Fire and iron.

[Bos]

There's a little camp set up perhaps a mile down Derry Row from Myrkentown proper, set a half-dozen yards back from the road on the edge of the forest. A painted wooden caravan parked in the middle of a cleared circle of brush and bracken, with a sturdy old draught horse sometimes seen cropping the grass nearer to the road.

On the first day the camp is quiet enough, the wagon left locked and horseless, its owner perhaps having ventured into Myrkentown proper for the day.

On the second day there's some movement around the camp, a burly and bearded figure in his shirtsleeves lugging heavy sacks around, stacking strips of iron and steel and generally bustling to and fro; an awning is set up over the caravan's steps, and a solid-looking section of tree-trunk stands on end in front.

On the third day there's a post hammered into the dry earth; at the top is fastened a crossbar of elegantly-wrought iron, and from this dangles three iron horshoes on lengths of cord, clinking gently in the breeze to serve as advertisement for the travelling smithy's services. By the caravan's steps is a simple rack bearing rakes, shovels, pruning hooks, and even a sword or two. The air carries the tang of coal smoke and the ringing of metal on metal as the blacksmith plies his trade beside a portable furnace and bellows, the tree-trunk now topped with a small anvil.

The smith himself is tall and broad-shouldered, muscles toughened by his trade until they're near as hard as the iron he works; hair that was dark now streaked with grey, face and hands creased and leathery with countless days in front of a forge or beneath the sun. He might be forty summers, he might be sixty, but what's clear is that he's a master at his craft.

His fees are fair and his work exemplary, so it's not long before word of his work is circulating in Myrkentown. Be it mending broken implements until they're better than new, or forging iron billets into near paragons of all that a good tool should be: they rest easy in the hand, they're graceful of line, and using them feels like you're moving a part of your own body.

If you want it, he says to his customers, I can make it. It'll cost you, but you'll not be disappointed.

My name's Bos, he says, and I shape iron to my will. What're you wanting?

[Carnath-Emory]

Word travels.

Particularly upon Myrkentown roads, word does travel, largely because despite its perpetual troubles, the place is broad and well-populated. Word of such talent as Bos' in particular travels, and precisely because of such troubles, so that it had reached even the ears of a recently-damaged swordswoman.

Occasionally, she would have explained this to student Burnie, occasionally Myrken deigns not to take, but to provide.

So that on the third day, there's that post hammered firm into the earth, but by the tenth there's a swordswoman approaching it, dismounting lightly from the back of a broad-shouldered warhorse. She is a simple figure, loosely-clad and dusty at the boots, and slung low about her hips is a swordbelt housing weaponry fine enough that one might wonder at her purpose here. That is a cultist's blade at the one side, although a newcomer to Myrkentown would not recognise that design; opposite it rests a more complicated hilt, with its rapier's guard and its sharkskin bindings. Some network of thin, leather ribbons binds it there, and that's likely nothing more remarkable than a local peaceknot...

But whatever the case, this is what approaches the caravan, with an easy stride and the warhorse left patient in her wake. With a thumb hooked lightly into that 'belt, and some quiet purpose to her stride, and eyes that betray something like hope.

[Bos]

Business has been good for Bos, these last few days; once news of his work spread among the farmers and craftsmen of Myrkentown he's had a handful of visitors each day, some for repairs, some for new tools, some just to sit and watch him work. When the swordswoman approaches, however, the smith works alone.

There's a nod to this visitor to acknowledge he's seen her, though he keeps working for the moment. One hand grips tongs to hold what looks like a beanhook in the heart of the forge; the other turns a crank which, through some arrangement of rods and levers, feeds air into the base of the coals, inciting them to a radiant glare.

He watches the blade carefully, lips moving to murmur indistinct syllables as colours creep across the metal. At some unknown sign he gauges the time to be right, and removes the beanhook from the flames. Two steps away from the forge, and the dull-glowing blade is plunged into a tall vessel of oil and quenched with a loud hiss and a brief flash of flame as the liquid evaporates and ignites. His movements are unhurried, confident and well-honed, bespeaking thorough familiarity with his craft.

Finally he sets down his tongs in favour of a damp rag to wipe his hands as he nods again to the swordswoman, friendly grin visible as a line of white teeth amid his beard. Up close he's a towering figure, greying hair tied back in a short queue, shirt and apron and skin and hands stained with years of smoke and heat and ash. His voice is a deep, subdued rumble that one might imagine only ever raised in hearty laughter or furious shout.

"Good day to you, mistress. What can I do for you?"

[Carnath-Emory]

It suits, that quietness. Wordless acknowledgement is everything that she needs, and it frees her to move between the racks and anvil. She has a fencer's eye, not a smith's: her talent is for reading the intent in a swordsman's posture, not the quality in his steel. But still...

Something in her had wanted to see these things. Perhaps some part of her mind has recalled Calomel's talk of town smithies and the interest he'd taken in them. Perhaps she has not forgotten that long-ago talk of planishing, the art by which metal is beaten and beaten into new designs, beaten to the point of breaking so that it may emerge with newmade strength. Whatever the case, this satisfies -- and so for a time she haunts this place, for a time Bos must have patience for this narrow, grey thing that moves with something like quiet curiosity.

There are fingertips which learn the rough wood of racks, of caravan edges. Which trail very lightly across iron shaped into farming things, but never the weapons hung nearby; never those. With each breath, she drinks down coal smoke and the more subtle scent of iron; with each step, she fills her vision with such things. It's only the explosive hiss of hot metal in oil that turns her back about, and sharply so, and there is a moment in which her eyes are narrowed and fixed on this.

A solemn thing then, which faces that smith's easy smile, and she must lift her chin to do it, for looms a head and shoulders above her. Solemn and small-featured, and with a scarred chin tilted towards the work set before him, as:

"They say your sense for iron is exquisite. What can you do?"

[Bos]

There's an incline of his head for that, silent acceptance and perhaps confirmation of what she's heard. A pause of a few moments before he speaks again.

"Give me iron, and I can shape it to my will. For coin, I can shape it to your will. If it's broken, I can mend it better than new. If it's lost, describe it and I can make it again."

His words are slow, as if carefully chosen after proper deliberation, but for all that there's still a keen wit in his gaze as he regards the swordswoman. He notes particularly the blades at her belt as if noting well what metalworking and craft can be seen from such; the scar at her jaw, the set of her pose as she stands before him. One might imagine him turning such a gaze upon a strip of metal when choosing what to make of it, carefully appraising and considering.

"You don't look like a farmer. What're you wanting?"

[Carnath-Emory]

If it's broken --

If it's lost --


Ariane does not turn her face away from the sound of these words, although the want to is strong and immediate. It is not a thing she will commit herself to, and within two quiet breaths it is dismissed. The promise inherent in this smith's words hastens that process, because it is a significant boast, and one so casually spoken that she's inclined to believe it.

It's also precisely what the hearsay described.

It is a strange sensation, to stand before this towering man as if she were a tool upon an anvil; to be dissected and reckoned with in such a way, to be assessed from head to scuffed toe. But it is not entirely an unfamiliar one, for doesn't the younger Duquesne possess just so intent a gaze, when a thing catches his interest? And those are eyes which see, which could count the hairs on her head, she's reckoned; could put a number to the pores of her skin. Doesn't cultist Renne examine a person with just such purpose? As if he meant gently to flay back the skin, the better to see the truths hidden beneath it. And each night, it's her fists against Sefall's live steel, and three days ago Tempest had stared down at her with eyes lit by something more than mere fury --

Oh, she endures this well: with chin slightly raised, with no yielding in her spine. With some slight shift to her at talk of farmers and coins, and a question which requires words from her, and which lends them the focus she'd required.

"Coin, I have. A sword, I do not. So."

I don't know would have been her immediate response, but that was not a thought voicing. An indrawn breath becomes a quiet series of words: she will begin this way, and see where they will lead her.

"I prefer a blade of a longsword's length or a little more yet; of lesser width, but it will be something more substantial than a rapier's. This blade must be edged, for my need is for a cut-and-thrust weapon, fast and light." Murderous.

Turns away then, this grey-clad thing, to move towards racks and anvil once more, but there is no stemming this tide of words, now. They have found their momentum, their focus.

"A cat's-head pommel's my preference. The complexity of the guard I leave to you, save that it must not constrict the grip; best of all that it harmoniously conform. This will extend to cover the ricasso. I prefer the piece weighted a little forward of what might seem reasonable, and the hilt sharkskin-bound, unless you know a superior grip.

"A schiavona. That is what I mean to buy from your forge."

[Bos]

"Hm." Dark eyes narrow slightly beneath thick brows as he listens to this list, this catalogue of wants, and there's a nod at each point described. A flick of a glance to her belt as she speaks of the sword she does not have, but no question as yet, not until she has finished speaking.

The smith absently smooths his beard for a moment, eyes focussing no longer on the swordswoman but on something beyond her, a thoughtful weighing up of what she describes. For all that his thoughts do not seem to flow fast there is the sense that they run deep, ponderous as a great river and yet as relentless. Finally he nods, attention returning to this slender, almost fragile figure with her upright posture and her shades of grey.

"I have handled such swords. Wrought a few, though the soldiers mainly like heavier blades and the noblemen lighter." Confident enough, and one might guess that ploughshares and pruning-hooks are by no means his main area of expertise. There's a nod to the lace-bound weapon at her side then, brows raising inquiringly. "What became of your last one?" For no sword she says, and yet there is scabbard and hilt upon her belt, and one cannot help but wonder. A broad hand held out, something which might almost be a polite bow.

"May I see?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Even this is more than Ariane had dared to expect of Myrken Wood. After all, the weapon she'd worn here for years had been forged far from its borders; it had seemed reasonable to expect that the journey must be repeated to secure its successor. So that here's some subtle note of surprise to texture her features, some real edge of interest to the grey of her eyes as she considers what is offered. And considers, because there is a real intellect hidden within the predator that is Ethan Duquesne, and likewise there is a particular mind within this broad and bearded thing; there is more to him than heavy tools and coal-smoke.

There are things a swordswoman might learn from such a person, there are truths worked into the fabric of this makeshift smithy. It is with some quiet regret that she dismisses the possibility of it: that warrior-brother is a predator contained by circumstances, and only barely so. Time has grown too short for such leisures.

Better instead that she nod her assent to these things, that she part lips upon the verge of instructions -- only to pause over again, on receiving a question instead. It does not pale her; she is beyond that. But it stills her for a time, and kills those directives upon her lips, and only after a quiet moment of this does she consent to thumb the bindings free of that elegant hilt.

Bos will see the reason for those ties almost immediately: at the first sign of loosening, that hilt and its two-inches of scarred blade tumble into her waiting hand. That is she offers him then, wordlessly and at arm's length: this crippled testament to exquisite design, terrible force, ferocious flame.

[Bos]

Thick brows lower into a frown as he is presented with this broken weapon, and the hilt is held carefully, almost respectfully; he turns it this way and that, measuring the length of the grip with his fingers, tracing the handguard's curved lines with a light touch of fingertips. Perhaps a slightly critical squint at a few of the joins, fingernail scratching at the welds as if expecting them to flake away with a touch. Not a bad blade, his expression says, but not as good as it should be. As good as it could be.

As he turns his attention upon the broken-off blade that frown deepens; surely he notes the discolouration of the metal that comes with exposure to intense heat; the way the iron is perhaps not so much snapped as torn, as if softened before being sheared off. Now that's curious indeed, and there's some sign of mingled irritation and regret at this; while he might not rate the maker's skill overmuch, at the end of the day this is still something that a craftsman's laboured over, something born from sweat and fire. Something that's been created with care, and has now been destroyed. At length he returns his attention to the swordswoman, shaking his head and holding the hilt out to her in both hands as if cradling the body of some broken creature.

"I'll not use this. Your sword's been murdered, and there's no smithing in the world that'll fix that. But I can make you a new one like it - a better hilt than any you're likely to see, and with a blade to match." A nod, an indication she should take the ruined thing.

"Hold it as if it were whole. I'll need to know your grip."

[Carnath-Emory]

It's a strange thing, to watch the weapon handled so, and after a time she realises the cause of that: it's like a dead thing in the smith's hands, a dead thing cradled and turned and passed from one palm to the other. It inspires some distaste within the swordswoman, some sickness, and after a time she turns her shoulder to the sight entirely, preferring to wander the racks again instead.

The acrid tang of iron and flame is inescapable.

Only when Bos speaks his assessment does she turn again, but when she approaches, it is reluctantly. It was not until she'd put that broken thing into his hands that she'd fully reckoned its worth to her, so that some thin-lipped moment is required here. Some space of time in which to make some impassive shell of herself, and swallow back the sickness that threatens. Then can iron seize iron, and the hand does so with a deft ease, long fingers sliding into the elaborate hilt and meeting old sharkskin there.

The arm sweeps back, the spine straightening as its narrow body swivels upon low boot-heels; for a heartbeat's measure this is a fencer's posture, the crippled stub of a sword held keen and level with her eye --

It resolves into a loose slouch, into a line of wry amusement for the mouth and some bitter exhalation. Here is a hand raised for Bos' inspection, fingers aligned into a fencer's grip within that hilt, and not a word to accompany it, not one.

[Bos]

This display, this pantomimed readying of a now-imaginary blade is watched closely, the swordswoman's stance and balance noted and memorised; held as she would normally expect to hold it, balance just so, gives him some useful knowledge of her needs. It is a simple thing to say "I would like it crafted thus, and in such a manner, as I wield it in this way", but it is quite another thing - a more valuable thing - to see the hilt turned and angled like so and like so, to see where she expects its weight to lie, and where she grips the hilt to grant her best control of the blade.

She holds up the hilt for him to see, and he steps a pace closer, bringing with him the scent of coal smoke and iron and the sweat of hard toil; a silent and looming thing now, he turns to inspect how her grip touches the sharkskin and steel, focussing upon slender fingers wrapped about the elegantly-shaped piece of metal; his own hands lift to measure lengths and widths and distances with his fingers, set briefly alongside her own and yet never going so far as to touch; from pommel to écusson is thus far, the ricasso extends so far into the blade, the blade itself is so many finger-widths in breadth, and so on and so forth. His hands are broad, calloused, thick-fingered and stained with ground-in coal powder and oil and iron dust, and yet for these few moments they move nimbly as a musician's or weaver's.

Following this inspection of the murdered weapon there is some brief inspection of the woman herself, a similarly critical scrutiny as he gave to the hilt in her hand; so might one measure two pieces of iron one intends to weld together, ensuring that each will lie flush against the other such that their joining is flawless, as if they were once a single piece that is simply to be returned to that state. Distance from wrist to elbow to shoulder reckoned in spans of broad hands; a moment for the smith to stand up straight and draw an imaginary line from the top of her head to his own collarbone, and silent nods to himself all the while as he commits these dimensions to memory.

At last he steps back, nods and folds his arms across his chest.

"You'll have your sword. There'll be a price, of course - and not a cheap one. I'll not cheat you, but I'll not cheat myself either."

[Carnath-Emory]

It is a simple thing to describe the weapon's use in such a way, but it is also insufficient: there is no doubting that a woman so clumsy with words has realised this already.

It is a finer thing to describe a weapon's use in this way: by making such a performance of it, by making herself a thing to be observed and measured and assessed. There is something strangely comfortable in this practice. A swordswoman who spends whole nights in training with the Emperor's paragon is highly accustomed to being the focus of a critical, expert eye. A half-literate woman who studies looking-glasses and libraries beneath the aviseful gaze of architect Duquesne almost welcomes eyes that likewise scour. There is no hint of self-consciousness here, no edge of embarassment to her at all, as she lifts limbs and turns shoulders, as she raises that unmade sword as the smith requires. This is a performance to which every inch of her is committed, and the impersonal quality of it pleases her very well.

There is a point in the midst of this during which her world becomes lively with the smoggy odour of smoke and oil -- but not touch, which would have provoked immediate and terrible violence. She does not breathe more easily when Bos withdraws, because she does not have to. Instead, assesses in her turn, with a gaze of some cool detachment now -- and nods her assent.

With a single caveat, for:

"Forge it beyond breaking," she answers him quietly, "and you will find my gratitude ample."

[Bos]

Beyond breaking, she says, and at that he nods. He accepts that returned scrutiny with a grin of some amusement, no doubt aware of the unpresentable state of his appearance; smeared with ash and oil, hair undoubtedly in need of washing after hours spent sweating before the forge; clothing patched and thrice-mended, still plenty of wear in it despite its being fit only for working in. Yet in every ground-in smudge and black fingerprint where he's wiped his hands on that sore abused shirtfront there's the mark of honest work rather than slovenliness, care more for the iron he works than the clothes he wears while working it. Devoid of tools and apron and anvil and furnace, one could still mark him as a smith as soon as look at him.

After a time he turns to the rack of tools and weapons, selecting a curved billhook from among them and holding it up for the swordswoman to inspect. Though seemingly small in his broad hands, it's a fine example of its kind, likely used by coppicers to cut hazel staves; a simple wooden handle, shaped and polished to rest well in the hand, with some simple knotwork carved into the wood to improve the wielder's grip; the blade itself is sleekly curved and ground to a fine edge, weighty enough to cut through the young wood in a stroke or two, three at most; as he tilts it to the light one might catch subtle patterns in the flat of the blade, whorls and lines in the texture of the iron itself as if marks had been inscribed there then hammered flat again.

Once he's certain she's seen the quality of the blade he sets it down atop the anvil and steps over to the stack of iron billets and selects one at random; a dulled strip of iron an inch and a half across, half an inch thick, a foot and a half long. To the anvil, then, tapping it with the length of iron to make it ring as if demonstrating that it's a good bit of metal.

He takes a moment to grip the billet firmly and brace it on the anvil, narrow edge uppermost. A glance to the swordswoman to be sure she's watching closely, then he takes up the billhook again; a heartbeat or so to heft the tool, then in a smooth and practised motion he brings it up and and down again, as if to hack through the strip of iron like sapling wood. Impossible, of course, and liable to ruin a perfectly good blade in the process.

So, a clash of metal, and then two more swiftly after as he strikes blade upon bar with full force of muscles toughened with just such work. Three times in all, more than sufficient to jag and notch the tool beyond use. That done, the smith turns to the swordswoman and holds out billet and billhook for her closer inspection, barely even glancing at them himself.

Upon the narrow edge of the iron bar, three glinting lines where the tarnished metal has been cut into, perhaps an eighth of an inch.

Upon the billhook's blade not a notch nor even a scratch, the edge remaining keen and unbroken, a smooth curve of razor-sharp steel from tip to handle.

"Good enough?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Unpresentable! And standing before a creature who today has no eye for any such thing at all, who presents herself as a tool of sorts, and views Bos in a very similar manner. Let his eye be sharp and his arm strong, let those coals burn hotly where they're piled, and the smoke of it fill the air; above all, let the man's sense for iron be intimate and precise. These things are what she sees when she looks upon him, and little else at all, for the rest are mere trappings for the tool, the rest are nothing that she means to purchase. And in any case, can't the same be said of Ariane herself? These dusty boots, these poorly-cut garments, loose and colourless; she is every inch of her the weapon today, exactly as is appropriate.

Exactly as is preferred.

And this weapon has watched this process carefully, for having given the man some small demonstration, she discovers that he is willing to return the favour in kind. There is cold, cruel work done to a perfectly serviceable blade, there is a brutal beating given to fine, fine iron, and she watches this with eyes that know how to see. That do not quite flinch at the clash of metal upon metal, that do not quite blink until Bos is done with this performance, and she's accepted billet and billhook both into her hands. She has fingertips examining the quality of both then, tactile creature that she is; has a touch that means to learn where one has suffered and the other endured --

"Good enough," she answers the man then, at the end of this all. They are pressed back upon him then, these three things, billet and billhook and ruined hilt alike.

"When it is done, you name your price. And me, I do not question it."

[Bos]

Approval given, and these things pressed upon him. Hilt held in a hand, billet and billhook are set down on the anvil for now. It's an agreement, then, and there are certain gestures and rituals to be observed so he holds out one work-grimed hand to the swordswoman.

"It will be so. One more thing I'll need, though." A grin amongst that greying beard, a flash of teeth in amusement that they've got this far without such a basic courtesy.

"I'll need your name, if you have one. I'm Bos."