Gear

Steven stepped out of the mage tower, the weight of Eldrin Frostvein’s praise lingering like a faint hum in his ears. His golden vision and D-rank exploits had carved a notch in the guild’s lore, but his tattered tunic—ripped and bloodstained from the cave—clung to him like a rag. He needed armor, something sturdy yet free. Metal clanked too heavy, cloth fluttered too frail—leather hit the sweet spot. With 1 gold, 3 silver, and 51 copper jangling in his pouch, he set off for Trish’s shop, the leatherworker who’d crafted his Rabbit Fury Fur gloves.

The bell above her door jingled as he entered, sunlight spilling across racks of hides and tools. “Be with ye in a moment!” Trish’s gruff voice boomed from the back, her muscular frame hunched over a workbench. Steven waited, eyeing a half-finished belt studded with bone, until she turned, wiping her hands on a rag. “Ah, Steven, gracin’ my shop again. What can I do ye for?” she rumbled, her smoker’s rasp playful. He smirked inwardly—She could do me for free—but kept it professional, brushing off the flirt. “Need new armor—mine’s shredded, as ye can see,” he said, tugging at the torn fabric clinging to his chest. She nodded, eyeing the damage. “Aye, ye’ve been through it. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

He dumped his loot on her counter: 2 Rabbit Fury Fur, 20 King Crab Chitin, 5 Wyrmling Scales, and 10 Small Dragon Scales, the last glinting with an iridescent sheen. Trish’s eyes widened, a low whistle escaping her lips. “Gods below, lad—where’d ye snag this haul? I can work magic with that lot.” She leaned in, fingers tracing the scales. “Ye use fists, right? Somethin’ sleeveless for a shirt, keep yer arms free, and pants to match—sound good?” Steven nodded, picturing it—light, tough, built for brawling. “Exactly.”

Trish grinned, already scheming. “Right then—let’s craft ye somethin’ fierce.”

He cleared his throat, cutting through her reverie. “How much is this gonna cost me?”

Trish straightened, wiping her hands on her apron, her gruff voice rumbling with a hint of amusement. “Well, lad, ye’ve brought me a king’s ransom in materials—don’t need to buy a scrap from me, so that’s half the battle. Sleeveless shirt, pants, built for yer fists… Lemme tally it.” She tapped a finger against her chin, muttering as she calculated. “Fur’s tough, flexible—perfect for the pants’ joints. Chitin’s hard as nails, light too—shirt’s base, maybe layered. Wyrmling scales for reinforce, dragon scales for flair and extra bite… Labor’s the kicker—stitchin’ this lot ain’t quick.”

She eyed him, sizing up his bloodied, tattered state. “Base cost, no materials—20 copper for a simple leather set, shirt and pants. But this?” She gestured to the haul. “Custom, top-tier—40 copper for the work, plus a bit o’ magic to bind it right. Call it 50 copper total. Fair?” Her brows lifted, waiting.

Steven nodded, his pouch heavy with 1 gold, 3 silver, and 51 copper—50 copper was a steal for what she’d craft, a mere dent in his dragon-slaying windfall. “Deal,” he said, fishing out the coins. Trish smirked, sweeping the loot closer. “Right then—let’s make ye somethin’ worthy o’ that D-rank shine.”

Steven left Trish’s shop, the clink of tools and her low mutter fading behind him as he stepped into the Mistveil’s fog-draped streets. With 1 gold, 3 silver, and 1 copper still weighing his pouch, and the day stretching long before him, he felt restless—his new armor simmering in Trish’s hands, but his D-rank blood itching for more. The cave called, its depths whispering unfinished business. He turned west, retracing his steps to the cliffs where he’d felled the young dragon.