Gryphons in Greenden
The village is a small one and the smith's shop is one of the hubs of activity. As you lead your horses up the dusty road to the wooden building, you give the area a once-over, looking for any Red Guards who might be lounging about.
The smithy is a good-sized wooden structure with a slanted roof and no walls, just broad pillars for support and the acrid smell of molten metal and burning iron wafting from under the eaves. The sounds of metal on metal and the whoosh of the bellows can be heard even from many yards away.
You and Erric tie up your horses outside and enter the smithy, Erric ducking down a little as he's a few inches taller than you are, as he's always been.
The smith is a tall man, with an inch or so advantage over Erric, and he is barrel-chested and built like a tree. He and an apprentice are sweating over an anvil at the back of the shop. You wait patiently to be noticed as Erric restlessly fidgets with some of the merchandise hanging on the front wall.
"You like those knives?" you ask him with a smile.
"They're not bad," he allows, balancing a couple across one finger.
"You like them."
"Guilty."
"Maybe if you're good, I'll buy you a couple."
"'Good.' I guess that means I have to put back the one I already stole?"
"Dead on."
The smith eventually comes over to you and you unbelt your swordbelt. "Master smith, good day."
He looks you up and down sternly, a no-nonsense man with a thick beard. "Swordsmen-for-hire?"
"Times are hard."
He nods, looks from Erric to you again. "You need your weapons looked at and worked on, or are you looking to buy?"
The smithy is a good-sized wooden structure with a slanted roof and no walls, just broad pillars for support and the acrid smell of molten metal and burning iron wafting from under the eaves. The sounds of metal on metal and the whoosh of the bellows can be heard even from many yards away.
You and Erric tie up your horses outside and enter the smithy, Erric ducking down a little as he's a few inches taller than you are, as he's always been.
The smith is a tall man, with an inch or so advantage over Erric, and he is barrel-chested and built like a tree. He and an apprentice are sweating over an anvil at the back of the shop. You wait patiently to be noticed as Erric restlessly fidgets with some of the merchandise hanging on the front wall.
"You like those knives?" you ask him with a smile.
"They're not bad," he allows, balancing a couple across one finger.
"You like them."
"Guilty."
"Maybe if you're good, I'll buy you a couple."
"'Good.' I guess that means I have to put back the one I already stole?"
"Dead on."
The smith eventually comes over to you and you unbelt your swordbelt. "Master smith, good day."
He looks you up and down sternly, a no-nonsense man with a thick beard. "Swordsmen-for-hire?"
"Times are hard."
He nods, looks from Erric to you again. "You need your weapons looked at and worked on, or are you looking to buy?"