The rain that morning thinned to a soft hiss along the straight gutter. The house smelled of tea, oiled leather, and wood that had decided to be useful.
Trixie lifted the slate and did the math one more time. "Purse… seven gold, twenty-three silver."
Taro nodded. "We can buy both sets."
"We should," she said. "As soon as we can. Right." She double-checked their math and nodded once she was sure they would still be within budget and ready to start saving for either home upgrades or their third-party member.
He poured tea. She set out the coin stacks. Their mantra fit the room without needing to be said.
They visited a highly recommended shop frequented by many adventurers who required lighter gear for their everyday use. Harrow & Son Leathers.
The leather shop was warm and busy: awls on a tray, edge slickers ticking, vats of brown that breathed steam. Master Harrow had hands like old bark and eyes that weighed, not judged. Apprentice Pina moved pins like a sparrow, quick and sure.
"For him," Trixie said, tapping the order slate for customers to write down any adjustments to items they wanted. "Reinforced torso. Thigh and shin. Works with his pauldrons and guard."
"For her," Taro added. "Porter-cut armor. Lighter on her ribs. Stronger on her hips."
Harrow grunted in a way that meant approval. "Up on the block."
Taro stood with his shoulders square while Pina chalked a scallop under the arm and snugged the side belts. The cuir bouilli plates felt stiff at first, then began to warm and ease along the ribs. When Harrow swapped the front piece for one with a stronger rise, Taro breathed and the plate rose with him, not against him.
"Breathe," Harrow said. "Good. The plate rides with your chest, no drag, no restriction, perfect fit."
Trixie stepped onto the block next. Beeswax shone along the edges of a lighter chest with a hip skirt. The linen liner sat cool against her skin. When she pivoted, the skirt brushed her thighs with a tidy whisper. Pina checked the harness ladder that would sit under her porter kit and adjusted the throat pad so the buckle wouldn't bite.
"You carry," Harrow said, working the straps. "So we stiffen the hips, not the ribs."
Trixie turned toward the mirror rail.
Taro forgot to talk for a breath. The leather framed the strength he already knew in her, softened nothing, hid nothing. Her toned body was shown in all its glory with her breasts supported nicely, her toned stomach hugged just right, and her leather armor breathed and shifted with her twists, allowing her full flexible movement. The buckler on her arm completed a picture that made the shop seem too small.
"You look… dangerous," he said, voice low, a light blush on his cheeks. "In the best way."
Her ears colored. The tail made one small circle before she pinned it. But the small smile on her face never left. "You look unbreakable, like a wall I can count on not to buckle in a fierce storm."
He nodded with a proud smile of his own and they began to test their new gear while stealing glances at each other.
They tried steps: walk, angled turn, quick crouch. No rub. No pinch. Harrow made two tiny strap changes and nodded like the weather had cooperated.
"Totals with your notes," Pina said, tapping his slate. "Him, two gold ninety. Her leather, one gold thirty. I'll throw in edge-wax as a gift for paying all at once. I like coin that arrives with manners."
Taro counted out the stacks. The coin sounded like decisions that were sure of their words and actions.
With a smile to each other over a good purchase, they waved goodbye to the show owner and employee and headed to where they needed their metal gear taken care of.
The Merrit Forge, a friendly shop to those who knew what they wanted, and a bristly place for those who think they owned the gear made.
Heat pressed at the doorway; coal smoke laid iron on the tongue. Merrit raised his chin by way of greeting and went back to his hammer a moment before he spoke.
"Buckler's ready."
Steel dish. Rolled rim. Leather grip cut to Trixie's hand. When Merrit tapped the center, the dish hummed clean, no rattle. Apprentice Kesh shortened the strap half a hole and rubbed paraffin on the rim.
"Try it," Merrit said.
Trixie raised it to roof height. The weight settled into her wrist, solid without being clumsy. She turned it left and right; the dish followed like it wanted to help. She smiled without meaning to.
"The sword?" she asked.
Kesh brought a tempered arming sword with a fuller heft and a clean line down the edge. The balance point sat where it should. She cut a hanging hemp rope once, twice, three times. Each cut whispered. No stringy tear. Merrit nodded as if the blade had spoken politely.
"Don't dry the leather near the forge," he said. "Oil little, but often."
He glanced at Taro's face guard. "Keep your head. Your fists will follow."
They paid: buckler thirty-eight silver; sword and scabbard one gold sixteen. Trixie held the buckler high again. Taro stepped under it without thinking. They shared a small laugh that nobody else in the shop needed to understand.
They went to the local specialty shop for daily needs, Cloth & Shoes.
The clothier's room smelled of starch and soap. Laina swapped in summer liners, stitched a sweat band for Taro's face wrap, and padded Trixie's gorget where it met the collar plate. In the next stall, cobbler Jore trimmed insoles, added heel pads, and drilled one extra lace hole in Taro's boots to lock the ankle.
"Walk," Jore said.
They did. The new leather creaked softly, then quieted, like it had decided to listen.
They admired the fits in the mirror and were satisfied in them, ready to wear them comfortably and proudly.
Afternoon light drifted through the front window and caught dust in bright lines. Trixie checked Taro's chin strap; her thumb rested on his jaw a heartbeat longer than necessary. He adjusted her sword hanger; his knuckles brushed her hip; both paused.
"Perfect," he said.
"So are you," she answered, honest and red-cheeked.
Foreheads touched for a breath. The shop noises kept them decent. The moment kept them honest.
They went to the guild yard as the rain had finally cleared up to do a full test run.
They didn't test luck. Just movement.
Walk. Quick step. Angle left. Angle right. Trixie lifted to roof, parried high-mid-low against a straw post, then set two clean ripostes into practice cuts. Following up with a back hand cut that left the dummy begging for a quick end. Taro put a light jab–cross–hook into a sand barrel and a short, no-windup shot that made the sand jump an inch. Soon his next blow rattled the full barrel with a one two hook combo followed by a full body torque uppercut. The barrel now had new dents in its tough wood and iron bindings.
"Looks right," Niya said, which was a lot from Niya.
"Bring them back without scratches," Kelda added. She meant the gear and the people equally.
With smiles at their friends true meanings Trixie and Taro went home to balance the ledger and ensure they were on the way to their next needed purchase.
Home smelled of stew and rain that had finally given up. They laid numbers by the window.
Spend today:— Taro leather: 2g 90s— Trixie leather: 1g 30s— Buckler: 38s— Sword + scabbard: 1g 16s
Total:~5g 74s
Purse after:~1g 49s
They set aside 20s in a jar marked OIL/THREAD/WAX.
Next chalk line on the wall: Craft/Repair Bond Party Member — 0 / 6g 40s. Trixie drew three empty boxes beneath: steady days.
"How much do we want before we even visit?" she asked.
"Four gold ninety silver more," Taro said. "Plus a little extra for breath and negotiations."
She colored a tiny square at the corner of the ledger and smiled at the silliness of it. "We'll earn it."
"Together," he said.
The night settled in over their home and they made good use of the calm.
They did the simple work that keeps good gear good: wax on buckler rim, oil in strap holes, a notch loosened so belts could rest. The face guard hung by the window, catching a band of last light.
"You're beautiful," he said, not as a surprise, just as a fact the day had produced.
"You're mine to worry about," she answered, palm against his new chest plate. A quick kiss. A longer look. Enough.
The training bag swayed once in the draft and decided to be still. Outside, the market found its evening hum again after the storm.
On the way to bank the hearth, they stopped under the bell. Fresh chalk bled in the damp on the guild board:
F3 — new signatures near far den. Unknown mix. Door team at first light.
Kelda's note underlined the line. Bring the new gear. Leave the pride.
Trixie tapped the buckler rim lightly against his pauldron. Their small ritual.
"Breath," she said.
"Then doors," he answered.
They walked home with their hands almost touching, and neither of them fixed that on the way.