Grand Saint Alloy

Tristan was held up at the gate for almost twenty minutes. It was only such a short time because he was able to place where he had seen the chatty guard before. His name was Kieth he was gossipy and could drone on about anything better than a beehive. After recognition came a sense of frustration and impatience that built up as time was wasted.

“I got to see the new steward. He took Shadow Fist's old position once. He’s a scary guy, let me tell you, I would not want to meet him in a dark alley,” Keith pantomimed what he assumed would be a scary posture.

Tristan asked the other guard for help, “So a draft?”

Yes, Kieth had talked about everything but the draft. So Tristan made one last pea for the other man’s help. Otherwise, he was going to knock Kieth out and step over his sleeping body.

Thankfully the other guard was merciful, “Go to the sifting grounds to register and get your equipment. Lord Ajax has decreed that this draft is not optional and that avoiding it will be grounds for execution.”

The man sounded like he had said those lines more than he had ever wanted to. Tristan nodded, “Thanks, have a good day. Kieth.”

He waved as he went towards the sifting grounds. Once he was out of sight he changed directions heading toward his parent’s house. Now that he had been out in the wider Caldera, Tristan realized that the home he had grown up in was small compared to the ones other families in his position normally had. The two-bedroom home was what one would expect a skilled craftsman to own, not someone fulfilling the role of a steward. The small home was most likely part of the reason for Shadow Fist's popularity. He came from the people and did not set himself above the people with a display of his wealth.

He did consider seeing what the draft was about, but he had been part of two different ones. Only two things were made clear during them. First, you would be fed only what the leadership wanted you to be aware of. Second, the Caldera had ordered more drafts than an alcoholic farmer in the last year. Tristan would not be able to learn anything that Blacklake’s spies could not also uncover.

It would also not further his two objectives. He needed to get Shadow Fist away from the Forest Caldera and make a large, public disturbance. He had several targets in mind, though only one truly served both his role as a silver devil and as a release for some of his anger. The Temple and their three gods had sent an assassin after Eve, so he would have no compunctions about burning the place down.

The city got busier as he made his way closer to the center. More elementals patrolled, all tier one, and businesses were still open. Aside from the wary glances of the citizens at the walking corpses, life looked normal. People went to work, most of it was preparations for war, but the frantic panic in the River Caldera was absent.

Tristan walked confidently towards his old home, no one gave him a second glance. He entered the ring of trees surrounding the Elders mansion and made his way toward his father’s home. Unsurprisingly it was locked, though not with the complex locks typically found on vaults. The last time he had come across a lock he had been able to simply slice it apart with his two daggers, this time he had a better way.

All these locks were similar, and he had held the key before. He was sure of it. Frowning he tried to remember what it looked like. Things before his sifting were hazy, it was a different life, so while the feelings remained, associated memories were frustratingly absent. Normally his life before and after were completely separate, with little to no crossover. Growling Tristan decided to forgo the key. Unholstering his axe he smashed the bolt, his tier four strength making short work of the bolt.

Pushing the door open, he stepped inside. Part of him had been expecting to find Shadow Fist here, though an active man would be gone during mid-day. Looking around, Tristan found a clean house, almost like it was not lived in. Dust coated the bed and the stove. The pantry was empty, and the latrine was unused.

Only one thing was out of place. A shrine sat in the middle of the spare bedroom. It had a painting of Tris and Helen, with flowers around them. Separated from the others was a charcoal sketch of a younger Tristan, he would have been around ten in the image. Fingerprints smudged the edges of all three images.

The display of flowers for his sister and mother was expected. A funeral setup for Tristan threw Shadow Fist’s words and actions against each other. He had made it clear that he viewed Tristan as a tool, but people did not mourn the death of a tool. It did give him an idea. Shadow Fist came here often, perhaps every day. Why couldn’t he simply leave a message for him?

Tristan picked up his image and inspected it. It would be a shame to destroy it. He used his architect alloy to create a knife and scratch a message into the wall.

“Meet me at the cobbler’s home. Sunset tomorrow.”

He stepped back and looked it over. The penmanship was atrocious, but it would work, the contrast between the whitewash and dark wood made it visible, even in low light. Not that that would be an issue for Shadow Fist with his dark kern.

Now to prove it was Tristan who wrote it. He used an ability that Shadow Fist had seen before. Placing a hand on the bed he let decay alloy drip from his fingers as he trailed them along the sheets. His tier four alloy was way more efficient than his tier two variant, breaking the bed down into a pile of gooey wood in only a few minutes. Once the alloy had exhausted its power, he placed the picture of himself in the center of the mess.

If Shadow Fist came, there would be no way for him to misinterpret that. As far as Tristan knew, no one else was able to use decay like him. He did his best to shut the door, but it was obvious someone had forced their way in. Lumber mauls were not meant for discretion when committing arson.

Just because he had not found Shadow Fist did not mean he would stop looking for him. There was a good chance that his coming here was a once-a-week activity. Tristan did not want to miss his chance to catch him due to bad luck. The next most likely location was the Elders mansion, a place in which Tristan would also gladly make a disturbance.

Walking up the short path to the structure he was blocked by two guards. They had been hidden from sight by the foliage, but Tristan’s metal sense was able to pick up their armor and weapons. After a brief inspection, they both relaxed ever so slightly. Tristan did not look like a threat, he was young and armed poorly. The fifteen-pound maul was too heavy for a tier zero or one to use efficiently as a weapon. It was a little on the light side as a tier four weapon.

“What are you doing kid?” The warrior on the left asked. He had his war pick resting casually against his shoulder.

“Who lives in the building,” Tristan asked, not bothering with the question. Elder Forrest had been dethroned, so he was not occupying it. There was enough value inside to warrant occupying two tier three guards. Regardless of their answer, he would find out.

“None of your business,” the same warrior said, “Go back home, or get in some training before you fight for real.”

Tristan shrugged, “Have it your way.”

The man’s eyes widened as Tristan stepped in faster than expected. He was still able to swing his war-pick, but only the shaft hit Tristan’s shoulder. Tristan grabbed the shaft of the weapon and dragged the warrior in while he punched straight. To his credit, the man did not lose consciousness. He was unable to keep a hold of his weapon.

Tristan reinforced his palm to catch the war-pick coming from the other guard. That one tried to jerk it back, only to find that Tristan’s grip was greater. He bashed that guard with the flat of the war-pick, before whipping around to use the backside of the pick on the first guard's shoulder. Warrior two dropped after getting clubbed over the head, Warrior one staggered back crying out as his pauldron caved in.

The maul was brought to bear, smashing into the warrior’s chest plate. It was less capable than the pick but still did substantial damage to the sheet of metal. Several ribs cracked as the warrior staggered, tripped over a low bush, and fell into the foliage he had been hiding behind. Tristan waited for the man to rise, and when he didn’t he continued on his way.

“Intruder!” A loud voice yelled from the now open doors.

The warrior’s cry had attracted some of his friends. Tristan grabbed one of the rocks lining the path and pitched it at the warrior. He avoided it, but the action wasted on avoiding the stone allowed Tristan to make it up the steps and kick the man through the open doors. Bones broke, causing Tristan to wince, that had not been a warrior. The well-armed tier one was knocked backward into Elder Forest’s reception hall.

“Sorry about that,” Tristan apologized as he stepped into the mansion.

He was greeted by half a dozen shocked acolytes of the temple. Including the four that had accosted him almost a year ago. He hadn’t really thought about them much, but it seemed that the temple had taken up residence in the Elders mansion.

“Long time no see,” Tristan started grinning as he walked towards the acolytes.