Chapter 14 : Markets and Meaning
The market came alive in layers.
Voices overlapped—calls for trade, bartered offers, complaints about blade balance or spoiled rootstock. All of it in the same tongue. The tribes spoke English. That hadn't changed, even after the collapse. But their scripts? Their history? That was another story.
I tapped the side of my temple and muttered, "Begin symbol pattern tracking. Translate Kansani glyphs. Build lexicon from context."
The Focus hummed at the edge of my skull—faint pulses fanning out across carved banners and trade poles. Glyphs lit up like veins in wood and bone—painted, burned, scratched in careful lines that meant more than any shouted price.
Spoken language was shared. But written? That was personal. Tribal. Cultural.
The Kansani didn't just write to remember.
They wrote to mark.
Every glyph was half warning, half story.
One on a butcher's stand looked like two blades nested inside a curved line—my Focus tagged it as cut and proven. Another on a bundle of dried roots flickered: bitter / preserved / ritual use. Not food, then. Medicine—or something like it.
The more signs I passed, the more the Focus built connections. Syntax trees. Root symbols. Repeated strokes. There were patterns here, beneath the chaos. You just had to slow down enough to see them.
The glyphs weren't phonetic, not like the Old World alphabets. They were conceptual. Meaning first, sound second. A trader didn't need to know how a word was pronounced—they needed to know what it stood for when it was scratched onto a weapon sheath or the inside of a dying man's collar.
By the time I reached the first weapons stall, my HUD was logging partial matches automatically.
[Kansani Glyph Database: 11% Mapped]
Syntax Confidence: Low
Most Common Base Strokes: Hunt / Blood / Fire / Ash / Honor
I smirked.
Of course ash showed up that often.
The market opened like a scar across the Grove—smoke curling from cookfires, shard-hunters bartering over piles of alloy, Oseram shouting about the purity of their wiring like priests arguing over relics.
I stepped off the main path and found a moment of stillness behind a rack of strider-tanned cloaks. With a flick of my fingers, I pulled up the Nanoboy's inventory overlay and whispered, "Currency count."
The display slid into view.
[Shards: 1,524]
Status: Stable
Weight impact: Negligible
I exhaled through my nose, satisfied.
Not rich. But not poor either.
Fifteen hundred shards in Kansani territory meant I wasn't starving, and I wasn't about to get laughed out of a smithy. It was enough for repairs, upgrades, maybe a few extras if I haggled hard or caught someone in a good mood. Not the kind of cash that made people bow, but enough that they didn't spit in your shadow either.
I scanned the rows of stalls ahead—woven hides, bone-handled blades, sachets of dried herbs dyed in Kansani ash-glyphs. Prices weren't posted. They were spoken. Calculated by weight, labor, and how much the vendor liked your face.
And I was still a tourist in paint and scraps.
Which meant I'd need to talk fast and keep my hands open.
I closed the shard tally and flipped over to my Nanoboy's storage ledger.
[Inventory: Sort by Value → Lowest]
Twenty-five entries flickered into view—odds and ends picked up from ruin floors, old desks, office drawers, and dead men's pockets.
Car keys (x3) — different makes, rusted but intact
Wristwatches (x4) — two digital, two analog, none ticking
ID badges (x5) — hospitals, banks, one from something called "Genepoint Logistics"
Ballpoint pens (x6) — empty
Lighters (x2) — no fuel
Binder clips, ruler, stapler guts, keychains, bent glasses, name tags — the usual archaeological garbage
Stuff that had weight, but no use. Not to me.
The Focus flicked a recommendation:
[Junk Tier: Barter-Only]
Suggested resale value: 10–30 shards per item (tribal market rates)
I curled my lip.
Nothing here I'd fight to keep. No sentimental hooks. No hidden functions. Just dead-world litter from the days when people thought locking a car meant anything.
"Offload all junk," I muttered.
The Nanoboy pulsed as I selected the items, highlighting them for extraction. They'd manifest as a bundled satchel—clean, compressed, and ready to trade.
Twenty-five pieces. If I averaged 20 shards each, that was another 500 shards. Maybe more if I found a vendor who thought watches made good decoration or believed the name tag from Genepoint was cursed.
I set the bundle to deploy on command and slid back into the flow of the market.
First stop: someone who'd buy junk without asking where it came from. Someone in the market would bite. The Kansani didn't care about the past unless it cut or burned. But an Oseram? They'd buy a rusted keyboard just to see if it clicked.
I closed the inventory overlay and stepped back into the pulse of the market—shards in one pocket, trash in the other, and the faint hope I could turn junk into something useful before the sun dipped too far.
I stepped into a shaded alcove between two trader stalls, just long enough to focus without getting pickpocketed.
[Skill Points Available: 26]
Perk Points: 2
I dragged open the skill tree and didn't hesitate. Ten points into Speech, eight into Barter. I didn't need to win a debate—I just needed to sell junk like it was gold and walk away before anyone second-guessed the price.
The Focus pulsed once as the changes settled in.
[Speech Increased] — Persuasion effectiveness improved. New dialogue branches unlocked.
[Barter Increased] — Trade values enhanced. Junk items now sell at improved market rates.
The rest I kept in reserve. Never know when I'll need to patch a leg or spike a weapon.
The Nanoboy recalibrated with a low hum, syncing my new stats to everything from vocal modulation to eye contact rhythm. Felt like brushing teeth with a power drill—effective, but unnerving.
Still, I'd take unnerving over broke.
Time to find someone who'd buy a paperweight and swear it had spiritual significance.
I hesitated before closing the interface. Still had two Perk Points left.
No sense hoarding them.
I flicked to the Perk Selection tab.
[Available Perks: Based on Current Skill Configuration and Environment]
Scanning...
The Focus whirred for a heartbeat, then a list bloomed across my vision
I thumbed through the list, eyes skimming past the flashy ones—tech perks, stealth bonuses, things I didn't need yet. Two lines stood out, steady, quiet, and far more useful.
[Perk Chosen: Market Gut]
Grants a sixth-sense ping when a deal is unusually good or bad. Only activates if Barter skill is high enough.
"You don't know how. You just know."
I felt it settle in behind my eyes—not loud, not glowing, just... there. A whisper in the gut. The kind of feeling you got right before a trader either fleeced you or handed you gold without knowing it. Useful. Especially in a place where prices were measured in risk as much as shards.
I selected the second without hesitation.
[Perk Chosen: Hiltbreaker]
First melee attack against armored enemies has a 25% chance to stagger, regardless of damage.
"Armor's just a challenge wrapped in ego."
The memory of the Boxer flashed in my mind—the way it hesitated, the moment I'd forced its stance to break. Now that hesitation would happen more often. A weakness I could make permanent.
The Focus pulsed once. Confirmed. Locked in. I closed the display with a flick, feeling the system fade back into my spine.
Now I was ready to trade like a hound and fight like someone who didn't care what you were wearing.
Kardin's stall looked like it had been built by someone who never threw anything away—just beat it into a new shape and called it "salvage." Piles of tools, twisted alloy frames, mismatched blade hilts, and bundles of what might've once been coaxial cables were stacked in ordered chaos. The scent of sweat, smoke, and hot metal hung in the air like a challenge.
The Oseram behind the stall was short, broad, and bald on top but thick with braided beard—and voice. He was yelling at a pair of Kansani twins over the price of a folding prybar, swearing on "his forge-mother's breath" that the alloy could crack a Shell-Walker plate.
He barely glanced at me until the junk satchel hissed open across his table.
His eyes flicked to the pile.
Then to me.
Then back again.
He tapped a broken wristwatch with the tip of his grease-blackened finger.
"…you the guy in black people keep whispering about?"
I shrugged. "Depends who's whispering."
Kardin narrowed his eyes, giving me a quick once-over. No overt aggression—just weighing potential profit against the odds I'd stab him over a bad trade.
"Word is," he said, "someone showed up out of nowhere wearing machine-black armor, talks like an Old One, and walks with a Kansani war mask like he earned it."
I let the silence hang a beat.
"You selling or spinning stories?" I asked flatly.
That got a grin out of him. Half-respect, half-caution.
"Depends," Kardin said. "You planning to buy, or just drop salvage like hail on my table?"
I gestured to the pile of junk. "Take a look. I'm offloading this. Trinkets, office clutter, couple of intact alloys. No function, just flair."
He huffed, reaching in with thick fingers. His practiced hands turned over each item like a jeweler checking for cracks in memory. Watches, name tags, key fobs—dead-world nostalgia waiting to be melted, bartered, or repackaged as "authentic."
[Market Gut Activated]
Vendor's first offer expected to lowball by 10–15%.
He tapped his belt pouch. "Four-fifty."
"Make it five-fifty," I replied evenly. "Half that stuff still has alloy cores, and Oseram back west pay double for IDs with legible names."
He considered, then gave a grunt. "You're not wrong."
A smaller pouch landed on the table with a metallic clink.
[+550 Shards] | [Total: 2,074 Shards]
I hooked it to my belt, updated my ledger, and leaned casually on the edge of his counter.
"Now," I said. "Got anything worth trading up for? Something sharp, strange, or stupid enough to make it worth a second glance?"
Kardin's grin widened.
"Depends what you mean by stupid
Kardin snorted, clearly unbothered.
"Stupid doesn't offend me, friend. I've got a cousin in the Claim who makes a living selling axes shaped like fish and helmets with built-in drinking horns. Stupidity sells—if it's well-crafted."
He turned, dug into a lower crate, and started pulling items free with the care of a man showing off both his pride and his patience.
"Alright, mystery-man-in-black. Let's see if we can tempt you."
Kardin's Current Stock (Mid-Tier Trader Table)Shock-Mirrored Cloak
Light outer wrap woven with conductive thread and scavenged lens fragments. Reduces machine targeting range by 10%. Reflections may dazzle weak optics.
*"You want to look blurry to a Watcher? This'll do it. Just don't wear it near lightning storms."
Cost: 450 shards
Hollow Fang Knife
A bone-handled, curved blade forged from a Ravager's fang. Slightly hollowed for blood channeling. Vibration-absorbing grip.
*"It'll punch through hide, armor, or your own doubt."
Cost: 600 shards
Emergency Wrist Torch – "Claim-Safe Mk.III"
A compact forearm-mounted torch. Press-to-ignite. Waterproof, rust-resistant, shockproof. Also comes with a built-in signal flare.
*"Not fancy. Just works."
Cost: 180 shards
Oseram Oddity — Singing Rat Idol
A carved wooden rat with a brass jaw and a spring-loaded squeaker. Plays a six-note tune when squeezed. No known function. Clearly cursed.
*"My cousin made it. I take no responsibility."
Cost: 70 shards
Comms Band Relic (Damaged)
Part of a pre-Fall wrist communicator. No signal. Focus-compatible. May be repairable or useful as a component.
*"Scav'd it off a scav who lost his scav to a Snapmaw. Still works…ish."
Cost: 320 shards
Kardin folded his arms. "Prices are fair. No lies, no tricks. Except the rat. That thing absolutely lies."
Rion's Focus ticked—nothing flagged cursed, but it did log high noise potential from the squeaker.
I scanned the shelf, weighing what I needed versus what might be smart to stash. Or stupid enough to be useful later.
My eyes paused on the comms band.
Old, cracked poly-fiber shell. Scuffed faceplate. Metal brackets half-eaten by corrosion. But the Focus gave a soft, quiet ping—not junk. Not useless.
FOCUS SCAN
Item: [Civilian Comms Band – Pre-Fall, Model R43]
Status: Inactive / Damaged
Components Detected: Short-range transceiver, Focus-compatible uplink core, encrypted memory layer (fragmented)
Repair Difficulty: Moderate (Requires Repair 20+)
Potential Functions (if restored):
– Voice communication
– Uplink handshake with compatible AI modules
– Secure message replay
My speech and barter perks wouldn't fix it.
But my repair skill might. Someday.
I reached for it, lifted it off the cloth mat, and turned it over slowly in my hand. It was light. Too light. The interior wasn't gutted, but it had been picked at. The back still bore a barely legible logo:
"Kastrel Systems // Personal Networking. Powered by You."
I raised an eyebrow.
Kardin watched me like a hound tracking the wind. "You've got that look," he said. "The one that says 'I know this is broken, but I also know you don't know how much it's broken.'"
I smirked. "Three-twenty's a steep ask for something missing two screws and a firmware soul."
[Market Gut Activated]
Estimated fair value: 260–280 Shards
Current offer: Inflated. Vendor expects you to haggle.
I tossed it lightly, caught it again, and met Kardin's eyes. "I'll give you 270. And that's generous. Your own people would chew you down to 240."
He didn't flinch. Just leaned forward a little, like he was smelling the sale.
"Two-ninety," he said. "And I'll throw in a grip wrap for your ugly machete. Black leather. Proper weave. Not that split-tusk scrap the locals use."
"Deal," I said, before he could sweeten it further.
He passed the band and the grip wrap together in a small burlap pouch. I handed over the Shards and checked my balance.
[-290 Shards] → [Total: 1,784 Shards]
Item Acquired: [Kastrel Systems Comms Band – R43 (Damaged)]
+1: [Machete Grip Wrap – Reinforced]
I slid the grip wrap into my satchel and clipped the comms band to one of the lower loops on my belt. No power yet—but it had potential. That was enough.
Kardin leaned on his counter, rubbing his hands.
"You've got good taste for a man dressed like an argument," he said. "Anything else?"
I glanced at the singing rat, then decided I valued my dignity more than irony. For now.
"Not today," I said. "But if that band talks back when I fix it, I'm bringing it back here and letting it insult your whole bloodline."
Kardin grinned. "Joke's on you. My bloodline was forged by insults."
I clipped the comms band to my belt, still watching Kardin from the corner of my eye.
"Let me ask you something," I said casually, brushing a thumb along the edge of the grip wrap. "What brings an Oseram merchant all the way out to Kansani lands? The Claim's not exactly next door."
Kardin didn't flinch. Just leaned back and scratched at the underside of his beard with a knuckle that looked like it had broken too many bars open.
"You know your geography," he said. "That or you've been around more than you let on."
I gave him a lazy shrug. "I've seen a map. Doesn't explain why you're here. Ironbones and Banuk aside, your people don't exactly vacation in tribal strongholds."
He let out a grunt—not a laugh, just something close.
"You're not wrong," he said. "Fact is? Right now, the Kansani and the Banuk are the only tribes we can trade with."
I raised an eyebrow.
He went on.
"The Nora slam the gates on anyone who shows a spark. The Carja think we're beneath them unless we're bending over an anvil in Meridian. And the Tenakth?"
He snorted.
"The Tenakth stab first and forget to ask questions later."
He lifted a thick finger and pointed toward the Grove's inner walls.
"But the Kansani? They've got rules. Harsh ones, sure—but fair. If you follow their law, if you trade clean and respect their land? You walk out with Shards. Maybe even allies."
I nodded slowly.
"So you're here because it's stable."
Kardin's face flattened. "I'm here because it's not a meat grinder."
He reached down, uncorked his canteen, took a swig, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"We Oseram might be rough, but we're not suicidal. We go where the gears don't jam and where we can haul scrap without getting speared for our boots."
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added:
"And don't let the bone paint fool you. The Kansani might howl at the moon, but they pay on time. Every time."
Kardin's stall quieted just a bit as he leaned on the edge of his warped metal counter, his tone shifting from showman to something more grounded.
"But if you want the truth?" he said. "Right now, the Kansani and the Banuk are the only ones we Oseram can trade with."
I crossed my arms, letting him talk.
"The Claim's turning inward—forge-barons hoarding blackpowder and choking off their own roads. The Sundom?" He scoffed. "The Sundom's lost its mind."
He spit to the side—more habit than insult.
"Sun-King Jiran's been going mad for five years now. Raiding across the Spine, taking prisoners from the Nora, the Tenakth—hell, even tried a push into Banuk lands last frost. They say it's for the Sun. Cleansing. Sacrifice."
He looked at me hard.
"But we both know what that means. He's burning people alive and calling it religion."
I kept my face still. I'd heard pieces. Now the picture was getting sharper.
"The Carja used to buy Oseram metal. Machinery. Trade goods," Kardin continued. "Now they send scouts into our border towns and call it tribute when their blades go missing. It's not war yet—but it's a slow bleed."
"And Meridian?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"Still stands. But I hear the Blameless can't even keep their own priests in line. Too many whispers, not enough soldiers. And the moment they fall out of step, Jiran will burn that city down from the inside just to say the sun told him to."
Kardin uncorked his flask again and took a short, bitter swig.
"That's why I'm here," he said. "Because the Kansani might be wild—but they don't kill for sport. If you trade fair, if you don't insult the war gods or piss on sacred ground, you walk out with your Shards intact."
He thumbed toward the Grove's stone-stitched gates.
"And because if the Red Raids ever push this far, I'd rather be standing behind them than anyone in the Claim."
I nodded slowly, letting the picture settle. Then I tilted my head.
"You talk like the Carja are the biggest threat out here. But the Legion's closer. Meaner. Less polite."
Kardin didn't argue.
"They are," he said. "I'm not blind. But I'll tell you why they're the better option, at least for me."
"If I get snatched by the Carja?"
He spit again, this time into the dirt.
"The aldermen in the Claim will hold a debate, argue over jurisdiction, shout about trade rights—then forget I existed the second someone misplaces a shipment of forge oil. No one comes for you when you vanish into a Sundom sacrifice pit. Not unless your last name's chiseled into a foundry wall."He leaned forward, fingers drumming idly against a rust-warped gearplate on the table.
"But if the Legion takes me? There's a decent chance the Kansani drag me back out just to spite them. Especially if I was trading clean. Especially if I was under Sula's protection"
He paused, looking toward the longhouse I'd left behind.
"The Kansani might not throw you a party when you show up—but if they respect you, they'll bleed for you. That's rarer than good steel these days."
I didn't argue. He wasn't wrong.
I smirked faintly. "Spite's a wonderful thing, isn't it?"
Kardin barked a laugh, deep and full of old Oseram smoke.
"Damn straight," he said, jabbing a thick finger toward me. "It's what built half our forges and kept the other half running when the Sundom raised tariffs."
We shared a nod—wary but mutual.
Respect, hammered out through bartering, blood, and shared disdain for the bigger empires.
I then thought on something he said. "What do you mean, under Sula's protection?"
Kardin shrugged like it was obvious, but the kind of obvious that still needed explaining.
"She vouched for me. Five winters back."
He leaned an elbow on the table, voice lowering just a little—enough to signal that this wasn't something he said to every customer.
"Couple of Kansani scouts found me bleeding in a ravine south of the Spine. Snapmaw bit through my leg brace, rolled me halfway down a shale chute. My runners were dead or gone. Could've left me. Most tribes would've."
He tapped the side of his tankard.
"But Sula was leading the patrol. She saw the merchant marks on my coat. Hauled me out. Didn't ask for Shards. Just said, 'Don't make me regret this.'"
He smirked.
"So I didn't."
I nodded slowly. "And that was it?"
"She watched me trade clean, twice more," he said. "Word got around. Now if someone draws steel on me inside the Grove, they answer to her. Doesn't mean I'm family. Just means I'm useful. And I follow the rules."
His grin returned—wider this time.
"And besides... I think she likes having an Oseram she can insult without breaking a treaty."
I raised an eyebrow, doing the math in my head.
"Five winters back? That would've made Sula... what, ten?"
Kardin didn't flinch.
"Maybe. Ten, eleven. Didn't change a damn thing."
He leaned forward, voice firm but not defensive.
"The Kansani make warriors out of their kids young. Too many fights, not enough years. They teach 'em to track, to kill, to lead—if the child survives, they carry weight."
He tilted his head slightly, the edge of a grin creeping up.
"We Oseram? We do the same. Only difference is we give our kids a hammer and expect them to swing it before their voice breaks."
He slapped the side of his table.
"By the time I was twelve, I'd forged a door hinge, two knives, and broke three toes dropping an anvil I was too proud to ask help with."
He looked toward the Grove, where Sula's name still lingered in the air like a reputation wrapped in grit.
"She was already dangerous back then. Just didn't have as many scars."
I leaned back against the stall's frame, arms crossed, tone dry.
"I guess I got lucky, then—just got kicked in the nuts as hello."
Kardin blinked, then barked out a laugh loud enough to rattle his tool rack.
"Then that means she likes you," he said. "If she wanted you dead, you'd have found an axe buried in your spine before you got two steps past the Grove gate."
He shook his head, still chuckling.
"Nuts heal. Pride limps."
He raised his tankard again, saluting casually.
"Welcome to the tribe, outsider."
I smirked.
"I don't remember signing up."
"You don't get to," Kardin said. "You survive them long enough, and they just start treating you like furniture with a good story."
I glanced toward the path leading back to the longhouse, then looked back at Kardin.
"What do you think made her not axe me?"
He gave me a slow once-over—top to bottom—then shrugged like it wasn't that complicated.
"Maybe she was gonna tie you up and have her way with you," he said, deadpan. "I've seen Kansani women do it before. They don't always kill what they catch."
I blinked once.
"…you're joking."
Kardin grinned like a man who'd lost a bet once and still had a dent in his collarbone from it.
"Only halfway."
He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"Let me give you some friendly advice, black-coat: the Kansani respect strength, silence, and scars. You've got at least two of those. And Sula? She's got eyes like a wolf and a jaw like a bear trap. She doesn't waste time dragging deadweight."
He thumbed toward the gates.
"If you're still breathing after pissing her off, it means you're either useful… or interesting."
I rubbed my ribs unconsciously. "Let's hope it's not too interesting."
Kardin just chuckled. "That's not up to you, friend."
I pushed off the stall with a quiet grunt and adjusted the satchel across my shoulder.
"Thanks," I muttered, deadpan. "Now I've gotta think out everything I say to her from now on."
Kardin burst into laughter, loud and sharp, slapping the counter like it owed him Shards.
"That makes you smarter than half the men in the world!"
I didn't bother looking back.
"Yeah," I called over my shoulder. "Let's hope it's the right half."
His laughter echoed behind me as I slipped back into the flow of the market—shards a little heavier, thoughts a little louder, and the lingering suspicion that I was navigating something far more dangerous than just tribal politics.
A woman's thoughts.
I rounded the corner of a sun-bleached storage hut, the noise of the market slipping behind me like a door quietly closing. Just enough distance from Kardin's laughter and the smell of burnt wiring.
The satchel on my shoulder shifted as I stepped into the shade. I reached down and unclipped the Comms Band from my belt—old tech, cold in the palm, its surface scuffed but still holding shape. Focus-compatible. Maybe useful. Definitely not something I wanted dangling in plain view where a sharp-eyed scout or a curious child might try to lift it.
I tapped the Nanoboy 3000 on my wrist.
[Storage Protocol: Active]
Compressing item...
➜ Kastrel Systems Comms Band – R43 (Damaged)
The device shimmered briefly in the filtered light. Threads of blue nanomist curled around it, folding the band down into gleaming nothingness before it vanished into the wrist module with a low click.
Gone. Safe. Still mine.
Item Stored. Weight Impact: Minimal. Status: Stable.
I rolled my shoulder once, adjusted the satchel strap, and stepped back into the sun.
No power yet.
But one day—when I had the tools, the time, and the right spark—I'd bring that thing back online.
And when I did?
If I could find more like it…
That was more than just a voice in the dark.
That was the start of a network.
Not everyone could wear a Focus. They were too rare, too valuable. The ones I found—if I found enough—would be reserved. Kept close. For the officers. For the Paladins, if I ever built the Brotherhood I'd only dared sketch in my thoughts.
But these comms bands?
Cracked, chipped, common by Old World standards—they had potential. Squad leaders didn't need to see the battlefield from orbit. They just needed to know when to strike, when to pull back, when to regroup.
If I could rebuild even part of the system—short-range relays, encrypted messaging, something clean and tribal-proof—it would be enough to coordinate.
As the last curl of nanomist vanished into my wrist module, the Focus pinged—soft and deliberate.
[LONG-TERM QUEST INITIATED]
🛰️ Echoes of Command
Type: Strategic Infrastructure | Legacy Network Integration
Status: Dormant (Trackable)
Linked Goal:Forging the Brotherhood
Objective:
Recover and repurpose Kastrel Systems Comms Bands—pre-Fall civilian short-range communication devices. Originally designed for non-combat use. Devices must be located, repaired, and professionally modified for coordinated field deployment.
Minimum Operational Network: 5 units
Repair Requirement: 50+ (due to delicate circuitry and data lattice degradation)
Modification Requirement: Engineer-level coder with experience in comm-layer scripting and interface design.
Projected Path:
Initial signal trace projects a cluster of inactive units east of Ironwood Grove.
📍 Estimated Region: Ruins of "Denver" (Old World map reference)
– Expect collapsed infrastructure
– Cold-weather hazard probability: Moderate
Quest Chain Benefits:
Upon completion and modification of 5+ units:
Unlocks Brotherhood Squad Command Net – limited-range communications grid
Grants ability to issue synchronized field commands to allied units (once squad AI protocols are enabled)
Boosts Forging the Brotherhood strategic reputation
"You don't need a thousand warriors. You need ten who can move as one."
Okay now I was cooking with gas, I planned to head in that direction anyway one day, Denver if I remember right was north of the Nora's Sacred lands, that or it was Colorado Springs. Still needed to head that way, and I was going to scour those ruins anyways.
But for now I needed to shop for clothes that were suited for this world, the undersuit had good utility but it stuck out like a sore thumb.
The Grove's market bent westward into a quieter lane—less shouting, more murmurs. The smell changed, too. Less iron and oil. More leather. Tanned hide, fresh thread, and smoke-char from open-lid dye pits. The tailors called this stretch the Stitcher's Spine.
I slowed my pace, letting my eyes scan the awnings. Most of it was trade gear—hunting jackets, scout cloaks, belts lined with tool loops and pouch rings. A few stalls even had child-sized gear. Training wraps. Bone-padded tunics. Apprentice stitching.
I moved past those.
I wasn't looking for tradition.
I was looking for gear.
My current suit wasn't damaged, but it wasn't meant to stop a spear or blunt a Ravager claw. It was clean. Sleek. Soft under the right light. And it screamed "Old World." I needed something with a bit more bark. More noise.
I stepped into the shade of one of the larger stalls the Stitcher barely looked up as I stepped inside the stall—just kept working needle through hide with the patience of someone who'd stitched through blood and worse.
"You want something for rain, fire, or things that bite?" she asked, voice flat.
"Long coat," I said, adjusting the satchel at my shoulder. "Something that'll keep the elements off and a blade out. Gloves, too. Combat-use. If you've got anything with machine insulation built in, I'm interested."
That got a nod. She pointed with the end of her needle to the far rack.
First one I saw was a coal-black long coat, stitched from treated hide—animal origin, likely bison—and lined along the back and shoulders with machine insulation mesh from a downed Snapmaw or Ravager. The material shimmered faintly under the light—resistant, reactive, flexible enough to move in but dense enough to take a hit.
Item: Ironweave Long Coat – Machine-Reinforced Outerwear
Material: Tanned bison hide, reinforced with salvaged machine insulation (acid/fire-resistant)
Bonuses:
– +4 defense vs slashing
– +2 resistance vs fire and corrosion
– Inner loops for shoulder-slung weapon holsters
Cost: 520 shards
Next, a pair of combat gloves with hardened knuckles. Bone plating over the fingers—possibly carved from Deathclaw digits—and the inner palm padded with shock-absorbing fabric I recognized as Watcher joint lining.
Item: Griptide Knuckles – Armored Combat Gloves
Material: Hide, joint-dampening padding, knuckle plating from scavenged beast-bone
Bonuses:
– +10% unarmed strike force
– Reduced recoil from blunt impacts
Cost: 240 shards
Then I spotted something for layering—a Softsteel Vest, designed to wear beneath the coat. Light alloy threading woven into fabric, scavenged from pre-Fall hazard suits or medical shielding wraps. Not pretty. Very effective.
Item: Softsteel Weave Vest – Underlayer Defense
Material: Alloy-threaded textile, resistant to piercing/projectile trauma
Bonuses:
– +6 defense vs bullets and arrows
– -5% chance of critical injuries from precision strikes
Cost: 580 shards
The Stitcher finally spoke again.
"I don't sell robes for dancing. Everything here is for hunting and battle. You want something to keep you pretty, talk to the Carja. You want something to live through, make your pick."
I turned the gloves over in my hands, feeling the weight of the knuckle plating—dense, pale, slightly ridged.
I frowned.
"These," I said, holding one up. "Is that Deathclaw bone?"
The Stitcher's needle paused mid-stroke. Her eyes finally met mine—steady, flat, serious.
"Yeah," she said. "It is."
She set the hide in her lap, thread still dangling.
"Every part of a Deathclaw is useful. Claws, teeth, marrow, even the organs. Their stomach acid can strip paint off metal. Their hides? Better than half the armor plating the Ironbones patch together."
She leaned back slightly, voice cooling like a forge about to harden steel.
"But we don't make full suits from their hide unless you helped kill the beast yourself."
I raised an eyebrow. "Tradition?"
"Respect," she said bluntly. "You don't wear a Deathclaw's hide unless you've bled with it in battle. Armor carries memory—and we don't dress cowards in the skin of monsters."
She nodded toward the gloves.
"Those? Leftovers. Cut from scrap. Claws too small for chestplates. Joints too warped to fit greaves. That's why I can sell them to anyone with the coin and sense to use 'em."
I rotated one of the gloves again, this time with a little more care. Bone that once cracked ribs now fitted to my fingers. Not ceremonial. Not sacred.
Functional.
Deadly.
set the gloves down gently and nodded toward the long coat and the vest hanging behind her.
"I want all three," I said. "The gloves, that long coat, and the vest beneath it."
The Stitcher raised an eyebrow but didn't argue.
"That'll run you... 520 for the coat, 580 for the vest, 240 for the gloves."
She tapped her thread-wrapped knuckle against her worktable.
"Total: 1,340."
[Market Gut Activated]
Estimated fair bundle value: 1,005–1,050 shards (25% markdown appropriate for bulk buy with no fitting or custom work.)
Vendor expects pushback.
I folded my arms, keeping my tone level. "They're all pre-made. No custom fitting. No trim. I'm not asking you to spell my name in glyphs across the back. 1,000 shards flat."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Not many people walk into my stall and try to trim the price."
I gave a half-smile. "I'm not most people."
She stared at me a beat longer, needle resting between her fingers like a blade she hadn't decided whether to use.
Then she let out a grunt and turned toward the back wall.
"I don't haggle because I like the sound of it," she muttered. "I haggle because fools pay full price."
She unhooked the vest, folded it once, then grabbed the long coat and gloves.
"1,000," she said. "No further bartering. No returns. No whining if you outgrow it."
"Deal," I said, passing her the shards and watching her count each one with the precision of a woman who'd done this in war camps and firelight.
[-1,000 Shards] → [Total: 784 Shards]
Items Acquired:
– Ironweave Long Coat
– Griptide Knuckles
– Softsteel Weave Vest
She handed over the bundle. Heavy. Serious. Worth every shard.
"You get yourself killed," she said, "do it in something someone else will want to strip off you."
I smirked. "I'll try to fall face-down."
I gave the Stitcher a nod as I took the bundle.
"Appreciate the honesty," I said. "And the price."
She gave a grunt that might've been approval. "Don't thank me 'til it keeps your ribs where they belong."
I stepped out into the fading light and unwrapped the gear.
First, the Softsteel Vest—thin, flexible, but with just enough weight to remind me it wasn't cloth. I shrugged out of my current undershirt, slipped the vest over the bodysuit, and cinched the side straps. Tension spread evenly across the chest.
Next, the Ironweave Long Coat.
The moment I slid it over my shoulders, the weight settled across my back like an oath. It didn't cling. Didn't flap. It hung—steady, balanced, protective. The machine insulation sewn through the interior flexed as I moved, and the collar rose high enough to shield my neck without biting into it.
Then came the Griptide Knuckles.
They were tight. Not stiff, just snug—especially across the knuckles and first joints. I flexed each hand slowly. The tension was real, but not uncomfortable.
Better too tight than too loose.
Loose gets you killed.
I closed my fists. The bone plating pressed back—silent, solid.
Now I looked the part.
Now I felt it.
And if I was lucky, I'd survive long enough to make this gear matter.
The weapons quarter quieted as I stepped in. No shouting here. Just fire, steel, and the heavy rhythm of people making things that kill.
I passed racks of javelins, hook-knives, and wire-wrapped clubs—functional, brutal tools meant for close-range endings.
Then I saw it.
A long, heavy-framed launcher, resting on a table built from shattered armor plating and fused bone. It wasn't sleek. It wasn't elegant.
But it was exactly what I needed.
Twin launch arms. Tension-bound cable coils. Anchor sockets for barbed rope heads. It looked more like a hunter's siege weapon than a precision tool—but I recognized the shape.
This was a machine-binder. A rope weapon built to take the legs out from something big.
There was a name scorched into the stock, written in Kansani glyphs, already half-read by my Focus:
"Binds of Iron"
Type: Heavy Restraint Launcher
– Fires twin high-tension tether lines
– Effective against large, fast-moving prey
– Hooks designed for deep-set anchoring
– Manual reload | Capacity: 12
Cost: 720 shards
The tethers weren't smooth. They were serrated—designed to bite and hold. The cord looked handmade, braided with precision. This wasn't for mercy.
It was for dominance.
I ran a hand along the spine of the launcher. It hummed slightly with residual tension. Solid. Heavy. A lot of back-end pull on the draw, but that just meant it wasn't forgiving. Like most good things in this world.
"You know what that is?" came a voice from behind the table.
I looked up.
The weaponsmith was built like old rope—lean, sun-beaten, eyes sharp under faded paint.
"Yeah," I said. "I do."
He grunted. "Ain't for small prey. You miss your shot, they don't give you a second one."
"I don't plan to miss."
That got a small smirk.
"Cords aren't cheap. You get six with it. Break 'em or waste 'em, you'll need to pay full to replace. No free spools, no loose ends."
I nodded, still inspecting the load slots.
The barbs weren't just anchors—they were deterrents. You didn't just pin something with this. You warned it.
"I'll take it," I said, straightening.
The smith gave me a long look, then tapped the burn-carved price slate beside the launcher.
"Seven-twenty," he said flatly. "That's the price."
I rested a hand on the weapon's grip. Heavy. Solid. But I knew the markup.
"Looks like it's been sitting a while," I said. "Dust in the spool rack. Grip's sun-faded."
[Market Gut Activated]
Estimated fair trade value: 580–640 shards
Vendor is charging for scarcity, not labor.
I gave him a small nod.
"Six hundred flat," I said. "You're not carving the frame from Ravager bone. This is steel, cord, and sweat."
The smith didn't blink. "This isn't some Nora net-gun. It pins machines, not dreams. Barbed cords are ironbone-forged. Balanced coils. It works."
"Not arguing that," I said, shrugging. "I'm just saying that if I'm going to test this thing on something bigger than a Grazer, I'd rather do it with room left in my pouch for medical supplies."
He squinted at me. Grunted.
"Six-fifty," he said at last. "That's as low as I go, and you get the six cords preloaded. Any less, and I'd rather keep it for when something dangerous needs tying down."
I nodded.
"Deal."
I counted out the Shards—clean, quick—and handed them over. He passed me the weapon without ceremony, just weight and silence.
[-650 shards] → [Total: 134 shards]
Item Acquired: "Binds of Iron" – Heavy Restraint Launcher
Ammo: Barbed Cord x6
The weapon rested solid against my back, heavy but needed.
But I didn't leave the quarter.
Not yet.
I followed the smell of forge smoke and pressure-steamed metal into the outer edge of the market, where the stalls weren't just merchants—they were declarations. Blackened iron racks. Blade-stock tables reinforced with machine spine. Hadn't seen them yet but I was guessing where the Ironbone did trade outside their forges.
That's when I saw it.
A hammer.
Not some tribal club with ideas above its weight—a real hammer. Long-handled. Thick-necked. The head was slabbed with something dark and dense—machine bone maybe, or alloy I couldn't place—etched with harsh glyphs and wrapped in vent coils like it could breathe smoke.
It wasn't labeled.
Didn't have to be.
Because I knew what I was looking at.
A Super Sledge.
Or at least... the spirit of one. Rebuilt. Reforged. Tribalized.
Two Oseram stood in front of the table, already at each other's throats in the polite way men with Shards argue before knives get involved.
"Eight-fifty," the first one said, crossing his arms over a forge-burned vest.
"Try nine-fifty," the second snapped.
The Ironbone rep behind the table said nothing. Just leaned against a pole wrapped in soot-black leather and let them keep climbing their own funeral pyre.
The hammer didn't move. Didn't gleam. Just sat there.
Heavy.
Like it was waiting.
I took a few steps closer. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to read the lines. The weight curve. The way the neck flared where the vent system met the haft. It didn't use fusion coils like the Old World sledgehammers I remembered. But it didn't need to.
Whatever it was?
I didn't know the name. But I knew weight when I saw it.
A low chuckle pulled my attention sideways.
An older Kansani man stood a few paces off—arms crossed, watching the Oseram bark numbers at each other like it was foreplay before a duel. His face paint was faded, his tunic scorched from forge soot and time, but his eyes were sharp. Amused.
I nodded toward the hammer. "What is that thing?" I asked. "The one they're about to knife each other over."
He didn't answer right away.
Just let the laugh roll out again—dry, rasping, almost fond.
"That?" he said, tilting his chin toward the weapon. "That's a Suncrusher. Ironbone-made. Rare. Loud. Hits like regret."
One of the Oseram shouted "eleven-fifty" behind him, voice cracking just enough to sound desperate.
The Kansani man smirked. "Oseram lose their minds over those things. Doesn't matter if they've got two already—they see one on a table, and suddenly they're poorer and angrier."
I looked back at the hammer. The way it sat. Heavy, still. Like it was judging them right back.
"Why the obsession?"
The Kansani shrugged. "Because it does what they wish they could. It doesn't argue. It doesn't break. And when you swing it, the world listens."
He glanced at me, eyes narrowing just a touch. "You thinking of joining the bid?"
I shook my head. "Not today."
"Smart," he said. "Better to let fools bleed their Shards first. You'll get your chance. The Sun always sets twice for the patient."
I nodded once, watching the Oseram raise the price again like they hadn't heard themselves the first time.
I watched the price creep toward twelve hundred like someone had set fire to both their wallets and pride.
"I know the Oseram love their hammers," I muttered, "but what makes that one so special?"
The Kansani man didn't answer right away.
Just snorted, spat off to the side, and gave me a look like he was about to explain why fire burns.
"That," he said, jerking his chin toward the hammer, "is made from the head of a Hammerrunner. You seen one of those yet?"
"Don't think so," I said.
He grinned, half amused, half pitying. "You'd know if you had. They're machines—only show up in the flatlands. Legs like tree trunks, dome skull like a piledriver. They knock down unstable walls, crack open rock lines, and smash trees like they owe them money."
I raised an eyebrow. "Sounds friendly."
"They ain't," he said. "Not to anything standing still. You hear one coming? You run sideways or you get turned into a stain."
He shifted his weight, rubbing his jaw with the back of one knuckle. "That hammerhead? That's part of a Hammerrunner skull. Denser than anything we've tried cutting with standard forge gear. Ironbones have to heat it for half a day just to shape the curve."
"And the shaft?" I asked.
He tapped the side of his own wrist like he was reminding himself of an old injury.
"Built using pieces from the machine's leg joints. Shock stuff. Pressure coils. Keeps the hammer from rattling your arms off when you swing. Ironbones weld 'em right into the haft—means you can hit with your full weight and not break yourself in half."
He glanced back toward the arguing Oseram.
"One of them's gonna end up sleeping with it under their bed like it's a wife."
I looked at the weapon again. A machine skull turned into a weapon, wrapped in burn marks and practical spite.
The Kansani man leaned a little closer, voice dropping like he was passing along tribal wisdom.
"You know what I heard?" he said. "I heard a scout once took a Hammerrunner hit low in the belly—grazed him, not even full-on. Dropped to his knees, grabbed his gut like he'd swallowed a bear."
"What happened?" I asked.
"He tried to shit himself," the man said dead serious. "Said he thought if he emptied out fast enough, maybe his organs wouldn't turn to paste."
I blinked.
The Kansani grinned like it was his favorite punchline.
"Didn't work," he added. "But I guess it made the cleanup easier."
I couldn't help it—I huffed once through my nose, shaking my head.
I glanced back at the two Oseram, still barking numbers like Shards grew on trees.
"How rare is that thing?" I asked. "They're bidding like it's the last one on the continent."
The Kansani man snorted, arms crossing again.
"It ain't that they're hard to make," he said. "It's that the Oseram buy four out of every five the Ironbone forge."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
He nodded, voice dipping into that annoyed pride the Kansani carried like a second weapon. "Soon as a hammer gets cooled and marked, some forge-fingered drunk with Shards shows up trying to throw coin at it. They'd trade their teeth if it meant walking back to the Claim with a Suncrusher strapped to their back."
I looked at the hammer again. Heavy. Balanced. Meant to break things that didn't like being broken.
"And you just… let them take them?"
"We used to," he said, jaw tightening. "Not anymore."
I raised an eyebrow. "What changed?"
"The Elders," he said. "Put their foot down last season. Said we needed weapons like that in Kansani hands—not just lining Oseram vaults or swinging around in bar fights."
He nodded toward the Ironbone rep still standing behind the table, arms crossed and silent while the Oseram kept climbing the Shard ladder.
"They put a cap on it now. One out of five goes to outsiders. The rest stay here—issued through trial, merit, or war need. No more selling everything that roars just 'cause someone offered a sack of shiny metal."
I grunted. "So the Ironbones still make them, but now they've got to play favorites."
"They hate it," the Kansani man said with a chuckle. "But they know we're right."
He looked at me again, a little more pointed this time.
"You want a Suncrusher now?" he asked, smirking.
"Not yet," I said. "But if I ever earn one…"
I looked back at the hammer.
"…I want one the Elders don't sell."
"…I want one the Elders don't sell."
The Kansani man nodded slowly, his smirk turning into something heavier. Not mocking. Just real.
"Then you earn it the same way our best do."
I turned slightly, watching him as the two Oseram behind us kept arguing into higher and dumber numbers.
"If you bring back enough Hammerrunner heads—clean ones, not cracked—and the shock absorbers still intact?" he said. "The Ironbone clan will forge you one."
I raised an eyebrow. "How many's enough?"
"Three gets you noticed," he said. "Five and they'll listen. Ten?"
He whistled low.
"Ten gets you a seat at the forge table and your pick of the features. You want custom vents? Rear coil boosters? A grip carved to fit your swing hand?" He leaned in a little. "They'll make it sing your name if the parts are good enough."
I looked back at the hammer. The gleam of metal layered over machine history. The kind of weapon you didn't carry unless you were ready for everything it said about you.
"Ten heads, huh?"
The Kansani shrugged. "Don't have to be in one trip. Just keep the tallies honest. Bring the cores, the skull plates, and the coils. Don't cheat the weight, and don't bring junk."
I nodded once. "Got it."
He watched me a second longer, then gave a small grunt of approval.
"Most outsiders think it's just a hammer," he muttered. "You? You're asking the right questions." Then he turned and walked off,
🔨 Side Quest Initiated: Hammer in Hand
Type: Weapon Forging Quest | Ironbone Recognition Path
Status: Inactive (Tracked)
Objective:
Prove your worth to the Ironbone Clan and the Kansani Elders by collecting and delivering Hammerrunner components required to forge a personal Suncrusher warhammer.
Requirements:
✅ Speak with a Kansani observer near the Ironbone quarter (Complete)
☐ Deliver 3 intact Hammerrunner skull plates (minimum)
☐ Deliver 3 full shock absorption cores (from Hammerrunner leg systems)
☐ Optional: Deliver 10 total sets for a fully customized Suncrusher (name-etched, balanced, vented)
Reward Tiers:
3 Sets: Ironbone attention. Minor weapon stock access.
5 Sets: Standard Suncrusher forged to match fighting stance.
10 Sets: Custom Suncrusher — engraved, coil-boosted, matched to grip strength and stance preference. Gains nickname recognized by Kansani forge records.
Forge Clan Conditions:
All parts must be intact.
No double-counting cracked components.
Only Hammerrunner parts accepted—other machine components disqualified.
I turned to go, the weight of new purpose settling right between my shoulder blades.
But the Kansani man's voice called after me—low, steady, and carrying the kind of tone people use when they've seen things go wrong.
"One more thing," he said.
I paused. Looked back.
"If you're hunting Hammerrunners…" He tapped two fingers against his chest, just over the heart. "Don't get greedy."
I raised an eyebrow. "Greedy?"
He nodded, jaw tightening slightly. "You kill too many of them in one stretch? You might wake up a Gatecrasher."
I didn't say anything. Just waited.
He explained anyway.
"They're bigger. Meaner. Built for breaking buildings. Whole skull's one long armored wedge. You see one of them coming across the flats, that means something pissed it off bad enough to send it moving."
"And Hammerrunners are part of that?"
"They're like the vanguard," he said. "Drumbeats before the charge. Gatecrashers follow their routes, use the cleared paths. So when enough of their little buddies stop reporting in…"
He let the silence hang.
"They come looking."
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
"Noted."
He gave a slow nod, no smirk this time.
"You want a Suncrusher, you'll have to take the risk. Just don't forget—some machines don't roar when they hunt. They just roll over everything and keep going."
I nodded once and turned away, boots crunching softly on forge-blackened stone.
Ten heads.
One hammer.
And a very pissed-off building breaker waiting at the end of the road if I got greedy.
The Kansani man called after me one last time, voice flat and final. "You'll know a Gatecrasher when you see one."
I didn't look back. I already knew I'd be seeing one sooner than I wanted.
Then I heard my name called through the forge-lane chatter. "Rion!"
I turned and saw Sula moving through the crowd with purpose. There was a different energy in her stride—more forward lean, less weight in her shoulders. Her braid bounced with each step, her eyes scanning until they locked on mine.
She had a pep to her step now.
Not quite a smile, not joy exactly, but it was there in the way she walked.
Relief.
I didn't need to ask. Jorta was going to be okay.
She didn't say it. She didn't have to.
I just nodded once, and we fell into step together as the market noise closed behind us.