northclifflogs | [Open!] I'm New In Town!

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[Open!] I'm New In Town!

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.

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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?"

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.

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.

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.

He tenses as she bristles. How did he offend with just- Oh, that. Faro nods vigorously at I'm efficient, shakes his head at you can check the shears, and goes back to nodding at shite for equipment. His mouth opens and near-closes a few times as he tries to format a response that isn't stuttering, sputtering apologies and fumbling explanation.

He's just about worked out how to say he appreciates efficiency and meant no offense without tripping on the repeating ff-sounds when she gives him that look. It's intimidating enough that he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, an embarrassingly earnest, "I'm glad you're here."

Well, he said something. And to Farogil’s credit, it is nothing Fíadh could have expected to hear. In fact she’s certain she’s never heard those words put in that particular order before, certainly not with what she is now realizing is sincerity. A wash of confusion spreads a strange sort of calm over her as she unwittingly lowers her shoulders. She knows there’s something she should say in response, but the only things that come to mind are ‘why?’ or that’s strange.’ She has the rare feeling that neither are the right thing.

Instead she looks back down to the now fully broken pedal of her grindstone and purses her lips. It’s an immediate problem she can focus on instead of … this thing.

“I’ll need another set of hands to fix this.”

That’s her way of saying thank you. Probably.

If his counted as an apology, hers definitely counted as accepting thanks. Farogil relaxes, lets out a quick, relieved breath, then brightens up. Holding up both hands as if to say look! I have a set of hands! and takes a step forward, "Could I help?"

Literally, will she let him? Is he able to? He knows the gist of how grindstones work and could possibly figure out repairing it on his own but he also knows that sometimes having a novice's hands getting in the way can be incredibly frustrating. And she seems like she'd have even less patience for it than he does.

"We'll see."

If she's honest with herself, she isn't entirely sure what the problem of it is. Before all this, she was with two tinkerers who would always fix the things that she was too impatient to try (or, realistically, couldn't fix through brute strength). But she had always been observant, and now maybe it would pay off with help. She has a working theory on what to fix at least, but first she knows it requires removing the giant grindstone itself from the cradle. And despite how strong she is, she knows she's not that strong.

She looks back over to Farogil, unabashedly eyeing him. She can't really tell beneath his clothes but to her he certainly seems ... slight is a polite word. Placing her hands on her hips she furrows her brow.

"We need to lift the stone." Leave it to him to say whether or not he's capable.

Yes! Farogil looks downright delighted at being allowed to help. He is rather slight and on the shorter side of average, but he has good upper body strength and is pretty sure that he'll be able to contribute. He rubs his hands together and scurries up to stand along the side of the stone that doesn't have the pedal, so he's not getting himself tangled in gears.

"All the way off? Or only up?" he asks as he grasps onto the axle jutting from the stone and gets himself in position to lift.

"All the way," she says as she works to remove the securing pins from both sides of the wheel. She quickly places the pins into the side of her mouth for safekeeping and slides off the rotational bar, leaving her side bare and ready to grab. She too wraps her hands around the axle and braces her feet firmly apart before raising her eyebrows to Farogil.

"Ready?" It's not really a question more as a statement, soon after she says it she begins to count. "One, two, three, lift."

"Wwhich-" She's counting before he can ask which way they're going to be moving the wheel. Faro lifts a half-beat behind her command, but hey! At least he lifts? Jaw set, arms straining, shoes slipping on the dirt more than is probably good for his knees. Whichever way she's going, he'll move, too, and do his damndest to set it down smoothly and not fling it at the ground.

Oh, right, she probably should have indicated where to put it. Well, she can guide it well-enough on her own.

"Stay there."

She begins moving to her left, using Farogil as a pivot point. With steady feet and only mildly straining arms (she definitely needs to practice her drills again if she's struggling this much) she eventually moves it to a point just to the side of the grinding mechanism and sets it down. Quickly she wipes the dust off on her trousers then moves back to the operative side. Crouching to her heels she begins looking over the parts.

"... Do you know anything about tinkering with devices?"

Turns out, he doesn't move except to turn his upper body as she guides the wheel over the cradle and to the ground. He grimaces but hey, at least he doesn't have to try to walk! Faro's

"Maybe?" He steps around and also crouches down, too, (leaving plenty of room so that they aren't at risk of elbowing each other) to look at the mechanics. Faro reaches out and points at the hole where it looks like the wheels axle connects to... another piece... and begins tracing the connections down, looking for something that is obviously broken.

The wood is old and the metal bits rusty and rough and he honestly can't tell what's meant to be janky and what isn't. There's one part down low, a metal plate with holes in it, that looks extra worn and only has pegs in some of the holes. Faro points at it, "This?"

Fíadh follows his gaze as she too tries to suss it out. She had thought that it might be a problem with rusted metal contacts, but it’s true that where Farogil is pointing looks to be missing a few bits. She silently curses herself for not checking over the equipment better before starting on her work, especially considering the state of the shop before she started. But it does seem to be a fairly obvious problem, and maybe together they can fix it.

The bit is fairly low to the ground, and Fíadh maneuvers herself onto her stomach before scooting closer. The part is fairly well-nailed down, certainly far too well to be pried up by her fingers alone. But she has to have something around here that can do the job.

“There’s a chisel on the table over there,” she indicates the table not too far away. “Bring it here.”

A chisel? Farogil figured they might have to scour the yard to find the missing bits and shove them back in the holes, but it sounds like Fíadh wants to pull the plate off. Gods, good thing, too, what if they'd stuck some bolts in there and broke the whole thing!?

He fetches the chisel for her right away, passing it over as he crouches back down, then grasps the wood that the plate is attached to with both hands. "I'll keep it steady."

Break it? Fíadh's not an idiot. In fact she's fairly confident in what she's set out to do. After all, brute strength has managed to solve most of her life's problems so far. She leans back out of the way for him to hold it steady before realizing that his body blocks her best angle of attack. Of course, there's not really room for him to grasp anywhere else. Well, she's determined now and no heavenly force nor man will stop her.

She, only mildly roughly, shoves Farogil down a bit so she can reach over his arms and wedges the chisel underneath the metal plate. Slowly she applies pressure with her arms, but the thing remains steadfast. For something so old, rusted, and missing some bolts it sure is snug. So she changes tactics, pushing her entire body weight into it. And it's a great idea as she can feel the plate begin to give.

Then it gives

Too much.

In one quick motion the plate flies off the wood, breaking the tops of the remaining bolts off in the process. But she can't compensate her strength quick enough, and she tumbles right into the wooden structure. She twists her body away from Farogil, trying her hardest to keep him out of the fray, and in the end collapses awkwardly partially on, partially into the grinding mechanism.

There’s a moment of silence as the dust settles with Fíadh’s shuddering breath the only break. Until she yells.

“Trasna ort féin!”

Lance had already passed the smithy, and although they were clearly doing something, he hadn't wanted to interrupt-- but this means he's close enough to hear the crash, and the very rude shout, and he backtracks to look concernedly in on the pair. Ah, both the newcomers.

He says nothing, but his expression is inquisitive. anyone dead

He obligingly adjusts his grip even though it makes him bend his arms really weirdly and makes it harder to hold the whatever-it-is steady. Though it doesn't seem to need him to hold it at all. What's important is that she clearly knows what she's doing and he's helping! Faro drops down onto his knees as she leans more heavily on the chisel so she's got more room to lean.

It's a good fucking thing he did because there's a sudden crack and creak and then she's falling and turning and elbows him in the face. Hard. Right by his eye.

As Fíadh shouts something from the collapsed grindstone, Faro's laid out on the ground, groaning in pain and holding his face.

Everything's horrible. The world is a dark nightmare. She just elbowed a man in the face and it wasn't even because she wanted to. And on top of all of that, on top of every little stab of pain and prodding from broken bits in her backside, the watch captain is here. If Fíadh had her druthers she would burn this entire building to the ground now and start over.

But she can't.

So she regains what composure she can, rolling off of the remains of her grindstone and struggling to her feet. She tries to brush some dust from her blouse and finds she might just be adding more to it before pointedly clearing her throat and looking to Lance.

"... Captain."

She then turns to look over Farogil and a flicker of concern comes over her. He doesn't seem the type to get in scrapes too often, this is probably not a fun experience for him and he was truly trying to help.

"... I don't think you'll die."

There, real solid comforting words.

If nothing else, Lance doesn't look like he's about to arrest anyone.

"...everyone all right," he asks, looking between them, a little confused. He glances to the grindstone and purses his lips-- well, at least it's her own problem to solve.

Farogil forces himself to sit up about the time she clears her throat, and to pull his hands away from his face to check for blood. There's none, but he dabs around his eyebrow and temple a few times just to make sure.

"My eye," he fusses as he squints up at Fíadh, still rubbing at it like that would somehow help the pain. Faro's not mad, just... confused, stunned. Bewildered. He turns that pained squinting towards Lance and gives him a weak thumbs up.

Yeah, he's alright. Technically.

Fíadh hasn't actually taken the time yet to check over herself, it wasn't as important as everything else. But she definitely feels pain. So she takes a moment to inspect her person, checking her arms, legs, and running her hands over her back to-

A harsh intake of air slips through her teeth as she feels the stab in her lower back. Quickly she brings her hand back to find blood over her fingers. Wonderful. Twisting to get a better view she sees blood seeping through her blouse, and quickly pulling it up there's what appears to be some sort of puncture wound.

"Huh."

Well that's a problem. But one she can solve later. Slowly she lowers her shirt back down and turns to look at Farogil, who even with his poor blackened eye manages to give a thumbs up. In solidarity, Fíadh raises a bloody thumb in affirmation.

They're not intentionally killing each other, nobody's bleeding out, and no property is damaged that doesn't technically belong to either of them, so...
well, case closed.

With a quiet sigh through his nose, Lance gives a little nod and proceeds on his patrol. They're adults, they'll figure it out.

Faro's mostly focused on rubbing at his face as Fíadh checks herself over, until she winces. He looks up, eyes widening in alarm at the site of blood when she lifts her shirt.

And then lowers it, like she didn't just discover a hole in her back.

"Oh- you-" He points at her side as if somehow she didn't know where she's injured. Faro tries to get to his feet and finds he's a little too dizzy to make it all the way; kneeling is probably a better vantage point to see how bad the wound is anyway. "Turn, I'll llook."

Fíadh keeps her thumb up until she sees the captain leave before slowly lowering it and turning to Faro. It should be endearing how much he continues to want to help, but slowly this whole situation is wearing down her nerves. She raises a hand at him.

"It's fine. I've had worse." Well, probably, she can't really see it. But the fact that she's not writhing on the ground in agony also means she's likely not wrong.

She moves her raised hand behind her head and rubs her neck, looking over the wreckage. All of that for it to just ... become worse.

"... Look, it will be a while until I finish your work. I'll try and get it repaired as quick as I can. Just take your money back."

[Open!] I'm New In Town!

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800 years later sorry

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