Alternating between riding and pushing the Sandship was tiring, and the experience could hardly be called sailing. It felt more like using a sand sled, with the people pushing it treated as beasts of burden.
Fortunately, the wind was favorable that day. Even with their intermittent progress, the fifty or sixty kilometers took only half a day. They still arrived much faster than they would have on foot, saving the group a fair amount of time.
The price was that everyone who took a turn pushing the ship swallowed a bellyful of sand and dust and arrived looking utterly disheveled.
Francesca had only been trying to help Isis and the others reach Val Habar more easily, so the outcome left her a little embarrassed. "Ahem. Lunch is on me. Order whatever you want!"
"Awesome!" Isis had been planning to say goodbye and give Francesca and Serl some time alone, but she immediately changed her mind.
"How about the Felyne Chef's place? It's affordable and delicious! We came all the way to Val Habar, so we have to eat there!"
Francesca shrugged, perfectly amenable to the idea. She had visited Val Habar many times, mostly on business, so she naturally knew the Felyne Chef and the others. She simply was not as close to them as Isis, whom they treated like family.
Isis chuckled as she hefted the enormous bundle of materials on her back.
Gluttony aside, she had not forgotten the main reason for coming to Val Habar. "Let's find Uncle Smithy and place our order first.
"Francesca, you two can look around for a while. We'll meet at the Felyne Chef's stall at noon!"
Altaïr and Morgan, along with the two Felynes and one bird, naturally gathered at Isis's side, leaving Francesca and Serl as the "you two" in question.
Unfortunately, the scene Isis had imagined, with the pair avoiding each other's eyes and blushing furiously, never materialized.
Francesca pursed her lips. "Fine. I'll go see Guildmarm Sophia first. I asked her for a favor earlier, so I need to thank her properly."
"Then I'll save us a table at the Felyne Chef's stall. It gets crowded, and all the good tables will be taken if we arrive too late," Serl added. Apparently, he also knew the Felyne Chef.
"Okay."
The two went their separate ways without hesitation.
Isis watched them leave, feeling rather lost.
Why wasn't it the way I'd imagined?
Amused, Altaïr tilted his head toward the road. "Let's go. You don't need to worry about your seniors' love lives. We should take care of our own business first."
"Fine..." Still disappointed, Isis hoisted the enormous single horn and followed her companions toward the Wyverian artisan's workshop.
Their luck was good. The workshop wagon stood open for business.
The smith was nowhere inside, so the three Hunters circled the workshop in search of him. They soon found the brawny Wyverian Master Craftsman in an animal pen behind it.
He was patiently grooming the fur of a young Popo. The gentle expression looked somewhat out of place on his broad, rugged face.
But anyone who spent even a little time with him would know that this towering man, two meters tall and more muscular than most Hunters, was gentle at heart.
"Uncle Smithy!" Isis greeted him happily.
The Wyverian artisan looked up in mild surprise, then brightened when he saw them. "You got here first?"
The three Hunters exchanged puzzled looks.
The word "first" bothered Altaïr, but before he could ask what the man meant, the artisan spoke again.
His gaze settled on the dark-red horn in Isis's hand and the Monster materials bundled together with rope.
"A Diablos? Dark red... It seems you hunted something quite unusual." The Wyverian artisan's perpetually narrowed eyes opened a fraction.
As a master smith, ordinary Monsters and even the materials of many High Rank Monsters failed to pique his interest.
That single horn, however, stirred an excitement and anticipation he had not felt in a long time.
"We sure did!" Isis sounded like a child proudly showing off to an elder. "It was Diablos the Demon King, a full thirty meters long! It was way stronger than an ordinary Diablos!"
"You want to use this horn to forge a Gunlance?" The Wyverian artisan easily guessed Isis's intention.
Diablos Armor did not suit her, nor would it suit a Long Sword user like Altaïr or a petite Heavy Bowgun user like Morgan.
As for weapons, no one would use Diablos materials to forge a Long Sword, and few Hunters favored the Diablos Heavy Bowgun. Diablos Gunlances, however, had always been highly regarded.
"Yeah!" Isis nodded vigorously. "I want it to be on the heavy side, with a larger blade, and the whole weapon absolutely has to be sturdy.
"I also want to modify the Dragon Blast mechanism and make some adjustments to the muzzle brake and heat-dissipation system...
"Uh, that's a lot of requests. Is it too much trouble?"
"Not at all." A faint smile touched the Wyverian artisan's lips. "Detailed customization is only natural for equipment made from materials of this caliber. After all, Hunters skilled enough to obtain them each have their own fighting styles and habits.
"The muzzle-brake modification is meant to harness shelling recoil for mobility, while the heat-dissipation changes follow the same principle as Dragon Breath. Is that correct?
"I can do all of that. It will simply take a little longer."
As he spoke, he turned to Altaïr and Morgan. "What about you two? Do you need anything made?"
Altaïr shook his head. Morgan, meanwhile, unstrapped the Shen Gaoren Cannon and Thorn Cannon from his back, then retrieved the heat-resistant metal Hakucho had been carrying. "Master Craftsman, I'd like to reinforce the mechanical structure..." he began respectfully.
Before Morgan could finish explaining, the Wyverian artisan picked up the Thorn Cannon and inspected it. When he discovered the looseness in its firing mechanism and the traces of modifications to the gunpowder chamber, he frowned slightly.
"You like loading extra gunpowder? That is hard on the weapon. Reinforcing it with heat-resistant metal will help, but remember to inspect and maintain it frequently, or you risk the barrel bursting."
Then he picked up the Shen Gaoren Cannon. "A Shen Gaoren Heavy Bowgun, and judging by its color, the materials did not come from an ordinary Shen Gaoren. A subspecies of some sort?
"The craftsmanship looks like the work of that master in Harth.
"You don't need to worry about this weapon. Shen Gaoren materials are strong enough that it will hold up without structural reinforcement. Just disassemble it periodically and clean the parts.
"I'll service it while it's here. Leave both weapons with me."
Morgan quickly thanked him.
After directing Isis and the others to unload the materials into the workshop, taking fresh measurements of Isis's limbs, palms, and fingers, and asking about a few more detailed preferences, the Wyverian artisan gave them an estimate.
Reinforcing the Bowgun's mechanical structure would be simple, he explained. Morgan could collect it in a couple of days.
Isis's new weapon was more complicated. The materials from Diablos the Demon King were exceptionally tough and would take time to process properly, at least two weeks.
Though impatient, Isis understood that good craftsmanship could not be rushed. Staying in Val Habar a while longer for her new Gunlance would be entirely worthwhile.
The Wyverian artisan set the materials aside for the moment and heated three large mugs of Popo Milk for them.
Altaïr never quite understood why the man served them Popo Milk every time they visited. Perhaps he still thought they were young and needed more milk to grow.
Altaïr blew on the steaming liquid and took a slow sip.
Compared with ordinary goat or camel milk, Popo Milk had a much higher fat content. It was almost as thick as cream, and holding it in his mouth before slowly swallowing produced a wonderfully unusual sensation.
Seeing Isis drain half her mug in one gulp, the Wyverian artisan promptly topped it up again. "I received a letter from your parents a few days ago. They said they would arrive within the next couple of days. Some of their equipment was damaged in battle, and ordinary smiths couldn't repair it, so they asked me to handle the work.
"I assumed you had all arranged to come together, but apparently not?"
"Cough, cough..." Altaïr burst into a coughing fit.
The Popo Milk had gone down the wrong pipe.