you must be sure that the doubts and questions are your own

[serjeant]

Who: Seoraj and YOU.
What: The smithy is open for business, which means taking orders and working up basics for sale.
Where: Seoraj's Forge in Stoneshell.
When: Weekdays, business hours. Specify if it matters.
Notes: This is generally here for anyone to whom blacksmiths are relevant!
Warnings: Archaic sexism.

Business may not be booming, but nevertheless it is well underway within a short time of Seoraj's acquisition. Most of his work to start with comes in through the farming communities, and the occupation is familiar in a way that lays out most starkly how familiar so much of this place is not. Steel works under his hands as it ever has, and the world outside the smithy marches on in its own, new way. Immersing himself in that is his way, though he's never had an opportunity like this before; he insinuates himself into life here as if it were an old cloak and not so crisply new as it is.

People begin to talk to him. That will be good, he thinks, though he doesn't yet know what for.

Comments

[serjeant]

True to his word, Seoraj will knock the price down some when she pays him for the work. Now, though, he glances to her to answer that question, looking for all the world as though he's never been asked. (He hasn't; he suspects some of the lowlanders think Arum warriors spring from the mountain rock, fully formed.) "Always," he says, with a shrug, but in more detail, "Trained since I was a boy. First campaign would've been something like thirteen years ago, give or take a summer." He'd have been seventeen when he started marching.

[suninhades]

She tilts her head, typically expressionless, but all the same seeming like she's never heard that sort of answer before. (It's not that she doesn't think these sorts of people exist - people more like her - but they always seem to come from other dimensions. She's not sure how to feel about that, so she doesn't feel anything.)

"Good."

[serjeant]

Without a trace of falsehood (he is no braggart), he says, "You won't find finer warriors where I come from than my kinsmen. It's just as is the world." He frowns briefly at one of the shoes, filing the nail back, and adds, "Can't half imagine if the lowlanders had to go fighting their own wars."

He's envisioning the nobility half-heartedly waving swords at each other, by the way.

[suninhades]

Integra pulls the black leather saddle over, and yanks up a strap, so that she can scrawl the horse's name inside it. Now it's done, and as official as it will ever be, as there's no registry in Baedal, only the passing of favors and marks and old ledgers in farmhouses. Perhaps months ago, this might have felt as a coffin-nail; permanence, to name something, to make it hers, as when the small things fit in along the edges she knows she's well and truly trapped. She doesn't care.

For a long time, she says nothing, and thinks of Dracula.

[serjeant]

The lapse in conversation suits Seoraj well enough; he redirects his chatter in a low, amicable voice to Althalus (who he promptly nicknames, as well, rolling out my lord with rich amusement at an animal that seems temperamentally suited to his mistress) as he finishes his work.

He takes to permanence, by the look of him - solid as the mountains he was bred in. (Maybe that's all it is. A look.)

"Those should last him a while," he says, when he's done, straightening, wiping his hands off on his apron. "Shouldn't give him any trouble."

[suninhades]

He really is an impressive horse - large and black and strong, carrying that stubborn edge of 'could be ill tempered'. Most riders would balk from that temper, but in a horse that needs to be worked hard in inhospitable conditions, it's good. A mean streak is helpful; he won't back down, even if it's just out of pride.

Integra comes over to inspect Seoraj's work (all four), and from the way she pulls and presses, it's clear she knows what she's doing. If Seoraj was anything less than impressive, she'd see immediately. But she straightens up, and there are no complaints.

"What do I owe you?"

[serjeant]

As he steps clear to let her saddle Althalus, he's grinning. "Five marks, sir." It'll cost her six and a half next time.

[suninhades]

Five marks it is. That's not a terrible price for workmanship of quality even without the discount, so she doesn't mind. Her eyes travel over the inside of the forge while they sort out payment, and then she goes to re-tack her horse. She'll go easy on him on the way back, and tomorrow she'll tear through over every terrain out there, and really see how Seoraj's work holds up.

"Thank you," she says, and while the timing seems like an afterthought, her tone is sincere.

[serjeant]

He swings the hammer in his hand, shrugs, lets his smile fade into something amiable and less mischievous. "My pleasure. He's a beautiful animal."

He has every faith she'll be impressed.

[suninhades]

Kitted up, she swings on the horse with ease. "Until next time."

And she's off.