rhythmic pounding of his hammer on hot metal echoing through the forge. "Who the fuck are you?" Greg grumbled, squinting at Argon through the smoke and flickering light. "Argon" he replied "Got any coin, peasant?"
Undeterred by the blacksmith's gruff demeanour, Argon revealed a small handful of gold coins. The sight of gold got a surprised grunt out of Greg. "Well, I'll be damned. Even soldiers make only a gold a month." His demeanour softened, if only slightly.
"Armour six gold", Argon stated. With a hefty sigh, Greg rose, wiped his sweaty brow, and began rummaging through various piles of discarded armour pieces. Argon couldn't afford to commission a custom set, not when the price was at least twenty gold coins. He had to make do with whatever Greg was willing to part with.
Emerging from the organized chaos, Greg held up slightly dented but solid metal armour pieces. "It ain't much to look at, but it's better than any rags you've been sporting," he grumbled.
As Argon's gaze travelled over the mishmash of armour pieces that Greg laid out, he felt a flutter of anticipation. Though not a bespoke suit of armour, each piece bore the mark of Greg's craftsmanship and was sturdy enough to take a good hit.
The first piece was a breastplate, slightly dented and scratched from previous use but solid nonetheless. Its excellent surface was etched with the swirling patterns of an unknown dialect, a remnant of its past owner. The breastplate was crafted from solid steel, polished to a sheen, reflecting the blazing light of the forge. Tassets hung from the breastplate for protection of the upper thighs
Next were the pauldrons, designed to protect the shoulders and upper arms. Each was adorned with rudimentary spikes to discourage enemies from getting too close. They bore signs of repair but were firmly held together with new rivets and clasps.
Matching the pauldrons were the bracers, steel bands crafted to encase the forearms. They were bulkier than most but still allowed for good mobility. Etched on their surface were old battle scenes, a tribute to their previous owner's valour.
The final piece was a set of greaves to protect the lower legs. The metal was dented in a few places, narrating tales of past battles and narrow escapes. They were fastened with new, sturdy leather straps, ensuring a secure fit.
Despite their mismatched origins and patchwork repairs, the pieces collectively created a functional set of armour that offered substantially more protection than Argon's previous gear. For the price of six gold coins, Argon was purchasing a second skin, a much-needed shield in the brutal world of Nekros. After counting his remaining silvers, Argon realized he was back to where he had started, but this time, he was far better equipped for the challenges ahead.
Argon donned the armour, finding it a surprisingly good fit. It was far from perfect, but it significantly improved his previous defences. The transaction nearly emptied his coin purse, but Argon knew the worth of good protection.
In the end, Greg had one more surprise. He glanced at Argon's worn-out, pommel-less sword and grunted in disapproval. "Can't have you running around with that toothpick." He reached under the counter with a grunt and produced a well-made, slightly used sword. "Take it. Consider it a... welcoming gift."
Despite his gruff exterior, Greg had a soft heart hidden away. He may not admit it, but seeing the determined young man in his forge reminded him of his younger days. As Argon accepted the weapon, he couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards the gruff blacksmith. The day had been long and eventful, leaving him nearly penniless but far better equipped for the dangerous world of Nekros.