The Price of Obsidian
“Tell me about it,” Detraeus said. Before him lay a weapon — a freshly crafted boomerang — tall enough that, had it been placed on its tip and held upright, the upper end would have reached past his solar plexus to the middle of his upper torso. It was on average the breadth of two hands held waist to fingertip, widest at its center and petering of towards either edge, and bent in the shape of the two shorter lines of an obtuse triangle.
“The blade is cut from raw obsidian, encased in the finest mahogany grip and enchanted for durability along its edge. It will not dull or chip for twenty years, I can promise you that.” The weaponsmith reached out, tracing over the etchings along its handle. “Engraved are minor defense runes. They will not defend against a direct assault, but upon activation will dull the immediate effect of foreign offensive magics. These…” The weaponsmith tapped three, smooth white stones, embedded in the wood of the boomerang’s grip, “…are moonstones, carved and spelled to respond to the wielder's touch and light up, should the surrounding night grow too dark.”
Detraeus reached out, handling the grip and then lifting it from the display table, testing the weight and balance. Though wholly unfamiliar to him — he had no personal experience with such a weapon himself — it struck him immediately as light. Impossibly light, given its size. He had done his research, best he could, beforehand, asking around from weaponsmiths he knew and on to those he didn’t, gathering information at every corner. It was a custom design, unique in and of itself, though the concept was based on something that — as far as he was told — had been utilized to great effect by many ayrala dovaa in the past, perfected and fine tuned over the centuries.
“Demonstrate,” Detraeus said at length, and the weaponsmith eyed him, then dipped her head in assent.
“Very well. Come.” As she stepped out from behind her counter, Detraeus followed after as asked, the weapon a new, strange weight in his grip. It left him giddy, anxious, and terrified, knowing his intentions for it. She lead him to a flat, open stretch of earth behind her shop, clearly used in the past as a weapon testing and practice area given the training dummies and various targets. When she stopped in the area’s center and held out a hand, Detraeus handed over the boomerang. “Step back.”
He did.
She tested its weight as he watched, slicing to either side like a massive scythe capable of being swept from hand to hand, and the air rippled around her, wind picking up and causing dust and pebbles to dance at her feet. A second later she twisted, and slung. It whipped outwards, cutting straight up, up, up into the sky as it spun until it was nearly invisible against the glare of high noon. When it returned, it sang in a low whistle, and she caught it like a dancer with a partner. Not but a moment later, after tapping the outer tip once behind her, she reversed its momentum, slinging it directly out in front of her and sinking her stance: arms spread and palms wide, to catch it in a whirling pivot. Like a bladed tornado, spinning around an invisible axis, it turned seemingly infinitely in a blur of glinting black. She held the pose for several long seconds as the dust in her practice rink rolled out in waves, fleeing the whipping gusts, but dragged it back to her before Detraeus opened his mouth again.
“Enough?” she asked, perching it over her shoulder like a familiar friend and convincing him like no show ever could that, if nothing else, it was a weapon she was highly versed in.
In answer, he nodded.
She approached. “There are hollow tunnels built throughout it, designed specifically to bend to the will of directed wind. It will fly without it, but be clumsy to wield, and more efficiently used as as a curved blade by anyone who can’t speak to the wind…” She eyed him, expression largely blank, but gaze intent. “This will not be an effective weapon for you.”
Detraeus said nothing and held a hand out for it.
“Who is it for? Why are you paying so much to arm a dovaa?”
“I paid for your craft,” Detraeus said. “Not your questions.”
She tilted her head, scales glinting bright, but after only a moment, she handed over the boomerang with a shrug. “You still owe me a hundred and fifty—”
Detraeus reached to his belt and unlaced a pouch previously tucked directly beside his quiver and behind one of the daggers strapped there. He tossed it to her. After fingering it, she notched her head back towards the shop and counted the coins on an open desk, the second half of his payment. It was strange, Detraeus thought, watching her, to see that many coins at once and know that not only were they once his, but that he had more. Plenty. Enough, for the first time in his life, to not only see to his needs but then move well beyond the basics.
Enough that a gift, even of this level of expense, was possible without hurting his means of providing for himself. After making the exchange, though, weapon fastened behind him as he headed for home, familiar anxieties that had plagued him all through the process of waiting returned to him.
Was this a step too far? What if the intention behind the gift was misinterpreted? What if it did not work for Araceli as it had for the weaponsmith? What if it was too large, or too unmanageable? What if it simply wasn’t appreciated? Or, worse, if she felt the need to pretend to like it, only to never put it to use? Would she think him presumptuous, to take it on himself to buy her a weapon after all the times he had mentioned she needed one? Or rude? What if she had no desire whatsoever for such a thing?
Detraeus kept the weapon with him for two weeks, untouched, hidden and safe, debating how — or even whether or not — to breach the subject and present her with it. After two weeks, he resolved to speak to Casseth about it first.
Word Count: 1,093
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