Private Procurement.

[Serina Calis]

Location: Chandrila, Open Market
Tag: Rayia Si
​

The marketplace of Chandrila sprawled beneath a shimmering noonday sky, its gilded arches and intricately paved pathways alive with color and motion. Merchants in flowing silks called out their wares, from shimmering fabrics that danced in the breeze to crystalline baubles that refracted the sunlight into fleeting rainbows. Chandrila's air, fragrant with the mingling aromas of exotic spices and blooming flowers, was punctuated by the rhythmic hum of melodic chatter. The grandeur of the market, with its harmonious blend of nature and opulence, reflected the planet's reputation as a hub of culture and refinement.

Through the crowd, a figure moved with an air of quiet authority, a presence both commanding and unassuming. Draped in a robe of deep, rich blue, the figure appeared to glide across the smooth, polished stone of the marketplace. The garment's elaborate floral and geometric patterns seemed to ripple with a life of their own as light danced across its textured surface. The ornate central panel, its delicate patterns of stylized leaves and blossoms, shimmered faintly with subdued tones, catching the eye of curious onlookers while maintaining an enigmatic subtlety.

The hood of the robe extended forward sharply, casting the figure's face into shadow. Beneath it, a sleek, metallic mask concealed every feature. Its angular design, etched with vertical grooves and faintly glowing lines, reflected the sunlight in a way that gave it an almost otherworldly sheen. The mask's symmetry was perfect, its lines sharp and unyielding, hinting at both precision and mystery. Wide, flowing sleeves trailed the figure's movements, the fabric catching the air as though imbued with a will of its own. Slender, gloved hands occasionally emerged from beneath the sleeves, their fingers slightly curved, evoking an almost feline grace.

As the figure wove through the crowd, they carried no weapon or visible tool, yet the marketplace seemed to part around them instinctively, people stepping aside without conscious thought. The figure paused now and then, their masked head tilting slightly as they regarded the wares of the many stalls lining the promenade. Though no words were spoken, their presence alone commanded a hushed respect.

Eventually, the figure approached a section of the market dominated by forges and smithies. Here, the air grew warmer, alive with the tang of molten metal and the rhythmic clang of hammer on steel. Stalls displayed an array of finely wrought weapons and armor, their gleaming surfaces proudly presented under the golden sunlight. But something about the displays seemed to cause the figure to hesitate.

One smithy proudly exhibited a collection of ornamental blades, their hilts encrusted with gemstones and their blades etched with swirling, decorative patterns. Another displayed polearms with hafts made of polished, lacquered wood, their heads shaped into elegant but impractical designs that looked more suited for a museum than a battlefield.

The figure stopped before a stall where a master smith—a broad-shouldered man with calloused hands—stood presenting his wares to an eager buyer. When the buyer departed, the figure stepped forward, their voice emerging soft but clear from behind the mask.

"These blades are works of art," they began, their tone smooth and measured, carrying a warmth that softened the edges of their critique. "But I fear they lack a certain… practicality."

The smith blinked in surprise at the comment, but the figure raised a gloved hand gently, as if to forestall any offense.

"Do not misunderstand me," they continued, the faintest lilt of charm in their voice. "Your craftsmanship is exquisite. The balance of these pieces speaks to your skill, but their purpose—should it not lie in their function before their beauty?"

The smith frowned, glancing at the weapons displayed. "They're meant to be admired and wielded," he said defensively, though his tone lacked conviction.

The figure's head inclined slightly, an almost imperceptible nod. "Admiration is indeed important. But what becomes of admiration when a blade falters in its strike? What becomes of beauty when it cannot withstand the chaos of battle?"

They gestured lightly toward a nearby halberd, its sweeping crescent blade engraved with delicate filigree. "For example, this halberd. It is striking, to be sure, but the blade lacks the reinforcement needed to pierce armor effectively. A single misstep in combat, and it would break. Were you to strengthen its spine and adjust the weight distribution—ah, but I digress."

The smith stared at the masked figure for a long moment, his brow furrowed, before finally nodding. "You've got an eye for detail. What exactly are you looking for, if I might ask?"

The figure's posture shifted slightly, their hands clasping before them. "A halberd, Daes Mar," they said, their voice quieter now, almost introspective. "One that balances elegance with function. A weapon meant not for display, but for purpose. Sturdy enough to endure, sharp enough to cut through chaos, and balanced enough to flow as an extension of its wielder."

The smith rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, but the mixture of surprise at the figure knowing his name couldn’t go away. "How do you? Never mind, I can forge something like that. It'll take time—weeks, perhaps."

"Time is no obstacle," the figure replied smoothly. "But I would prefer precision over haste."

With a faint inclination of their head, the figure stepped back, their robes trailing like wisps of shadow. Before they turned to leave, they offered a final, gentle word.

"You have a gift. Do not let the market shape your craft. Let your craft shape the market, Daes Mar."

And with that, the figure vanished into the crowd, leaving the smith completely shocked, pondering their words. As they walked, the sunlight danced once more across their ornate robes, their metallic mask gleaming faintly as they disappeared into the heart of the bustling market. Their movements were unhurried, their purpose clear, as they continued their search. In the grand expanse of Chandrila's opulent market, mystery lingered in their wake like a shadow stretching into the distance.

 

[Rayia Si]

Serina Calis

---

Normally, Rayia would avoid such crowded streets. Walking into such a crowd was, to a Felacatian, to submit themselves to a barrage of sights, sounds, smells, and even the vibration of individual movements. Sensations which in tight quarters only served to play off each other and heighten into a sprawling throng of sensory overload that permeated through the vicinity. And yet, there was nothing to be done.

Rayia’s reserves of suitable material for smithing aboard the Reaper had run dry. She wouldn’t be able to forge any new projects resupplying. Asking around had led her to Chandrila, whose noble families seemed to have a penchant for the more archaic practice. She would simply have to brave the storm. ‘Even if it does feel like a siren is shrieking directly into my ear.’

Groaning under her breath, Rayia rubbed two clawed fingers just above her right temple. She could already feel pressure building in her skull, and the prospects of a monstrous headache were already looming in the horizon. ‘Of course they put the steel market in the middle of everything,’ Rayia grumbled as her tail retracted into its sheath at the base of her spine. The movements around her grew fuzzy and eventually faded as her tail was smothered protectively. That was, at least, one sense she could modulate as she picked her way through the crowd.

Rayia passed the shops whose displays contained only finished works. She was unlikely to be able to convince any of those smiths to part with their ores and ingots for a fair price. After all, she would be introducing herself as competition in their eyes. Competition who would be directly designating their ability to put forth more pieces based on the sale. Rayia knew it would be far better if she was to simply find raw materials first.

As she turned down the third row of stalls, Rayia found what she hoped would turn out to be a decent bargain. ‘At the very least, the prices don’t make me want to gouge my eyes out. Well- except for the Phrik, but then again Phrik always does.’ The stall in question was a smaller, red tent with an adjoining repulsor sled hanging off the side. Laid distinctly by material, a series of slightly squat ingots were stacked atop each other on the sled. Probably for display purposes, if she had to guess. A natural draw of the eyes that served to distinguish from the rest of the crowd. Rayia could see that great care was put into the arrangement as the sloping sides of the tower of ingots formed an unbroken surface. Sidling out several ingots from their fellows with her dexterous, clawed fingers, Rayia waited patiently for the merchant to return to their stall.

 

[Serina Calis]

Location: Chandrila, Open Market
Tag: Rayia Si
​

The bustling marketplace seemed to hum with life, each stall a beacon of motion and sound, vying for the attention of the many passersby. Among the throngs of finely dressed patrons and merchants clad in vibrant attire, the dark, flowing figure cut a striking silhouette against the backdrop of Chandrila's gilded arches and marble walkways. The robe, deep blue and adorned with intricate floral and geometric patterns, seemed to ripple as though alive, catching the shifting light with a faint, almost hypnotic shimmer.

The mask beneath the figure's angular hood gleamed faintly, its symmetrical grooves catching the light in sharp, fleeting glints. The overall effect was both captivating and foreboding, drawing gazes while discouraging scrutiny. As the figure moved, the crowd unconsciously parted, a ripple of space opening in their wake.

The subtle warmth of molten metal and the sharp tang of smelted ore grew stronger as they approached the heart of the smithing district. The rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils provided a steady undertone to the chaos of the market's melody. It was a world of artisans and creators, of weapons that bore both beauty and potential, though the figure's earlier search had left them unimpressed.

Pausing near a small red tent marked by a neatly stacked display of ingots on a repulsor sled, the masked figure's head tilted slightly, as though observing something of interest. At the stall stood an unusual sight—a Felacatian woman, her clawed fingers deftly maneuvering several ingots with an ease that suggested familiarity with the craft. Her toned, athletic frame was a contrast to the delicate scarring and tattoos adorning her olive skin, hints of her heritage etched into her form.

For a moment, the figure simply watched, their unseen gaze appraising. Then, with a deliberate grace, they stepped closer, the soft sound of their robes brushing against the market stones barely audible over the clamor of the bazaar.

"You handle the material with a smith's touch," the figure said, their voice soft and measured, carrying a tone that was neither confrontational nor overtly familiar. It resonated with an underlying warmth, inviting conversation without demanding it.

They gestured lightly toward the ingots, their gloved hand moving with fluid precision. "Yet your choice of materials is curious. Forgive my presumption, but these are not the sort one selects for mere practice."

Tilting their head slightly, the figure took a step closer, though not enough to invade her space. "I have wandered this market in search of true artistry, yet I find myself disappointed by the focus on ornamentation over purpose. And now, I see a smith who appears to understand the value of substance over style."

The figure's posture remained poised, their presence commanding yet unobtrusive. After a brief pause, they continued, their tone shifting to one of subtle curiosity. "One rarely sees a Felacatian here, much less one with a clear appreciation for the forge. I wonder, what brings you to Chandrila's market? And more importantly, how do you put up with the crowd?"

The masked head inclined slightly, as though offering a gesture of respect or encouragement. Their gloved hands folded before them, the trailing fabric of their sleeves swaying gently with the motion.

"I hope you will forgive my questions. A craftsman's work always fascinates me, particularly when their purpose speaks louder than their polish."

The figure remained silent after that, their presence patient yet unyielding, awaiting the Felacatian's response with a composure that seemed unshakable amidst the clamor of the vibrant market.