At first impression, the old man wasn’t that impressive to the average person coming through the market. That was what he was called, ‘The Old Man’ complete with capitals and quotes. He was an old man, more-so given that the way things had changed in the last two decades since the collapse of the world. He looked to be sixty or so very weathered years, and from the few who could speak his tongue, his actual age was closer to a century. Still his dark eyes and strong and steady hands showed that he was still very much in the here and now, not at all as frail as he would seem to the bystander. Something any of his apprentices could tell you after they failed to meet his stern standards and received the back of his hand and grunted comment translated by one of his assistants would inform them.
He knew how to make guns like no one else did, not the way that they had in the world with massive machines and automated forges but with hand tools, scrap iron scavenged from the ruins of the big abandoned cities and vehicles that lined the old decaying highways of the world. He had even helped design a printing press for the city paper when they recovered an antique one from a museum out west of the city.
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