Witchbone deals

Chapter 4 — Wishbone Deals

Hours later — 11:20 PM

T. Lane's "Came Thru" drifts through the dim red haze of Lena's loft.

Shiro stirs on the couch. To his left, Grakka lies passed out, axe discarded. Lena's head rests in his lap, hair splayed over his gauntlets.

Damn… what a day.

He shifts gently so as not to wake them, rolls off the couch, and grabs his phone from the floor.

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🔔 New Voicemail

"Hey, this is ScamsRUs—your package hasn't arrived. Call 1-800-FAKE-NOW." 🙄

Delete.

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📲 New Message from Dez McCoo

Dez—genius relic-tinkerer, friend of five years. Shaggy black hair, stubble beard, loud vacation shirts, dwarven prosthetic arm with a glowing arc-core. Lazily funny, always knee-deep in shady gigs.

He dials.

"Yooo—wassup, McCoo?"

"What's good, brah? You up to anything wild tonight?"

"Took down a couple baddies. Now I'm chillin'."

"Where you at?"

"Duskhaven."

"Bet. Type 'Witchbone' into your map—Red District. I'll grab you a seat."

"Aight, bet."

Click.

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He tip-toes past the passed-out pair, kisses each on the forehead, then slides into the mini-bathroom. A quick, icy shower clears the last of the wine haze.

Lena's spare clothes—a tank top and worn jeans—sit folded on a stool. He dresses, straps on his direwolf-hide gauntlets, pockets his phone, and steps into the hallway.

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Grakka (half-awake, mumbling):

"Wonder where he's going—"

Lena (smiling in her sleep):

"Doesn't matter… Do you gotta leave, y'know… being a warlord and stuff?"

Grakka:

"Naw. There's plenty others that can substitute."

"I found my mate," she murmurs.

Lena nuzzles into Grakka's shoulder.

They settle back into the couch's warm, soft embrace as the front door clicks shut.

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Shiro's Walk to the Witchbone

The Red District greets him like an old demon—alive, hungry, electric.

1. Neon & Rune-Glyphs

• Flickering sigils float overhead. Some advertise "EXPERIENCE ETERNAL PLEASURE" in blood-red script. Others crackle warnings against unbidden magic.

2. Street Theater

• A trio of fae acrobats tumble down the cobblestones, trailing glitter.

• A half-demon barker yells for wagers on a no-rules pit-fight in a side alley.

3. Scent Mosaic

• Spicy skewered meats sizzle—garlic, chili, and three-eyed serpent oil.

• Opium incense mixes with the sour tang of spilled ale.

• Somewhere close, Dez's rogue brew leaks from a cracked bottle.

4. Soundscape

• Bass-heavy drumbeats throb from enchanted lantern speakers.

• Laughter, shrieks, and moans echo from behind curtains.

• A bard's lute plays something too smooth for this part of town.

5. The Vibe

• Eyes stalk him from shadow—some curious, some cautious.

• Others sniff the air, catching his beast scent, cologne, blood, and iron.

• The tension in the air? Could snap into violence—or something more seductive.

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Ahead, the sign blazes:

THE WITCHBONE

A jagged wolf skull wrapped in thorned vines. Neon-green runes pulse in rhythm with the bass.

Cracking his neck, he steps inside—ready for whatever Dez cooked up this time.

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Inside, it hits him: liquor, sweet smoke, musk, and magic.

Red and purple crystal lights hang like stars overhead.

Trap music plays low, hypnotic—hips swaying, heads nodding.

Eyes scan. Wild. Alert. Like a beast in a new jungle.

The place breathes chaos.

To the right, beastmen crowd a smoking table, laughing loud over rune-dice.

In the back, a thick-shouldered orc leans against the bar, sending drinks to three tatted-up dark elven women. They smirk like they're deciding how to eat him—slow.

To the left, two dwarves clash mugs like warhammers, locked in a drink-off. One's already gone red in the face, still yelling he "ain't done yet, dammit!"

At the pool table—pure chaos:

Orc gangster twins. A slick elven witch. Curvy succubus in pinstripes. A dragonkin cursing over a snapped cue.

He grins.

Moving through the mess—flirting, sparks, magic bursts—until he sees him:

Dez.

Posted in the back by a mana fan, lounge-bent with a glowing purple drink. Hawaiian shirt open, prosthetic arm humming faintly.

He waves.

"Bout damn time, Wildman with your big head ass."

"What's good, my boy?"

Their handshake claps loud—like a gunshot through the haze.

"Nothin' much. Just kickin' major flavor."

Gold tooth catches the bar's red glow.

"Yeah right. You always in some shit. Why you call me out here?"

"Chill, chill—step over. Into my office."

"Huh? This your spot?"

"Yeah. Won it in a bet."

"…The fuck?"

"Card game. If I lost, they was gon' take my damn arm. Only thing I had to wager."

He lifts the arm. Fingers twitch. Blue mana pulses in the core.

"See? Bullshit. You got a demon's luck."

"Good thing I counted the cards."

He winks, then pushes open a door behind the bar. Workshop. Dim-lit. Glowing relics, twitching automata, scattered parchment.

They step inside.

"Been workin' on somethin'. Toss me your gloves."

"Hmph…"

He flicks the gauntlets over.

"You up to something. Always are. Ain't no way you just bein' nice. What you want?"

"Nah, bra—I'm just bein' a good friend."

"Mmmhm. Stop it. Lay it out. Spill."

Dez pauses. That grin fades—something serious in its place.

"Aight… so I might be in a bit of a conundrum."

"Knew it."

"Took a job. Quiet gig. Shadowy org—they call themselves The Obsidian Choir."

"Already sound like trouble."

"Yeah, well… they wanted me to stabilize a relic. Real ancient. Real cursed.

I cracked it open. Modified it. Gave it a new core. That's what I just installed in your gauntlet."

"…Wait. You put a cursed-ass relic in my gear?"

"Chill, Wildman—it's modified. It ain't gonna curse you… probably."

"You wild, Dez."

Scratches his head

"Didn't tell 'em I gave it away. They thought I was returning it. But I saw what it could do. That thing? It's got power. Old power. Like… pre-god power."

Shiro flexes, staring at the faintly glowing gauntlets.

"…So what, they coming after you?"

"Not just me. You too, now. If they track that relic, you're marked.

But—absorb that power? It'll make you stronger."

"Stronger how?"

"Breaking enchanted walls with bare hands. Warping the air with your aura. Heightened combat instinct, senses—maybe even tap into primal forces."

Grinning:

"Sounds sexy."

"Sexy don't mean safe."

He leans back, eyes on the rune-lit gauntlets.

"So what you telling me is… I just put a target on my back for a power-up?"

"Exactly. But if anyone can handle heat… it's you, G."

"You know me—I'm on all Bs." 😈

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