“Takvar, Okvar, if there is an issue…” Saywir began, but spoke no more, for the duo should understand. After all the others were Rot, Ool, and the girl’s grandmother was once known as Fev, so it was up to the two others, the Var and Wir, who would need to take the girl to flee, while the others fought to teach the Aswadians a lesson.
It was all hypothetical, but this was the Iyr, and it was this ti, of all tis, they could leave no doubt within the hearts and minds of the Aswadians.
It was a house upon a hill, thus ca its na, House on the Hill. The auction house expanded from the top of the hill, the tiers each defining the borders between where one could spend coppers, where one could spend silvers, and where one could spend gold. The buildings were plainly adorned, white and grey, but each roof tile was a deep black, as though colour itself dared not to reach the heavens. The only colours which dared to break the drab monochro were those of the banners, of the House on the Hill, each a particular red, and only a particular red, with words written in all manner of colours, though the banners themselves were red.
The stalls neatly stood, each under regulation of the house, while the people moved with a freeness of spirit, the swarm of n and won swerving from stall to stall, bees kissing flowers, placing down their coppers, and so, their silver, and as the cloths, clay, and colours slipped through from stall to sack, the stalls were swiftly bared, and as breaths passed, new hands worked the stall, selling their stuffs.
It was then a wicked aura stopped the crowds, allowing the large group to step through, thousands of eyes following them as they stepped through the centre, up the steps, into the next layer, in which those whose clothing was finer, and their pouches full of silver, were able to procure their wares, though only a few hundred road through the stalls, as opposed to what seed to be the thousands in the previous section, though the group spent little ti here, stepping ever onward towards the top of the hill.
“Brother…” the girl whispered, having complained furiously to walk upon her own feet, but the Aswadians, why did they make it so the place to spend gold was at the highest point of the hill? How vicious were they to their people? The top of the peak was the place for viewing, for fighting, and for other matters which her brothers refrained from speaking of, but at the very least they would gift her so many wonderful nieces and nephews.
Jurot hoisted the girl up, allowing her to rest against his chest, her head upon his shoulder, the Iyrman flexing his muscles, his eyes trailing to the side, towards his wife.
Pam blinked.
As the group then stepped towards the top of the hill, which was no less expansive than the lower levels, a young man approached, a man who was perhaps only barely a man, his moustache light, his beard concentrated atop his chin, and only then, barely as thick as a week’s growth, so he probably spent a month on it, as young as he was.
“What fortuitous guests who have arrived!” the fellow said, with courage of the youth, or one who was inford the several figures who would cause trouble did not arrive. However, the young man’s gaze faltered a mont upon the older bald woman, before swiftly darting towards another woman. “My greetings to you, Ray.”
“Mother’s blessings,” Ray Vonda replied, her smile radiating comfort.
“I, Mahershala, have the blessing to assist you today,” the young man said, beaming brightly in return, motioning a hand, only to pause, as the Iyrman child squird against her brother’s arms, and now that she was at the threshold of the peak of the House on the Hill, she must walk upon her own two feet. Her eyes held a deathly glare to Mahershala.
“Lanarot, Mahershala is a worker here who is here to assist us, and he greeted your sister so politely, didn’t he?” a particular fool said.
Lanarot blinked. Suddenly her deathly glare shifted, the girl flushing lightly, and though she held her chin up high, she waved towards the fellow. “Hello! I am Lanarot! Daughter of Sonarot! I am here to spend lots of money!”
“Then I will hope you spend many silvers!” Mahershala smiled even wider, though the stress lines seed evident upon his face.
Lanarot blinked. She turned towards her brother, suddenly so full of offence. Adam raised his brows to the girl, who blinked once more. “I am not here to spend silver! I am here to spend gold! Lots and lots of gold! At least ten thousand!”
“At most ten thousand,” Mulrot said.
“At most twenty thousand!” Lanarot confird, holding her brother’s hands, and half ignoring her grandmother, whose gaze remained fixated upon the girl. However, even she would need to give in, for if the girl required an additional ten thousand gold, she would find an additional ten thousand gold.
Mahershala remained silent. ‘Iyrn…’
As Mulrot sighed, Lanarot flushed slightly, peeking up at her elder brother, who returned her look, the pair nodding between one another.
‘Iyrn are people too?’
As they finally stepped upon the peak of the hill, the entire area had been levelled perfectly, the green around them beautiful, the soft scent of freshly cut grass filling the air. The cabin within the centre stood quaintly, but like a princess hidden behind her fan, she certainly held great secrets, and beneath the dress, there must have been a wicked steel. From the cabin blood petals of wooden outposts, each daring to impose upon the garden, yet were outlined by greenery, each fairly large, housing tables, sofas of plush comfort, and all manner of blankets and cushions. The central outposts were the largest, though they housed only a handful of figures, with each petal growing smaller, though the figures were no less finely adorned.
Though the half elf spotted a few familiar faces, before they could step within, a figure marched up towards them, a woman in her thirties or so, adorned in cream, a red cloak over her shoulders, the kind of red which could only be found in a particular place in Arisa. She walked with confidence, for neither Butcher Marmak, nor Mad Dog Jarot, were within such a group.
“Many blessings upon you, Mo. I am Farah of this humble House Upon The Hill. Are you Mo Adam of the United Kindom?”
“I am indeed,” the half elf replied.
“We were entrusted by another with an object of great importance, ant for your hands.”
“Oh?” Adam replied, glancing aside to his wife for a mont. ‘Huh?’
“If you would be willing to follow , we can hand it over to you privately.”
“Who entrusted this item to you?” Adam asked, not yet moving, for there was the slightest of chance this was just a plan to assassinate him, and without his armour, he wasn’t confident he could face as many assassins one might send to deal with him.
“It was…” the woman began, leaning in to whisper, “a man by the na of Ashuk.”
“Oh!” Adam said, standing up a little taller. “Oh?”
“He promised to hand you a weapon if you fought with him,” Kitool reminded the half elf.
“Oh yeah! I rember now. Right, right, he promised a spear.”
“I am surprised you forgot,” Kitool said, side eyeing the half elf, wondering if perhaps he had been replaced.
“You are?”
“You promised it to Chimir.”
Adam blinked, deflating slightly, for if it was a spear, shouldn’t he have offered it to his grandmother? A spear like that, it would have been quite decent. However, if it was for his adorable niece, then what could he do? ‘How did I forget that?’
The half elf followed the woman into another section of the House on the Hill, though Kitool escorted him through, just in case. As they stepped into the hill itself, the lanterns illuminated the hall way, a tunnel of cold, until they slipped into a private room, adorned in the finest of woods, one only another could appreciate.
There upon the finely crafted wooden table, a long box, redwood of so manner, well made, well designed, and engraved with Aswadic script of good fortune.
“Do you wish to Identify it?” Kitool asked.
“I should,” Adam said, reaching into his cloak, only for Farah to hold up a scroll case, ford of leather.
“A complintary scroll.”
“Oh my, thank you,” Adam said, feeling the leather of the scroll case give in to his fingers, feeling the wood within which protected the scroll. He brought it to his cloak to shift it away.
“It is a Scroll of Identify,” Kitool inford.
“Oh.”
The spear itself was finely made, seemingly out of pure silver, with accents of gold, and a singular sapphire within the blade. As Adam read the scroll, it turned to bits of light, disappearing into the air.
Nona’s Tears ( 2 Longspear)
Requires Attunent
Deals 2D6 pierce damage.
Nona’s Vengeance. Once per day, upon a hit, choose to Critical Hit. When you Critical Hit in this manner, regain Health equal to the damage you deal. This ability recharges any ti you Critical Hit without using Nona’s Vengeance, and at midnight.
‘By the Divine!’ Adam thought, his brows raised in alarm. He turned to look at Kitool, his brows still raised in alarm. “If this is how good Nona’s Tears is, I want to know how good Ashuk’s normal spear is.”
“You should know how good it is.”
Adam thought about how terrifying the spear had been, perhaps even greater than his own axe in so sense. “Yeah.”
“You should Identify the other weapons you wish to procure,” Kitool said.
“Do we have enough ti?”
“It shall take no more than a few minutes,” Kitool explained. “You may buy the scrolls to use at cost.”
“What is that? Twenty five gold?”
“Yes.”
Adam thought about it, glancing aside to Farah, who smiled politely, then nodded. If there was anything half as good as Nona’s Tears, it wouldn’t be too great of a loss to show off in front of his wife and sister.
It wasn’t long until Adam found a treasure which may have been considered even greater than Nona’s Tears.
PATREON FOR 30 CHAPTERS!
We're going to be spending so much gold!
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