Adventure of Lo 3

Lo steps into a narrow side lane beside the smithy, where the forge heat fades into cool stone shade. He lowers his heavy backpack, crouches by the wall, and opens his small picture book with careful paws.

The page shows simple letters beside drawn tools and shapes. Lo traces one mark, then another, matching each scratch of ink to the little picture beside it.

From the shop doorway, Rusk leans out with his forearms on the frame, chainmail still looped around one arm. His mouth quirks in approval when Lo looks up.

He gives Lo a small nod, then eases back into the shop without pushing for more. The lane stays quiet, warm with distant hammering, as Lo turns the page and keeps studying.

Lo studies the bent mark again, then the next. The shapes settle into meaning this time, not as scratches, but as parts of a system.

Rusk's voice stays easy from the doorway, his chainmail shifting softly when he adjusts his grip. The forge light flickers across the page as Lo turns to the next image and lets the lesson sink in.

Lo reads the words beside the drawn sword, then the little diagram of a hand at the hilt. The advice clicks into place with the same quiet certainty as a seam lying flat under a careful thumb.

Rusk gives a low, pleased hum, watching Lo's paw settle over the page with new understanding. The lane remains still, warm, and close.

Lo lowers the book a little and asks about shops that sell small crossbows. The question lands plain and practical in the warm lane.

Rusk reaches out a thumb and taps the page beside the sword sketch, then nods toward Lo's book as if linking the lesson to the next tool.

From inside the smithy, an iron ring clinks once against wood, then settles. The doorway stays open, the forge glow steady across the lane.

Rusk waits with an expectant look, one hand still on the doorframe, ready to answer whether Lo wants the yard first or the cooper's corner.

Lo leaves Iron-Ring District side lane behind and arrives at the eastern yard or cooper's corner.

The eastern yard opens around Lo in sawdust, rope coils, and stacked staves. Sunlight washes the cooper's corner, where carts creak and a few merchants call softly over their wares.

Lo reaches the stall Rusk named, its rack narrow and tidy. Small crossbows hang there with short limbs and folded stocks, easy to miss unless you know what to look for.

Old Venn turns from the counter, a compact man in a stained apron, and slides one crossbow free with practiced care.

Venn sets the weapon across his palms and tilts it toward Lo, waiting for his hands to come take it or inspect it.

Lo takes the crossbow from Venn and settles its stock into his palms. The little weapon has a dry, honest heft, neither flimsy nor burdensome.

He turns it a little, testing the balance, then points his muzzle toward the yard without raising the bolt. Venn watches the motion closely, waiting for the verdict.

Venn taps two fingers against the stock, then gestures toward a pouch of matched bolts beneath the counter, already sorted by length.

Lo lowers the crossbow a little, still cradling its weight in both hands. His answer comes plain, aimed at usefulness more than swagger.

Venn’s brows lift, then settle. He rubs his thumb along the counter edge, thinking it through before he speaks.

He reaches under the counter, draws out the pouch of matched bolts, and rests it where Lo can see the heads aligned in neat rows.

Lo keeps the crossbow steady and names his purpose without ornament. The yard noise fades behind the stall as Venn listens, weighing each word against the set of his shoulders.

Venn taps the counter beside the bolt pouch, then draws the pouch a little closer to Lo as if setting a test beside the answer. His expression softens by a shade, less merchant now and more old man measuring the shape of a customer.

He reaches for the bolts, then pauses, waiting for Lo to decide whether he wants the short lesson that comes with them.

Lo adjusts the crossbow, then works the lever with a calm, practiced pull. The yard narrows to the span of wood, string, and bolt as he shows he understands the motion by feel.

He loads, checks the seat, and snaps it shut again in one clean rhythm. The bolt pouch barely stirs before the next one is in his fingers.

Venn lifts the pouch and tips it once, letting Lo see the matched shafts lined by the same cut and fletching. He leaves one bolt on the counter, a quiet challenge.

The old man waits, watching Lo's fingers and the half-raised string, ready to judge the next motion.

Lo eases the crossbow up and slows his hands on purpose, letting every motion stay visible across the counter. The string seats without a jerk, the bolt stays true in the groove, and the half-set span holds steady under his control.

He finishes the load in one measured rhythm, clean enough to look deliberate rather than practiced. The lone bolt on the counter remains untouched, a neat marker beside the matched shafts.

Venn lowers the pouch and nods once, studying Lo's grip from knuckles to shoulder. His approval is quiet, but it lands hard in the still yard.

The old merchant nudges the lone bolt toward Lo with one finger, like a token instead of a test. Then he shifts the counter aside a little, opening space for another try.

Lo adjusts his grip and shows the motion exactly as asked, thumb held clear of the string path while the stock settles against his palm. The crossbow stays level, his hold firm without crowding the mechanism.

The string comes home cleanly. His thumb never snags, never flinches, and the weight of the weapon sits balanced instead of fighting him.

Venn taps the counter once, pleased, then slides the lone bolt into place beside the loaded bow as if awarding the lesson itself.

The yard stays quiet around them, but the old merchant's question hangs there, waiting for Lo's next answer.