Granny Thayer, Demon Slayer || Collab with CMF_Wright

Chapter 7: Too sloshed to sensei

Even with cotton balls blocking both ears, it took some time for Violet to adjust to the chaos and bustle of the city. Sounds were too loud, smells too fragrant, and the sunlight too bright for her overpowered vision.

"Where are we going to find a teacher?" said Kingsley.

He seemed to have decided he preferred her and Jiggles' company to sitting around in the castle and had accompanied them into the city. At least, thought Violet, he did a better job disguising himself than King Fazir. A black patch covered his left eye, he'd penciled in a large mole on the side of his lip, and a dark hood hid his perfect wavy locks.

"Not sure yet, but I'll know it when I see it," said Violet. Kingsley had insisted she adopt a disguise too, so she now sported Arty's obsidian sword at her side, along with a green faux-leather hooded jacket which was uncomfortably tight and itchy. She squinted against the sunlight, trying to adjust the hood to dampen the glare. "Where would you go if you were looking for someone with fighting prowess?"

"Perhaps we could ask the Whicher?"

"No." Violet stroked Jiggles, who was draped around her neck like a scarf again. "The authors are concerned about giving him too much screen time. Something about potential copyright infringement."

Beside her, Bruce the horse let out a disgruntled neigh. Kingsley had somehow managed to convince the stablehand to let them borrow him for their trip.

"We could try putting up a wanted ad." Kingsley nodded at a poster, which was plastered to a nearby pole.

Violet leaned closer.

Lethal Blade, she read. Mercenary for Hire. Defeater of Dark Lords, Protector of Princes, Sensei of Swordsmen, and Shifter Extraordinaire. (He/him/his). For rates and resume, inquire at The Turgid Pickle on 4th Street.

Beneath the writing was a drawing of a man with bristling biceps and pecs the size of pumpkins who was wielding a sword three times his size.

"Huh," said Violet. "Sensei of swordsmen? That's a little sexist, don't you think? Oh, thank you," she added, as Kingsley handed her a pair of sunglasses he'd snagged off a nearby street vendor.

"They're an older style," said Kingsley. "I thought you might prefer them to some of the more newfangled nonsense that's taken hold these last few decades."

"They're perfect. Just what I need for my eyes."

Violet paused. A few feet away, a teenager was pointing at her and whispering. She strained her ears through the cotton balls, and was able to make out the words: "... granny over there is fucking badass... wanna be like her when I grow up."

She caught a glimpse of her reflection on one of the nearby merchant's pots and paused. The sunglasses, combined with the jacket and hood, gave her a rather alarming appearance. She wondered what Arty would say if he saw her.

Feeling faintly unsettled, she turned back to Kingsley, who was watching her perceptively. "It's only temporary," he said. "Now, shall we resume our search for a teacher in earnest?"

"Yes." Violet glanced again at the poster. "I guess The Turgid Pickle is as good a place as any to start."

~*~

The Turgid Pickle was not, as Violet had initially assumed, the name of a rather tawdry strip club. Instead, a bustling bar met her eyes as she stepped through the door.

A waitress hurried toward her, smiling pleasantly, and ushered her and Prince Kingsley into a booth before Violet could protest. "What can I get you? We're out of our signature lopsided pickle—there've been some supply chain issues with the Dark Lord on the rise—but anything else on the menu is fair game!"