Death Monger
The trio was an odd mismatch, only united in the scowls on their faces and that look about them pirates got when they’d been in space for too long.
“We’re here to see your wares,” the leader, a tall woman with a thick frame growled. She wore an overcoat that looked like it was probably skin of some kind of animal, a blast-pistol strapped to both hips and what looked like the strap of a rifle slung across her body.
“Absolutely,” Tavalantir responded, eyeing up the other two. “Though I do insist on proof of intent to purchase. I do not suffer window shoppers.”
“Isn’t our money good enough for you, you old shit?” Said another, shorter woman who wore a coarse hoodie and boots that buckled up to her knees. The third pirate, a balding man dressed in multiple layers of gray and black, said nothing.
“That remains to be seen,” Tavalantir stretched out his hand, gestured with long fingers. He was taller than all of them, unnaturally tall, arms that seemed too thin to be moving on their own—as if he were suspended from the ceiling on strings. His tall hat, brilliant blue like his robes, made him seem even more imposing. At his prompting the lead pirate pulled out a credit chit and pressed it into the monger’s clammy palm. He held it up to one black iris as if he were looking through it. “A very modest sum, indeed.”
“Why you garbage shopkeep—“ the smaller woman lunged forward, but her leader held her back, shutting her down with a single glare.
“We’re willing to look at your modest wares.”
“I would show you nothing more.” Tavalantir sighed, unimpressed. He held the credit chit between his thumb and bony forefinger. “I hold this, and if you leave empty-handed, I collect 15000 gris.”
“Boss,” the man finally spoke up, “that’s crazy!”
“Shut up, Nuncin, I didn’t bring you along to think.”
Tavalantir led them into a secret door at the back of his shop, seeming to glide across the floor. He gestured to a table full of what looked like guns and grenades. His fingers lovingly brushed over each ware as he talked about it.
“Thyllium trip mines. The most portable seismic charge we sell. Guaranteed to kill within a 20 meter radius of where it’s tripped.” He hovered over to a small green box at the corner of the table. “Grenades with an achronti core.”
“Achronti…?” The man, Nuncin, wondered aloud.
“They explode before they’re thrown,” the leader grimaced, reaching to touch to grenade.
“The concussive shockwave travels backwards through time,” Tavalantir smiled, showing a mouth full of long, straight teeth. “Safrist dust,” he lifted a canister. “When breathed in, it increases the gravitational density of a life form. A pinch will slow your enemy exponentially, a handful will crush them under their own weight.”
“Gods.” The shorter woman pulled her hood tighter around her face.
“Or perhaps you prefer this,” Tavalantir lifted what looked to be an exceptionally heavy rifle with the most delicate of movements, as if it were nothing.
“Is… is that ralidopic canon?” The leader stuttered.
“Yes,” Tavalantir grinned at the discomfort that rippled through the trio. “Unfortunately it is out of your price range, unless you happen to have other funds you were not willing to share earlier? No? A pity.” He set the rifle down.
“How much for the grenades?” The leader asked.
“33000 gris. Per grenade.”
“That’s ridiculous!” The short woman shouted. “We don’t need any of this stuff, boss.
“Yes we do, Luiza. I need this…”
