RP:A Recipe for Disaster

This is a Healer's Guild RP.

Summary: Leone is about to commence the making of the Gossamer Halberd, a rather queer weapon she has kindly accepted to forge for Thamalys - but she needs some details and measurements, hence the Avian meets her at the Smithy, oddly enough at about the same time Krice decides to pay a visit to the Priestess. A cumbersome interaction develops amongst the trio, featuring some swordsmanship lessons as well as a badly burnt wrist. Eventually, the Silver Enigma vanishes soundlessly, while Leone manages, despite Thamalys' efforts to ruin her day, to ultimate her meticulous task.

Gualon: Smithy

Leone || The forge is warm and humid - much like the rest of the swampy-surrounded city, and only a small fire burns in the furnace. Blue flame lick at the sides of a wide vessel, a charred copper bowl that is white nearer to the bottom, and fades through shades of red, orange, and yellow as it ascends. The pot is relatively short. An acrid aroma bleeds forth, strands of silvery smoke wending their way through the air, only to be caught and dragged backwards through the open flue like an unwilling captive. The smith herself is hovering near the workbench, a palm on edge currently employed to run over the surface, gathering flecks and remnants like a fleshy broom. Eventually, she scoops the crumbs into the palm of the opposite hand over the edge of the table before traipsing across the room to toss the whole lot into the flames. The fire answers her efforts with sparks and sizzle.

Thamalys banked hard toward his left, the telling sign of a thread of smoke, lazily rising from a rather inconspicuous building several tenths of meter below the soaring shapes of the Avian, forcing him to amend his glide. Far away enough from his duties, the Blue opted for the simplest of his attires, black leather wrapping his long legs, a spotless white shirt hanging loose from his shoulders, an embroidery recounting of trees and roots running along the cuffs. Apart from the very ink covering his skin, the Spellblade bore no weapons, nor indeed any piece of armour, if one would have been so naive to ignore the monumental wings of the Avian, each feather hardened by a silvery ointment fiercely glimmering in the morning sun. A massive swoop of that ivory curtains, the same colour of the many, knotty braids cascading on to the sharp face of the Blue, and the latter would have lost most of his altitude already, connecting not exactly flawlessly with the dusty ground a split second after, heels first - for some reason he could not withstand any footwear - the might of the impact bending his willowy shape into a graceless mass of leather and feathers. Trudging toward the source of that smoke - not to mention the metallic stench soiling the air nearby - the Spellblade covered the distance separating him from the entrance in a few strides only, bony knuckles hitting the brick in the attempt to announce his presence. With very little success, obviously, the Smith intent in his business with the outmost care of those who deal with the furnace out of passion alone. Thus, he would have uttered loudly… “Leone. Leone Svalbjorn, I suppose?” he commented, still quite astounded to witness a lady - a High Priestess, they say! - meddling with fire and steel.

Krice arrived a moment later to find himself staring at the back of a winged stranger. He remained in the doorway, or slightly north of it depending on Thamalys' position, and opted to turn for one of the horses in the nearby stables. Dressed in a black button-down with the collar open over his clavicle, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a katana strap pinching at the sternum of the fabric as it rested against his back, the silver-haired warrior seemed to harbour no special reason for visiting the Smith in her Gualonian quarters. While she and Thamalys conversed about whatever had brought the avian this way, the enigma would lurk nearby to tend to one of those horses while he listened - and waited for an opportunity to meet with the woman.

Leone is in the process of grabbing a long, narrow block of metal with a pair of tongs and shoving it into the fire as the avian enters. She turns at the sound of her name, the diminutive divine pivoting upon one heel. A back clad in black leather, topped by a low-slung bun of glossy, jet black hair rotates away to reveal a heart-shaped face framed by a deep widow's peak, half of which is splattered with sterling strands. Creamy skin streaked with soot and ashe underlies keen, citrus-hued sights that come to bear upon the shoeless avian. The smith inclines her head, her crainum glittering with sweat, but also refracting shards of silver glint, as if the aging tresses were infused with the remnants of a shattered mirror. "I am," the miniature metallurgist confirms in a dichotomic lilt of sugar and spice. An appraisive once-over is given to Thamalys, the teeming peridot gaze set into a stoic yet equally stern countenance moving over him from head to toe, as if she were measuring his worth. Krice's presence has not gone unnoticed - she can feel the swordsman near, no doubt - it's just gone unrecognized for the moment. Still, a small tug is given to that bond that they share.

Thamalys shifted his weight from one foot to another, carefully furling his wings into fluffy - if colossal - cocoon. Of all the pictures he had in his mind, he would have never dared to assign Leone’s actual look to the famous Gualon’s Smith. An obvious hint of surprise escaped his poise, consequently regained when the Avian entered that sweaty realm of metallic awe. Desperately trying not to knock over anything in the process, the Clumsy One moved yet another step forward, the crackling of the wooden logs the only sound breaking the lonely silence. Or not, as the Spellblade seemed to catch a glimpse, with the very corner of his eye, an exceedingly fast shadow vanishing somewhere nearby… the stables, maybe? He mutely asked himself, before shoving away that thought with a waving gesture of his tattooed hand, that silhouette most likely originating from the dizziness of the most recent flight. “Greetings, Leone. I go by the name of Thamalys, I take you received my missive?” he began instead, for a second outstretching his right hand to look for that of the Smith, an instant after realising he would have not enjoyed a permanent, scorching mark on his scented skin. He shook his head instead, crossing his arms beyond his back, much like a kid in front of a blackboard, ready to be butchered by a particularly demanding teacher. “Glad to meet you in person indeed, especially since Lady Sabrina spoke highly of you and your craft. I… I have brought you this…” he added in a rather deep, queer pitch, producing from a sizeable pocket within his short a pouch of what looked like black velvet, shortly after offering it to the Smith with the slightest dip of his head.

Krice wasn't one for humidity. Gualon was a city into which he had barely set foot over the last year, perhaps due to its muggy heat. At any rate, it was with a curious glance at the doorway that he acknowledged the pull of his bond with the blacksmith. After a moment of hesitation, the man strode forward, leaving that quietly trilling horse to his bucket of feed in favour of entering the Smithy - unintentionally right around the time Thamalys spoke of Sabrina. He lingered at the inside edge of the doorway, his gold-streaked eyes passing across the tall form of the winged man before drifting along the contours of Leone's face, acknowledging her with guarded familiarity. Despite that, his expression softened and he would dip his head in a nod if she looked his way, though it was clear that he didn't want to interrupt, drawn inside only by the pull of that bond.

Leone discards the tongs for the time being, pulling off the thick hide and fur glove from her other hand. The smith's fingertips are blackened, her palms callused and raw, and her knuckles are gnarled. The unsightly digits close around the offered bag, and she smiles softly to the avian. "A pleasure to meet you, at last," the petite plover replies in notes like sand on silk, "And yes, I did. I'm glad to see you've made it here so quickly. As I said, we just need a discussion and I need to take some measurements, and then I can begin producing your halberd." As she speaks, the sacred smith moves over to the workbench, where she retrieves a roll of parchment. The sizable sheet is sumarily spread out on the freshly cleaned top, a stick of molded charcoal clutched between two fingers. The farrier scribes the avian's name at the top before her head siwvels once more, and she pins him with that luminous, chartreuse stare anew. "Oh," the High Priestess emotes, the charcoal-laden hand gesturing to Krice in the doorway, "Have you met Krice? One of the best swordsmen in Hollow, I'd wager." A smirk is passed to the silver-haired male across the distance that separates them, though the expression quickly fades and the smith once more becomes businesslike. "Now then," the diametric velveteen and gravel timbre initiates again, "We need to talk material. For balance and overall durability, I recommend mithril. It is possible to get Ghroundium for the handle (and balast), and I think that you'd be more than capable of swinging it, but I wouldn't use any more than that, lest it become to unwieldy and unbalanced.”

Thamalys felt like he was one within the wheels of a well-oiled engine, the most efficient, hardened features of the Smith already at work, evaluating, probing, questioning, proposing - much like an Avian, he thought, a broad grin surfacing on his face. Grin that wore off almost immediately after, because, as expected, he managed with this cumbersome wings - no matter how neatly furled - to overturn a large piece of moon-shaped iron, possibly meant to be for a sickle, or something more ominous, he could not tell. The metal crashed on the floor with a vibrant lament, most likely reverberating across the whole room. “I will be damned if I ever…” groaned the Blue while crouching to collect the hand-made piece, his eyes nervously gazing all around. It was the treacherous sickle indeed that succeeded to reveal the presence of the Enigma. Slowly raising to his feet, the Avian acknowledge the newcomer with a brisk gesture of his left hand, the right one being possibly busy with the aforementioned iron, turning is attention to Leone instead - only to turn his head maybe a bit too abruptly to evaluate that slender shapes once more, his lips pouting into an intent expression frankly quite tough to decipher. “Krice, you say… no, I do not think I ever had the pleasure. Thamalys, at your service…” he would have uttered, offering a bow, eyes narrowing into a worried, oh so worried expression. That name, he already heard - and the fact the Blue recently stood against him and the whole of Frostmaw di not exactly put him at ease. Hopefully, the whole business would have been - if never forgotten - at least toned down by the recent peace between the Wintry Realm and the Larketians. The practical tone of Leone bringing him back to business, the Spellblade would have tried soon after to focus on some other details. “Yes, yes, mithril for the whole of it, I dare suggest… it is going to be heavy still given the final dimensions, but the content of that pouch should make the whole thing basically weightless in any case. That is, if you can manage to bring together mithril and elerium?” he inquired, no irony meant by any means, just genuinely concerned for the creation of something on the verge to be considered unholy.

Krice considered himself skilled, but 'one of the best'? He scowled in subtle disagreement with the description but didn't verbally argue it, instead lifting his gaze from the blacksmith to her new customer, Thamalys. He managed to temper a wince - caused by that knocked over piece of iron - to a simple, slow blink of the eyes, schooling himself lest he make the winged stranger feel even more out of place than those large, feathered membranes already did. Ever calm, he offered Thamalys a nod of greeting and a simple, " Hi," before glancing at the blacksmith once more. Her readiness to draw up plans for the Avian's weapon was indeed impressive and he found himself staring at her with something akin to admiration in his eyes, though not surprise; he expected as much from the woman. Thereafter, the enigmatic swordsman glanced past the blacksmith and her client to look at one of the benches in the room. He squinted, appearing thoughtful for a moment, before redirecting his focus once more to the encounter between his friend and the stranger. If he recognized Thamalys from The Battle of the Bridge, he didn't express as much.

Leone is only slightly reactive to the clatter of steel upon the dirt floor, her eyes following the piece as it rolls across the room before coming to rest. "It's just a practice piece," the notes of grit and gloss excuse, "Nothing important and not for a customer; I've just never made one before." The entire thing is forgiven, and forgotten, on the spot. A wicked grin is passed once more toward the nonplussed Krice, the wolfish expression morphing into a genial smile that is turned to Thamalys. "Mithril is perfectly acceptable for the whole thing. Allow me to explain my process," the holy woman and laborist launches into, "I have a very particular way of dealing with metals - all metals - and even glass. I fold them. Over and over and over again. It takes me months." As she explains, the bantam blacksmith moves down the length of the workbench, one hand trailing in her wake only to dip down to one of the lower shelves and snag a piece of metal. The inch-high blank has been chopped into, cut cross-section, each layer dyed a different hue. Blues, greens, yellow, red, orange, all hues at the same time distinct and yet melding into one another, blurring into new shades in-between. The example is presented to the spellblade before the farrier continues on to the far side of the shop where a clutch of cabinets clad a wall. "Combining Mithril and Elerium will not be a problem," she states firmly and reassuringly before wrenching open a cabinet with a single pull, "Due in part to the folding, but also the fact that I oil and sand quench, rather than water. It gives the metal more spring, more flexibility, while still maintaining rigidness and strength. My weapons do not break, bend, bow, or warp." The last few syllables are enunciated cleanly and precisely, like rain in a desert. The smith's arm plunges into the darkness of the tallest, newly opened cabinet, emerging a moment later holding a polearm complete with a spearhead.

Thamalys listened carefully to each and every word leaving the lips of the Smith. Yes, the Master Healer told him he was in for a treat, but the self-confidence and the expertise of the High-ly skilled Priestess he could not have foretold. Thus he stood tall, the pitch-black soot filling every corner of the room happily swaying around him to eventually deposit within his feathers - most annoying indeed, thus the latter twitched nervously to try and dust some of the bothering powder away. An unnecessary gesture that was, with the additional implication of having generated a substantial puff of carbonaceous soot all around the Blue, surely involving the Smith, possibly affecting the Enigma as well. As if that was not enough, the Spellblade inhaled a hefty dose of that dust resulting in the loudest of the sneezes, which he could not direct anywhere else than toward the raven-black, small figure in front of him, just as she produced that pike - a wondrous sight for the Avian, who above everything else favoured those deadly things with such long a reach . “Oh, absolutely, ma’am, the Gossamer Halberd will have to be a magnificent, solid, powerful masterpiece of a weapon like this one indeed… may I?” he would have asked, promptly opening his right hand as to seize the pole already. If, that particular request would have been granted, the Blue would have toyed with the pike, weighting it in both hands, while commenting further still. “This is terrific work… a reliable weapon one cannot risk to lose in the throng of the melee… not like one of those silly, thin and fancy blades people seem to favour these days…” he noted, index finger of his left hand point in upward as to stress his disagreement even more than his voice did already. Still assuming Leone would have indeed handled over the pike to the Avian, the latter would have suddenly let the whole length of the pole slide through his right hand, till he held firmly in his fingers the spearhead only. That move would have been accompanied by a quick, unnaturally fluid step back, right foot first, left one following, the pole of the pike, now perfectly parallel to the ground, thrusting squarely toward the slender shapes of the Enigma behind him. Never for a single moment the Avian would have left the Smith’s gaze.

Krice seemed freshly interested in hearing about Leone's smithing process, as if he had never heard it before, his gaze attentive on the woman and deviating only when she took hold of something - like that multi-layered piece - or gestured elsewhere to facilitate her explanation. The soot, sweat, and dirt he could ignore, but the billowing of Thamalys' wings disturbed the air in the Smithy and the warrior's oversensitive nose had to compensate, a sharp mind shortening his breaths to limit exposure. When the avian sneezed, the silver-haired enigma -almost- cackled with amusement, but his amusement was short-lived as he regarded Leone following that unintentional trajectory. Silliness left behind in the wake of Thamalys exploring the polearm, Krice lingered by the doorway and watched the avian's movements, scrutinizing without openly doing so - at least, not visibly to those who did not know him; Leone would see it if she looked his way. With the avian's gaze - and body - facing Leone, Krice was left unguarded. Perhaps it was Thamalys' jab at those who wielded 'silly, thin, fancy blades'-which, really, could classify a 'katana' at a stretch--that compelled the silent man to act. He stepped forward, just on one foot but it was enough to close the space between them, and slapped a hand toward the bottom end of the polearm during one of the Avian's withdrawing gestures which put the wood within reach of the warrior. Assuming the swift accuracy of this maneuver fell to precision, he'd give a sharp jerk to jolt the weapon backward away from Thamalys, just enough to throw his balance - not with any intent to make the polearm slip through the Avian's hands until the arrowhead cut into flesh. Thereafter, Krice's hand would release the simple weapon and he'd shoot a look toward Leone, perhaps expecting some kind of reprimand for testing one of her clients. " He said my sword is 'silly'," the silver-haired enigma muttered, mitigating any punishment she may have chosen to meter out against him.

Leone || The polearm is promptly handed over to Thamalys, though the farrier squints against the swell of soot and ashe that rises from Thamalys's misplaced efforts. She looses a chuckle, and waves a hand through the air to clear the area right in front of her face. "It is, of course, too short for your stature. Yours will have to be, well," the petite priestess muses aloud while moving back to her workbench. Again, the stick of charcoal is siezed between two fingers, and she begins to write up at the top. "Perhaps eight feet tall. Nine if we want to go a proportionate amount above your head," the smith speaks as she pens facts and figures along the lefthand side of the parchment. "And I think the balance is off for your reach and center of gravity," the diminutive woman muses aloud as the avian practices. The sentence would have had a second half, a further elaboration of the necessary attributes the proposed weapon should possess, had she not been distracted by the swordsman's antics. The miniature metallurgist glares at Krice from her position across the room, squinting in abject scrutiny at the swordsman like a grandmother peering over the rim over her glasses at a naughty child. The high cleric clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth in admonishment before clearing her throat gruffly. "So in that resepct, I need to take a few measurements. Mostly your reach, and where your center of gravity is, which in males is normally closer to the hip and groin, but in you might be higher up, thanks to your wings..." The oration prompts the plover to drop the charcoal and instead grab a length of cotton twill string and approach the avian once more.

Thamalys felt the pull of the Enigma’s rebuke running from the pole to his hand and up through his elbow as well, till he steadied his whole arm to bring the pike pointing upwards, his hand, battered but not bleeding indeed, sliding toward the balance point of the weapon. Not that he expected anything less. He would have pivoted on his heels by a quarter of turn anticlockwise, a deep nod accompanying that slow motion. “That I did, Quicksilver…” he conceded, “… I hope you will have my apologies, but this Avian had to know…” he added softly, shaking his shoulders soon after to return with a rather ashamed expression to address the Blacksmith, luckily enough already intent to grab some measuring tools. “My deepest, most sincere apologies, ma’am. I will not dare to shatter the quiet of your furnace with anything like it - ever again, you have my word…” he genuinely offered, the tiny Smith already pacing towards him. As such, he would try to straighten himself, not before having let go of the pike still in his hand, gently laying that down on a work table within his long reach. Arms lazily hanging along his sides, wings - if even possible - even more tightly folded, the Blue raised his head, gazing in the distance, in order to allow for the most precise of the measurements - a potentially time-consuming business, if that string in Leone’s hands was as short as he feared he was. “Oh, and I like the idea of having it nine feet tall - a lot. As per the balance issue… should I go ahead and open my wings?” Luckily, he did not do that just yet, the exceedingly dimensions of those hangings surely menacing to capsize half of the content of the room.

Krice pressed his lips closed following Leone's reprimanding scowl, thereafter holding his silence as she interacted with Thamalys to talk of measurements and weapon balance. Indeed, she knew her craft well. Focusing on the latter part of the Avian's words, the warrior parted his lips as if to say something. Ultimately, he opted to hold his tongue and quietly excused himself before he turned for the exit.

Leone fortunately has the remainder of the roll clasped in her offhand, just the leading edge of the string in her active hand, and the length stretched out between them. The smith mutely shakes her head at the avian's offer to extend his wings. Instead, she first gets the precise measurement of the birdman's height, marking it with smear of bright red. Where the coloring has come from is a mystery, but the bantam female seems to have it at-hand. Next, she carefully and concisely measures the spellblade's reach, first from shoulder to fingertip, and then from armpit to fingertip, careful not to tickle or otherwise disturb his composure. Each of the new measurements are marked with a new color along the length of the strand. Pausing in her work, the farrier leans backward, her spine bowing and shoulders easing leeward until they are nearly perpendicular to the floor. A cheeky grin is given to the departing Krice. "I'll see you later," the divine woman declares to the silver-haired male, "For tea." In the next instant, her posture has been fully righted, and the size-challenged smith extends an arm. If she were fast enough, and if the avian distracted enough, she hoped to perpetrate the maneuver completely by surprise. The attached hand flattens against the avian's chest, muscle and ligaments coiling tightly like a ship's anchor chain only to explode with directional force in the following moment. The smith is uncannily strong, almost supernaturally brawny, though the push is not meant to harm the would-be customer. No, the firm and forceful shove is intended only to throw the winged one off balance, and then not even enough to completely topple him. She just needs to see him take a step back, but not a conscious one.

Thamalys towered over the industrious Priestess, not even allowing himself to look down to her, his sight totally nailed onto some unremarkable feature of the furnace - most likely some strange tool he had no idea what he was meant for. Hence, the departure of the Enigma would have been acknowledged via some small gesture of his right hand only - he would have loved to elaborate quite more on that salutation, but he did not dare to move, to endanger the Smith’s endeavour at all. Thus, Leone’s thrust - did - catch him absolutely off guard. “On my word!” he would have stuttered, one solid step moving backward, his right leg surely taking care of the situation, muscles and tendons responding at that instinctive call the Smith righteously had to probe. Sadly, the Avian had quite some other instinct-triggered perks to be discovered soon enough. Largely off balance, he would have grabbed the wrist of the tough Priestess with his own hand, the latter literally bursting into a gush of blue flames, merrily dripping from the ivy-shaped tattoos covering his skin.

Krice lifted his left hand in a farewell salutation to the blacksmith, calling out a casual, " Yep," of agreement before he was gone from sight, through the stables and out onto the street. If he had heard Thamalys' exclamation of surprise, he might have cackled.

Leone is very careful to observe the avian's feet, and they way his torso and hips tilt and list once he is off balance. She does not attend the flames that suddenly leap forth from Thamalys's touch. The blue magicks turn black upon contact with the smith's skin. Likewise, the milky flesh begins to darken, quickly taking on an obsidian hue before bubbles and blisters begin to mar the smoothness of the tract. Like overheated wax, the skin drips off and toward the floor, hissing and sizzling once it makes contact with the much cooler dirt, and spreading out into puddles of onyx and crimson. "Ahah," the farrier deadpans, her tone becoming completely flat and wholly monotone, "So you are balanced a bit higher.”

Thamalys could only witness in utter dismay the flesh of the Smith melting away into a rather dreadful blend it just did not feel right. A moment only he needed to take back control of his aura, extinguishing those sapphire flames with a flick of his wrist. “A bit higher?!” he yelled so loudly a couple of robins tiptoeing toward the doorstep just flew away in a feathery flurry of scarlet, “… forget about my balance, your wrist, would you look at your wrist!” he continued, widely gesturing toward the falling skin, his hands rummaging already through his many pockets hidden in that shirt, quickly producing a small vial containing a rather viscous, yellowish liquid. “Can I? May I? Should I?” on the Healer went, his eyes pointing to the burn, his poise largely lost.

Leone looks down to her wrist, the flesh nearly entirely flayed free of muscle and bone. The ligaments are visible, and strum like the strings of a guitar as the farrier flexes her fingers. The phial is observed for a few silent seconds, the liquid inside scanned and scrutinized before finally the High Priestess nods. "Certainly," she says evenly, with almost an unsettling amount of control before continuing on, "I would appreciate it." The injured arm is held out once more, so that this time Thamalys can tend to it. "Then I really must make these notations," the blacksmith insists, "And we'll discuss enchantments. Keep in mind that I am a priest, and holy. I am not arcane, and have no talent for it, though with the incorporation of the Elerium, it will make the metal ripe for arcane enchantment, even after the forging process.”

Thamalys did not wast any more time at all. The moment he received permission from the Smith, he would have uncorked the vessel, the whole of the ointment pouring on her wrist. Much of the liquid would have just dripped on the floor, but a paramount fraction would have instead found his way through the horrible wound, mending, building, shoving away any possible source of infection. He did not bother to explain the mixture of herbs and magic he put in there, nor the fact that he spent a solid month of work to produce that oil. “It is the least I can do, I must have been the most unwelcome customer of yours since ever…” he went one, from yet another - by the Wind, how many did he have? - pocket producing a pearly-white cloth with a beautiful, crimson rune painted onto it - Valen made it, and sure the Blue would have gratefully thought of the Shadow Master in that dire occasion. He wrapped the cloth on the wrist, the former basically mingling with the latter, the painted run radiating a faint red glow. “Two days it will have to stay there, ma’am. I am confident by then you should have back your wrist as if nothing ever happened to it today”. Eventually, he let go of a long sigh, taking a sort of a seat on a worktable, this time securing his stance in order not to bring further havoc in to the room. “We certainly shall… Lady Sabrina was right, I am fortunate to have the possibility of taking advantage of your talents and expertise.” There was very little flattery there, only eagerness for the discussion ahead, notwithstanding a burnt wrist. And so seated he would have stayed, listening, discussing, proposing and commenting, quite a long stretch of the day going by before any of the two would have been content with all the details. Being picky about your weaponry, after all, it is what marks the difference between death and life on the battlefield - it was worth spending some time on it, and the Avian could have thought of much worse companies indeed than that of the tiny, resourceful Smith.

Leone is patient enough with the healing measures, nodding in response to the instructions. A sheepish smile is presented to the Avian Spellblade-slash-healer, along with another nod of confirmation before she moves back toward the table. By the end of the day, the farrier has a full blueprint and schematic, with almost an entire margin of notations and calculations, written out on that single, enormous scroll of parchment. At the end, she drops the charcoal crayon onto the middle of the sheet, and looks up at the Spellblade. "Done," the blacksmith declares with an air of finality ringing through the words, "And thank you so much for your participation and patience. I feel confident that we can meet these specifications precisely, now. It was good to meet you, Thamalys. Feel free to check in on the progress of your halberd.”

Thamalys desperately wanted to unfurl those wings, too long it was since he felt the tingle of the wind upon them - a small price to be paid, he thought, as the incredibly accurate craft of the Priestess truly managed to leave some mark in his mind. He would have had to thank Sabrina in person for her recommendation, no less. As per now, he would have limited himself to acknowledge the Smith. “No, thanks to you, for your patience, for the amazing level of detail you put into your notes, for the utter dedication you condensed into these very hours. Such a consistency… that is the pride of we Avians, but I am not afraid to extend the compliment to you, o’ Tough One. I will certainly come back soon enough, to take stock of your masterpiece and your wrist alike. I will not have such a talent soiled by an outburst of mine. Farewell, ma’am…” he would have concluded, already halfway through the room. One step and it was outside, two more, and he unfurled those massive wings to their full extent, a long breath devoted to savour the moment, two more still and a single, monumental sweep of those feathery curtains would have brought the Avian upon the rooftops of Gualon, the shadow of a smile painted on that bony face till his shapes would have malted away into the sky.

This RP is linked to: RP:A Short Guide to Hellhound Obedience Training and: RP:The Drinking Night that went South