Topic: Hidden Corruption: Aftermath
Subject: Meadowbrook Nights
11th Bre Tola; 453 E.R. - Ironforge Smithy, Meadowbrook - Nearing sundown
Despite the fact that Rakiim had not shown his face all day, Samueal’s time in the smithy had gone well. Tuli had brought him fresh caught perch for breakfast, a farmer or two had dropped in asking for sharpening or repair of their tools, and even Brif and Orsric had stopped in; Brif asking for his spear to be honed and balanced, and Osric inquiring on the cost of having his mail tended. The spear he had tended for two kapak and, as to the mail, he’d convinced Osric into a regimen that would see the stout man bring the shirt in every fortnight for a cleaning and oiling, and once a month for inspection and repair of damaged links. The Kazari had offered, too, to reforge and replace bits of Grif’s armor, but the young monkey protested each attempt. At the end of the day, Samuel had made enough bargains to, not only send him home with an extra three silver in his purse but, also, had an ongoing contract with a guardsman to tend their armor that would result in a silver and three coppers per month over what he was making now. Beyond all of that, he had managed the time to hammer the blade he was working on to its end-length, hammered out where the tang would split from the blade, and all but defined the cutting edge of the thing.
After it’s last firing, Samuel had quenched the blade in a mix of oil, pure lake-water, and herbs pinched from Sara’s reserves… A tea of sorts, the Kazari had thought in stirring the concoction, Appropriate… Pulling the blade from the trough, he daubed at it with a thick towel for a second, before thrusting it back into the bath…
The steel hissed.
The Kazari grinned.
… He hauled the steel from the quench, again, and this time, stroked rather than patted the moisture from the blade. The black streaks of carbon came away beneath the chamois, and the glimmering blue silver of the alloyed blades fused into one flashed from his eyes. He could only imagine how beautiful it might be once honed and inscribed. With a look of satisfaction on his feline features, Samuel re-wrapped the blade-in-the-making and returned it to the oaken box on the topmost shelf in the stockroom. He was reluctant to let it go unfinished, of course, but, in the end, given the closing of Khr’a’s Right Eye and no hope of Her Left opening for another three days, the silver-furred kazari banked the forge’s fires, stowed his tools, and rapped on the back door to let Tuli know he was leaving.
Her response to the knock was muffled and unintelligible from the other side of the door but, all the same, Samuel nodded, grunted, and replied “Good night,” before plodding off toward The Lakeshore.
The Lakeshore Tavern - A few minutes later
The Lakeshore’s door banged open and, had it not been for the massive Kazari that filled the frame, the cool autumn breeze that stirred outside might have rushed in and stirred the flames on the little pub’s hearth. “Evenin’, Sam,” Blossom called without even turning her eyes in the direction of the door, “Havin’ your usual?”
“No,” Samuel rumbled in answer, shutting the door behind him, “thank you, Blossom. I am not staying long.”
His gaze panned the patrons huddled about the tables. Rakiim, of course, was in his customary spot speaking with a large man clad in the blue of the Lysorans; the same man Samuel had observed entering the town earlier this morning. However, Samuel wasn’t seeking Rakiim, just now, so his eyes moved on until they found Simon Cromleon seated at a hearthside table with the three other men who crewed his tiny fishing boat. Untying the bag of nails from his belt, the Kazari approached the table and set the bag down before the bald man. “Two silvers,” the cat-man chuffed as Simon’s eyes lifted questioningly to his.
“What’s this, then,” the fisherman asked with a faint scowl.
“Nails,” Samuel returned simply, “so that you might fix your shed before winter comes. Two pounds. Two silvers.”
Simon’s eyes flicked over the faces of his crew, fell to the bag of nails, then, his brow furrowing and a scoff blowing past his lips, lifted back to Samuel. “I don’t recall ever askin’ ya for no nails,” he smirked.
“I spoke with your wife, this morning,” the Kazari replied, “she asked that I bring them to you as you have been too... busy... to stop by the smithy, yourse...”
The fisherman scoffed again and nudged the bag of nails back toward Samuel. “Well then she can pay for ‘em,” Simon snarked, “What makes ya think I even got two silvers?”
Samuel looked pointedly at the array of mugs and plates that littered the table, then, back to Simon but the Kazari said nothing.
Simon’s eyes hardened a bit and he offered a slow shake of his head before giving the bag of nails another nudge. “Like I said,” he reiterated, “Ella wants th’ nails, Ella can pay ya for ‘em.” A sardonic smile pulled at the corners of the man’s mouth, then, and his eyes flickered over the faces of his crew again. “Hell,” the fisherman snarked, then, “If yer so damned int’rested in that shed, why don’t you pay for ‘em?”
An irritated sigh that stopped just short of being a growl escaped Samuel, then, and, with a faint shake of his head, he snatched the bag from the table. “Sa’wa,” he chuffed, retying the sack to his belt. His ears flattened against his head and he scowled before stepping away from the table. “Your wife deserves better than you,” he rumbled softly as his feet turned toward Rakiim’s table.
As Samuel turned his back, Simon shoved himself out of his chair and tugged a slender filleting knife from his belt; “Wha’d ya just say?!”
The Kazari turned, cast an almost disinterested glance at Simon’s knife, and then sneered at the man. “I said,” he repeated flatly, “that Ella deserves better than you, t’mbili.”
Anger flashed in Simon’s mud-colored eyes and his finger tapped at the handle of his knife. His lips parted away from clenched teeth but, before he could think to advance so much as a step or even say anything else to Samuel, Rakiim appeared between the two…
“Oi!” The old Khord glowered, holding up a hand to each of them as he imposed himself in the space between. “What’n all hells is goin’ on oover here?!”
“Nothing,” Samuel rumbled, his eyes still fixed on Simon’s.
The fisherman’s gaze, though, broke from the Kazari and fixed on the blacksmith. “Yer cat’s speakin’ outta place, Rakiim,” he snipped, “puttin’ himself places he shouldn’t.”
“Aye,” Rakiim snorted behind a chuckle, “He does tha’.” The smith flicked a nod at the filleting knife; “An’ ye were gonna wha’, pick th’ fleas from his fuzz, wit’ tha’?”
Simon’s eyes narrowed again, skipped back to Samuel for a second, then, as his mouth fell open to respond, the Khord forestalled whatever the fisherman had thought to say.
“Trus’ me, boy,” Rakiim cautioned, “yer gonna wanna rethink yerself, here. Sam’s not much fer fightin’ but, I c’n guarantee, ye go at ‘im wit’ tha’ an’ he’ll gut ye quicker’n one o’ them perch ye hauled in t’day. Why’n’t ye go back ta yer drinks, eh?”
Simon considered the smith’s words, it seemed. He glanced at the knife in his hand, then at the Kazari who still loomed, almost lazily, behind the Khord, and, having thought better of things, offered a curt nod to Rakiim. “Yeah,” the fisherman sneered, “well, ya keep yer cat on its leash, then, Ironforge… an’ tell ‘im to keep away from my wife.”
“I reckon ye jus’ did,” the smith nodded.
“V’yo v’yo’te,” Samuel snorted.
As Simon begrudgingly returned to his seat, Rakiim turned and gave Samuel a shove in the direction of his window-side table. “Why’re ye comin’ in ‘ere causin’ trouble, Sammy,” he groused, clomping along behind the Kazari as they crossed the floor.
“I caused nothing,” Samuel protested, “I simply did a favor for a neighbor.”
“Aye,” Rakiim sighed, “seems it weren’t much ‘preciated. C’mon, lemme buy ye a drink.”
“Not tonight,” Samuel said with a shake of his head, stopping before he reached the table, “I did my work and yours, today. I am tired and I am going home.” His blue-green gaze turned to the Lysoran priest, then, and he offered a nod of greeting. “Besides,” he continued, “I should not care to interrupt your conversation.”
“A’right,” the Khord grunted, climbing back into his chair, “Have a good night, then, lad.”
“Mm,” Samuel chuffed, turning for the door, “Will you be at the forge in the morning?”
“I reckon so,” the blacksmith answered, lifting his tankard.
The Kazari snorted in return and, then, was gone from the little tavern.
Blinking in wonder, the Lysoran priest who had shared Rakiim’s table for most of the day, regarded the Khord. “What in the name of the Sacred Mother was that?”
“That was Sam,” Rakiim shrugged, “me apprentice. He’s a wee bit on th’ cranky side, but he’s a good lad.”
((OOC: Kazari translation: Sa'wa = "fine/ alright," V'yo v'yo'te = "whatever"))
Posted on 2019-12-21 at 11:52:14.
Edited on 2019-12-23 at 10:06:41 by Eol Fefalas
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What game do you own the 
Return to Charadun - Q&A
The Morphing Game
Return to Charadun - Recr
a few times, as well. I know they tried to set up some of that kind of thing in The Last Jedi but I didn't care for it there, either. The Knights of Ren were pointless. Lando and Leia's roles were wasted or, at least, not what they could have been, as well.
