[Open!] I'm New In Town!

[ferruginous]

WHO: Fíadh and whoever wants to meet her.
WHAT: Fíadh has arrived and taken over the blacksmith shoppe. Hope no one has issues with that.
WHEN: A few days after the Shepherds' fun.
WHERE: The Smithy
NOTES: Let's have a doozy!

Maybe it's the sound of clanging metal, or the plume of inky black smoke billowing from the chimney-top, but if someone was to come and take a look they'd find the blacksmith back open for business. But if they were expecting a different proprietor, they were about to get a shock. A shock in the form of a very tall woman with choppy blonde hair, currently scrubbing aggressively at a nasty rust stain spread across her anvil. Teeth gritted and eyes narrowed, it's a pure look of concentration and determination scrunched into her face.

At her feet is a decent-sized pack on its side, a few clothes and baubles spilling out to the floor. One might think she simply tossed it to the floor before immediately getting to work. But the second Fíadh saw this shop, and this rusted anvil, she knew she has to be the one to take care of it. That's just how she operates. Of course just barging in and taking over has never been the best way to ingratiate yourself upon a community, but Fíadh has never been very good at that. With any luck it will go over better here than the last few towns, but if not ... well, she'd burn that bridge when she crossed it.

Besides, when it comes down to it, she knows she won't stay here for long. She never does.

Comments

Early Evening

[infinitewatch]

It's been some time since there's been a proper blacksmith in town, which is why smoke rising from the chimney is enough to snare the Watch Captain's attention as soon as he's awake. Of course, no one has come running to inform him of a fire or trespassing or any similar shenanigans, so it's with confusion and not suspicion that he approaches.

"...hello," he greets in a rasp, leaning around to see the face of the stranger occupying the smithy.

[ferruginous]

By the evening Fíadh has managed to scrub down the anvil as best as she can, and has moved on to the rest of the shop. Or rather, each mess that manages to catch her eye at a time and garner her complete attention, leaving pockets of order among the general disarray. She's sorting a various jumble of nails at a table, also in need of some serious work but she supposes she can just put that in her backlog of-

She tenses and whirls to face the Watch Captain before he can even finish the "-lo," barely jerking her swordarm to her hip before remembering it's bare. And that she's the stranger here. She assesses the man slowly, but there's certainly no embarrassment or guilt in her face at being found here. Only caution. Eventually, Fíadh responds.

"It was dirty."

She says it less as an explanation and more just ... a fact.

[infinitewatch]

With her swift motion, his arm too jerks toward his sword pommel, but freezes there when she hesitates. He's looking quite intensely at her now, jaw clamped and nervous.
The woman didn't attack him, so there's no need to escalate, but that first impression could've been better.

"Who are you," he demands quietly.

[ferruginous]

Fíadh's eyes narrow at his sword. Well, he's likely some sort of lawman if he's brandishing it in the open. It's reasonable that he's concerned. Of course that doesn't lower her hackles any.

"I'm a blacksmith. A good one."

She pointedly breaks her gaze to look about the shop before looking back at him unflinchingly.

"Which it seems this town needs."

[infinitewatch]

This still doesn't entirely add up. But as long as she isn't committing a crime-- technically, the smithy was open for the taking-- it won't do to make a big fuss.

"...yes," he agrees, still prickly in tone, glancing around at all the cleaning she's been doing. It does look better.

"What's your name," he asks next, "...where are you from." Still guarded, but giving her a chance. Some people, it would seem, just have no social skills (he has no idea what that's like).

[ferruginous]

Well, this is certainly becoming quite the standoff, isn't it? A more self-aware person would probably find this a good moment to concede. Too bad there's no one like that around here. Still, this man did agree to her reasoning. That's something.

"...Fíadh," she says brusquely. "I came here from Cliffside. Any other questions? Or can I get back to work?"

[infinitewatch]

Something in his face changes when she says her name, but it's difficult to pinpoint. It's probably common, not spelled like it sounds-- or how he thinks it is, anyway.

"Do you--" he stammers, getting back to business, "-- do you mean to stay on as the blacksmith? Or are you passing through?"

[ferruginous]

She doesn't know what to make of the change in his expression or how he seems to stammer, but not out of trying to analyze. It's that no one even taught her the social vocabulary for it; her best guess is that he got a sudden bout of indigestion. But her brow still furrows while thinking over his question. It takes probably a beat or two longer than normal conversation for her to answer.

" ... I'll stay as long as I need to- as long as I'm needed."

A slip, or could it be construed as clarification? She doesn't let herself dwell on that too long.

"Who are you? The town watch?"

[infinitewatch]

He nods.

"The Captain," he clarifies, and gives a proper, if stiff, little nod of greeting. "Lance." Unless-- no, no need to volunteer anything unsolicited.

"...the inn is that way, if you need food and a bed," he says in a quiet voice, nudging his head in the right direction, "and the chapel, and fountain," the opposite way. What else could a person need?

[stableman]

Sometime later in the day, Detlef drops by the smithy. There was smoke and he's curious and if something was amiss the Watch would have dealt with it already, he's sure. For a few minutes he watches her scrubbing the anvil. Is this a part of blacksmithing? After a time he clears his throat.

"Welcome? I'd think, at least. Unless you're fixing up the place for someone else before you move on." He smiles then, and holds out a hand. "I'm Detlef. Stablemaster."

[ferruginous]

Fíadh's attention is focused on the anvil, but she spots Detlef in her periphery when he enters. She tenses slightly, but says nothing; if she's lucky he'll just gawk for a bit then move on. But the minutes crawl by and he just. Stands there. Does he want her to acknowledge him or something? Because he's the one who strolled in and-

Oh, he spoke. She finally raises her eyes to assess his person before meeting his own.

"Fíadh," she says curtly. Maybe it's her name or maybe it's just a word, who knows, she's not clarifying. "What would be the point of fixing it if I'm not planning on using it? I'm staying here."

Ignoring his outstretched hand, she immediately turns back to the anvil and gets back to work. After a few moments, though, she speaks again.

"Do you need something? Horseshoes?"

[stableman]

Not very friendly, apparently. But honestly, if he waited for people to be friendly before he tried befriending them... well. Okay. In this town he wouldn't have to wait often. Most of them are affable enough. The point is that he doesn't need to wait for that.

"Some people get paid to fix a place up for someone else. But yes, Fiadh." It might be her name. It might be a swear word. He'll use it as the former until he knows better. "If you can make them, I could use them. We haven't had a blacksmith for a while."

Detlef leans against a handy wall and gets comfortable. He's going to have to work for a conversation, likely, but that's not a problem.

[ferruginous]

"Then give me approximate hoof sizes and how many you need. Once I've finished cleaning and stocking what I need I'll get to work on them."

Once more her full attention is back on the anvil, almost done by this point. Or rather, she would like it to be completely focused on her work, but she can't help being aware of Detlef's continued presence. Eventually she purses her lips and snaps back to him with narrowed eyes. Why is he still here?

"If you're concerned about payment we can figure it out once I've finished. Unless there's something else, you can go."

[stableman]

"Are you going to remember a dozen horseshoe orders?" He's settling in now, getting cozy, being friendly. Strangers should be made to feel welcome if they're joining the village, and not just because it makes villagers safer. It makes the whole village feel whole.

"I didn't bring a pen and parchment, I'm afraid. And I thought I might serve as part of the welcome wagon, though I've forgotten to bring any snacks or cats."

[ferruginous]

"I have a good memory."

All right, no one has that good of a memory, but Fíadh's trying her luck. She knows few people will ever call her bluff. The trick is to always look like you want to murder the person across from you.

"I don't need a welcome. Or snacks. Or ... cats." Her brow raises just slightly at that one. "I need to get my work done."

[stableman]

"Everyone needs cats. Except Shepherds. But thankfully I don't think you're one in disguise." His voice is light enough, mostly to make sure she doesn't take that as him actually badmouthing Shepherds. Detlef does not care to be reported.

"If you're sure you don't need a cat, though, then you may just need human company. That could be me. I'm human, I'm company." Maybe she's nervous about being new and it's manifesting in aloofness. He doesn't know enough to say yet - part of the reason he's sticking around.

[ferruginous]

"No one needs cats," she says brusquely. She chooses to ignore the mention of Shepherds, though. She herself has no love of those type of enforcers, and while she knows logically that just speaking of them won't summon them ... who wants to risk it?

"And I don't need company, human or otherwise. I need to get my work done. Without distraction." The more that she beats that necessity into his head it eventually has to sink in, right?

A couple days after she moved in

[sampler]

Keeping his needles sharp is fairly easy. All he has to do is wet his whetstone then press the needle to it and kinda rub and turn until it's sharp enough to prick his finger. Farogil's shears and blades, on the other hand, need proper work at a grindstone. With the smithy empty when he moved in, he accepted that he'd just have to take monthly trips to the nearest smith.

Thus, he's delighted when he overhears that there's a new smith in residence. Farogil packs everything he needs sharpened into a basket and heads over around midday. He loiters nearby for a few minutes, idly watching as people pass while waiting for her to seem to be between tasks. Then he approaches, giving a little wave of greeting and to get her attention.

"Excuse me, can you ssharpen sssh-" He cuts himself off with a frown. Instead of forcing himself to stammer it out, he holds one pair of shears up, brows raised in hopeful question.

[ferruginous]

By now Fíadh has almost fully set the shop up to her needs, or at least as good as it's going to get with what she has. The forge now has a near constantly flowing smoke stack, and while she hasn't had the time to make many pieces, there are at least a few examples of her work laying around. How has she had time for it, though? Does she sleep? Who knows.

It's fortuitous that she is actually working on her grindstone now, specifically the pedals to turn the damn thing. One of them keeps sticking, and it’s causing her enough grief that she is flat on her stomach, face-first in the mechanism attempting to fix it with a scowl. She notices Faro’s approach, but keeps concentrating on her task assuming he’ll speak up when he needs something. After a few minutes of silence, though, and her irritation only growing, she gives a growling groan and sits up to look at him.

As he trails off in asking, her eyes flit to his shears and she stands up before walking briskly over to him. Without another word she grabs them from his hands and takes a closer inspection. After a moment she looks back to him.

“This won’t take long, it’ll be two soverigns. You can stay while I work or come back, I don’t care.”

Just as quickly as she walked up she goes back to the bench of the grindstone and begins wetting it down.

[sampler]

Oh no, she's annoyed. Faro's eyes widen and lips purse into something of a remorseful frown as she approaches. There's no protest as she takes the shears, he's focused on finding the right words to apologize for bothering her (though how, he's not sure, which makes scripting it even more difficult).

Stay or don't, she says, and returns to her grindstone. To Faro, that's... that's perfect. She doesn't need him to chat about his work or ask about his. By the time she's turning around, his frown has reversed into a relieved smile.

Except he's got more than just those shears that need sharpening. Farogil hastily fishes his coinpurse from his belt and counts out two coins per item, plus two for the shears, and a couple extra to serve as tip or if the price would be variable. It takes him a few seconds, then he follows after her to deposit the basket within arm's reach of her station. The coins are on stacked top of the small collection of cutting instruments (another pair of fancy shears, a large kitchen knife, a short blade similar to a barber's) so that she needn't fear doing all this work without him being able to pay.

Farogil gives her a thumbs up and turns about to head back to where he was loitering before.

[ferruginous]

Once she finishes wetting down the stone she flicks her gaze over to the young man. He has more tools, and it doesn't escape her attention that he places it beside her as if she's a mountain cat he's afraid to startle. This doesn't exactly displease her, though. What does cause her concern is the fact that he's still here. Sure, she said she didn't care if he stayed, but that was more a courtesy. Like saying she wouldn't care if someone asked her to pick up an item from the shoppe or kill some troublesome vermin. But as she starts up the wheel (well, liberally pumping the pedal until the stone protests into movement) she's surprised to find he isn't talking at all. Just watching.

Slowly she begins to relax as she realizes the silence is staying that way. It's not weird to her, just ... comfortable. Whoever this person is, he's certainly getting on her good side. Even enough for slight conversation.

"Name?"

[sampler]

To be fair, he doesn't only watch her. People-watching in general is his favorite past time. Usually he's got a satchel with him so that he can work wherever he goes and be less obvious in his observation, but he didn't expect to have time to fill.

He points at himself, eyebrows up to ask if she was speaking to him. There's no one else standing around though, so he takes a hesitant couple steps closer so that neither needs raise their voice too much over the sound of the wheel.

"Farogil. Yours?"

[ferruginous]

Gods, he’s insanely cautious. Well, polite is what normal people would call it. But Fíadh doesn’t understand things like “politeness” and “meekness” and “not physically intimidating others.” Still, finally he spits out his name. Farogil. She pauses to take another look at him, assigning the planes in his face to the consonants and vowels she’s been given. After a long, unblinking stare, she responds in kind.

“Fíadh.”

Of course she doesn’t say it’s her name, but she figures he can suss it out. She looks back to her work and continues in the easy silence they’ve cultivated, finally when she finishes the shears she places them aside before picking up the next item and furiously forcing the wheel to pump back into motion.

[sampler]

Fíadh. A lovely name, very strong. If he was a more eloquent man, he'd tell her, or perhaps make some playful connection between her name and fire and how appropriate it is for someone in her trade. But he isn't, and she's no doubt heard it from a dozen other men who think they're more eloquent.

So Faro simply smiles and nods in acknowledgement, also fading into the comfortable quiet. Before he knows it, she's moving on to another tool. His eyebrows lift in surprise; she said it wouldn't take long, but he didn't expect it to be that quick. The smith he used back in Cliffside would have him drop things off and pick it up the next day!

"You work fast," he offers her an impressed grin, intending it as a compliment.

[ferruginous]

Even though he says it with a smile, Fíadh visibly bristles, taking a sharp intake of breath. In her experience, a smile is always what accompanies a snide remark. ‘What an ... interesting vocation for a woman,’ or ‘Hmm … did you really make this?’ She knows that she has no need to defend herself, never with words anyway, but still she finds herself practically snapping back.

“I’m efficient, you can check the shears yourself,” she punctuates this by sharply slamming the pedal of the grindstone to the floor where it then stays. “... Even with shite for equipment.”

Fíadh begins furiously kicking the pedal, more out of anger than actual hope of solving the problem, before scrubbing a hand over her face. The thing has decided to stay flush with the floor and the stone begins grinding to a slow halt. She’s not sure who the Saint of Timing is but she’s absolutely going to curse them the second she finds out. Finally turns back to Farogil with a piercing gaze, daring him to say a damn thing.