“What even is cold-iron?” she wondered, but dared not ask. Cold-iron Sovereigns didn’t look any different than tarnished iron, they were far less richly detailed than even silvers, with naught but a simple line design on either side. The only special property she could discern was the fact they remained cold to the touch no matter how long she held one of the coins, absent-mindedly flipping it in her fingers whilst she idly admired the detail work on a particular revolver.

None of these looked like something Zefaris would like. She just knew it. They were all very nice guns, but they were too nice. Too extravagant.

The only exception was the disassembled behemoth of a hand-cannon that sat on the counter, and sure enough, Zelsys caught the markswoman looking at the gun every once in a while, in between bouts of flitting from display to display and shooting her the occasional glance.

It was clear to see which gun Zef wanted, but perhaps she was just indecisive. Zel was already going to question Collier in regards to having more shells for her arm-cannon made, so she saw no reason to ask an extra question.

“What is it dear? Got a piece you’d like to take a look at?” the old woman bubbled, rising from her seat behind the counter. 

“Yes, but I’ve got something to ask first.”

“Shoot.”

Zel held out her left arm and worked the bolt, the fully-loaded shell heavy enough that the extractor barely made it pop out far enough for her to remove it from the breach. She held it out for Collier to inspect, querying, “Do you have the equipment necessary to make more shells like this one?”

“I-I think so, but I’d need a lil’ while to inspect one of ‘em,” Collier remarked, excitement audible in her voice. “Ideally a loaded one, unless you’ve got the specs on-hand. Y’mind if I take this lil’ beaut to examine? Got spare ammo, I hope?”

“I have spares, yes,” Zel said, omitting the fact she only had one more loaded shell and hoping that she’d get new ammo before the Governor’s agent contacted her. 

“As for my second question…” she simply looked down at the disassembled revolver, then back up at Collier, then showed the Cold-iron Sovereign she’d been fiddling with to symbolize purchase.

“Oh, you wanna know if lil’ Pentacle is for sale?” the gunsmith asked, somewhat taken aback, picking up the cylinder and showing that it only had etchings and inlays that could be seen up-close. “But why, she’s only got the basic inlays and glyphs to make her work! Surely your lady-friend would prefer a more regal arm, one that isn’t mostly bare cold-iron.”

Zefaris has slowly drifted towards them over the course of this exchange, and the moment Collier brought up the gun’s relatively unadorned state, she cut in with, “I’d prefer it to have etchings that actually mean something, rather than symbolism significant to a dead noble.”

Collier huffed, she puffed, and she relented with a faux annoyance that only a real grandmother could muster at a grandchild’s request. “Very well. I’ll get her assembled and boxed up for you along with a copy of my universal revolver manual.”

Zelsys walked out of that store having spent all of the funds she had gotten from the Governor, plus fifty gelt of her own money - she, of course, didn’t care. At this very moment, she only cared about Zef’s nearly vice-like grip on her arm as they walked through the streets of Willowdale, making no particular haste and discussing where to go next.

“So…” Sigmund scratched his beard, narrowing his eyes as his eyes flicked between Makhus, the semi-sentient tube baby in the display cabinet, and the notes on the writing desk. “You’re telling me that, somehow, we happened to meet the result of this supposed experiment? I mean… You’ve got to admit, it’s hard to believe that Zelsys came about through the same processes as…”

A gesture at the homunculus in the jar to illustrate his point. Makhus raised his eyebrows in response, chuckling in befuddlement as he questioned, “That’s the part you find hard to believe? Not that we just so happened to meet her, or rent this place?”

“Both o’ those are just synchronicity, happenstance. We met her because there are very few paths through the Maze of Dead Trees, and you would’ve rented this place when we eventually got out of the EZ on our own, even if we hadn’t met Zelsys and taken the easy way out. Two plus two equals four. It’s not that uncommon - most myths throughout history arose from astounding confluences of synchronicity…” the historian in Sig’s mind took over, trailing off until his own ruminations led him to a realization. He silently stared at the alchemist, eyes growing wide in epiphany.

 Makhus became visibly concerned in turn, asking, “What?”

“If you’re correct, and by the dead gods do I hope you’re correct, we might be living through a milestone of history.”

“And that means…”

“Maybe nothing, maybe everything. I might just be seeing patterns where there are none, we might go unmentioned in the history books,” Sigmund mused, allowing his inner monologue to run rampant. “Or, this might be part of the Sage’s contingency plans and we’ll get dragged into something far greater than Willowdale someday soon. Can’t know which it is until the day comes, if it ever does. I’m not speaking in concrete terms, ‘case that wasn’t obvious - this is history as much as it is my personal philosophy. Irrelevant to the present, really.”

“So you believe me.”

“There’s a homunculus in a jar staring back at me and a dead man’s notes that support your claims litter this desk,” he gestured to both of these things in turn. “I don’t have a choice in the matter. We’ll know for sure once Zelsys gets back, if she does let you run all those tests.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the distant ring of the doorbell. At first they thought it was the two women returning, but a different voice came. The singer’s sonorous bellow, inhumanly loud even without the active amplification of his abilities. 

“Anyone in here?” he yelled into the store. “Hello?”