Trovus staggered up the forlorn and jagged stairway, tilting back the bottle in an attempt to get to what remained, but found a solid chunk of frozen ale wouldn't fit through the neck. He grumbled, stumped his toe, and almost fell face first into snow again. By Bahamut, it was black as the Abyss out, which meant it was either evening, night, morning, or day. You really couldn't tell anymore.

The caer was as desolate as the day he had become speaker. Hardly anyone went up here, and why would they? It was a cold and ruined . . . well, ruin. It used to be only him, but now it was that one-armed High Elf as well. The smithy was the only building the town had bothered to somewhat restore and preserve — and yet it remained nothing more than a dilapidated hunk of broken rock still exposed to the biting winds. A true affront to Gond. The thought struck Trovus only partly in jest. He had put 'fixing the roof' down on his to-do list a long time ago, but that was a list quite extensive and ever-replenishing. And what good was a smithy without someone to work it?

At some point during his patrols he'd left his shirt somewhere. Probably in the tavern, or in the pile of snow he roused from. His full plate as well, come to think of it. Only now that the forge's fire reached him had he taken notice. No matter — he'd locate them later. He stepped inside the sorry building, spotted the High Elf, and reasoned it was probably not nighttime since she was still working.

The Dragonborn Speaker stood there, putting the bottle down at his feet before leaning against the wall, his silver scales reflecting the warm fire. "Oy!" he called out, his voice deep with that telltale roughness of a creature with reptilian lips. "If you keep at it, the Dwarves goin't've be the ones buyin' swords from us when they next pay us a visit. Now, wouldn't that be a world? How do you reason they'd take it? An Elf bein' better at their job?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:57, Mon 11 Sept 2023.

The staccato tang-tang-tang-tang-kung-kung-tang-tang-tang-tang-kung-kung of Idrianthe's hammer striking her work and the anvil made the caer feel lived-in again, at least by her own measure. A dwarven keep felt empty without the work of masons, jewelers, and smiths echoing around its ancient and sturdy halls, and the smell of brewer's work filling every occupant's nose. Idrianthe couldn't provide all of those things, but the smithing? That she could do. Perhaps mason's work if she had free time tomorrow; strong winds were guttering her small furnace, and the Ten Towns couldn't afford frivolous wastes of fuel. To that end, the firelight that illuminated Trovus when he came to the elf wasn't even half what the workshop was capable of. It was barely enough to put sweat on the elf's brow, really, but it was practical and conserved materials.

She had her back to the flames as Trovus settled, which threw the apron-clad, short-haired elf into lopsided silhouette. In her left hand was her hammer, silvery and glittering, slim in design but coming down with the force of a four-pound head on an orange-glowing billet of steel. Every blow drew the material out longer and thinner, and Idri kept the rhythm of her hammerblows going on the face of her anvil while an ice blue spectral hand repositioned the work for her. Every passing second cooled the steel, shortening the time she had to make it behave before it needed another heat.

"Your people like their blades, Speaker," she answered casually, not breaking her flow for an instant as the metal in front of her continued to change. "And the dwarves would probably be quite pleased to see weapons made in the traditions of Citadel Adbar, undercutting their prices aside.

"I don't blame them -- the villagers, I mean. They live in strange country and a sword brings a certain primal comfort, even to those who swing it like a tree branch. Maybe especially to them, come to think of it. It's not all swords, though; some want maces, some want axes, one chap insisted on a pike, and that doesn't even touch all of the fish hooks, spearheads, arrowheads, flints, ice saws, you name it. Those thieves didn't do anyone any favors, did they?"

Tang-tang-tang-tang-tang-tang-tang-tang.

"Didn't you own a top, yesterday? And plate armor?"

"Yessiree~" Trovus responded, clearly equally as confused by his current attire. Or lack thereof. "I seem to have misplaced 'em. The shirt I have spares of, but my plate . . . Reckon you could strike me up a new one?" If it hadn't been obvious, the smirk and glint in his eye conveyed that the ask was meant purely in jest.

He took a moment's respite and listened to the rhythmic clangs of a job well done. "What did a small hamlet like ours do to deserve the likes of you? Even if you're just passin' by." He sighed deeply, shrugged, and began to answer his own question. "Recompense, I s'pose, for their bumblin' Town Speaker. Balancin' the scales! Don't let anyone ever tell you the Gods ain't watchin'!" A sharp, silver claw was wagged in Idrianthe's direction.

The Dragonborn shook his head and walked over to some of the many weapons Idrianthe had finished during her brief time here. It was a simple shortsword. Modest in design, but yet so elegantly. He ran a finger over the sleek steel, and though he wanted to pick it up and test the balance he felt no true need — it would undoubtedly rest better in his hand than most he had held in all his life. "Weaponry for the common people!" he proclaimed loudly. "Have 'em protectin' 'emselves against invisible threats!" As he had come to do every second step these last tendays, he peeked the corner of the partly-crumbled wall to spy for tracks in the snow. He hadn't seen any on his way up here, and he didn't expect to see any now. But he peeked anyway. "Swingin' wildly at things that ain't there . . . No. Protectin' 'em should be my job . . .

"But I'll teach 'em the ropes. Make sure none o'em don't go 'round pokin' each others' eyes out. I might be a right shite smith, but fightin' I know." He looked down at the worn stone floor, the creeping snow evicted by the heat of the furnace. ". . . fightin' I know."