Shop

Omar lifted one of the older crafted swords off the wall and looked it over, checking the edge to see if its sharpness had eroded at all from how long it had rested in its display. He was surprised by how many customers would come in, surprised to see him sharpening a weapon that had been there for some months. They seemed to be under the impression that a weapon was only dulled by use. Rust seemed not to be in their comprehension.

He wasn't a blacksmith by any means - that's what he had his brother for - but he had an eye for details, and a mind for numbers, so he was good at being the front man to their store and doing all of the business. He kept the merchandise pretty and up to standards, so that if someone were to get into a fight the moment they walked out the door, whatever they had just bought would be ready to go. The armor would be strong enough to save them, and the weapons would be solid and sharp enough to cut down their opponents. Omar's brother was very good for that kind of thing. To create weapons and armor that would last.

They also were open to buying things that adventurer's found out in the field. They could repair the old and rusted items, or if not, melt them down to use the raw materials in new weapons. It was often a much cheaper way of getting the metal they needed to continue expanding their inventory than going out and getting the material raw. After all, most adventurer's were just happy to be getting paid for mostly unusable weapons and armor. They didn't need to know how much they were actually worth, and it wasn't like most of them knew the true value of the raw materials that went into their equipment. That was why they were shopping for their weapons. They couldn't forge their own.

Omar was sharpening the blade he had pulled down when he heard the sound of someone entering the shop. He glanced up to see them holding an old, rusted blade, caked in mud which he assumed was made from dirt and blood. He lifted the sword he was working on and put it back on its display in anticipation, and sure enough, the man placed the sword on the table.

As he examined the blade, he noticed something very familiar about it. It took him a bit to recognize it, but near the hilt of the blade, there was a nearly scratched out marking of its forger. A marking that Omar had not seen in some time, because his brother had changed his marker some years prior. But now that he looked at it, there was no mistaking it.

This was his brother's blade.

Someone they had sold a weapon to had died.

Omar felt a little sick in his stomach.