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.