Rusted, corroded, each vehicle sat upon the ruined A29 like a headstone. The wind ripped through, over and around the forgotten technology singing her mournful song for the dead that still sat strapped into their seats, forever locked in time, still trying to escape the fires. The fortunate dead. How Runolf envied them sometimes. To be forever at rest and without worry, pain or hunger. They would never hunger like he did, never thirst. Never tire. Runolf was so tired. His body ached from the long journey, his mind reminding he there was still much further to go until the end. For five years he had traveled the ruined causeways of a long defunct civilization to reach this moment. Runolf had staved off raiders and thieves, malnutrition and dehydration to arrive at this point in time. More specifically, this place. A thin smile of satisfaction slid across the mans face as his gaze turned upwards to the giant sign suspended over the expansive shattered asphalt. Night had began its long weary march to dominance but still in the waning light, the tall blonde haired man could still make out the faded white lettering on the grey rusted steel; Aimens.
Harsh blue eyes struggled to read the myriad of messages that had been scrawled across sign in spray paint, the colors varying and widely as the messages. The typical doom and gloom of those whom had no hope for the morrow, others attempting to spread the word of a fictional book and its "god" and its "son". Such trivialities often brought some form of comic relief to the man. Unenlightened fools who would never know what it meant to sit at The All Fathers side, feast in his halls or fight in his name. But it wasn't the cryptic words of Christ or the myriad of despair that had his attention. Lashed to the sign with rope or cord hung the still fresh corpse of a man, his hands hacked off at the wrists. The missing appendages hung from his neck, held in place by more rope. And nailed into the mans breast bone was a large white sign with a single word scrawled across in dark lettering; thief. Runolf's hand instinctively fell to the handle of his bastard sword, a crude weapon forged from the rubble of his homeland. He laughed quietly to himself as he released his grasp of the weapon. There was no cause for alarm here. A civilized society lay just beyond the sign, he doubted greatly there would be need for violence. Anyone that upheld laws and standards in this day in age gave him hope, just as he sought to give his own people. Runolf spat venomously at the ground. The honored dead deserved respect, but this thief deserved none. And none would be shown.
The mans eyes left the corpse and ventured beyond the welcoming sign and into the distance. Against the quickly darkening sky, what little light the city had began the valiant fight of staving off the darkness of night. Civilized indeed. These people had electricity, some form of power. In this day and age that was a rare thing. He mused for a moment that they may even have running water. The thought was dismissed with another throaty chuckled as he placed his left foot in front of his right and began the walk into town. They already had one luxury, it would be foolish to hope for two.
It was like many of the other decrepit towns or cities that he had wandered into. Buildings lay in various states of decay, dying the like the earth they inhabited. Memories of the past war that wracked the world. The Great Culling, as the historians of his tribe called it. Dark skyscrapers stood testament to the once great stature of the city, now tombs for the living to inhabit. Black fingers holding up and black night sky. Fires burned where electricity was not found, burning bright to keep the cold and dark at bay. Few wandered the streets this time of night and those that did seemed aimless in their journeys. Runolf noted the stench of booze on many of them and conspired to find the source of their inebriation. It had been all to long since he had a drink, and one was well over due. Especially since his arrival marked a major mile stone in his quest. And as he turned into a well lit plaza he spied the buildings for a place he might rest his head and get eat. And most importantly, get something to drink.
If Awakened, Powers: Martha has power over Wind/Air. With a wave of her hand, she can summon a gust of air powerful enough to knock people over. If she was to kill enough awakened people, she would be able to summon tornados.
Appearance: Martha is quite a short woman, standing at 5’3” (63in/160cm). She weighs 7st 4lbs (102lbs/46.3kg) due to having gone through a few starvation periods where she ran out of food, though due to her wide set body she looks heavier. She is naturally quite tanned. She has smallish, watery green eyes with long dark eyelashes, and thin, wispy, pale brown hair that she braids into two braids and puts over her shoulders. She has a fringe that is parted in the middle and sits just above her eyebrows - it is horrifically unevenly cut as she has to do it herself with anything she can get her hands on. She has narrow and thin features, with ears pressed close to her face and a sharp chin. She has a narrow nose and thin, pale pink lips. She wears a pair of dark blue denim trousers with a piece of rope for a belt, a thick pale pink jumper caked with dirt, and a knee-length puffer jacket that is ripped at several parts. It has many pockets that she can stash things in, like a flask of purified water and scraps of food in a small cloth bag. She also wears a pair of tough, somewhat wrecked black trainers - they're the only pair of shoes that she can find so far that are her size.
Personality: Martha is a lot of determination and passion in a small package. Once she has her eyes set on a goal, she is unwavering, dedicated. She is easily swayed to a side, falling endlessly loyal to whoever she chooses. She strives for justice and liberty, her aspirations of peace sometimes blinding her and leading her to mistakenly doing the wrong things, believing that they will result in good. She is not at all pacifistic, believing that sometimes, action needs to be taken and people need to be killed so that good will prevail. She can be quite selfish, and deep within her is an urge to hunt down other awakened so that she can become more powerful. It's not so strong an urge that she compulsively kills anyone she finds out is awakened, but if she is convinced that they are a bad person and dangerous, she won't hesitate to kill them, and she won't admit it, but part of it is so that she can grow more powerful to protect herself. She can be quite ruthless, and if taken by surprise she can be deadly. She can be quite curious.
Bio: Martha wasn't always alone; she used to live in the remains of Aimens with her parents and her older brother. The four occupied the boiler room of an old apartment building, from the moment Martha was born until she was thirteen years old. Her parents and older brother scavenged until Martha turned an age her parents thought she could go out alone. This was okay for a while, until one day, when she was fifteen, Martha showed that she had been awakened. The second she opened the basement door, a gust of air blew in that knocked her brother over and sent what she had scavenged all over the basement floor. It only took a few more of these incidents for her family to figure out that she was awakened. They coped well with the revelation, until bandits ransacked their basement and occupied it, forcing the family out. Soon after, the family realised that there was only one option for them if all four were to survive; they needed to move under the Overlord's regime. Aware of what the awakened faced, Martha refused to go, but urged her family to go without her. They were reluctant to at first, but when Martha's mother became horribly ill, they needed to go for the medication. Martha saw them off as they went to Paris to catch a boat to the city. Since then, Martha has been honing her powers and becoming stronger, hoping for the moment to just survive, and ever so often, she humours the idea of going to save her family. It wouldn't take much to sway her to putting a plan into action.
Likes: Getting to use her magic. Finding newer clothes. Going to bed having eaten. Winning. Having a motion to follow.
Dislikes: Stronger mages. Losing motivation. Bleeding/blood. Food running low. The fact that she's been alone for ages.
Primary Weapon: Her magic. She also has a sharp piece of metal with a makeshift handle made of the sleeve of an old shirt.
Weaknesses: Hunting. Being surprised. She's easily distracted.
Other: N/A
Name: Clementine Hawkinn (goes mostly by Clem)
Age: 18
Gender: Female
Awakened or Not: Awakened
If Awakened, Powers: Clementine has power over plant life. Due to having poor control of her powers, they can flip out and make something happen in unsuitable times. They are more subject to activating when she is experiencing extreme emotions.
Appearance: Clementine is the epitome of a late bloomer. She is 4’11” tall (59in/149cm) and still has not had her growth spurt. She is 6st 10lbs (94lbs/42.6kg) but is likely to gain weight when her growth spurt comes along. She is visibly underdeveloped, almost looking childlike. She has very dark skin that requires the darkest of foundations to get a colour match. She has wide dark brown eyes and well kept eyebrows that are the same colour as her hair, which is nearly black and styled into dreadlocks. When exercising or doing things that require concentration, she ties them back into a thick ponytail. Her fringe is grown out. She has wide features, with a large, strong jaw, a wide nose, and pronounced cheekbones. She is very rarely seen without makeup, always having foundation, mascara, an eyeshadow palette and a few lipsticks on hand. Clementine wears lots of dresses and skirts with fancy blouses. She wears a lot of pastel colours, mainly pink and yellow. Many of her blouses are floral. The only pairs of shoes she owns are shoes with half-inch heels and single, button straps. When she’s out of the house, she brings a handbag, normally a large white one with a silk interior. She usually carries her makeup and a tub with some clementines, and then some other items depending on the situation.
Personality: Clementine is a girl who enjoys the simpler things in life. She has grown up in the luxury of the utopia and faced little to no hardships, and can be quite stubborn and spoilt. She is prone to fits of sadness when she is deprived of something, and has been in one of these fits for a long time since her powers have shown. She used to be very social and friendly, with a large social group of local teenage girls, but since her powers have began to manifest, she has become recluse and lonely, only talking to people if she absolutely must. When spoken to, she is soft-spoken and gentle, speaking very little and not saying much about herself. If she was to trust someone enough and get to know them, she would appear bouncier, more carefree. For the moment, she seems to be in perpetual fear.
Bio: Clementine and her parents have always felt a distinct calling to nature. She and her parents live on the top floor of their apartment building, which granted them rights to the roof. With this space, while Clementine's mother was pregnant with Clementine, they built a small clementine farm, where they grew the most delicious clementines anyone had tasted in a long while. Clementine and her parents secretly attribute this to the unborn Clementine's power over plant life. Due to the farm's great importance to them, it was only natural they named their first born daughter after it. When Clementine was born, her parents at first sent her to school. They quickly found out that she had quite bad dyslexia, and that she had no want to learn or do anything apart from inherit the farm. So as soon as she could read, write, and do basic maths (addition, subtraction, multiplication and division are her limits,) her parents took her out of school, and taught her about maintaining the clementine farm. The farm kept on producing delicious fruit as long as Clementine was around, a subtle show of her awakened-ness. Very recently, her powers have began to show in more grandiose ways, in the form of huge clementines the size of heads and even more delicious than before. Clementine is afraid of her powers and doesn't know how to control them just yet, so she has been staying away from public parks for the longest time, only going to nature willingly to go to the clementine farm.
Likes: Public gardens, clementines, socialising, farming, makeup,
Dislikes: Reading, writing, mathematics, her powers, her late blooming, the doorbell
Abilities: Farming, make-up, keeping herself looking respectable, hiding her powers.
Weaknesses: Reading, writing, maths, controlling her powers.
Opinion on the Overlord: Before her powers manifested, she believed that she was a reasonable, respectable and admirable man who only wanted to protect the city from awakened people. However, since her power showed, her admiration of him has faltered, and she is now only afraid of him, too afraid to be angry.
Other: Despite being able to read and write, she is absolutely horrid at it, and struggles greatly with it.
Martha nearly dropped herself as she tried to use her powers to take her down the elevator shaft. Since her last dwelling got invaded by alcoholics - the bottom apartment in that exact same building - she had been forced to move to the top floor, where nobody ever came because it was fifteen stories up and the elevator was broken. Martha would normally just walk down the stairs, but that night she was not up for the trek, jumping over the stairs that were so charred that a single footstep on them would turn them to ash and send whoever stood on them tumbling through the staircase. Deciding to try something new, she pressed the button to call the elevator, and though the door opened, the elevator was smashed into a billion pieces at the bottom of the elevator shaft. Around five years ago, to stop raiders from coming upstairs, Martha had used tactical winds to make the elevator fall. She somewhat regretted it now. The awakened woman crouched down and stuck her hand into the empty space. At her silent command, air whistled through the air vents in the walls, flowing upwards, inviting Martha in. Taking a deep breath, she jumped into the hole.
At first, it seemed she had underestimated her weight. She fell downwards at normal speed for two or so seconds. In a blind panic, she squealed like a child and flung her arms upwards. The wind burst up, flinging Martha all the way back up to the top floor. She stayed in this uneasy balance for a few moments, before very gently lowering the winds speed. She began to bob carefully to the bottom floor. The door on the bottom had been jammed open some time ago, and Martha slipped out. The wind in the elevator shaft went back to normal, which was in fact no wind at all, leaving an eerie quietness in the air. Martha quietly left the apartment building, deciding that if she was to do that again, she would have to be a lot more careful about it.
Once she was out of the building, she could be as loud as she wanted. Her old trainers slapped the pavement as she walked, every step full with conviction and determination. If they weren't, she might rethink what she was doing. She was sick and tired of resisting the soft, steady, warm sounding place. She just needed to go now, to see if it was as good as her parents always seemed to think it was. She was heading to the place that she had thought she would never want to go; the pub.
The pub was the bottom floor of what used to be housing. The building would have been a butchers, or a fishmongers, or something like that on the bottom floor, and then the two above floors would have been housing. It wouldn't look like anything too special, if it had not been constantly lit with electricity, and if not electricity, they always seemed to have candles and kerosene lamps to use. The pub had a small but powerful heater where a fireplace should be that was on all day and all night, so the place was always roasting hot and the air only ever felt a few spaces away from water. People drank all day, shouted, sweated, and did all sorts of things in that pub that only rose the temperature far above a reasonable measure. It had two small wooden tables out the front with similar wooden chairs, but they weren't comfortable and were chairs from before the great war, so they were quite blackened. All this Martha remembered from the one time she had entered the pub when she was fourteen to try and persuade her parents to leave their drinks and come home. They refused, and though Martha sat on one of those wooden chairs for at least an hour, waiting for them, they didn't come back out, and she had to walk home alone.
Martha crossed an all-too familiar plaza, her confident walk becoming more of a leisurely stroll since she had left the apartment building. From that plaza, it wasn't at all far to walk. She walked to the street just north of the plaza and then the building was just on the right. The seats outside were empty, and Martha couldn't help but drift her hands over the seat she had sat on to wait for her parents so long ago. She stepped into the pub, and was instantly assaulted by the poignant smell of booze and sweat. The place was horrifically crowded. She realised that if she wanted to have a comfortable time in the bar, she would have to take one of the outside seats. Pulling her jumper over her nose and mouth as to not inhale any dangerous diseases or the like, Martha shuffled toward the bar.
Still holding her jumper over her face, she used her other hand to dig into her pocket and pulled out an admirable amount of scrap metal. She stood at the bar and let her jumper drop. "Large glass of red, please," she said, sitting the scrap on the bar. The bartender took the scrap and somewhat messily pulled out a random red wine and poured it into quite a big glass. Martha didn't care much that he didn't ask her what she wanted. She just wanted a drink. She took the glass, nodded a quiet thanks, then got out of the pub as quickly as she could, sitting in the same chair outside she had sat on before. She sighed, leaned back, then did as her mother used to tell her; smell, swirl, smell, sip.
Under different circumstances, Martha could tell that she would have hated alcohol. The only-just-bearable taste, the noxious smell, the way it made people act. As a young girl, she had watched as her parents traded scavenged materials for a small drink of wine, at first. Wine then turned to beer, and beer to spirits, until her mother drank gin and tonics that were more gin than they were tonic water and her father drank so much whiskey in one night. Martha still attributed her mothers sickness to her drinking habits. The only thing that made drinking bearable for the awakened woman was that it gave her a distraction. As long as she sipped at the glass of red wine, she wasn't thinking about her powers, she wasn't thinking about what she had to scavenge for when she woke up in the morning, she wasn't thinking about her family, all the way in a foreign country, though with context it was practically Pluto. As long as her throat was slick with sweet red wine, she would be okay. She had exchanged a precious amount of scrap metal for the drink she held in her hand, and it was certainly going to distract her.
Heavy footstepps echoed through the plaza as Runolf took in what sights remained illuminated by torch light. Stagnation. The air of Aimens and every village he had wandered into seemed to stink of it. A rancorous mix of apathy and depression seemed to permeated from every hovel, every window. For Runolf it was sickening. How these people could be content with such squalor, it was unimaginable to him. If these people had existed in his homeland... They would have been ransacked and brought to heel long ago. Cattle such as this didn't deserve the oxygen they stole. If they weren't willing to toil to create a better world as his own people did, they deserved nothing. But Runolf was not here for these people sake, and after putting the irritation out of his mind he gave it no more thought or energy.
As the Northerner continued his wanderings his nose finally detected the nauseating stench of inebriation and sweat. Runolf paused outside momentarily, his ears grasping at the hushed voices that barely escaped through the establishments opened door. The man groaned silently to himself as the prospect of wading into what was likely a sea of patrons. It wasn't the smell the he dreaded. The nauseating stench of the dead had long since been something he had grown used to. It was the thought to being surrounded by the denizens of this city that grated at his patience. From the outside looking through the threshold of the bar he could see the cramped conditions and the absurd amount of patrons that resided within. Since his travels had begun all those years ago Runolf had come into contact with all manner of people, and the only ones he might have gotten along with end up staining his blade with their blood. The Northerners heritage, demeanor and views had never meshed well with those outside of his own culture. Wolves and sheep seldom got along. But he didn't have to get along with them, he just had to take their ale and then in the morning he could begin his search anew. And he would be damned if the smell and proximity of sheep to the watering hole would stopped him from getting his.
It was the first few patrons who noticed the foreign warrior who fell silent. As they stared and hushed their speech the rest of the pub began to mirror their actions. The silence spread to all corners of the room like a disease. Runolf could practically feel the eyes searching every square inch of his crudely armored form. They studied his blade, the scars that where visible, wary of danger that this foreigner might be to their health. Not that Runolf could have faulted them. If any of these tanned dark haired heathens had barged into the great hall of his people they would have been met with steel. Strong fingers found the handle of his blade, gripping the leather bound steel tightly in anticipation of a "northern greeting". Seconds seemed to last an eternity until finally they turned back to their drinks, all the while still remaining mute. A thin almost malevolent sneer crept across the mans face as he slacked his grip on his sword and slowly approached the bar. Cold eyes defiantly locked with those who glanced up from their cups.
"Ale." The northerner rapt on the bars scummy surface as he shouldered his bag, adjusting the weight. The man reached into the deep recess of his travel skin and dropped a fistful of scrap on the table before setting the bag next to him on the filth ridden floor.
Martha's braids fell against her shoulders as she tipped her head back to drink. She forgot about her mother's old taught tactic, taking long, steady gulps and breathing ever so slowly through her nose. She closed her eyes as she drank, and when she sat her glass back down, not only has she finished a good part of her drink, but a man stood just before the bar door. She couldn't help but stare. The man was unlike anything she had ever seen before in her life. The first thing she noticed was the man's pale skin; most people in Aimens were French-born, and most people that were French-born were tanned, like Martha was. Then she noticed the long blonde braid, and her hand drifted to her own messily done one as she did. She studied the man carefully; his armour, his scars, and his weapons all came under Martha's curiosity. He was a good bit taller than Martha, and she wasn't going to lie, his whole get-up made him quite intimidating.
She looked to his armour and weapon. By then, she had deduced that the man wasn't French and certainly not from Aimens. His armour only reinforced what she already thought. Not even the raiders wore clothes like that - they pretty much exclusively wore thick leather. She watched him intensely until he disappeared into the pub. For a few seconds, she wondered about where the man came from and what he was doing in Aimens. It didn't take her too long to not care, and to return to her drink.
The bartender froze in the middle of handing two men a beer each when the foreigner walked in. He eyed the man carefully, still holding the two beers out to the men. When everyone returned back to their drinks, the men snatched their beers away and walked off, deep into the corners of the pub. The bartender jumped slightly as the drinks were taken away, and then the fact that the warrior-looking man was heading towards him didn't seem to help his state. The bartender wasn't much older than eighteen, and was skinny and weak looking. The fact that he had survived at all in the wasteland seemed to be a miracle. He stared dumbly at the warrior for a few moments, then looked to the scrap. Cogs turned in his head and he made a slight 'ah' sound, scooping the scrap up and putting it in a bin under the table.
The bartender grabbed a glass with shaky hands. He went to the nearby ale tap and pulled it back. The reddish liquid flowed out freely, though his shakiness meant that there wasn't too much of a good pour as his hand jittered and spilt the precious alcohol. The teenager shuffled back to the foreigner and set it shakily on the bar top. It was nearly visible how much the bartender hoped the customer wouldn't stay long.
Icy blue eyes regarded the younger man with a sort of curious humor as shaky hands attempted to pour Runolfs drink. Runolf had never understood the trepidation that seemed to accompany the Northerners presence. Runolf was not one of the Aesir, nor was he one of the awoken Demi-Gods that walked this wretched earth. The senselessness of fearing someone or something that could be killed had always eluded the Northerner. As the glass connected with the bar with a muffled thud, the bar keep placing the filthy glass in front of the barbarian. The notion to draw his dagger and bury it into the wood before him jumped into his mind, affording him a laugh that no one would have understood. The look on the bar keeps face would have brought uproarious laughter to Runolf as the forged steel came narrowly close to removing a digit. But as quickly as the notion entered his mind, he dismissed it entirely. His purspose here was not to harass the local help, as humorous as it would have been, and antagonizing the locals would have done nothing to further his goals in this piece. Instead a single hand caught the boy by the sleeve of his jacket, stopping him dead as he tried to go about his tasks and responsibilities. A look of sheer horror crossed the young mans face, as if the Arch-Fiend himself had seized the boy and was preparing to incinerate him. "How would you like to make some money?" The Northerners accent was thick and heavy in comparrison to the locals. Again a hush seemed to fill the room.
The boy mearly started at the blonde haired man with bewilderment, his brain likely trying to come to grips with what was just said. Slowly he nodded and slowly Runolf released the boy, a merry smile taking up the mans features. "Excellent!" He cried as he put back the mug of ale with a single swing and slammed the glass upon the table. "Skol! Again!" He tossed the mug to the barkeep. The boy caught the glass, confused. "Keep them coming friend. I have coin. Well, something to ...trade." Runofl smiled slyly as he bent over, his hands grouping for his back and a certain item that resided within. "Here." Runolf cried merrily as the metallic weapon clattered loudly against the bar, its blue features barely reflecting the light the danced around the room. Curiosity seemed to get the better of the room as most joined in with the bar keeps appraisal of the item. Most everyone in the room had seen a prewar firearm. In this day and age however, they were becoming exceptionally rare. The hard outlines and almost pristine condition of the weapon was a curiosity to the locals, something few of them had likely seen. LEDs sat dark where months ago they had flashed red constantly, why had escaped Runolf until its power supply had died. Two sets of long magnets spanned the length of the barrel coming to rest before a strange looking box magazine.
"As you can see," Runolf started, motioning for the bar keep to continue serving him drinks. "This is not prewar. A man came to my village, long time ago and demands everything. By himself. He thinks this weapon is ultimate weapon. Ah," Runolf stopped just long enough to remove the fresh mug of ale from the keeps hand and down it. "It is powerful. It wields the power of Thor himself, blew a hole the size of two fists into my friends chest." He continued as he slammed the glass back on the bar and motioned for another. "I have never seen such things." His tone almost seemed to somber. "But he was mistaken that it made him a god. I claimed the weapon for myself after I drove my blade through his heart." Runolf turned back to the bar, almost as if he where some great bard, traveling for tavern to tavern to regal others with story and song. "But it makes me wonder." Runolf wagged a finger to no one in particular before turning back to the keep. "Where could such a thing come from? So I ask him. At first he didn't want to talk, but once I took off his leg, he said one word. Aimens." Runolfs eyes hardened, almost accusingly at the bar keep. "I have traveled a long time to come to this city. For one thing." Runolf nodded in thanks as the keep brought him another ale.
"The man who sold this weapon resides in this city. I want him." Runolf said before downing the ale yet again. "More specifically, I want the person who sell these to him." Runolf paused for a moment to let his statment sink in. "You tell me who sells these things," I finally spoke to the bar keep. "I know you hear much in here. You give me a name, that is all, and you keep Thors hammer." The mans eyes went wild, anxious for the young mans response. "You would be richest man in Aimens."
Hushed whispers filled every empty space when the Viking-man finished speaking. The bartender stared at the ale drinker blankly for a few moments. He hadn't been working there all too long, and looked towards a certain man who sat at the bar for help. This man was elderly, short and somewhat lanky, with thinning grey hair and a full beard. He had brown eyes that were darker than any other eyes you might see, outside of the possessed. The noticeable thing about this man that was under his thick coat, there was the clear outline of at least two prewar weapons, maybe more, and he had the look of a man who doesn't just have one or two of something. This man was called Florence, and he was locally known as a connoisseur of weaponry. He stood up from his seat and shuffled around people to get into a free space beside the Norwegian, and slowly and deliberately picked up the gun. He held it carefully, but with a sense of familiarity, as if he had encountered one like that before. He couldn't stop a nostalgic smile from playing across his lips.
Florence looked from the gun, to the Viking-man, to the barkeep. The barkeep looked clueless, a deer in the headlights as he refilled an ale mug for a different customer. The weapon master gave a light whistle. He considered his options carefully as the bar became quieter and quieter around him. Locals knew him as a man whom had shot many, and shot at many more. He was almost a serial killer. He looked to the Viking-man, dark eyes looking unamused and almost bored. "I know the man, but the price you're paying for his name is pitiful," he said smugly, dropping the gun back down on the table with a snort. His voice held the thickest Aimens accent you could imagine. "What do you want with this man? If you seek to kill him, or steal his wares, you'll find it's quite the difficult task. Impossible, I'd say," he seemed to be finished, taking a long pause. Then he spoke again, "but sweeten the deal and I'll give you the name."
The bar seemed divided. Some of the patrons apparently knew of the mysterious, non-prewar weapon dealer. Whispers of smuggling and Prosperus drifted around the room. Most of the patrons seemed decidedly clueless, asking questions more than giving answers. The barkeep looked as confused as ever, eyes trained at the weapon on the table. Through an open window, Martha had heard most everything. She held her glass of wine by the stem and peered through the opened window, sipping anxiously. She feared for the foreigner somewhat; as menacing as he looked, Florence had murdered, and murdered many, not to mention that he was twitchy. When Martha was younger, she stepped too close to him and brushed his side, which earned her a bullet grazing her side. To be fair, the foreigner had impressive armour, but all armour had chinks. The awakened woman leaned on the windowsill, breathing slowly as she waited to see what would happen next.
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