POV - Azra'il
I awoke to the first rays of sun filtering through the grimy window of my room at The Choked Serpent. Not from anxiety. Not from childish excitement for a new adventure. Just… keen interest. The kind of interest that came from knowing that today I would have access to knowledge that books did not teach, that Piltover factories did not replicate, that only years of practical experience and dedication to a craft could produce.
[Good morning. Detecting subtle cortisol increase, heart rate slightly elevated but within expected parameters for anticipation of an interesting event. Approved.]
[You're welcome. It's what I'm here for. Well, that and mercilessly mocking you at inappropriate moments.]
I dressed in my Bilgewater clothes, practical, shabby, appropriate, and went downstairs to find Morgana already on the ground floor, sitting at one of the tables with a mug of something that was technically coffee if you weren't fussy about definitions.
"Sleep well?" she asked as I sat down.
"Adequately." I accepted a piece of bread Tahn had left out, hard, but edible, and chewed on it while processing the day ahead. "Today we visit the workshop."
"I noticed your… focused interest on the subject."
"It's a rare opportunity. An artisan who surpasses industrial production using only skill and traditional tools. From a craftsmanship study perspective, it's fascinating."
"From an 'Azra'il has found a new topic of obsession' perspective, it's predictable."
"'Obsession' is a strong word. I prefer 'intense professional interest'."
"Of course you do."
Tahn appeared from the kitchen, wiping his tentacles with a cloth that was probably dirtier than what he was cleaning.
"Abigail's workshop," he said without preamble. "You two know where it is?"
"I have general directions," I replied.
He gave me that look of 'I'm not going to ask how you always know where things are'. "It's in the eastern part of the docks. A more… organised district. Fewer casual stabbings, more legitimate trade. Look for a two-story building with a 'Fortune' sign. You can't miss it; it's the only place in the area that doesn't look like it's falling apart."
"Noted. Thank you."
"And Azra'il?" He leaned in slightly. "Abigail is a professional. Serious. She doesn't like to waste her time on curious folk who just want to touch expensive guns. If you go there, be respectful. Show that you know what you're talking about. She responds well to genuine knowledge but has no tolerance for amateurs."
"Understood. Professional respect."
"Good." He moved away. "And be back before nightfall. The rule still applies."
We left The Choked Serpent half an hour later, the sun already rising in the Bilgewater sky and bringing with it the damp, salty heat that seemed to permeate every breath.
The walk through the city was… interesting.
With Eos's mental map, navigating the chaotic streets was simple. But what caught my attention was the gradual change in the neighbourhood as we moved from the territory around Tahn's tavern towards the eastern district.
"It's getting less… apocalyptic," I observed as we passed through a street where the buildings seemed to have been constructed with a real intention to remain standing, not just piled up until gravity decided otherwise.
"Less blood on the streets," Morgana agreed. "Fewer people with obviously visible knives. Still Bilgewater, but perhaps… Bilgewater with aspirations."
[Architectural analysis confirms: This area has an estimated structural collapse rate of only 40%, compared to 73% at the main docks. Progress.]
The streets here were wider. Cleaner, relatively speaking. There was less abandoned wreckage, fewer piles of rotting rubbish in the corners, less of the oppressive stench of open sewers. It still smelt of Bilgewater, salt, fish, damp wood, but it was tolerable. Almost breathable without the urge to retch.
And then we saw it.
The Fortune workshop stood out like a jewel amidst the rubble.
Not that it was ornate or luxurious. It was simply… solid. Well-maintained. A two-story building made of wood that looked as though it had been properly treated, not just left to rot under the sun and salt. The windows had glass, real glass, not just boarded-up holes or stretched canvas. The door was sturdy, made of heavy wood with metal hinges that weren't rusted into uselessness.
And above the door, a simple but confident sign:
FORTUNE - GUNSMITH
Nothing more. No advertisements. No exaggerated promises. Just the name and the trade. It made it clear: if you don't know who Abigail Fortune is and why you should seek her out, you're not a customer she wants.
"This is almost civilised," Morgana murmured. "By Bilgewater standards, this is a palace."
"Serious craftsmanship requires a serious environment," I observed, studying the structure. "It's hard to produce precision work when your roof is literally caving in on you."
[Also: The workshop has visible security measures. See the windows, iron bars on the ground floor. The door has a quality lock, likely multiple. And there's what appears to be a makeshift alarm system, those bells hanging on the corner that would ring if anyone tried to climb. She takes protecting her inventory seriously.]
We approached the door. I took a deep breath, not out of nerves, just… mental preparation. I was about to meet a master artisan. The proper protocol was respect, genuine interest, and not asking stupid questions that would demonstrate ignorance.
I knocked on the door. Three firm, clear raps.
There was the sound of movement inside. Footsteps. Something metallic being placed on a wooden surface. Then the door opened.
The woman who appeared was… impressive.
Not in the sense of conventional beauty, although she had the kind of presence that made you pay attention at once, but in the sense of competence radiating from her every aspect.
Abigail Fortune looked to be in her forties, possibly younger, but with fine lines that came from decades of focused work. Her hair was a vibrant red, even tied back in a tight bun at the top of her head, with a few streaks of grey at her temples she apparently didn't care to hide. Her eyes were a clear, light blue. Her face had a strong bone structure, a few faded freckles, and the expression of someone who had seen a great deal, survived more, and had no patience for nonsense.
But what truly caught the eye were her hands. An artisan's hands. Calloused. Stained with old burns from hot metal, small white scars dotting her fingers and palms. Short, practical nails. Hands that knew how to create, to build, to shape. Hands that had spent years mastering a craft to the point of mastery.
She wore a heavy leather apron over practical clothes, a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, thick canvas trousers, sturdy boots. There were tools hanging from a belt around her waist: small hammers, pliers, something that looked to be a precision calliper.
Her eyes sized us up in three seconds. Thorough. Efficient. Categorising: Threat? No. Customers? Perhaps. A waste of time? To be determined.
"Can I help you?" Her voice was clear, direct. A business-like tone.
"Abigail Fortune?" I asked, keeping my tone respectful but not subservient.
"Aye. And you are?"
"Azra'il. This is Morgana." I gestured to my Mother Raven. "We're travellers. We heard of your work. We'd like to see your workshop, if you'd permit it."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Not hostility. Just… calculation. "Travellers. From where?"
"Piltover, most recently. But we have been through Noxus and the Freljord. We are from Demacia, originally, though."
"And what do Demacian travellers want with a Bilgewater gunsmith?" Not an accusation. Pragmatic curiosity.
"Knowledge," I answered honestly. "Bilgewater firearms have a reputation for being superior to the mass-produced ones in Piltover, excluding hextech modifications. I want to understand why. What techniques are used. What materials. How a single artisan can surpass industrial production."
Something in her expression changed. It didn't soften exactly, but… interest. A recognition that I was not a curious tourist wanting to touch expensive things.
"You know guns," she said. A statement, not a question.
"I do. My primary knowledge is in bladed weapons, swords, mainly. But I understand the fundamentals of firearms. Ballistics, firing mechanisms, the metallurgy required for barrels that don't explode after three shots."
[Careful. You're about to mention past lives. Rephrase.]
"I've studied with smiths and manuscripts in…" I paused, "various places. I learned the craft. I respect craftsmanship."
Abigail studied me for a longer moment. Then, to my surprise, she took a step back, opening the door wider.
"Come in. But touch anything without permission and I'll throw you in the harbour."
"Fair enough," I agreed, stepping inside.
The workshop's interior was like entering a different world.
The contrast with the Bilgewater outside was stark. Where outside was chaos, filth, and a constant stench, inside here was… order. Cleanliness. Purpose.
The smell hit me first, not the familiar stink of rotting fish and sewage, but the clean, almost comforting perfume of metal, gunpowder, and gun oil. The smell of work. Of creation. Of things being built by competent hands.
[Olfactory analysis: Gunpowder (68% of air composition), gun-cleaning oil (23%), metal (primarily steel and bronze, 6%), and polished wood (3%). No decomposing biological compounds detected. It's… pleasant. Surprisingly so.]
The room was organised with an efficiency that would make Piltovan librarians weep with envy. Solid wooden shelves lined the walls, each one filled with carefully arranged weapons, pistols, muskets, rifles, each on its own stand, polished, maintained, with a small tag indicating specifications and price.
And the prices.
[Cataloguing: Basic duelling pistol - 550 gold cogs. Hunting musket - 700 cogs. Pair of repeating pistols - 800 cogs. Long-range rifle with adjustable sight - 950 cogs. And that pair in the corner…]
[For a pair of custom pistols. That is… impressive. And justified, considering the visible quality even from a distance.]
There was a workbench near the main counter, its surface clean, tools organised with military precision, gun parts in various stages of assembly or maintenance. Everything had a place. Everything was in its place.
The windows, those windows with real glass, let in natural light that illuminated the space without the need for dozens of smoky lamps. There were a few quality lamps for night work, but during the day, the sunlight was enough.
It was… professional. Serious. The sort of place where important work happened.
Morgana was looking around with an expression of someone genuinely impressed. "This is… unexpectedly pleasant. The first thing in Bilgewater that doesn't make me want to bathe immediately upon entering."
Abigail let out a sound that might have been a laugh. "Low standards, but I appreciate the sentiment." She moved to stand behind the counter, leaning against it with the posture of someone comfortable in her own domain. "So. Travellers who know about guns. You want to see the work, learn the techniques. Why? You're not planning on opening a competing workshop, I hope."
"No," I assured her. "Genuine academic curiosity. Respect for superior craftsmanship. And…" I hesitated, deciding honesty was the best path, "a personal fascination with how a lone artisan can outperform entire industrial systems."
She studied me. Then she glanced at Morgana. "And you? Do you share your…?"
"Daughter," Morgana filled in. "Adopted. And no, my interest in firearms is purely… practical. But I respect expertise when I see it."
"Mother hen?"
"A realistic mother who knows her daughter has a tendency to get into situations that require knowledge of appropriate weaponry."
Abigail let out a real laugh this time, short but genuine. "I understand completely." She gestured vaguely. "Feel free to look. Don't touch without asking. And if you have questions about techniques…" she paused, "intelligent questions, I might answer a few. Trade secrets stay with me, but the fundamentals… craft ought to be passed on, or it dies."
I moved closer to the nearest shelves, studying the weapons with the attention of someone who actually understood what they were looking at.
A flintlock pistol. The barrel was steel, a high-quality alloy, possibly with traces of nickel for corrosion resistance. The stock was dark wood, likely treated oak, ergonomically carved for a natural fit in the hand. The firing mechanism was visible through the partial transparency of the design, precise parts, tight tolerances, a watchmaker's work applied to a deadly weapon.
"These tolerances," I murmured, studying the mechanism, "are tighter than what I've seen in Piltover's weapons. How do you achieve such precision without industrial machinery?"
Abigail came closer, clear pride in her voice. "Hands. Hand tools. Time. And decades of combined experience, mine and my mother's before me, who learned from her mother." She pointed to the mechanism. "The factories make hundreds of guns a week. I make maybe five. Every piece is checked. Every fitting tested. If something is 0.1 millimetres out of spec, I remake it. There's no mass production here. There is only perfection, or failure."
"And the materials? The steel is superior."
"Noxus," she said simply. "Imported. Expensive as hell. But better than anything mined locally. And the wood is from Ionia, old-growth oaks, dense, stable. Again, expensive. But quality has a price."
"So you are using premium materials from multiple nations, processing them by hand to rigorous standards, and selling them at prices that reflect their true value." I nodded, impressed. "It's artisanal economics at its best."
"It's survival," Abigail corrected. "Bilgewater has a dozen 'gunsmiths' who make cheap junk that'll blow up in your face after ten shots. I make guns that work. Always. My reputation is my life. One failed gun, one person dies because of me, and no one buys from me again. So I do not fail."
There was a weight to those words. A responsibility. She wasn't making products. She was making survival tools for people in a city where survival was negotiated daily with violence.
"I respect that," I said, sincerely.
She nodded, something in her posture relaxing marginally. "You understand. Good." She turned, gesturing. "Come. I'll show you the workshop in the back. But first—"
The back door opened with a light creak of well-maintained hinges, and a figure entered carrying a wooden crate filled with what looked like metal components.
"Mother, I've finished organising the—"
She stopped upon seeing visitors.
I… noticed. With the objective, analytical recognition of someone who has seen many things across many lives and could still appreciate something aesthetically interesting when it appeared.
The girl, clearly Abigail's daughter by the obvious resemblance, was striking. She had red hair. Not a dark red like Abigail's, but a vibrant red, liquid fire, an intense crimson that seemed impossible to ignore even in a room with dozens of shiny metal objects competing for attention. It was long, wavy, falling over her shoulders in a cascade that contrasted starkly with the grey and brown tones of Bilgewater outside. As if someone had painted the one colourful thing in an entire city of greyscale.
Her eyes were light blue, not the common deep blue, but an almost translucent blue, the colour of a Demacian morning sky, of Freljordian true-ice, the sky before the Piltovan/Zaunite smog touched it, the sea before the Noxian ships stained it. Clear. Alert. Intelligent. Already appraising me with the same analytical intensity I was using to appraise her.
Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, not many, just enough to add… what, exactly? Character? A contrast to her skin, which was surprisingly clear and cared for for someone living in Bilgewater?
She was perhaps thirteen, fourteen. My age, roughly. A physique that spoke of good nutrition, not the starved leanness I'd seen in other Bilgewater children, but the healthy frame of someone who ate regularly and well. Arms defined from manual labour, but not the desperate muscle mass of one who fought for daily survival.
Practical clothes, hard-wearing trousers, a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a smaller apron than Abigail's but just as stained with residue of gunpowder and oil. There was a utility knife at her belt and what looked to be a small tool pouch.
She looked… healthy. Happy, even. She didn't have that 'I will rob you if you blink' vibe that permeated the street children of Bilgewater. Didn't have the calculating eyes of a young predator learning to survive through violence and cunning.
She looked normal. Cheerful. As if she were a child being a child, not a juvenile combatant being shaped by brutality.
And then the scent hit.
Not immediately. It took a second for the olfactory process to register because I had grown so used to the constant stench of Bilgewater that anything different was almost disorienting.
Apple.
Fresh, sweet, with that light, crisp acidity that suggested quality. The kind you would eat in an orchard during a perfect autumn.
And cinnamon.
A warm, inviting, comforting spice. The kind that made homemade desserts smell of home and safety.
And beneath it, almost imperceptible, traces of gunpowder and metal, evidence of hours spent in a workshop, working and learning the family trade.
The contrast with Bilgewater, with the constant stink of rotting fish, sewage, salt, sweat, and decomposition, was so abrupt my brain took a moment to process it.
It was not unpleasant. Far from it.
It was… pleasant. Remarkably so.
[Detecting unusual olfactory profile for a Bilgewater environment. Perfume applied intentionally, not a natural scent. Suggests self-care. Personal standards maintained despite the environment.]
[Also detecting a slight increase in your heart rate. 8%. Within normal parameters for casual interest, not panic or obsession. A hormonal teenage body responding to a positive stimulus.]
She placed the crate on the counter with the care of someone who knows the exact value of what they carry, and studied us with obvious but not hostile curiosity.
Her eyes settled on me first. Appraising. Cataloguing.
And there was something in her expression, confusion? Curiosity?
She was looking at me oddly. Not hostile. Just… trying to decide something.
[She is analysing you. Specifically: trying to determine your gender. Short hair, practical androgynous clothes, non-traditional feminine posture; you present with ambiguity. She is confused.]
"Mother?" She looked at Abigail, her eyes still occasionally flicking back to me with that curious expression. "Who are these people?"
Her voice was clear, slightly deep from shouting instructions on a firing range, carrying a Bilgewater accent but less heavy than most. A mid-range tone. Confident.
Abigail gestured to us with an economic motion. "Visitors. Travellers. Azra'il and Morgana." She paused, then added with a tone that carried slight approval, "They apparently have a genuine knowledge of firearms. Not idiot tourists."
Sarah sized us up again, more deeply this time, and I could see the moment she processed the information and came to conclusions.
"You're clearly not from Bilgewater," she said. Not an accusation. A statement of fact.
"No," I confirmed, keeping my tone casual. "We're travellers."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in hostility but in sharp analysis. "Too polite for Bilgewater. Too clean, even in ragged clothes. And you—" she pointed at me, studying me with an intensity that was almost tangible, "—you don't have the vibe of a Bilgewater kid. None of that 'I might rob you or stab you if necessary' look. You seem… different."
[She's perceptive. Very perceptive. Reads people as well as her mother. A necessary survival skill in Bilgewater, but impressive in someone so young.]
"A traveller," I corrected gently. "Who knows how to defend herself when necessary, but prefers not to start needless conflicts."
Sarah nodded slowly, accepting that. But there was still a curiosity in her eyes, especially when she looked at me. As if trying to solve a puzzle.
Then, with a directness I appreciated: "You're a girl, right? Or…?"
"A girl," I confirmed without embarrassment. It wasn't the first time someone had asked. Short hair and an androgynous look tended to confuse people. "The hair throws people off sometimes."
"It's practical," she observed, still studying. "Short hair. Doesn't get in the way during work. Makes sense." Pause. "And it's… different. Unique. Don't see many girls with hair like that."
There was something in her tone. Not judgement. Interest? Approval?
[She likes the look. She's intrigued. Positively.]
"Practical is exactly the reason," I agreed. Then, with deliberate timing: "Though the specific length is less an aesthetic choice and more… a technical limitation. Morgana was never particularly skilled with scissors."
Morgana's head snapped around. "I heard that."
"You were meant to," I replied, maintaining an innocent tone. "Honesty is important in family relationships."
"I try," Morgana defended, but there was humour in her voice. "It's not my fault your hair has a mind of its own."
"You literally cut a whole section at a forty-five-degree angle last week."
"It was thirty, at most."
"It was practically diagonal."
"Dramatic."
Sarah was laughing now, a genuine, unguarded laugh that completely lit up her expression. "You let your mum cut your hair? Even knowing she's bad at it?"
"In my defence," I said, "the alternatives on the road are: dubious tavern barbers who probably use the same blade to cut hair and descale fish, or letting it grow until it becomes a problem during combat. Morgana's incompetent scissors are, surprisingly, the safer option."
"You offend me," Morgana commented, but she was smiling.
"You left me with a visible bald patch behind my left ear."
"It was fixable, eventually."
"It took three attempts."
"But I fixed it."
Abigail was watching the exchange with an expression of motherly amusement. "Relatable. Sarah hasn't let me near her hair with scissors since The Incident when she was eight."
"The Incident?" I repeated, curious.
Sarah covered her face with her hands, but she was laughing. "Mother tried to cut a fringe. It came out crooked. Very crooked. I had to wear a bandana for two months until it grew out enough to be fixed."
"In my defence," Abigail said, echoing my earlier phrase, "I work with metal. Hair is a completely different structure. It requires skills I do not possess."
"Mothers and scissors," Sarah said, still laughing. "A universally dangerous combination."
"Apparently," I agreed.
[A moment of bonding over incompetent maternal hairstyling experiences. It is adorable. A connection is forming naturally.]
"And the white?" Sarah asked, returning to the original topic, her curiosity still clear. "Is it natural?"
"Born this way," I confirmed. "Naturally white-silver hair from the start. It's… unusual, but useful. Memorable. Easy to describe if someone's looking for you."
"It's pretty," Sarah said, then seemed to realise she'd said it aloud and quickly added, "unique, I mean. Striking. You stand out."
[OH. She's interested. Definitely interested. Notice how quickly she corrected herself? Revealed more than she intended.]
[Just noting objective facts. She thought you looked pretty. Said it aloud. Became slightly flustered. It's adorable.]
Morgana, who had been watching the exchange with that faintly amused motherly expression, intervened smoothly. "Azra'il tends to make memorable impressions. For better or worse."
"Mostly better, I hope," Sarah replied, a small smile starting at her lips. Then, returning her focus: "So you travel? Where have you been?"
"We are from Demacia originally," Morgana replied. "Then we travelled to the Freljord, which was a cold and memorable experience. Then Noxus, which was… educational in intense ways. Piltover most recently. And now Bilgewater." She paused, looking at me with that motherly humour. "Azra'il has a tendency to want to see everything, to learn from every possible place. Staying still is not an option."
"Piltover," Sarah repeated, and the interest in her voice increased noticeably. She moved closer, leaving her position near the door to stand nearer the counter where we were. "Did you see the guns there? The conventional firearms, not the hextech ones. Mother says Piltover's mass production is decent, but soul-less. Is that true?"
And just like that, we had entered a territory where I could move comfortably. A technical topic. Shared knowledge. No need to navigate complicated social waters.
"Your mother is correct," I replied, relaxing marginally. "Piltover's factories produce functional, reliable weapons for standard use. But they're made to average specifications. Mass production means compromises, tolerances wider than ideal, adequate but not premium materials, functional but unrefined finish. They work. But they are not art."
Sarah nodded with obvious enthusiasm, excited to have found someone who understood. "Exactly! Mother explains this constantly. Quantity versus quality. The factories make hundreds a week, but how many will work perfectly after a thousand shots without maintenance? Versus her guns—" clear, genuine pride in her voice, "—which work after ten thousand and only need a basic cleaning."
"And the hextech ones?" she continued, leaning forward with a curiosity she wasn't even trying to hide. "I've heard stories from travellers. Guns that never need to reload, that shoot bolts of pure energy, that never misfire because they're powered by magical crystals. Is it true, or a drunkard's exaggeration?"
Even safer territory. Technology. Facts. Analysis.
"True, mostly," I replied, organising the information mentally. "Hextech is the integration of mechanical technology with crystallised magic. Hex-crystals store and channel magical energy in usable forms. When applied to firearms, they eliminate the need for traditional gunpowder; the projectile is accelerated by a directed magical force, not a chemical explosion. That means no combustion residue, no need for constant barrel cleaning, and a significantly higher rate of fire."
I paused, making sure to present a complete picture. "But it has significant limitations. Hex-crystals are extremely expensive; a single basic hextech weapon costs more than a dozen high-quality conventional guns. And dependency is a problem: if the crystal cracks or fully discharges, the weapon is completely useless until it's replaced or recharged. You can't just add gunpowder as a backup. It is a total reliance on a rare, expensive, and technically complex resource."
Sarah processed this with the expression of someone actually thinking, not just listening. "So for mass military use, it's not practical yet. Too expensive to equip whole armies. But for an individual combatant with personal resources…" she left the sentence hanging, waiting for confirmation.
"A significant tactical advantage," I completed. "But even then, the effectiveness fundamentally depends on the user. A hextech weapon in the hands of an incompetent marksman still results in an incompetent marksman with very expensive equipment. Whereas a well-made gun—" I gestured to the shelves around us, to Abigail's work, "—in the hands of a trained and competent shooter is a far more lethal and reliable combination than expensive tech compensating for a lack of skill."
"Skill over equipment," Sarah said, smiling now, a genuine, unforced smile. "Mother repeats that at least three times a week."
"Your mother is wise."
[You are relaxed now. Tone of voice 12% softer than your normal baseline. You are… comfortable. You like this conversation. You like this person. Interesting.]
[Of course. 'Natural'. Definitely has nothing to do with red hair or the scent of apples or the fact she called you pretty three minutes ago.]
[Yes?]
[Noted. But not promised.]
Sarah had relaxed as well, her posture less defensive, her expression more open. "You really know your stuff. This isn't superficial knowledge from someone who read a book once. You understand. The mechanics. The limitations. The practical context."
"I study what interests me," I replied simply. "Weapons are fascinating tools. An intersection of metallurgy, physics, engineering, and art when done correctly. Worth dedicating the time to understand fully."
"Most people my age in Bilgewater don't think like that," Sarah said, and there was something in her voice, not loneliness exactly, but a recognition of isolation. "They see a gun as a tool for robbing or killing. Buy it, use it, toss it when it breaks. They don't understand the craft. The work. The dedication it takes. You…" she hesitated, searching for the words, "you get it. It's rare. Especially in someone my age."
There was a vulnerability in this admission. As if she didn't often have people she could talk to about this, about the passion for craft, for doing things right instead of fast, for seeking excellence instead of just minimal functionality.
"I get it because I've studied it," I replied, choosing my words with appropriate care. "Not specifically firearms, but craftsmanship in general. Blades mainly swords, knives, the metallurgy of the cutting edge. I've read manuscripts, studied technical diagrams, spoken with smiths when I had the opportunity during my travels. The principles transfer. Metallurgy. Heat treatment. Precision. Dedication. The understanding that the difference between adequate and exceptional is the hundreds of hours of focused work most people never see or appreciate."
Sarah was watching me with full attention now, and there was something in her expression, surprise? Heightened interest? "You've studied bladesmithing? From… books and diagrams?"
"Mostly. Technical manuscripts when I could get access. Observation of masters when they would allow it. Conversations when they were patient enough to answer a curious traveller's questions." I kept the explanation intentionally vague. "I've never forged a whole sword myself, but I understand the fundamentals. Metallurgy. Why certain steels work better for certain applications. How temperature affects the grain structure. How that impacts durability versus flexibility."
Sarah studied me for a long moment, and I could see her mind processing behind those clear blue eyes. "You talk about it as if you've done it. Not just read or observed. There's… a weight to it. An experience. Lived knowledge."
[Careful. She's sharp. She's noticing the inconsistency.]
"I visualise obsessively while I study," I offered, an edited truth, the safest kind. "I imagine every step of the process. I mentally test how the materials would react. I deeply analyse not just the 'how' but the 'why'. So when I speak of it, it carries more… context. Than the simple repetition of memorised facts."
Sarah accepted this with a thoughtful nod, but the curiosity still shone in her eyes. "You must have read a lot. And spoken with some truly exceptional masters. You talk like someone who understands. Deeply."
[She's not going to let this go easily. She's persistent. And too perceptive for her own good. Or yours.]
[It is also a potential complication. But yes. Admirable.]
From across the workshop, Morgana had briefly paused her conversation with Abigail and glanced in my direction.
Our eyes met for a second.
There was no interrogation in her gaze. Just that quiet acknowledgement of: 'You have your complexities. When you want to share, I will be here. Until then, I trust you to navigate this.'
She was used to my eccentricities by now. To the fact that I sometimes knew things, spoke with an experience, displayed knowledge that didn't perfectly match my apparent age.
Morgana never pushed. Just watched, accepted, and respected the privacy.
It was one of the many reasons things worked between us.
I returned my focus to Sarah. "Perhaps I just have a very good memory. And a tendency to get a bit obsessive with topics until I've completely mastered every nuance."
Sarah smiled, a smile that, objectively speaking, completely transformed her expression. It made her freckles dance. Made her eyes sparkle. It was… aesthetically pleasing.
[Your heart has accelerated. 11%. Within normal parameters. Body responding to a visual stimulus.]
[Of course. 'Objective'. I'm logging it as 'interested but controlled'.]
"It must be amazing," Sarah said, genuine longing in her voice now. "To travel like that. To meet different artisans. To learn from various masters in different places. To see how techniques vary between nations. I've never left here. Bilgewater. Mother says that one day, when I'm older and have fully mastered the craft, I might get to travel. But for now…"
"For now you learn here. With one of the best gunsmiths in Bilgewater, possibly in Runeterra, considering her reputation," I finished. "It's not a bad fate. In fact, it's an exceptional one. Many would pay fortunes for access to such training."
"It's not bad," she agreed quickly, looking over at where Abigail was explaining something to Morgana with an animated gesture. Obvious love and respect in her expression. "Mother's amazing. Best teacher I could ever have. It's just that sometimes I wonder about out there. Beyond the docks. Beyond this city. What the rest of the world is like."
There was a vulnerability in that admission, a desire for more, for beyond, for experiences her current life did not offer.
"Varied," I offered honestly. "Some places are civilised but boring. Others are dangerous in completely different ways from Bilgewater. But they all have something to teach. If you watch carefully. If you keep an open, curious mind."
"You watch everything," Sarah said, and there was admiration in her tone now. "I noticed when you came in. The way you looked at the workshop, not like an impressed tourist, but an analyst studying it. You don't just see. You mentally dissect everything around you."
[She is reading you very well. And clearly appreciates what she sees.]
"A lifelong habit," I replied with an edited truth. "Chronic curiosity. Morgana says I'll die one day because I saw something interesting and forgot to check if it was dangerous first."
Sarah laughed, a warm, unguarded laugh, and something in my cardiovascular system responded with a slight but measurable acceleration.
[13% increase. Consistent with the previous pattern. You are being affected. Subtly.]
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Author's Note 🏴☠️
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GENERAL ALERT 🚨🚨🚨
MISS FORTUNE HAS FINALLY APPEARED.
Yes. THE Miss Fortune. The redhead the community looks at and goes: "yeah, that one is cultural heritage." 🍎🔥
And for those of you who already came here from my Fairy Tail fanfic:
…I'm not saying anything.
I'm not confirming anything.
I'm not giving you details.
But I will leave this floating in the air, like the smell of gunpowder in a workshop:
in the future, Azra'il does have a romantic involvement with her.
And I know you're going to lose your minds.
Because I'm already losing mine and I'm the one writing it. 😭🤝
NOW, THE IMPORTANT PART: please comment.
I'm being very serious (in my own dramatic way): your comments are my energy and my motivation to keep writing.
When you comment, I turn into a machine.
When you don't, I turn into an NPC staring into the void at the docks of Bilgewater. 🧍♀️🌫️
So please, leave a comment.
It can be a theory, a meltdown, an "I loved it," a "REDHEAD!!!," emojis, friendly threats, anything. 💖