As a sub-contractor of a company, an employee of the Shop-Owner's (where was he again?), and 'self' employed through the utilization of my talents... What kind of work didn't I do? Working as a conflict specialist and translator generally put me on the radar of politicians, business men, and government work that often gave me a lack of vulnerability most who might have taken my place would assume. That kind of immunity or lack of vulnerability didn't come without a price. My secondary skills were constantly put into use by men wearing expensive suits that didn't want to get dirty (blood or skin, maybe) beneath their fingernails. I had often entered contracts with these men that reached far, farther than the mere words of "translate here", and instead engaged these men in a practice I knew too well and enjoyed in a similar way. I didn't mind the blood, the dirt, the skin... No, not at all. As for working for myself, I think the implied meaning stands that I simply needed a reason to exercise my extraneous gifts.

As for the shop? The dingy place was familiar and comforting in that it had been home to sleepless nights and countless days that were dedicated to my handiwork. I don't know which I loved more; the decoration of weaponry or the creation of such things from other means. And I couldn't tell you which I liked less: women in the shop who didn't know anything about any weapon there, or those who felt they knew more. Raven? Somehow she was different. She'd known the rare artifact that had belonged to her pack. I understood that it belonged to her pack, but her knowledge of it coupled with the words uttered from her lips as she requested a handful of differentiating weapons? It was enough to make me acquiesce to her requests, and obtain the blades for her.

Not all of them had been created at my hands, nor had they been modified by me in anyway. The ones that were? They were specialized, made to fit in the hand so perfectly you could swear it was made for you and you alone. I watched one of my favorites be placed into the blonde Hunter's hand, and found myself at a loss for words to either admonish her in her voice of killing methodology, or find irritation bubbling to the surface to the were-wolf. Her behavior was absolutely pristine and I intended to grace her with the same behavior so when her eyes narrowed, I softened and silenced.

Emerence looked innocently at the weaponry. If someone came into this shop, would they not have an idea of what they were looking for? Depending on the day and mood, I could describe my desire and my killing methods with easy and explicit terminology. But her? Lost in my thoughts and judgments about the way she described her killing, I leaned on my elbow to rest my chin on my hand with an obvious lack of predatory posture. What would make her show up in this shop, assuming we or whoever owned said shop had a kind of predisposition to host hunters? I licked my lips curiously, finding a growing desire for a cigarette but with a newfound knowledge no were truly appreciated it. Refraining, I tilted my head and cocked a brow at Raven's description of the billao, which did look perfect for the young hunter.

"She's right," I agreed, thoughtfully eyeing the other blades, with an Indian Rampuri in mind. It was Raven's turn, but if Emerence found nothing to her liking I could suggest the next. As Raven's aura of quiet superiority with a tenacious edge was impending on both Emerence and I, I understood it was high time to let the were-wolf become an authority that could counsel and console my volatile behavior.