"You need a weapon."
Plor said flatly, tearing a hunk of bread in half and tossing it my way.
I caught it one-handed.
"Do I really." I muttered.
She didn't even look up from her cooking pot.
"Yes, you really need one, I don't need to remind you what happened yesterday. Go grab something from upstairs."
I chewed slowly, then asked.
"What am I even looking for?"
Plor shrugged, ladling out something brownish into a dented bowl.
"Whatever feels right. Something sharp, or heavy, or throwable. Just… not nothing. You need something that will compliment your point."
I stayed quiet. She made a good point.
Plor waved her spoon toward the ceiling.
"There's gear in a few crates. Half of it's junk, but you might get lucky. Pick out whatever you want, you'll know what works for you."
I wiped my hands on my pants and climbed the crooked stairs.
Upstairs felt like a different world. Most of the roof was still intact, but light pushed in through gaps and broken slats in the wall. There was water damage on everything. Dust thick enough to taste. And the whole place smelled like rot, rust, and something floral underneath it, like old herbs sealed into the wood.
The floor creaked under every step. Some of the planks bent so much I had to step wide around them, just in case.
Three crates sat near the far wall. One had already been cracked open, the lid off to the side. The others were sealed with nails dark with age.
I grabbed a pry bar leaning by the wall and wedged it into the closest one. Wood groaned and splintered as the lid popped.
The first crate was full of clothes, heavy outerwear, thick coats, a tangle of old belts, some of them scorched. Dust puffed up as I pulled the top layer away. I found a few gloves, stiff with age, and a mask with shattered glass. Maybe something old soldiers used. It felt weird touching it, like picking up someone else's life. I pushed it all aside.
The second crate held tools. Hammers, most rusted over, a saw with no teeth, and piles of coiled copper wire. There were old mechanical parts here too, tech I didn't recognize. Stuff with strange hinges or faded lights. Nothing I could use in a fight. Unless I planned on throwing screws.
The third crate was heavier. I cracked the lid, and the scent hit me immediately, iron, mildew, and oil.
Weapons.
At least, what was left of them.
I started pulling them out, one by one.
There was a short sword first, single-edged, with a blunt spine. I swung it twice, felt the weight. It pulled too far to the left. Off-balance. The grip was loose in my palm. Not it.
Next was a long dagger. Better weight, but chipped all along the blade. I could fix that if I had the time, but it didn't feel right in my hand. Too light. Needed something that could pack a bit more punch.
The third up, was a pair of iron knuckles, solid and heavy. I slid them on and punched the air. They had weight, sure, but they didn't fit me. Everything I did now relied on precision. Being everywhere at once. These would just get in the way.
I tried a staff. It was long, smooth, and surprisingly well-preserved. I did a few basic swings, tested it against the beam beside me. The wood held up, but it was too defensive. Too grounded. I didn't need reach, I could just create and remove distance at will.
Further down, I found a heavy axe. The head was dull, but intact. I lifted it, its weight biting into my palms, not too bad but a little bit uncomfortable. It was a weapon meant for someone twice my size, or someone who didn't care about missing a few swings.
I kept digging. A set of throwing knives, tips broken off. A chain with a weighted end, cool in theory, useless in practice. A pair of rusted scissors. What was this, a war chest or a junk drawer?
I was about to give up when I saw something wrapped near the bottom, swaddled in what looked like an old, black tarp.
I pulled it free and unwrapped the cloth.
Two curved blades.
Sickles.
They weren't shining, or polished, or dramatic. They were old, worn down at the grip, with leather wrapping coming loose at the edges. But the blades were still whole, curved steel that caught the faint light filtering through the slats in the roof.
I picked one up.
It fit in my hand. Not perfectly. But well. The weight sat right in my wrist, balanced near the curve instead of the handle. I gave it a test swing.
It followed my motion.
The second blade moved the same. Almost no difference between them. Someone had forged them together. A pair.
Not heavy. Not slow. Not flashy.
But dangerous.
They were made for quick strikes. For dragging, hooking, disarming. They wouldn't parry a sword cleanly, wouldn't block a hammer, but they could end a fight fast. And paired with flicking, teleporting into striking range, getting in close.
Yeah, I think this is the best choice here.
I sat back on a half-sunken beam and rested the blades across my lap. Outside, the rain started again, soft at first, then steady.
I glanced around the room once more.
Tucked near the corner, just beneath a stack of old cloth, something caught my eye.
A torn photo.
It was only one half. Faded. A woman stood with one hand on her son's shoulder. She had long, bright blonde hair, green eyes that still looked sharp despite the age of the picture. The kid looked young, two maybe. He had buzzed black hair, hard to tell from an old broken photo though.
The other side of the photo was missing. Just a man's arm still visible, resting around them. Nothing else. Whoever he was, he was gone from the image, maybe that was the point.
I looked at it for a second longer, then folded it back into the cloth and slid it into the crate.
Time to show Plor what she's misssing out on.
I picked up the sickles again.
They made more sense than anything else I'd tried. Every other weapon just felt a bit off, as if it just barely aligned with my power, didn't help that they were are all broken though.
These? Not too broken and felt clean to use, as well as fitting nicely with my power
Flick, strike, flick again. I could wind up an attack, then appear on top of someone. These weren't weapons for show. They were tools to turn a long fight into a short one.
Downstairs, the floor creaked.
Plor's voice called up.
"Still alive, or did something bite you?"
"I found something."
I came down slowly, sickles in hand. She looked up from where she was crouched by the firepit, cleaning her chakram with a rag and humming under her breath.
She raised a brow at the sight of me.
"Well," she said. "Look at you."
She stood and reached for one. I let her take it.
She tested the balance with one hand, flipped it twice, then offered it back. Her eyes weren't joking this time.
"Good choice. It's pretty grim, but I like it."
"They work."
She nodded.
"And they'll work better once you train with them. Keep them close. We move in two days."
"Where?"
She grinned, teeth flashing. "City ruins. Eastward. About a three day travel if you don't pass out halfway."
I slid the blades into my belt.
"I'll manage."
She walked past, clapped me once on the shoulder, then pointed to the canteen on the table.
"Drink. Rest. You've got two days left to breathe."
I sat down near the window, sickles at my side. The rain had gotten heavier, tapping against the cracked panes like a rhythm.
I didn't know what we'd find in the ruins.
Didn't really care.
At least I've got a weapon now, that's enough.