RP:The Trading of Gifts

Summary: Lanara arrives late to Svard’s Smithy to pick up an amulet of a stag that she had ordered for Tiber to wear when he comes into contact with Alastor. In time, after some magical tweaks, the amulet will mask the true nature of the beast within, and no one will be able to detect that the wearer is a lycan. Svard’s craftsmanship is beyond comparison, and he wisely encased the silver with bronze, so that there aren’t any allergic reactions. As a thank you, an exchange of gifts is given, from the Witch to the Smith. Lana gifts the male some gold, a soothing lotion for his calloused hands, and an animal companion.

Part of the Lunar Tides and Silver Linings Arc

Lanara arrives at Svard’s Smithy a good two hours after their agreed upon time to meet, as she had spent most of the afternoon charming investors and giving presentations on why they should donate to the animal sanctuary she founded in Northern Sage Forest. It’s no surprise that she had managed to secure transport on the last ship heading to Rynvale, as she didn’t want to delay retrieving the amulet until morning, nor did she want Svard to have to wait for his payment after he had graciously made the unique item and under such short notice. The Broken Barrel Inn should have vacancy, or worst case scenario she can always ‘borrow’ a winged steed from the stables on the western section of town. The witch hurriedly walks through the fog, clad in a pale pink dress with a shimmering silver belt around the middle, and a pair of silver high heels. It’s not the best attire for traveling at sea and traversing through a town that she didn’t know all that well, especially during this time of night and with a storm threatening. Sleek locks hang loose and are beginning to slightly frizz from the mist in the air, and she senses that most of her makeup needs a refresher. The fog swirls around her slender form, hugging her curves as tightly as her dress, and every few moments Lana glances down and mutters a few words. Is she attempting to control the elements and casting an incantation? Perhaps one of her familiars walks at her side and remains hidden behind the cloudy veil? Whatever the reason may be that she’s seemingly speaking to herself, the witch pauses to rummage in her oversized tote bag for a thin denim jacket, which she drapes over her shoulders. For a few seconds Lana fades from view, entirely, only to reappear as she arrives at Svard’s place. She plans on first checking the area in which he had been working where they first met, though if he’s not there, she will proceed with knocking at the front door.

Svard could be found, as ever, by the forge. Bare-chested against the heat, the smith was bathed in sweat, his rugged torso shining in by the fire's blue light. To the untrained eye it would be a strange thing. The tattooed figure looming as his foot pumped steadily at the bellows, coaxing oxygen into the flames, keeping their blue glow flickering amidst empty coals. No metal in sight. And a low, guttural muttering leaving him as he offered what one could easily assume to be prayers into the flames. His powerful build had a wild look to it. The tight, battle-tested braid of his hair. The fullness of his whiskers along a squared jawline. A litany of scars revealed upon a back built strong by labor. The dark ink whirled and plunged, symbols of his people, offerings further. But to another smith it'd be clear he was curing coke from raw coal, cleaning the fire, purifying it from whatever had been burned free from raw ore and ingot. Clumps of impurities gathered in the basin of the fire and formed together and, on occasion, he used a long, narrow steel rake to drag them out and to the periphery of the coals. All the while, unaware (it would seem) of the beauty's presence, he repeated his low words. The glacial pale cut of his eyes fixed entirely, it would seem, on the task at hand.

Lanara sighs in relief upon seeing the smith at his forge, because it removes any stress she had about knocking on the door to his home. Hopefully, he won’t realize how late she is, nor will he learn that she had to practically sprint from the docks in a pair of heels. It had been a busy week and Lanara prided herself on arriving everywhere early or on time, so she takes a moment to catch her breath and admire the male that is hard at work. Is he using magic? Being a fellow wielder of the craft, the witch focuses on Svard’s posture and figure first, as her gaze is easily trained to the unique tattoos that line his frame. Lana frowns slightly at the scars and wonders what the symbols mean, curiosity on the tip of her tongue to inquire, though she remains silent. The braided hair, the thrumming of his foot against the pedal, and the whispers spoken to the ore are all taken into account, and the witch is again mesmerized by the art of smithing. The last time she had been here, she found it nearly impossible to tear her gaze from the blue flames, the fanning of the fire, and the sound of metal striking metal. So few understand the commitment and care that goes into making even the simplest of tools, but Lanara ‘gets’ why Svard is so undeniably smitten with his craft. It would be like tearing magic from the woman’s soul, were she to be stripped of her abilities. Svard lives and breathes the forge, and it’s that thought that charms the woman, and has her dropping her oversized tote to the ground. Hopefully the small vibration of the earth, or the slight sound that is made, will alert the smith that his customer is patiently waiting. If the male is to turn to her, she will greet him with a warm smile, “Hello! How have you been?” She waits a beat for him to reply, before offering, “Is the amulet ready?”

Svard nodded some. A phrase finished, low words with guttural syllables. The precursor sounds common in a primitive language long lost to the languishing of the ages. Here, and now, he kept the memories. The tales, and sagas, passed on from generations. The world beyond had forgotten. When Svard turned from the forge, his good-natured smile returned, softening briefly the otherwise intense lines of his masculine features. The words were leaving him even as he reached for a towel hung from a small rack, dragging plush terry cloth across his brow and drying his broad, battered hands. "It is." And so he rehung the towel and moved, hulking frame nimble in this space, moving with an easy efficiency that could seem unlikely for all the brawn the bestial smith carried. For a moment, however slight, his pale eyes cut along Lanara's graceful shape. The elegant lines of her tracked with quiet appraisal before the intensity of his eyes turned back to a drawer and the contents within. There were dozens of pendants within. Each a contrast to the other. And, amongst them all, only one of bronze. Which he retrieved. From the drawing he'd first given her an evolution had come. The bronze core of the amulet had been fashioned into a stag's regal head, with a rack of antlers cresting it. The detail here was stylistically done to look very real. Down to the dense fur, fashioned by a method of scoring that was both time-consuming and precise. Behind the stag's head lay a crossed spear and arrow. "Bronze cast, with silver poured within, nearly three ounces worth. It has been tempered and quenched. The heat treat sound - and should not bend easily or break." It was this that he passed to her, the pendant dangling from a simple leather cord.

Lanara doesn’t recoil as Svard’s gaze briefly trails over her figure, most likely because she’s accustomed to being on display from her days as a model, or perhaps because the true intent of such attire achieved its purpose and she had garnered hefty donations from her meeting earlier in the day. A step closer is taken to the male as he procures the amulet, and as their fingers briefly touch upon exchange, the elf’s eyes widen significantly. She had been impressed with the mere chalk drawing of the stag, but this feeling is something else entirely, and her cheeks faintly flush as her pointer finger trails over the antlers. The craftsmanship is exquisite and Tiber will be delighted to wear this amulet, even after it’s intended use. “It’s… Wow. Far better than I expected, it’s almost as though I’m holding a true stag’s head in my palm…” Svard had made certain that the amulet is silver, encased in bronze, and he assures the woman that it will not break or bend easily. All of her concerns had been addressed and treated with such obvious care that for a moment it looks as though she’s about to pull the smith in for a brief hug. However, she maintains her composure and instead nods her head and gives him a brilliant smile, “You have outdone yourself, Svard… I cannot thank you enough. Here is your payment, and a lotion that I’ve made which will soften your hands and provide some relief from any inflammation.” The male didn’t give her a price on their last visit, and so Lana had assumed the cost of the material and labor, and handed over a large bag of gold. The healing salve is thoughtful and will work wonders, as she had personally made it earlier in the day. As the bag and vanilla scented lotion are pressed into the smith’s palm, she peers into his eyes, her own chocolate hues dancing with excitement, “I remember that the last time we met… You said that in your land, you exchange gifts and services. Thank you for this gift, Svard.” There’s a long pause, and it seems that the woman is growing a little shy, “I have brought you a present that I hope you will accept… I know that we don’t know each other all that well, but I have always trusted my intuition and I sense that you are a good man.” Lana waits for his response, though it seems her attention is wavering, as she’s looking around the area as though his gift is lurking in the fog or perhaps somewhere nearby.

Svard was a man of intensity. It lived in the near predator stalk of his movements, the wild and glacial cut of his pale eyes, and the ink that wrote his story upon the canvas of his frame. But the beauty spoke of gifts, remembering their conversation, and a smile tugged at his lips that softened the remaining harshness away. It was good to have the old ways measured. Better to have it done so readily, and easily, by the acceptance of a tender heart. For a moment he lingered, searching her softly-featured face, tracking the depths of her big brown eyes, before she shy'd subtly and he stepped back some. The bare-chested brute lingering near the forge, awash in that heat, back-lit by the flames as he managed a gracious dip of his chin. Were it only as the world had been. He'd learned the new way with some difficulty. And, laying the goods upon the bench, took a hand and traced shapes upon each. A soft rumble of words made to complete the circle. "You've a thoughtful mind for gifts, Miss Lanara." The touch of formality to his words new now, as was his hesitation to linger near. A subtle flex of his large hands curling roughened digits to his palm, and opening them again. His breath somewhat husky as he spoke against it. "Gifts bond people where I am from. So, in a way, it seems we know each other better."

Lanara smiles at Svard’s words, because she’s hopeful that he will welcome the final ‘gift’ she has to offer, “Then with -this- gift, perhaps we will truly bond…” Lanara seems to focus on a spot in the distance and without words or a flick of her wrist, it seems as though her powers have called out a command to the creature that lurks in the shadows. The padding of heavy paws hitting the damp earth can be heard and as the fog dissipates a massive mastiff-type dog comes into view. The dog is large and muscular, fawn in color with a black mask on his face, and jowls that cover razor-sharp teeth. He weighs slightly more than the witch, and stands nearly three feet tall, but despite his size he seems approachable and calm. Taking a seat beside Lana’s left leg, he curiously peers up at Svard, as his tail thumps against the grass and his chocolate hues are begging for a treat or some affection. “I know that giving an animal as a gift is frowned upon, especially since we hardly know each other, but as I was leaving work today and saw this face peering back at me from behind metal bars, I felt that I was making the right choice.” Initially, Svard was only meant to receive the gold and soothing hand lotion, but the dog had tugged on Lana’s heart strings and she had brought him all the way to Rynvale. “I figured that he could keep you company while you work, and he’s very alert! If anyone drops by to place an order, or worse, if someone tries to rob you or damage anything? He will bark and let you know! He’s friendly with kids and good natured adults, he tolerates other animals, and he is housebroken and knows basic commands.” Lanara is truly rooting for the dog to find a loving home, and the compassion in her dark eyes is obvious that her next line is going to be rather depressing, “He was surrendered to my sanctuary by his previous owners… Apparently, this man has recently gotten engaged and his fiance isn’t fond of animals, so he dropped him off a few days ago. He didn’t even give us his name or tell us all that much, aside from that fact that he’s about two years old.” The canine continues to quizzically study Svard and after a short while, with Lana’s unspoken consent, he closes the distance between man and beast. Now it’s the dog’s turn to be shy, as he whines softly and gently nudges Svard’s hand, hoping to make friends. “I brought along some supplies, too. If you don’t want him, I understand… I just thought that you two would mesh well together.” She doesn’t speak again, unless Svard asks any questions or addresses her directly, but her gaze remains steadfast on the male and the mastiff.

Svard could not have anticipated the girl's thoughtfulness, nor her compassion. For a moment, the hard lines of the smith's features betrayed very little, and his brows furrowed heavily as he sharpened his stare at the animal she'd attempted to gift him. It was only when the creature nudged at his hand with a broad snout that the smith lowered himself, muscled haunches flexing, corded thighs tight through woolen pants, into a feral crouch that invited his broad and battered hands to run over the animal. The touch, however, was not outwardly affectionate. It was appraising. Giving him a sense of dense bones and heavy, powerful musculature. Svard gathered up the animal's cheeks in his palms and slid his thumbs gently upwards, under the heavy lips, pulling them back to reveal healthy, powerful teeth. It was no unnatural thing for a man's companion to be a beast. In the old way the warriors of his people had kept wolves. A tie that bound them, harkened them back to the elder days, before language and ritual. In those days man had been of the earth and for the earth, in touch with his blood, and the offerings were inherently bound to living. He believed that any man touched by the Gods had two hearts beating within his chest. One sought the progress and comforts of the modern world. The other harkened back to primal origins. He smoothed a caress over the dog's shoulder and chest, patting faintly. "The word I have learned to describe a woman of your kind is 'cute', Lanara." He rose steadily then, once again, cutting his eyes towards her own.

Lanara patiently watches the interaction between the smith and the mastiff, hoping that his assessment would be deemed worthy, and that the sweet dog would find a home. If he chooses not to accept this gift, she will rent a room at the tavern and take him back to Sage in the morning. It’s a hassle but she’s not going to for Svard to accept a companion, unless he truly desires to open his home and heart. The dog is trying to lick Svard’s hands and leans closer, his tail continuing to happily sway to and fro, and as though he already made up -his- mind, the dog wanders over to the back porch and lays before the door. “Cute?” Lanara blinks at Svard, wondering if he meant she is physically appealing to his eyes, or if the act of springing a dog from the shelter and ‘gifting’ it to him is the reason for such terminology. “Thank you... “ Compliments are a tad hard for the witch to accept, and she nervously plays with a loose thread on her jacket, before she lifts her gaze to lock with Svard’s, “Do you accept this gift? I don’t want to pressure you, but he really will be a wonderful addition to your life. And, if you ever need anything, I’m usually at the sanctuary and can answer any questions or help you out with food and supplies.” The dog is massive and eats a ton of food, that much is obvious. The wind ruffles Lana’s locks and it starts to drizzle, an indicator that she has to get going and find either a mount or a room before the storm kicks into full force. “The amulet is beautiful and I’m sure my boyfriend will love it! I cannot thank you enough for everything… And who knows? I may require your services in the future, as well.” The witch slowly nears the male and extends a dainty hand, a rarity these days, as she often dodges rubbing palms with people since her months of abuse during her time in her homeland. “Blessed Be, Svard.”

Svard took her hand, and for a moment, weighed how delicate it was in comparison to his own. The squeeze he offered surprisingly tender before his own hand retreated and his attention strayed to the massive mutt lounging steadily now upon the porch. The dog had forgotten itself. So many had. But the ancients would come and guide them both. All things served the natural order. All paths ran together in time. "Travel safely, beauty." He said then, looking back to her, before turning from her entirely. The forge called. And after, the new companion, though as she departed one might briefly catch the cut of his eyes stealing glances. One more in a sea of hundreds, probably, whose attention could not help but be stolen.