For a little while, there was silence as Zelsys processed the flood of information. She was not at all used to the manner in which the older woman trailed off on tangents so easily. After blinking a few times, she managed only a question whilst she pulled a quartet of silvers from her belt pouch to pay for the ammo, “Why’s it that it seems like everyone of note in Willowdale was somehow involved in the war?”

“Because that was very much the case dear,” Collier answered with a smile. “Sure we’re technically a neutral city-state, but we’re very much aware that our independence survives only for as long as Ikesia stands. Grekuria wants to integrate us thinkin’ we need the help - bless their souls for tryin’ - whilst those rude foreigners from the west just want to erase us for refusing to help ‘em. Oh, but that’s enough politics from an old hag like me, don’t let me hold you up.”

The gunsmith took her payment and sat down behind the counter, observing with a comfortable sense of warmth that awakened within Zelsys a nostalgia for a place she wasn’t sure even existed. Like a faded memory of a time she wasn’t alive in. She put her Tablet on the counter, and one after another began putting the shells into Fog Storage.

“How’s reloadin’ on yer gun, by the way?” Collier queried.

“Fast and easy considering the size of the shells, but ah… I haven’t managed to get more than one shot off during a fight yet,” Zel admitted.

“I’d wager I can guess why. You ain’t got no practical way to carry spare shells an’ yer right hand is probably too busy with that big ‘ol cleaver o’ yours, ain’t that right?” the gunsmith guessed with a wrinkled, knowing grin.

Zel chuckled, “Usually too busy butchering to work the bolt and load a shell, yeah.”

“Develop a reloadin’ technique is all I can tell ya,” Collier advised, breaking into yet another of her mild-mannered rambles, as if to fill the silence while Zel put the ammo in Fog Storage. “Ain’t so popular nowadays what with cartridges bein’ standard, but back in the day y’could tell how good a musketeer was by how many spare balls n’ ramrods they carried, so quickly they could reload that they wore ‘em down in a minute. I could make you a shell belt if y’want, if yer willin’ to shell out the gelt.”

“Alright, how much?” Zel sighed, dropping another shell into the vortex as she looked to the old woman. Collier rose from her seat, quietly cackling to herself whilst she strode into the back room and nearly immediately returned toting a loose, leather belt with eight loops, perfectly sized for the shells. She put it on the counter, and with a self-satisfied grin held out her ancient hand for payment, “Fifteen gelt.”

Zelsys had gotten played, and frankly, she wasn’t mad in the slightest. She gladly counted out three more silvers, and after slipping the remaining six shells into its loops, strapped the belt around her waist, allowing it to hang just below the cleaver’s holster and perfectly within reach. Its bulky, brass buckle wouldn’t come loose and it was more than long enough that she had to tie its loose length around itself, but otherwise, it was perfect.

The leather was stiff. It was new.

“Did you make this under the assumption that I would take you up on that offer?” Zelsys asked, knowing the answer before it came. A simple nod, accompanied by a knowing smile.

“Y’get good at readin’ people at my age, and boy are ya an interestin’ book,” Collier said. The doorbell rang - another customer. An older Ikesian man, clearly well-off financially, sporting a short, stylish haircut and a perfectly trimmed mustache. Before he could so much as say a word, Collier’s pleasant demeanor vanished and she barked at him, “Get the fuck outta my store you dandy fuck, I ain’t sellin’ you shit! Like it or not, yer gods-forsaken dead brother didn’t want yer filthy hands on that gun, and dead gods be my witnesses I ain’t breakin’ a promise!”

She turned to Zel, and for the moment returned to her grandmotherly demeanor, beckoning her to, “Go handler yer business dear, this’ll be an ordeal y’dont wanna see.”

Without uttering another word or even listening to the raucous verbal exchange that ensued, Zelsys took her leave and made for the town hall. Pencil-pushing bureaucrats still milled into its front doors, but there were fewer of them, few enough to weave through without too much difficulty.

Zelsys, of course, didn’t bother with such niceties. Swaggering into the town hall at full stride, she fully leveraged her ability to project raw charisma to make the weak-willed office drones eagerly move out of her way without even considering a challenge of her right to pass - it was polite exclamations of “Sorry!” and “Excuse me!” from those she walked past all the way to the top. Then, at the top of the stairs, there was… Silence.

The second floor was utterly deserted, and through this deafening silence, she trod the hallway of paintings towards the governor’s office. Two knocks on the door.

“Come in!” the governor’s voice rumbled, tension and stress audible even through the door. She pushed the door open, met by no guards when she passed through, and so closed it herself.

The sight that met her was Provisional Governor of Willowdale Crovacus Estoras, his desk in utter disarray, his form leaned against it with a cigar in his hand and a veritable pile of ash threatening to pour out of the ashtray. His deathly-pale visage was only broken up by a five o’ clock shadow and swollen black bags that underlined his bloodshot eyes. He looked to her, silently beckoning with his cigar before he leaned back in his chair and took a long drag. There was an extra seat in front of his desk, but she paid it no mind.

“Your son came by early-” she began as she took a seat, but he interrupted.

“I am… So sorry for dragging you into this,” he rasped. “I thought the locusts were just a small cell of holdouts. It’s so much worse than I thought. They’ve infested this whole gods-forsaken valley, now it’s just a matter of time before they devour us all and move on.”