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.