22nd of Summer, 517 AV, One Bell Past Noon, Market of Port Silence:
‘’Oi. Oi. For petch sake, is every one of you buggers broken when I need a gods-damn thing from you now?’’, Einar proceeded to sigh, fruitlessly weaving a hand in front of a trader golem’s supposed glassy eye. This was the only stall on the island Ein knew of that could provide him with something along the line of weapons and other armaments. After the two sets of injuries he managed to earn since Summer went underway, the lad had decided to provide himself with at least something that’d remotely resemble a suit of armor. But no. Naturally, some ungodly force, be it a poor alignment of the sodding stars or just the prickly whim of some bugger of a god, Ein wouldn’t get his way without being given cause to pull his hear out first. Gods be damned, this tin can worked and replied just fine a time ago when he purchased a belt of throwing knives from it. What the sodding hell was the problem now? Bah.
The young man gave up after a couple more poor attempts at applying the ancient tongue to his demands. He could literally trip over a decent looking suit of banded mail. It stood right there on a rack, complete with gauntlets too. Just taking and donning the damn thing would be the easiest thing in the world. Only he hazarded that every bloody golem in this square would be up and after his arse if he tried to pull that without making a proper transaction first. Hardly mattered now, as the young man had already made his way into the first shade beside the nearest storehouse wall he could find.
The man hardly had anything on him beside the simplest of clothes. Worn boots, trousers, and a tattered-across-the-back shirt, poorly sewn back together, over which stood strapped a belt, housing six throwing knives. Aside from that he had a pouch hanging from his waist. The clear sound of clinking that came with his every step easily betrayed the bountiful amount of coin he carried inside. Yet something that might draw attention more than the fact that he was apparently rather well provided with coin was the barely subsiding swelling across the left side of the lad’s face, his corresponding eye could still just barely open through a narrow slit, and there was the fact that his hands were warped in makeshift bandages, halfway down the forearm. It was painfully obvious that he had taken at least one bad beating not half a week ago. In fact, this was the first time he got out of bed after his little brawl with that Domagoy prick three days prior.
Seating himself on the ground beside a storehouse's doorstep, Ein would reach for his pocket. Recently he’d made it into a habit to always have a chunk of wood on him for the sake of killing time whenever he wasn’t killing or almost being killed by the innumerable monstrosities of the island. He removed a narrow blade from the belt strapped across his chest and began slowly chipping away at the fist-sized hunk of wood. He wasn’t in the mood to make a trip uphill, back to that shyke-infested Citadel right now. Not in the afternoon summer heat anyway. After another twenty chimes or so he’ll go and check if this supposed quartermaster golem remembered how to sodding function in the meantime.