RP:Seeking A Smith

Summary: Lanara meets with Svard, in Rynvale, and the smith agrees to forge a silver amulet encased in bronze. It's a difficult process, as Tiber is a lycan and allergic to silver, however the spell explicitly states that silver is necessary. This amulet will later be enchanted with a glamour-type spell that will make it so that the wearer's true form will be undetectable. The kind smith, Svard, sends the witch on her way and promises to have the stag amulet completed in three days.

Part of the Lunar Tides and Silver Linings Arc

Svard was busy at work. The quaint home was an unassuming compliment to Rynvale's streets. From the front yard one could hear the sound of the docks and the sea, feel the breeze, and assume no real design to the structure besides the modest dwelling it appeared to be. But the sound of a hammer falling onto steel rang from the back as Svard the Smith worked his namesake, shaping out a length of rolled Demascus with precise, solid blows from the hammer in hand. Each strike rang true, sounding a song, and casting faint sparks from the blow as super-heated steel flowed under the impact and lengthened in the earliest signs of a blade. The Forge lay 'round back, flanked by a wooden privacy wall that any visitors would have to walk entirely around some 15 feet and look back towards the house. There, he could be found, as he so often could be found. A hulking, masculine frame, with sea-green eyes pale and wild in the light of the forge's blue flames, focused intently upon the brand he forcefully birthed from steel and sweat. Sweat beaded copiously on his fair-skin, rolling down patterns of muscle, shining in the dim light. The air was scented of charcoal, ash, and oil. And, if you tried, you could taste metal on the air. He stood bare-chested, accented by the tribal patterns of ink that rounded his eye and cheek, plunging down his thick neck, broad shoulder, and powerful arm. The slabs of muscle wearing the mark of his people and, in places, scars that were difficult to see in the low light. If he knew of any approach - he did not reveal it so. Instead, muttering softly to himself in a crude language, he turned the tongs in his left hand and hammered at the dagger coming into shape. All the while, beyond the privacy wall, the breeze leapt off the sea smelling heavily at salt and slammed helplessly against the heat of the air out back his home. Unable to penetrate the forge fire's influence.

Lanara arrived in Rynvale with the intent on securing an audience with Leone, the renowned smith who worked just north of the stables. Naturally, her plan had become foiled from the very start, as the smithy had been closed the entire week and Leone’s location hadn’t been easy to detect. Lanara isn’t one to give up easily, and so she ventured to the Broken Barrel Inn and after having a few words with the barkeep, she had learned of another smith that operates out of the eastern section of Rynvale. If time wasn’t of the absolute essence she would have waited until morning, as light is rapidly fading and she still has to secure a passage back to Cenril. However, time is slipping rapidly through the hourglass that is worn about the woman’s neck, a constant reminder that she has weeks to live and unless she fulfills a promise, she cannot leave this realm in good conscience. With an annoyed ‘hmph’ the witch walks the long distance, casting furtive glances at the shadows that line the way, the drunks that wander up and down the main strip, and the sailors that are looking for a good time and perusing the ‘assets’ of scantily clad women that are in dire need of coin. Lana receives a few catcalls, but rather than find it flattering, she’s a tad frightened. It hadn’t been that long ago that she’d been abducted by witch hunters, and although this seaport town is far from Larket, she still feels a shiver of uncertainty run through her slight frame. Clad in tan leggings, a hunter green tunic, and a pair of leather knee-high boots, she’s neither over or underdressed for this task, but she gives pause to brush any loose strands from her face that may have escaped her braid. Appearance is everything these days, she thinks, as she steps onto Svard’s property and looks around the area. Should she knock at the door? Chocolate hues widen as her shadow cat pads into the backyard area, and not wanting Cinder to fall prey to something lurking in the dark, the woman trails behind. It’s then that she hears the clang of metal striking against metal, and as she turns the corner, her gaze falls upon the form of the smith, himself. “Excuse me? I have some business for you... Possibly.”

Svard answered the inquiry without glancing up at first, his attention fixed intently on the dagger. It is an experienced eye that cuts over the blade and his scrutiny an intense one, though, the bearded smith carries intense in his manner. In his nature. Beneath the bulk of muscle, the masculine cut of his flesh, it was as though steel coils had been wound too tight. Forging was a physical expression of devotion, one he was eager for. The muttered words ceased entirely and he, seemingly satisfied, plunged the fledgling blade back into the nest of coke and the fire that danced through it. It was only then his attention lifted to Lanara, his rather bold stare softened abruptly. In that instant, as if noticing his company was a stranger, his manner softened considerably. His accent was thickly Nordic but the common was well-spoken all the same. His enunciation a bit slow, but clear, as he gestured with a broad, weathered hand for her to come further into the work yard. Though his gesture seemed to ward her to the periphery, away from where he stood, so close to the great heat of the forge. "Yes, yes. Hello. How can I help you?"

Lanara freezes as Svard’s unsettling stare and intense facial expression indicate that he’s focused on his work, and she instantly closes her mouth and dares not interrupt again. She had no business being here at this hour, in unfamiliar territory, with a stranger that looked as though he could break her in half. Lush lips are set in a thin line as she clenches her jaw and vows to remain true to her purpose for coming all this way, and she looks rather convincing, save for the slight tremble in her step as she’s beckoned to further enter the male’s workspace. Lanara fixes a faint smile on her fair face as Svard inquires as to what she needs, and rather than answer forthright, she finds her gaze dropping to the markings upon his flesh. “Where did you get your ink done? It looks lovely.” The witch has a few tattoo’s of her own, though the only one that’s visible at the moment is a crescent moon that rests below her left ear, courtesy of Meri. “That’s not why I’m here, I’m sorry! Sometimes I get distracted and go off on endless tangents.” Why is she so nervous? “I’m Lanara. And you are... Svard?” Smooth. “Um... The barkeep told me that you’re a Smith, and you are, and I’m here!” She pauses, and it’s obvious that she’s not used to conversing with strangers, or handling serious business matters. “I need to have a small amulet made, specifically in silver... However, the wearer of this object has a –severe- allergy to silver. So. I was wondering if you could maybe dip the silver amulet into another type of metal?” The woman takes another step closer to Svard, though she keeps her distance, as directed, from the flame, “I know it’s confusing, but I hear that you are the best, and I am willing to pay any price.” Would he guess that the wearer of said item is a lycan? “I also would appreciate discretion in this matter.”

Svard nodded once. The workbench stole his attention then as his eyes abandoned her own, seemingly all business, with his body backlit by the forge and faintly lit by the single oil-lamp that hung from the wooden roof that extended over the entirety of his work area. The flame within it danced and swayed, writhing hotly as the pair spoke, as he moved to take a slateboard and bit of chalk. The cut of his eyes walked briefly over Lanara's svelte form and ended with his eyes holding her own. For all her nervous chatter he seemed only to afford her a soft, steady half-smile. His manner patient, unhurried, and easy as they stood together near the back of his house and several feet from the waiting forge. All the same, it was quite warm, and he shook his head some. "Silver is delicate work. Does it need to hold any gems? And, Lanara, should only the back of the amulet be another metal - or would you want the entire amulet encased?" The task was less a request and more a challenge. The precious metals were less forgiving to shape. The tools he must use entirely different. Still, for her bluster, she'd a charm to her. And he spoke once again as his eyes remained upon her own. "Do you have a design for it?"

Lanara is grateful that Svard doesn’t seem too eager on making small talk, a remedy that she often clings to when making a new acquaintance. The remark about his tattoos goes unanswered, and she focuses on the business part of their conversation, which pulls her slightly from that obvious state of discomfort. Trust never came easy to the woman, but the smith’s patient demeanor quells her fears, for the time being. “I won’t hide the fact that this amulet will be used in a glamour-type spell and that its primary purpose is to hide the true nature of the wearer.” Those are the only details he will pull from the witch on the matter, as she doesn’t wish to invade the privacy of the one that had sent her on this specific task. “I prefer the whole amulet to be encased in another metal, and I don’t have a design in mind... But, something masculine would be best.” Tiber would kill her if she had him wear a flower or heart pendant, and even though she enjoys playing the ‘wicked’ witch every once in a while, this isn’t the time for one of her pranks. “Perhaps... A rune? Maybe the symbol for strength?” Dark hues shift from Svard’s face to again eye his bare upper form, and all the marks that line his skin, “I take it you are familiar with such signs, yes?” The kind half-smile he offers is returned now, and Lana shakes her head, “There need not be any gems or enchantments attached to the amulet.” The pair pause for a moment, as Svard likely collects his thoughts, and the witch finds her attention drawn to the flame in the oil-lamp. “I would need this completed soon... Perhaps in two or three days? Is that possible?”

Svard set his jaw some, a hand lifting, gnarled fingers rubbing at his chin and stroking through the dense, handsome beard there. Two, three days. But it was a simple, enough, design. Far more so than the blade he'd been tasked to shape. After a moment's consideration he merely inclined his head. And then, with slate in hand, began to etch a few cuniform words of his ancient language into the upper right corner by the means of notes. His approach to the girl was made steadily, eyes lifting, tracking the gentle contours of her small face until the deep brown of her eyes caught his own. "I will make a bronze amulet. It is an unoffensive metal against any skin. Shines well. Is sturdy but will bend without breaking. And pour liquid silver into the interior. I can be finished in three days. I've a shape in mind. You're bold to give me such creative license - and I will reward it." He laughed then, in good nature, and turned the slate. His strong fingers showed remarkable care in the chalk sketch, revealing the pendant to be shaped like a pair of crossed arrows. And, in the center, a stag's head.

Lanara waits on bated breath for the smith to respond, hopeful that he won’t kick her off of his property or laugh at how secretive she’s being over having an amulet made. Svard studies her face and she allows him to make whatever assessment he deems necessary, and she doesn’t shy away from the eye contact. Peering into the eyes of another is the most honest way to show one’s true character, and she finds herself slowly warming up to the stranger. Lana tucks an unruly chestnut lock behind her tapered ear and nods eagerly to his words, “Yes, bronze will work, with silver on the interior.” The nervousness she feels is slowly dissipating, and a relieved breathtaking smile is offered to the smith, as she counters his words, “Be thankful it’s -you- designing this and not me, as I don’t have any artistic abilities! One time I was taking a paint class with some friends, all of their paintings were lovely, but mine had been placed in a dark hallway as it was too awful to put on display.” She giggles at this memory, while Svard is using the chalk to create a sketch, “Wow...” The flickering of the flame casts a glow on the slate and upon seeing the stag’s head and the crossed arrows, the woman’s face brightens nearly as bright as the flame. “It’s perfect, Svard! I love it! I cannot wait to see how it turns out!”

Svard laid the slate upon the table. And, briefly, he let his eyes walk once more over her softly-featured face before he turned his back to her and returned to the forge he'd left waiting. The night's sky was an inky canvas and pale stars glittered in the sky, cloudless as it was, and he reached with his left hand to take hold of the tongs and drew them free. The patterned steel was hard to discern now, glowing a brilliant vermillion, blazing like the sun in the sky on a high summer afternoon. His pivot to the anvil was muscle memory. The hammer he took up fell. striking with the rounded edge in a stroke that pressed outwards, smoothing more metal to the blade's slowly forming edge. He spoke even as he worked then. "Three days, Miss Lanara. I'll have it done. The man in question - he is lucky to have a woman who..." the pause unintentional, but he was careful, choosing his words with obvious care. "considers him so highly."

Lanara senses that their impromptu meeting is about to come to a close, as business had been tended to, and the promise of receiving the amulet in three days had been made. As Svard returns his attention to the anvil in hopes of resuming his care with the dagger, the woman remains rooted in place, observing his work. She’s mesmerized by the sounds and colors, as she had never truly seen all the effort that goes into metalwork. It’s soothing, akin to the waves crashing upon the shore, and although she hears the compliment that Svard offers, she doesn’t respond as she’s far too captivated by the glows and blows. Just when Svard would think he had somehow offended the witch, would her lips curve into a silken smile, and she tilts her head, “Thank you...” Very few would understand Tiber and Lanara’s love story, and although she considers herself ‘lucky’ to have captured the lycan’s heart, she’s still uncertain where his feelings for her lay. Love is complicated. Not that she would confess this to Svard, especially not on their first meeting. “I shall return in three days, around the same time, if that works for you?” It’s then that Lana realizes they haven’t discussed payment. “I probably should have asked this at the start...” Another giggle is offered, before she gets to the point, “What is your price?” Regardless of how steep his cost may be, she knows she will agree.

Svard smiled then, even as the hammer fell, even as that powerful arm swung and his sea-green eyes remained fixed upon the work. The dagger had formed. The rippled, demascus pattern of the steel set. But now, with her near, the soft depths of her brown eyes would be keen to note the splashes of color in the blade. Along the edges of each patterned ripple, as though melted into the steel itself, flashes of crimson and orange. A channel ran up the center of the blade on either side, presently empty. The cut of his eyes shifting up towards the sleek little elf, all but immortal, though naturally so. And the warmth of his smile touched again beneath his beard, breaking the otherwise wild look of him, and the hardened lines of his features softened some. "In my land - I do not name a price. You offer me what you think is fair when the object is in your hand. We call it "destrik na shalan". It means - the trading of gifts. I gift you the amulet. You gift me whatever amount you feel to give me. So it is." And with that, he ticked a subtle, encouraged nod towards the corner of the half-wall that veiled his forge from the street's noise and prying eyes. "Go on now, pretty Lanara, back to the man so lucky to have your consideration." And then his eyes turned back to the blade currently resting on anvil. It was, once more, plunged into the flames of the forge. Ready to be heat-treated.

Lanara tilts her head as he speaks a language which she doesn’t know, being fluent only in sylvan and common. She wants to ask how the amulet is a gift if she asked him to make it specifically for her, as one shouldn’t asked to be gifted from another. Svard’s desire to return to his work is apparent, and seeing that she already disrupted him, she doesn’t give into the pleasure of a friendly debate on the definition of a present. “Thank you, Svard. Your words are appreciated, as is your time, and your craftsmanship.” The woman turns away and clicks her tongue to garner the attention of her feline companion, and with a parting wave, she heads back the way she had come. For the rest of the evening she will think on Svard’s words, hoping to come up with a worthy gift to repay his kindness.