It was one thing to adapt to killing in circumstances like an active warzone or a targeted extermination expedition, it was a whole nother matter to do so during an errand run and remain largely unmoved.

Though a small part of her wanted to be shaken by the incident, she just… Couldn’t. Just as a blacksmith’s calloused hands were unburned by the fires of the forge, she had grown desensitized to violence and gore. Perhaps in a way, she too was a horror of war.

On her way back, Zefaris stopped by a butcher’s, having noticed the store by a weathered wooden sign that hung above the door.

CASDOS’ CUTS

She ended up buying some smoked pork ribs and mutton bones, picking these two articles out of the butcher’s pitifully limited stock of “normal” meat. Most of his stock was made up of small birds or strange cuts from even stranger-sounding beasts - a few of the meats were blue.

“Where’d you get all this from?” she had asked while she looked over the ribs which she inevitably bought.

He answered with, “I hunt for a livin’ an’ sell what I hunt between jobs. So it happens that there’s a lotta weird shit to hunt nowadays.”

“A beast-slayer by trade, then?” she asked.

“Somethin’ of the sort. I don’t take contracts I think might endanger my life, just pest removal n’ whatnot,” he nodded halfheartedly. “Don’t feel the need to push myself much, so I ain’t got anythin’ special, none of that special breathin’ or arts shit. Just my gear n’ my experience.”

His arms certainly showed experience, missing segments from three fingers and covered in scars besides. Zef filed away this place in her mind, knowing that she would probably visit here again. Perhaps she’d buy some of that weird-looking meat someday, but not today.

She also stopped by the very open-ended fresh produce shop that her and Zel had visited after their initial arrival in town, and was pleased to find that the old lady who ran the place recognized her. The woman smiled, recommended some vegetables that would go well with bone broth…

And asked about the smell of dead locusts. Asked if Zefaris had killed any recently.

The old woman, too, offered a discount, just as the Tailor had done. She, too, mentioned that the locust-men had been wreaking havoc on the farms she got her produce from. It wouldn’t have been at all strange if she hadn’t gone through the same exact points in the same exact order, but then again, Zefaris figured twice in a row could be a coincidence.

Dwelling on the matter no longer, she departed the store and returned to Riverside Remedies, greeting Sig on her way in. He briefly returned to absent-mindedly reading his pulp, but looked up and stopped her with a question before she could leave the storefront.

“Did’ye take a key to the front door?”

She had indeed, and so nodded, “...Yeah, why?”

“Just makin’ sure we didn’t have ‘nother break-in,” he sighed, returning to his pulp.

“There was a break-in? When? When we were away?” she questioned.

“Oh yeah, some sleazebag hired a couple dickbags to try n’ break in. We beat the shit outta ‘em, the sleazebag fessed up real quick. Asked for any ol’ piece of tarnished steel to placate his employers, so we gave him a rusted ol’ bayonet,” the historian explained without so much as lifting his eyes from the book.

Zef continued questioning, her mind running a mile a minute trying to connect events wherever connections might be found, “...Did he mention anything about his employers? And how do you know they won’t be back?”

“He did, and I don’t,” Sig continued, finally looking up from his book. “That’s why I’ve reinforced the locks on all our doors and why I sleep with my window slightly open and a flask of whiskey next to my bed. Random shit on the street’s woken me up thrice now, but fallin’ asleep again is better than sleepin’ through another break-in. As for his employer… Hmm, what was it he said again?”

He squinted, furrowed his brow, and thought for a moment. Then, he took a substantial breath and repeated what he remembered word for word in a pompous, mocking voice: “I am an independent investigator under the employ of a broker, who is under the employ of a mole in Willowdale’s senate, who is under the direct employ of Pateiria’s Ministry of State Security. My broker said you lot were just some random foot soldiers that slipped by. I was to check on you, make sure you weren’t stockpiling guns or somesuch, so I hired some help after our little talk. Figured we’d case the joint, make sure you didn’t have anything more than that tarnished steel you say you’d kill or die for.”

“Doesn’t sound like he had any actual loyalty to the zipperheads. My guess is Grekurian?” Zef remarked.

Sig nodded, returning to his book. “Nope, not a speck of it below that beer-colored face of his,” he said, and as he went on, a proud grin spread across his face. “Looked like he really regretted doin’ that stupid shit when I came flyin’ down the stairs all burnin’ n’ shit an’ put his fat cunt of an enforcer on the ground with a flyin’ headscissor.”

“...So you can just do the Victory Demon thing now? No seizures or whatnot?”

“Oh no, by the Sage no,” he laughed. “Turns out forcin’ your body to surpass its limits strains the shit outta it n’ burns up resources, no wonder I lost ten kilos in fat the first time ‘round. Even when I do it fer my daily exercise it leaves me thirsty n’ hungry as all hell, but I’m usually fine after a nice meal and some rest.”

“Oh, those dummies in the back are yours?”

“Aye,” he nodded again, chuckling to himself. “Y’think Makhus would go punchin’ n’ kickin’ logs into splinters?”

“No, he really wouldn’t,” Zef agreed, also chuckling.