I sat on the wooden bench, the sweat beading from my forehead and dripping onto my newest project. My leg was propped up on the chair next to me. Sand was in my eyes as I squinted, wrapping rope around the base. My hands were dry, rough, and calloused.
Looking up, I wiped the sweat off, but it didn’t do anything. Nobody was at the shop yet. I had more work to do. I put the weapon on the workbench, and stood up, cracking my back. I let out a groan. Today was a hot one.
I grabbed a canteen and drank, my eyes darting back and forth as I gulped. I put the water down. I was always on edge.
My hands always needed something to do. I fidget. My life is dedicated to crafting, day, and night. I sat back down and continued my project. I had many scars, but none below my torso. My latest one came from sharpening a scythe-like weapon, resulting in a long scar on the inside of my wrist.
They called me Silent-Feet. I had no other name, but according to my drunk father, my name was Mercer. Nobody calls me that except my father. I earned Silent-Feet when I was around ten, when I stole my very first watch. Shiny things had always attracted me, that’s why I not only make my weapons sharp but decadent.
I turned my head, leaning over my workbench. I heard sand crunching. Another monster hunter. I hated them, yet I practically served them. Today was a fairly strong lady, and a man walking with her. They always have this look about them. Like they own the town.
I continued working on my weapon when they approached. Someone’s hands pressed on my workbench, their body leaning over me.
“I need a bow,” she said.
Without looking up, I replied, “I’m not taking any more requests. Shops closed. Come back in two weeks and I might have more openings.” I had said that a thousand times. Most listen, but this couple were dead-set.
“I need bow. Can’t you see? Mine spittin’ broke against a claw-shredder. I need a bow,” she repeated, as if I didn’t hear her the first time.
“Maybe you shouldn’t’ve used a bow against a claw-shredder,” I commented, knowing all-to-well about those situations.
Spit dropped on my workbench. I looked up. She was mad. The man was staying off to the side, with his arms crossed.
“Hey, woman, I told you that I’d be taking requests in two weeks’ time. The closest town is 30 miles east. Take a hike or wait. Your choice-”
Soon, I had been picked up by the collar. “First of all,” she growled, “don’t call me ‘woman’, and don’t tell me what to do.”
I gripped her tight fore-arm.
“Now, let me repeat myself. “I need a bow. Your choices are: make my bow, and don’t die, or don’t make my bow, and die.”
“Why would you kill the only weapon maker in town?” I replied with a smirk, my fingers digging into her skin. She didn’t flinch.
I was on the ground, my heat hitting the sand. To be fair, I was short and skinny, so I probably felt like a practice-dummy to her. Pushing my hair out of my face, I had the courage to look up and speak.
“That’ll be,” before I could finish my sentence, suddenly my throat felt enflamed. I coughed up sand as she stared me down from beyond my workbench. “That’ll be forty whils. Is that all?” I managed to ask.
I was guessing that was all, because all she did was throw down a sack of whils and stomp away. The man checked out my wares for a minute then followed. I hated those spitting monster hunters. But someone had to earn whils, and it wasn’t going to be my father.
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