Staying The Night.

"Shit!"

Obsidious exclaims, as he thuds his horned head against the frame of Raz's front door. Evidently post-anarchism builders don't account for warlords over 7 feet tall.

He looks at the wood. Not even dented, although it probably would've shattered had he been walking with any actual force, rather than mindlessly listing behind Razor. He's barely awake right now.

He enters the dim light of Razor's home - immediately to his left is a small kitchen, slightly derelict - albeit, so was the rest of this place.

Razor lived in a small, two bedroomed house on the outskirts of town - old, parts boarded up, paint flaking and wallpaper peeling - but it was home.

Obsidious found it rather quaint - and wasn't at all fazed by the change in grandeur from his usual chambers. He'd stayed in far worse, and was glad he had a somewhat safe resting place for the night. Although, if he had to make any complaint, it'd be the horrendous shade of cabbage green that had been chosen for the wallpaper - that visual assault was the most powerful offense he'd seen in his decades of fighting.

He lumbered into the sitting room directly from the corridor the front door connected to, which also had a small dining table within. To his right was a staircase, supposedly to the bedrooms and bathroom. A couple of armchairs, a coffee table with a radio - and a flatscreen TV in the corner, though one of the older models - all in all, a pretty good home for a carpenter in a place like this. Obsidious's best guess was that Raz was good enough at his job to be hired by the rich ones in this crevice of the galaxy - like the mobs.

"Say, Raz," he muses, "how is it that you make enough to afford this place? I've heard the homeless rate is pretty damn high out here." He chuckles at his own morbid joke - over 99% of people live on the streets here, lending this planet the highest mortality rate in every age group out of all the planets so far explored.

Arkanos was never intended to be "home" for anyone. It was originally an exile for criminals - then those criminals started building their own society here out of what little natural resources were at hand. Immigrants from war-torn planets would flee here, in hopes of catching a shuttle to one of the homelier planets; and many of them did. Then the Trinity chose to ban all outgoing flights from Arkanos, and the rumors that spread as to why resulted in most planets having laws to exterminate Arkanon shuttles upon sight. And so this ill-equipped planet was consistently gaining more citizens, ones it could not support - because people had no way to tell those coming that there was no salvation here, merely more pain.

"Well, I'm sure a smart guy like you has guessed it already, but most of my work comes from the mobs - there's a big market for wooden figureheads, and a big market for carpenters to make em. My work is about as good as it gets." he grumbles. He then perks up slightly. "Matter of fact, the Arkanium just commissioned me to make some helmet figures - and they specifically requested one modelled after yours. Mind helping me out?"

He's tense. This could either be written off as his payment for staying at his house, or it could go horribly wrong and end up with him dead.

Obsidious ponders this. Why not, after all? There's plenty of pictures of his helmet, sure - but he has respect for artists, and knows that seeing the object in question close up is always more effective.

"Sure," He says in a monotone voice, "but do you have any food and water? I'm parched and starving."

Ten minutes later, a crumpled plastic bottle in the bin and a plate with the remnants of a cheese sandwich in the sink, Obsidious leans back in his chair at the table.

"Ahhh...the simple stuff is always the best, I find. Anyway, what was that about a helmet figurehead?"

He'd forgotten the details of his agreement with Raz after he'd started wolfing down the food and drink. He awaited an answer as he stared out of the grimy window next to him, his helmet illuminated by the dusty woodland light that shone through.

"Right. I just need you to keep your head entirely level for about an hour or so - then I can make a carving out of this block of wood." He slaps the top of the wood with the palm of his hand as it rests on the table, a carving knife and a small hammer and chisel to the right. of it.

"Very well." Obsidious sits steady as stone, his head fully level and straight. Untensed - hes mastered the art of remaining entirely still in multiple forest battle zones, so this is no difficult task for the warrior. Raz gets to work, peeling away sections of wood, carving the narrow visor with care, sharpening the horns like some woodworking god enveloped in the greatness of his new creation.

An hour passes - and just as Raz promised, a perfect, life size replica of Obsidious's helm rests on the table.

"Ooh, yes. The Arkanium will be very pleased," he mutters. holding the helmet up to the light - its been carved so skilfully that its smooth, the light bouncing off it like a trampoline of photons.

That word - Arkanium. Only now does Obsidious register he has a link to the Arkanium, potentially accelerating his return to power - but he must play his cards carefully, else he risks ruining this chance.

"The Arkanium...I've heard you mention that name a few times now. I know very well who they are - but what are the chances you could make me one of their associates?" he quizzes, trying to see just how far Raz's contacts stretch.

Raz ponders this for a moment. Well, probably quite a good chance, considering they want a bust made of his head.

"Well, why don't you come with me to their HQ tomorrow? Then we can find out."