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.