Northall Smithy was a large building near the northern gate, bustling with customers even at this hour. The sound of ringing metal and roaring fires could be heard well before they arrived, and both Rowan and Dugan were relieved to find that the shop attached to the smithy was quite warm, utilizing the heat from the enormous furnaces to keep their clientele warm.

As they entered, Rowan’s eyes widened, taking in the selection of weapons, tools, and armour that lined the walls and display cases of the shop.

Spears, halberds, and all manner of polearms leaned against racks, their tips pointed and gleaming in the firelight. Axes hung from the walls, varying in size from small one-handed hatchets all the way up to an enormous double-bladed axe with a shaft longer than Rowan himself. Chainmail brigandines adorned mannequins, their links uniform and perfect to Rowan’s untrained eye, while pauldrons, greaves, and gauntlets of various metals guarded the rest of the inanimate model.

A large display case ran the length of the room, creating a barrier four feet wide between the walls themselves and the clientele within the shop. Inside, swords, daggers, and other smaller weapons sat upon pillows and stands, displayed with their specs written on small cards beside them.

Apart from the tools of war, there were also ordinary tools, an entire section devoted to hammers, scythes, hoes, and everything else the normal citizenry of the town would need in their day-to-day lives. However, the clear focus was on the weapons, and this was where Rowan and Dugan focused their search.

“I think I want to get myself a war-scythe,” Dugan decided after a few minutes of alternating his gaze between the wares all around them and a beautiful scythe that hung on the wall behind the counter.

“I thought those weren’t good for combat?” Rowan asked, vaguely remembering Egil telling them something of the sort a few weeks prior.

“Depends on the enchantments,” Dugan replied with a grin. “And I feel those enchantments would probably suit me well. I’ll have to ask first, but if I’m right, then I think that’s the weapon for me. You keep looking—I won’t be a minute.”

Before Rowan could ask him just how he could figure anything of the sort out just by looking at the weapon, Dugan flagged down an employee, pointing at the war-scythe and talking in a low voice so as not to be overheard.

Figuring that, if his friend had wanted him to overhear, he’d have spoken in a normal tone, Rowan moved away, continuing his search for a weapon that suited him. And besides, he had something he wanted to do without Dugan as well.

Leaving Dugan with the blonde cashier he was talking to, Rowan kept his hands in his pockets as he ambled around the shop, a habit from his days as a thief to make him look unassuming. Even with this precaution, it was only a minute before he drew the eye of a nearby worker, a woman with forearms as thick as his thigh standing behind the counter with a polish rag in hand. In her other hand was a dagger, the blade wet from the grease she was using to clean it with.

“Can I help you, laddie?” she called out, her gaze making it obvious she was talking to Rowan.

“Actually, you can,” Rowan responded, walking over. “Are there any smiths in?”

“Yer looking at one,” she said, confirming what her forearms had already led him to assume. No one got muscles like that just from polishing blades around a store. Putting the dagger aside, she wiped her fingers on the cleaning cloth before tossing it atop the discarded knife, several finger-shaped grease stains now visible on the dirty cloth. “What can I help you with?”

“I was wondering if you could help appraise these for me,” Rowan asked, taking a pair of black bracers from his storage ring and placing them on the counter. “I found them in a dungeon, and want to know what I’ve got.”

Lifting her eyebrow, the woman picked them up, turning them over in her hands before staring at Rowan. “You fought a Fenraith?”

“I did,” Rowan confirmed. This seemed to satisfy the woman, and she turned her attention back to the bracers before speaking again.

“These are bracers made using Lupiron, a mysterious metal whose craftsmanship and manufacturing techniques are known only to the followers of the Wolf God,” she told him. “It’s almost as flexible as leather, while being as strong as fine iron.”

“It sounds like good stuff,” Rowan remarked.

“‘Tis,” the smith responded. “Lupiron gear is in high demand among silver and gold tier adventurers. It’s not the best equipment you can find, but the strength and flexibility it offers while still being lightweight make it valuable.” Passing the bracers back across the counter, she looked back at Rowan. “Were you planning on selling them? I can offer you one hundred and sixty-five Vlends for them if you are.”

Rowan’s resolve shook as he heard the price offered, but he shook his head. “No, I just wanted to know what it was. I’ll hold onto it for now.”

The smith shrugged. “Suit yourself. Anything else I can help you with?”

“There was one thing…” Quickly, Rowan explained his plight to the woman, who smiled at what was obviously a familiar story.

“Fast, mobile, nimble, and you don’t wanna get hit, is that right?”

“Exactly,” Rowan responded. “My instructor gave me a list of weapons that might suit me. But it’s pretty long.” Seeing that he had the smith’s attention, he listed off all the weapons Egil had mentioned, causing the smith to nod in response.

“Well,” she began, looking over him in an appraising manner. “I’ve got all of those here. Might as well start at the top, though I’m not sure why he recommended that…”

Turning away, the smith grabbed an enormous battleaxe from the wall behind her, handing it to Rowan whose arms immediately sagged as she let its full weight rest in his hands. With some difficulty, he managed to lift it, but it was clear to both of them that there was no way a weapon that relied on power and brute force was the thing he was looking for.

“Didn’t think so,” the smith muttered to herself as Rowan handed the axe back to her. Unlike him, she held it easily in one hand, the shaft small in comparison to her bulging biceps. “Let’s try the next.”

Twelve weapons and fifteen minutes later, both Rowan and the smith wore frowns. Although they had tried a variety of weapons, including polearms, clubs, axes, and even some exotic blades from the far east, none had sat right in Rowan’s hand.

“Well,” the smith said, taking the spiked gauntlets from him. “That’s the last thing on yer list. And I don’t have anything else similar either.”

“It’s alright,” Rowan said, his shoulders sagging. “I can just buy some daggers or something.”

“No,” the smith replied vehemently. “This is no longer a transaction. It’s a matter of professional pride. I have never allowed a customer to walk out of here without a weapon or tool that they were not one hundred percent satisfied with. We will find something that suits you!” Having said this, the smith’s eyes alighted on Rowan’s right hand, awkwardly scratching at the stubble on his chin. “You said you’re a mage, right?”

“I don’t think so,” Rowan replied, having said no such thing.

“I must’ve just assumed it when I saw yer ring then. You are a mage though?”

“I am,” Rowan confirmed

“And you want to use a weapon?” The smith paused. “Usually yer type prefer to use rings and magic over fine steel.”

“You never know when you might need a backup plan,” Rowan responded coolly. The smith appeared pleased at this answer.

“True enough! That’s why I do such good business,” she said with a grin. Stepping back, she looked him over once more, her eyes lingering on his biceps and chest. “I might have something.”

Leaving him at the counter, the smith grabbed a key from a chain around her neck and headed for the opposite side of the store. Bending down, she disappeared behind the display case for a moment before standing again with something in hand. Ten seconds later, she returned, dropping the item she had retrieved on the counter in front of Rowan.

“We don’t carry many mage weapons, prefer to leave that business to the magic shops, which is why I didn’t offer ye any to start with. Most mages that come in here want a blade or other type of physical weapon to complement their magic, but well, we’ve tried all those and no dice. Now try this.”

Before him sat a small black stick, the surface engraved with intricate carvings of runes, all woven together into a greater formation. At one end, a hole could be seen, opening to reveal a small series of crystals that glittered dimly in the light.

“You ever see an arcanowhip before?”

Rowan shook his head. He was no stranger to whips, the herders and overseers of Taureen both employing them in their daily jobs. He had even used them himself a few times, the herders being one of the few groups who tended to regularly hire street rats. But he had never heard of an arcanowhip before.

“Didn’t think so,” the smith told him. “They’re pretty rare outside of Kalthiminn, on account of the materials used to make ‘em being much less plentiful down south.”

Picking up the whip, she held it by the handle, her thumb over a slightly raised section of the rune formation. Flexing her tendons, she pressed down on the rune. As Rowan watched, eight gleaming tendrils of light emerged from the hole at the end of the whip, dropping down to the counter below. A second later, eight fully formed tendrils lay before him, each roughly ten feet in length.

“The arcanowhip,” the smith said proudly. “It uses magical crystals within the handle to produce solid tendrils of mana that can be used to attack and defend. The more mana the user inserts, the greater the length and density of the tendrils. It’s the ideal weapon for any adventurer who would prefer to fight with mana rather than muscle. Which from the looks of you, I expect means it will be perfect for you.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow at the smith’s words. From the way she spoke, it was hard to tell if she was trying to praise him or insult him. Given her job as a smith and their tendency to admire those with large muscles, he felt that it might be the latter, but she could also be just trying to butter him up in order to get him to buy something that he might not otherwise have purchased.

Of course, it was not as if everything she said was a lie. For all he knew, the arcanowhip might very well be the perfect weapon for him. But, with such an exotic weapon, there was no way of knowing that without holding it himself.

“Would I be able to test it out first?”

“Of course!” the smith responded. “Not here though. Too many people. Follow me.”

Moving off to the side, she exited the counter and led him across the shop to a side room, about the size of a small house that took up the western portion of the smithy. Within, a high ceiling overlooked bare ground and a handful of wooden training dummies, their straw-stuffed bellies drooping slightly.

“Good. No one else is here,” the smith said, looking around in satisfaction. “This isn’t really a weapon you want to try for the first time with people around.”

“Because you’ll embarrass yourself?”

“Because you’ll probably kill them.”

“Oh.”

The smith grinned. “With that said, why don’t you give it a try? Just make sure I’m out of reach before you activate it.” Handing him the arcanowhip, she smartly backed up, standing against the door so that no one else could accidentally wander in. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Staring at the black tube in his hands, Rowan admired it for a moment, enjoying the feel of the cool metal against his skin. The runes engraved upon its surface provided indents, allowing his hand to grip the handle firmly as he positioned his thumb against the rune.

As he did so, a small tugging feeling could be felt within his mana vessel, similar to the orb from the Test of Potential. Unlike the orb though, the arcanowhip did not forcefully drain his mana, merely waiting outside his vessel for him to feed some mana into it. It was like the difference between a person just barging into your house and someone with the politeness to knock, and Rowan found himself liking the whip a little more because of it.

Stupid reason to base a decision on. Turn it on and let’s see what this thing can do. Rowan suppressed a smile at the thought, pressing his thumb into the raised part of the handle and allowing his mana to flow towards the tugging sensation.

With a crackle of energy, the arcanowhip ignited, seven tendrils extending from the handle and dropping to the floor below. An eighth extended a few inches from the hilt, but went no further. Frowning, Rowan inserted a little more mana and the eighth tendril expanded instantly to the same length and size as the other seven.

Satisfied that he had gotten the whip working, Rowan lifted it, his mind flashing back to the days spent herding Tehenecows under the hot sun on the outskirts of Taureen. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the tendrils towards the nearest dummy, expecting them to slice across its chest just as he had done back home.

Rather than follow Rowan’s will, the tendrils seemed to have a life of their own, wrapping around each and other and growing tangled as they whirled through the air. As a result, instead of the satisfying crack he had been hoping for, what he got was a mass of tangled whips that slammed clumsily into the dummy, knocking a few strands of straw loose from its burlap form.

“Reduce your mana input,” the smith called out. “Use only a single whip for now.”

With a nod, Rowan concentrated, restricting the flow of mana towards the handle in his hand. As he did so, the number of tendrils quickly shrank, flowing one by one back into the ebony handle in his grip. Once only a single whip remained, he tried again, raising the handle high and flicking his wrist to send the whip flying at the dummy.

This time, a satisfying sound rang out through the room, though it was not the crack that Rowan had been expecting, but a sizzling sound as mana met mana and slammed into the burlap-clad dummy.

A small explosion of straw erupted where the whip had struck, a clean slice visible in the dummy’s sackcloth armour. Encouraged, Rowan tried again, putting the weapon through its paces as he sent a variety of attacks towards the unfortunate training object.

“Try inserting more mana, but don’t let it create any more tendrils,” the smith told him. “With enough control, you can shape the mana how you wish.”

Offering her another nod in reply, Rowan set to it, giving more mana to the arcanowhip in his hand as he willed the existing tendril lengthen. Similar to spellcasting, the mana was reluctant to do as he wished, preferring to create more pulsing tendrils of violet light, but Rowan was insistent, destroying the extra tendrils as he forced the mana towards the existing one.

At last, the mana cooperated, sullenly heading into the final tendril and causing it to grow longer and thicker. Once it was half again its original length, Rowan cut off the mana, experimentally twirling the whip around him as he examined the changes.

Flick, cut, slice, pull back, repeat. Rowan experimented with the magical weapon in his possession, using it to torment the dummies in the room. After a few minutes of this, during which he had grown, shrunk, elongated, and even duplicated the tendrils, he decided to go for broke.

Concentrating on his mana vessel, Rowan willed as much mana as he could control—roughly ten percent of his total pool—towards the whip’s waiting handle. With a whoosh, the tendrils suddenly multiplied and expanded, sixteen enormous snakes of light hovering viciously around him. Rather than fall, they remained in midair, the crackle of mana audible as they floated next to him like living things, ready to attack any who moved too close to their new master.

A faint gasp could be heard in the corner of the room, and Rowan quickly cut off his connection to the whip as his control over his mana shuddered, the demands of the whip too much for his novice level control to handle.

With a faint hiss, the snakes disappeared, leaving only a single tendril of light which Rowan gave an experimental twirl before extinguishing it as well. As the last of his mana was withdrawn, the ebony handle went dormant once more, leaving only an inanimate black handle in his grasp as evidence of the weapon he had just wielded.