Fire and iron.

[Bos]

The blacksmith absently runs fingers over his beard as he watches these testing, experimental movements carefully, critically; as if checking that some edge lies straight and true, that some hinge moves smoothly and without squeaking or scraping. Apparently it meets with his approval, and he nods, a satisfied smile to go with it. Then, one last test.

"Now cast it aside." He makes a throwing gesture, his meaning clear enough. Toss the thing away, discard it. A ridiculous instruction, absolutely laughable - as if one could part with such a piece of work, as if one would simply drop it to the ground. Still, his tone is insistent, firm, as it had been when he had asked for her hand to fit that bracer. Something in mind, perhaps. Aware of the reluctance the swordswoman might have for such a thing, though, he shrugs and amends slightly:

"Or sheathe it, if you will. But put it out of your hand for a moment."

[Carnath-Emory]

Cast it aside, instructs imposing Bos, who says no thing lightly at all -- you realise this within moments of first meeting the man. Cast it aside, he directs, as a narrow twist of the elbow sends steel like quicksilver through the morning air, and her head jerks up as if he'd slapped her. Startled eyes, in this first brief moment, stung eyes, for you do not place such a piece of work into a weapon's hands and then expect it might be set aside --

Oh, but this 'smith has a sense for wielders, as well as their weapons. It is not quite relief which colours her when he elaborates on that instruction, but some distant cousin of it perhaps, and when she complies, it's with some small and wordless reluctance. The straightening line of these lips has thinned them, the slight clench of teeth has sharpened the line of her jaw; a careful hand sends the blade whispering back into its scabbard, and this she sets against on of the waiting racks, several feet clear of them.

Returns, then.
Waits, chin lifted.

[Bos]

There's that pause, that hesitation and disbelief that has the blacksmith offering a reassuring grin. Trust me, he might say, save that he says very little at all and that request is clear enough in his gaze. He nods as she takes that second suggestion, approval at the respect she shows to the blade in sheathing it, in setting it to rest so fastidiously. Very good.

As she returns to stand before him he lifts his right hand, level with his heart; palm loosely open, grasping, fingers facing forwards.

"Like this." Clear enough as an instruction, for all his economy with words. He holds the position for a moment, then moves his hand forward an inch or two, closes his fingers into a loose fist; the swordswoman might even recognise it as some rough approximation of a fencer's grip, as if to salute a foe before crossing blades with them; the 'smith's own dark gaze evenly meets the swordswoman's grey across the distance of feet that separates them.

"And like this. Now you try."

[Carnath-Emory]

Trust me, Bos might have said, and didn't, and this was surely for the best; in Ariane's experience, that request is invariably spoken by the sorts least worthy of any trust at all. Best by far that he speaks so very little at all, for it creates an accord between them, just as has the subtle scent of iron in this shared space, the subtle haze of ash and smouldering coal. So a sword is set aside, and sensation of it is instructional: the woman hadn't realised until that moment how fond she'd grown of the thing, and it is too soon for that, too soon by far. Better to return to her place before the 'smith, better to lift her hand in mimicry of his own, and watch the bracer closely to see what will come of this gesture.

The sudden weight of a sword in her hand so startles the woman that she drops it.

For a flicker of a moment, what stands before Bos is every inch of her a weapon: is all reflex and edged response, with its lunging backstep and its hand clasping a dagger's grip, and the skin become lively with a flitter of sweat. All of this, within the moment during which she draws deep breath -- and pauses only after it, as thought catches up with reflexes and, understanding, she bends slowly to retrieve the dropped weapon.

Carefully, mind. With some quiet chagrin upon her features. But when she straightens again, it is with a smile slowly overtaking that, and it glitters with bright, approving pleasure.

[Bos]

As expected - on his part, at least - the blade appears as she repeats that gesture. What's not quite so expected is that she drops it, and so there's a hasty step back as that gleaming blade drops to the trampled grass underfoot. There follows a quiet, breathless moment as she reacts; fighter's reflexes move her to a wary defensiveness, alert, poised, a weapon in every part. Then it passes, time flows as it should once more, though not without the blacksmith casting a narrowed glance at that sheen upon her skin.

She's smiling, though, and the 'smith's expression mirrors her pleasure. His work meets with approval, quite resoundingly so, and that is quite gratifying.

"As long as you wear the wristpiece, you are not unarmed. Reach for the sword, and it will find your grasp." A strange way of phrasing it, perhaps, but accurate enough.

And now the conclusion of this business. She has made her request, and it has been fulfilled; he has brought this weapon's hilt to her hand, and they match like parts of something once broken and now reunited; he has told her what it can do, she has seen it, indeed, so all of his obligations have been met. One more matter remains between them.

"And on the matter of payment..." His tone is neither expectant, nor wheedling, nor obsequious; no, simply a statement of what is, and what will be. A decision made, firm and final and fixed.

In deep, even tones the 'smith names his price.

[Carnath-Emory]

Were she a great deal less absorbed in fathoming this weapon, Ariane would have found the 'smith an interesting study. It is her habit after all, to study a person in that way; it is very much her nature, to learn a person, and it is possible that someday she will regret having let this opportunity escape her.

But oh, consider what she has gained!

That she cannot possibly comprehend its workings is of very little concern: remove them entirely, and still there remains a sword that is far more than simply serviceable. That it arrives in her grip when her hand requests it is clearly arcane, and whether it will prove practical or not remains to be seen; it is not so necessary as is ... a keen edge, say. A well-balanced whole, a finely-crafted hilt, and in these respects, the weapon does not at all lack. In these respects, the weapon is a paragon of its craft. So that when tall Bos names his price, she answers him with some assessing lift of the brow, with some slow and reckoning gaze ... and her nodded assent.

A few moments spent at the saddlebags of Ch'rnyj Voron end in a woman's quiet return, and with setting of a supple suede purse down upon one of the surfaces near them. It is of ... considerable size: this, Ser 'smith, is what a barony looks like. Or a year's income from one at least, which is to say that this is how a nobleman shows his thanks for a service done years ago, and for a friendship as well; this is very much, understand, the Duke's sense of humour at work, inflicting a title upon a lowly sellsword.

It had occured to Ariane seven days ago that Burel would find this hilarious, that it had bought her a sword. Hilarious and undeniably fitting.

She makes this exchange with a sudden smile.