The last complex Hermes conjugation, a phrase for the temporary binding of a minor spirit, finally clicked into place in Lutz's mind. He set the heavy Hermes lexicon aside, the candle on his table guttering low, its light painting the room in shifting, anxious shadows. The intellectual work was done; now, the physical world demanded its due. He remembered the convergence, the pull of the Whispering Market. Tonight, it would manifest in the underwater cave again, a place that felt both alien and familiar.
But the memory of the shadows creeping towards him, of Krieg's judgement, was a fresh brand on his consciousness. Recklessness was a luxury he couldn't afford. He cleared a small space on the floor and retrieved his pendulum. The silver caught the faint light as he held it steady, his breathing slowing, he put Umbra on, letting the screams in, and then pushing them away with cogitation.
"Is there mortal danger awaiting me tonight?" he whispered, pouring his intent into the question 7 times.
The pendulum swung, a slow, counter-clockwise circle. No.
He repeated the question, refining his focus. "Is there any danger at all?" And repeated 7 times.
A shift. A hesitant but constant clock-wise swing. Yes.
He asked again, and again. Each time, the answer was the same: a clear, positive confirmation of danger, but the pendulum's swing lacked the violent, decisive arc that would indicate a direct, life-threatening ambush. It was a warning of turbulence, not a prophecy of shipwreck. Mild. Manageable.
It was enough. The Market's call was too strong to ignore. The Poet's artifact, the materials he still needed—it was a risk he had to take. But he would not go as a supplicant. He would go as a prepared operative.
He stripped off his Civvies and donned the Viper's Hide—the dark, sturdy coat and trousers that were the uniform of calculated violence. Then came the harness.
He lifted it, the leather and brass cool against his skin. Slipping his arms through the suspenders, he settled the wide belt around his waist, buckling it with a solid click. The weight was there, but it was a part of him now, distributed perfectly across his shoulders and hips. He slid Creed into its custom sheath at the small of his back. The spring mechanism engaged with a nearly imperceptible click, holding the stiletto in a silent, secure embrace. He felt the difference immediately—it wasn't just carried; it was integrated.
The parrying knife found its home on his left hip, the thumb-break strap snug.
His old, separate bandolier and revolver holster felt clumsy now, a remnant of an outdated self. But they were still functional. He put them on over the harness, he slotted the throwing knives into their places. He loaded the ammo pouch with revolver bullets. the revolver a heavy, comforting weight under his left arm. Finally, he pocketed Umbra, the ring a cold, psychic promise in the dark. He left the sawed-off shotgun, he didn't make the hold for it yet. And its brutal profile was too conspicuous, too loud for the subtle dangers of the Market.
He looked at his reflection in the window glass, a distorted silhouette of reinforced cloth, leather, and cold metal. He was no longer just a man; he was a system, a unified instrument of theft and survival. Pulling on his heavy, hooded coat, he concealed the arsenal beneath, becoming just another shadow moving through the cold Indaw night.
The journey to the coast near the shipyard was a practiced exercise in paranoia. He moved against the wind, letting it whip at his coat and muffle his footsteps. His route was a maze of detours, through stinking fish markets and silent, cobbled alleys where the gaslight didn't reach. Umbra, in his finger, seemed to hum, the general whisper of the city a dull roar at the edge of his perception. He used it not to listen, but to feel—to sense for any spike of predatory intent, any cold, focused attention that might be trailing him. The divination had said the danger was mild, but "mild" could turn fatal with a single misstep.
The sounds of the city faded, replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves against the breakwater and the mournful cry of a foghorn. The air grew thick with the smell of salt, rotting wood, and damp stone. He reached the scrapyard of wrecked ships, a graveyard of dead vessels looming like skeletal giants in the mist. The Sea-Sorrow was there, its hull a dark wound in the night, but he passed it by. His destination was further along the coast, where the cliffs met the water.
He found the hidden path, a narrow, treacherous fissure in the rock that led downward, slick with seaweed and spray.
This was the entrance. The water opened before him, opening the path. The cave tunneled inward, the sounds of the ocean becoming muffled, replaced by a new, unnatural silence. The water grew calmer, and a faint, phosphorescent glow began to emanate from fungi on the walls, illuminating a vast, cavernous space.
The Whispering Market had taken root. Hooded figures stood on makeshift platforms of driftwood and rock, their wares laid out on barnacle-encrusted tables. The air hummed with a low, psychic frequency that vibrated in his teeth. He could see bottled lights that pulsed with captive emotions, pickled creatures with too many limbs floating in jars, and pages of ancient texts pinned open with daggers.
He had arrived. The manageable danger was here, somewhere in the gloom. Lutz pulled his coat tighter, his hand resting near the hidden grip of his revolver, and stepped fully into the eerie glow, ready to trade, to learn, and to survive.
With Umbra in his index finger, he ventured inside, fighting against the screams.
The air in the underwater cave was thick, humid, and carried a psychic weight that made the hairs on Lutz's arm stand on end. The murmurs of the vendors and buyers weren't just sounds; they were sensations, slithering into the mind. Lutz moved with a predator's grace, his eyes, sharpened by his abilities and the dim, phosphorescent light, scanning the stalls not for wonders, but for weapons.
His first objective was clear: the final components for the Dissolvant Acid. The recipe from the mystical alchemy manual was precise, and he'd gathered most of the base components from Metzger's horrific lab. But it required catalysts, agents of violent reaction that couldn't be found in any common apothecary.
He found what he was looking for at a stall run by a deranged-looking young man whose eyes twitched independently of each other. The table was a chaotic museum of chemical nightmares: vials of glowing green sludge, things that seemed to crawl in their jars, and a small, caged creature made entirely of crystalline salt that wept corrosive tears. The air around the stall smelled of ozone and burnt hair.
Lutz pointed to the two ingredients he needed—a milky fluid called "Spirit-Sponge Essence" and a fine, metallic powder known as "Quicksilver Verdigris." The young man cackled, wrapping them in waxed paper without a word. The transaction was swift, conducted with a handful of silver Shields.
But Lutz wasn't finished. He had a secondary, more insidious plan. "Do you have any abrasive, corrosive, or intrusive powders?" he asked, his voice low. "Ones that are dangerous on mere contact."
The vendor's twitching eyes focused on him with a sudden, unnerving intensity. He grinned, revealing teeth filed to points. "Dangerous? I specialize in dangerous."
He produced two small vials. The first contained a fine, rust-red powder. "Milled Briarflame," he hissed. "Touch it, and it's like grabbing a hot coal. Get a speck in your eye... well, you won't need that eye anymore. It clings. It burns."
The second vial held what looked like inert, gray dust. "Specks of Follyglue. These are my little beauties. Seem like nothing, yes? But the danger is... patient." He leaned in conspiratorially. "The moment they touch the slightest moisture—sweat, a drop of water, blood—they wake up. They absorb it, swell to ten times their size, become incredibly sticky, and taint whatever liquid birthed them with a toxic purple miasma. A pinch of this in a man's canteen... a fascinating way to die."
Lutz felt a cold thrill. These were not tools for a fair fight; they were weapons of sabotage, of biological warfare. He paid the man without haggling, 1 hammer for each, the vials joining the acid ingredients in a padded pouch on his harness.
He moved deeper into the cavern, the hum of the market a constant pressure in his skull. Then, his gaze fell upon another stall. The vendor was a man in his forties with the rough, scarred hands of a metalworker. His table wasn't covered in bizarre biological specimens or glowing fluids, but with neatly arranged pieces of metal in various shapes and colors, each inscribed with intricate, tiny symbols. They reminded him of the crimson metal charms from Taric, the ones still sitting in his chest, inert and mysterious.
Curiosity, that old driver of both scholars and thieves, pulled him forward. "What are these?" he asked, his tone neutral.
"Charms," the man replied, his voice a low rumble. "One-time effects. You chant the corresponding incantation in a language that can stir the forces of nature—Hermes will do—and it unleashes the stored power. Each corresponds to one of the 'Paths.'" He gestured to the different metals. "Silver for the Night, Gold for the Sun, Tin for the Storm, and so on."
Lutz's mind, always calculating, saw immediate applications. "Do you sell the method to use them? The incantations?"
The man pointed a thick finger towards a couple of small, leather-bound books at the edge of the table. "Manuals. Basic primers on charm invocation, plus a collection of common rituals that incorporate them. Ten Hammers."
It was a steep price, a significant chunk of his remaining capital. But knowledge was a weapon that never ran out of ammunition. "And the charms themselves? Anything specifically potent against shadows? Against the... profane?"
The vendor's eyes narrowed slightly, as if assessing Lutz's true need. He pointed to the charms made of a pale, shimmering gold. "Sun charms. Low-level, mind you. Won't purify a powerful spirit or banish a major curse. But it can illuminate a sizable area with holy sunlight for a short time, push back minor shadow constructs, and make any creature of a corrupt or profane nature... uncomfortable. A significant bother. Five Hammers each."
Holy Sunlight. The words were a key turning in a lock in Lutz's mind. The mysterious attacker moved through shadows. His power felt profane, corrupt. A weapon that could literally light up his battlefield and cause his primary hunter discomfort was not a luxury; it was a tactical necessity. The price was exorbitant, but his life was worth more than fifteen Hammers.
"The manual, and two of the Sun charms, 16 Hammers, and maybe i'll come back in the future." Lutz said, secretly gripping Creed in order to make this somewhat convincing, placing the gold coins on the table.
The man looked at him for a moment saying nothing, then he took both charms and the manual and gave them to him without a word.
The transaction was made. The charms were warm and heavy in his palm, thrumming with a latent, righteous power that felt alien to his own Marauder nature. The manual went into his document pouch.
As he moved away from the stall, his bag was heavier, his purse lighter as his funds had been reduced to 46 hammers and 6 shields. and his arsenal vastly more versatile. Each purchase was a thread being woven into the net he was preparing for his enemies. He was no longer just a thief planning a heist; he was preparing for a multifront war against gangsters, the church, and the supernatural.