Side Story: Niomira's Shoe Workshop
"Come on in~ Welcome to Niomira's Shoe Workshop. What kind of shoes can I make for you? First, we'll need to choose the material. Deer leather is soft and cushy. If your feet sweat a lot, I'd recommend boots made from manticore leather—they're well-ventilated. For rainy days, Alling royal lizard leather is the way to go. Make them knee-high, and you'll be set even in a downpour.
The thread we use to stitch the shoes is top-notch too. It's processed from the silk of giant cave spiders, brought in by adventurers now and then. The leather will wear out before this thread ever frays, I guarantee it.
Hmm… for winter, how about fur-lined boots made from reindeer pelts? A while back, the icewall couriers placed a bulk order with us, and they loved the quality so much that the next year, other couriers came asking for the same. That should tell you how good they are, no further explanation needed, right? We even take plaster casts of your feet to ensure a perfect fit, so comfortable that customers who've worn our shoes once will cross the Grand Market just to come back to us.
If you want something special, we can attach crampons, just like the ones the icewall couriers ordered. They're a bit clunky for regular walking, but perfect for crossing frozen lakes or icy paths.
Oh, I almost forgot! We also have a detachable chain mechanism for crampons, so you can buy those separately if you'd like. The crampons are made by Dram's forge, our partner smithy. Crafted by dwarven blacksmiths, so you don't need to worry about their quality either.
If you're ready to live on hard bread and bean soup for a while, how about boots made from drake leather or black reindeer fur? As they say, 'Good shoes lead to a bright future.'
Sturdy shoes are a must for travelers, merchants, farmers, hunters, adventurers… well, just about everyone, right? So, place your order with Niomira, and I'll have them ready in three days and nights. Come on, what are you waiting for?"
End of Side Story: Niomira's Shoe Workshop
*****
The streets of the Grand Market are packed. Unlike the early morning, the lanes are now teeming with people hauling packs and carts rattling along. The chatter of haggling fills the air, mingled with the shouts of merchants calling for the crowd to clear the way for their laden wagons.
Navigating the cramped, bustling streets, Nia unties the sword strapped horizontally at the waist, clutching it close to the chest to slip through the crowd. The streets have transformed since morning, when Nia left the arena. After taking a few wrong turns down unfamiliar alleys, Nia asks for directions and finds the route back to the wagon arena.
Nia's steps are swift. Is it the confidence from a full belly and a well-maintained greatsword gripped tightly in hand? Or perhaps the eagerness to return to the arena, to swing the blade and limber up before the match with Doaju? Holding the towering greatsword close, Nia hurries through the narrow alleyways.
"Child of the Red Dragon, come here and hear the prophecy of Takangtaka!"
A frail, rasping voice reaches Nia's ears.
Reacting to the phrase "Child of the Red Dragon." Nia turns toward the sound. There, beneath a small canopy tied to poles to block the sun, sits an old woman on a thick rug, the one who called out. She wears a faded black robe pulled low over her face, down to her nose. Wrinkled hands, like dry tree bark, peek out from the robe, along with cracked lips and white hair, brittle as winter grass, hanging limply at her neck.
"Heh heh heh heh. Just as Takangtaka foretold. Those ember-hued eyes… descendant of the Red Dragon Katadar…"
The old woman's lips, lined with thin wrinkles, curl into a smile, revealing chipped, yellowed front teeth.
"Old human, you know of the great Red Dragon Katadar?"
"Yes, yes, I know… I know very well…" she replies.
"Will you share your name, little Red Dragon?"
"Nia. Nia Calagon."
Nia tilts the head curiously, offering the name to the old woman.
"Nia… Red Dragon Nia… Forty-two years ago, Takangtaka told me to find the descendant of the Red Dragon at the crossroads where countless wagons gather and share a message. That's why I called you here…"
"Takangtaka? Forty-two years ago? That's before Nia was even born. I need to get to the arena soon, so tell me what Takangtaka said."
Nia halts, steps closer, and sits before the old woman, urging her to speak.
"Heh heh heh. Very well, Nia. Spare a moment and listen to the words of my god, Takangtaka. Hear the song of the Strider of the Plains. Just as the Droko sings the songs of the Red Dragon's kin, beloved by our master, listen to the tale my god has sent…"
The old woman's right hand slowly swings a small censer, its six thin chains dangling a flowerbud-shaped vessel emitting faint blue smoke from tiny holes. In her left hand, she lets small pebbles slip through her fingers onto the upturned palm. Closing her eyes, she hums a faint, repetitive melody, her voice like wind whistling through a narrow gap, mournful and soft.
"Little Red Dragon Nia, on your path, you will meet a messenger of one who dwells too high for my small voice to reach… A messenger sent by a god who gazes down from a place brighter than light, higher than the sun and moon."
Pausing briefly, the old woman takes a long, slow breath before continuing Takangtaka's prophecy.
"And you will stride with great steps down the path of glory. You will cross the Black Marsh and stand amidst the screams of birds. You will drink from the chalice of fire and, with a gesture, bring down a rain of stone. You will sing in the gray forest and set out to find the lost fragment of the moon…
The mountain of stone will crumble into desert sand… Katadar's song will resound through the struggle, echoing far and wide… Little Red Dragon, become a small pillar in the new kingdom of the gods."
Clatter
The small pebbles—blue, red, green, and yellow, no larger than grains of wheat—spill from her hand onto the ground below.
"What does any of that mean? Is Nia's future set by Takangtaka's words?"
Nia's eyes widen, struggling to parse the cryptic prophecy.
"Heh heh heh. Not quite, little one. The moment you heard these words, your future shifted once, and it may shift again many times over. My god shares glimpses of prophecy with me, but never the outcomes… Such a mischievous one, my god. I merely pass on the words. Your future? Even I don't know how it will unfold…"
The old woman's thin fingers brush over the scattered pebbles as she answers Nia's question.
"So, you've told Nia all of Takangtaka's words?"
"Yes. The message of Takangtaka, the singing god of the plains, has been fully shared. What seems unclear now may one day make sense, little dragon Nia."
Finishing her words, the old woman hangs the censer on the tip of her staff and rises from her seat.
"Nia will remember the words of Takangtaka you shared!"
Nia calls out toward the old woman, whose form grows faint behind the smoke curling from the censer.
"If we meet again, let's talk more, Red Dragon Nia."
The old woman vanishes, and the smoke begins to dissipate. From the end of the alley, the clopping of a mule's hooves grows louder, joined by the chatter of merchants, distant shouts, and the twang of a stringed instrument played on the street. The sounds of the world flood back into Nia's ears.
Inside one of the wagons of the Octagonal Arena, there's a space where fighters wait before their matches. The waiting room, located on the lowest level of the wagon, is dimly lit by oil lamps due to the scarce sunlight. A wide-mouthed jar, filled with water to quench the parched throats of fighters before their bouts, stands as tall as an average person's waist. In a corner, a small table holds a woven basket of dried wood, brimming with various fruits.
Guided by the Trea caravan, Nia steps into this waiting room within the Octagonal Arena's wagon. To warm up before the match, Nia swings the greatsword back and forth. The room, spacious for a wagon's interior, allows Nia to wield the long blade without hindrance. Each step Nia takes makes the wagon's floor creak softly.
"Dram did a fine job rewrapping the grip with new leather. Good call getting it serviced before the match."
Satisfied with the decision to have the sword maintained, Nia gazes at the blade with a faint smile.
The sharp whistle of the blade slicing through the air echoes in the dim waiting room. Nia's shadow, cast by the flickering lamplight, dances as if performing a ritual.
The smell of blood, thick with the dampness of the arena, seeps through the door into the waiting room. To a predator, it's the scent of prey; to others, it's the familiar odor of rusted, ruined metal tools. Not a pleasant smell, but the blood-soaked sand and dirt of the arena floor doesn't carry the fishy stench one might expect.
Though the roar of the crowd is faint, the heavy scent of blood signals that the next match is near.
"The match with Doaju… Focus… Focus… Focus."
Feeling the approach of the bout, Nia can't stop swinging the sword, fighting the creeping anxiety. To shake off the unease, Nia recalls the past—selling oil bottles, wandering the streets of Ixtarn as a merchant, yearning to stand on the arena stage as a fighter. From those days to this moment, Nia retraces the journey to this waiting room.