multiversallogs | it’s naive to pray for world peace if we’re not going to change the form in which we live

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it’s naive to pray for world peace if we’re not going to change the form in which we live

Who: Master Stoneshell and YOU?
What: Blacksmiths do good business in a nervous town.
Where: Seoraj's Forge.
When: Whenever.
Notes: If you'd like me to set up a thread in the comments to run into him somewhere else, drop me a line.
Warnings: Stay tuned.

Chaos is profitable, when your business is weaponry.

It isn't that he doesn't get by otherwise - the farmers keep him busy, and he does casual business with his swords and his knives, and beyond that he's not exactly strapped for cash in the first place - but demand spikes when citizens start eyeing their neighbours the way he's seen lately, and there's money to be made in that. People wanting silver crosses attached to steel stakes and swords they can have blessed by a local priest and one fellow, memorably, gives him a small vial of something to mix into the molten metal before he makes the knife. For the price he gets to name on that one, he doesn't ask what it is.

(He holds onto the vial, though, with the traces left of it; he makes sure he has receipts and records for every purchase and who made it. It seems like the sort of thing it might be useful to have, later, and it isn't as though keeping records isn't standard practise.)

Politics aren't his strong suit and neither are supernatural creatures, but he knows money and he knows trouble - he's been seeing a bit more of both, lately, and if you asked him, then he'd probably say the further he goes, the more familiar everything seems to be.

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It's only just nearing evening now. There are clouds, but there is also sun, and despite the hour Fish has been hanging around outside for a few minutes now. Not much is subtle about his presence, from the way he just sort of occupies the approaching laneway, awkwardly, to his black hoodie and black sunglasses and his long-sleeved layers. One of his boots toes the other like it's scratching an itch. Hands jammed into his armpits.

All right. Okay. He can do this. It's horrifying, but he can do this.

His approach is silent, and his hand pauses over the latch for a long time, shaking faintly, before he opens the door to look in. He feels tiny. Like Jack peeking in on the giant's castle or something.

It's approaching the hour where Seoraj starts closing up for dinner and then the work he's still got waiting for him at home- not so late he's already packing up what he's doing, but late enough that he's doing inventory and record-keeping, and that's what he looks up from when the door opens and-

"Ah, you." It's a friendly greeting, accompanied by a quick smile. "All right?"

"Yeah..." After the handle, the spook is careful not to touch anything else on his way through the door. It could be said his sense of self-preservation is defective, since he's here despite his really obvious unease, but curiosity has won out against the mystery of his self-named 'spidey-sense'. Being undead doesn't come with a manual, sadly, and he has no mentor to advise him. This might be a little easier to deal with if he'd kicked it in a Tim Burton film.

"Hi. I, uh, saw you had a thingy out here and came to check it out." All the way out here, yes. To the middle of nowhere. "....Are you closed?"

Seoraj makes a so-so gesture with one hand, though you'd think 'open' or 'closed' would be a pretty simple question to answer- "Quietening down for the evening is all." A few addresses to rewrite in a more legible hand, that sort of thing. "What d'you make of my 'thingy', then?"

The world may be going nuts and iron may freak the hell out of some people, but his affect remains unrelentingly good-natured and mildly entertained at almost all times. It's not a bad way to get through a strange series of days, if you can manage it.

"Uhhh, heh..." Hearing Seoraj say that word is kind of amazing, let's not even pretend it isn't. "It's, um. It's cool, it... I feel like I'm walking into a story or something." A scary story, Fish? Is that why you look like you might pee at any time?

Once he's hung his sunglasses from the collar of his jacket, he folds his arms across his chest—hugs himself, more accurately, hands jammed into his armpits—and treads a little further into the place, unabashedly wide-eyed and slow-moving. ...Well, this is one way to shut him up, anyhow.

"You sure you wouldn't rather enjoy the story from the porch?" ...because Seoraj is at all observant, and Fish really does look like he's creeping around a dragon's lair trying not to wake something up. He's relatively certain that it's not him inspiring that reaction - not ruling it out, mind, but he's not unused to startling lowlanders and they tend to wear it a bit differently. "It's not a bad place," he adds, with more evident pride. "Had a one up in the mountains, wasn't quite like this."

"No, I mean, it doesn't look bad or anything... I'm just, uhm." Wigging out? "I've got allergies." Yes. Yes, that is exactly what is happening here.

After a lengthy pause, during which Fish—being the sort whose eyes always seem to find an open door before much else—stares past Seoraj into the adjacent room where certain works-in-progress happen to lay, he puts his slackened jaw back to use. Still staring. Now motionless. He does sound a bit more resolved, though, in the way one might sound while declaring the intent to get the hell out of Dodge. "The porch sounds like a great idea."

Well- that's interesting, that is, and Seoraj visibly registers the reaction and what prompted it. That's all that seems to happen on the surface, though; he notices, then he shrugs, folding up the paper and getting to his feet. "Well, suits me- I wanted to ask you about your art, come to it."

The shorter (...much...shorter) man's reaction comes after a slight delay, like dragging his attention away from that door presents a physical difficulty. When he does finally look, though, it's evident that he is at least somewhat easy to distract, if only superficially. "Oh, yeah? Sure, okay."

Just one more glance back thataway (it's pretty much a glare, as if rooms can feel threatened), and then he retraces his steps... literally, even, backing up for several paces before turning to exit properly. He left the door open, at least, so there's no need to touch it again on the way out. Not that the door is offensive, or anything. It's an okay door, he doesn't mind it. Anyway, he's going outside, where once again he will be able to communicate in multi-syllabic words, presumably.

Edited 2011-09-26 03:46 (UTC)

The door is so inoffensive in its present state that Seoraj leaves it ajar when they emerge - admittedly, more to indicate to any passersby that he is still technically on the clock if they need anything. There's a bench on the porch that he arranges himself on with ease, so it can't be quite as rickety as it looks, and he occupies himself with a bit of polishing that still needs done. Paperwork can stay indoors.

"I was thinking," he says, in the tone of someone who is warily reintroducing 'casual' to a conversation, like he's a little concerned that Fish might not be in the most thrilling of moods presently, "the place could do with a sign."

Fish, meanwhile, situates himself against a post or a railing, if there is one near enough to his current conversation buddy, or else he leans against the wall itself. In any case, he is not entirely relaxed but still clearly relieved to be outside (albeit a bit squinty).

"Yeah, I was wondering why you didn't have one on the way in... I wasn't sure I was even in the right place until I saw you."

The way Cindy's dressed up, she looks like she's headed to either a serious business meeting or she's a serious minded woman who headed for a serious date with an equally as serious man. The snug black skirt and matching blazer are only offset by the ivory silk button-down blouse underneath. Her heels are a classic style, all business, no bullshit. Topping off the ensemble is a pair of sunglasses. Forget the business meeting and date. She looks like she's off to a funeral.

It's an odd outfit to be wearing to go and visit a blacksmith, but Cindy is Cindy and nobody tells her what to wear when she feels like wearing something unless they want a heel stuck in the middle of their forehead. But she's here, pushing open the heavy shop door and sticking her head in the crack.

"Who do I speak to for a commission?" she announces more than asks. Cindy wants to get her shit and go with the least amount of wasted time.

In the process of cleaning and polishing, Seoraj wipes what he's doing and his hands before he sets it aside and rises - and there's a lot of him - to greet her, open and amiable enough without crossing into anything that's out of place as a professional. "That'd be me," he says, taking her in at a glance and reserving judgement; he's seen stranger things than pretty women coming into his forge, recently, and Integra was damned effective as a crash course in the competence of the woman warrior around here. "What can I do you for, ma'am?"

From behind the dark shades that cover her eyes, Cindy inspects him from head to toe. Impressive size. She's seen bigger, but this isn't the Homelands. He's just a unique looking Mundy to her, nothing to get excited over.

"I need a knife. Small, lightweight with a serrated edge, but just as deadly as a hunting knife. If it can be disguised as something so conspicuous that it's obviously not a knife, the better." Cindy stands with her shoulders back and chin up as she speaks, giving off the aura that she's not willing to answer any questions of why she needs this particular item.

Big man, but no correspondingly oversized ego; he doesn't bristle at her frank examination, bearing up under it with patient equanimity, holding himself like a soldier. Not an officer - he'd make a much better leader than he imagines, but he's cannonfodder, that's the way it goes. He's a damn good blacksmith, but it's in his hands and not his spine.

The first question is: "Any preference about what you want it disguised as?" in that same unassuming way as he greeted her, the way he'd deal with anyone. She's not asking for anything he can't do, and they'll get to his discretion policy in a minute.

"Hairbrush. Tampon. Vibrator. Something along those lines." She's oddly blunt and matter of fact about the last option, then again, Cindy is carrying her actual pocket rocket in her purse right now. If anybody is shocked by that, that's what they get for poking around in her pocketbook.

"How much?" Because this is the most important part for her. She doesn't have free flowing income like she used to, but she has enough for a decent price range.

He sucks the back of his teeth for a moment as he considers it for a moment (he'll have to look up what a tampon and a vibrator actually are, enjoy that), but he settles on, "You're looking at around seventeen marks." As far as custom designed knives (especially with the concealment) goes, the equivalent of around two hundred dollars isn't a bad price. He's reputed to be more than worth what he charges - especially given his willingness to take payment in trade or knock down a price now and then, when he thinks it's warranted.

He considers her for a moment, then, clearly not unaware of her manner, he says, "Your business is your own, that's as may be; I'm as discreet as doesn't make me dishonest."

It sounds like a fairly standard disclaimer rather than an accusation or expectation, which is more or less what it is - he doesn't ask questions of people who give him money and dubious legality isn't a problem for him, but he likes it to be clear that that only goes as far as 'dubious legality' doesn't cross into 'flat out morally and ethically wrong'. He's said the same thing more than a few times this week past, and he suspects there are more than a few who just weren't listening.

(But that's why he keeps records.)

"I'm asking you to make it, not use it," Cindy replies with just a tiny bit of grumbling underneath her breath. She never took people telling her that they were discreet at face value. People can say anything; it's up to her to be the judge of things and wade through all the bullshit.

Seventeen marks isn't that high of a number, though Cindy didn't expect a custom job to be cheap. She can afford up to twenty-five, but that doesn't mean she'll take the first number she's given. "Thirteen."

Her answer to his cautioning makes him grin, once, fleeting - much less mild than the professional blandness that he tends to present as master of the forge. His assurances are less about his discretion (which becomes self-evident and he lets it be) than they are about the fact it's not something bought and paid for. Just don't prove to him he should be giving your name to somebody and he won't do it.

"Take a look at my work before you undervalue it," he says, mildly, because instead of secrets he keeps his sense of humour in all that hair, presumably. "Sixteen, and you'll need a really good excuse to go any lower."

Cindy makes her life on not proving that to people. This guy has no worries on that much at the very least. Still, his price isn't quite to her liking. If he's at stubborn as she is, they'll be bargaining all day long.

For the first time today, Cindy pushes her sunglasses off her face and into her hair, blue eyes flashing with a hint of some odd interest. "Fourteen and I call bullshit because I work retail and I know upsells when I see them. You'll always see your work as worth more than the customer is willing to pay."

"Fifteen and a half because I do use 'em and I can give you a better weapon than someone who doesn't know how it's meant to feel in your hand when you're using it and not polishing your knob." He concedes, a moment later, "As it were. Ma'am."

"Fourteen and a half and I'll polish your knob."

Cindy... what are you even sometimes. Except for the woman who doesn't mind saying things like that, of course.

Seoraj barks a short, sharp laugh - he didn't see that coming, but he figures he probably should've. "Fifteen flat. It's worth seventeen." Does he mean the knife or his- he probably means the knife.

"Fourteen and three quarters and I'll be the judge of whether anything of yours..." Indeed she is waving her hand from his head to his feet. "...Is worth the price you quote."

Now there's probably no way to break a mark into three-fourths, so right now, this is Cindy just being a trolling troll of the trollish sort. The guy's interesting. What can she say?

Although three-fourths of a mark would be nine shekels, Seoraj repeats, "Fifteen," in a mild tone, "and if you really want to be the judge of any of my work, you can choose your weapon and test it to first blood." On him, he means. Ballsy bastard.

"Still won't knock the price down past that, though," he adds, thoughtfully.

Cindy pulls her lower lip into her mouth as she untucks her shades from her hair, folding them up into a neat little compact thing. She looks, for the moment, like a woman who is considering his offer thoroughly and carefully. He's about to be disappointed though.

"I can draw blood using a plastic knife." The sunglasses in her hand are slipped into her purse and traded for a pack of cigarettes wrapped in shiny gold foil and an equally as shiny lighter. "Still doesn't make it worth the full seventeen or the fifteen, period."

Seoraj shrugs, with the easy confidence of someone who knows how good his weapons are and is in a position where he can afford to dictate to his customers, to a point. "Well, if you want a plastic knife, I'm sure you know where to get one."

Final offer, sounds like.

"I'm still on fourteen and three quarters, a knob polishing, and a smooth ride no horse in this place can offer if you do a good job," Cindy offers through the ceremonial lighting of a cigarette. Now she's just completely and utterly fucking with him. She'll pay the fifteen, but Cindy just wants to see how far she can push him before he pushes back a final time.

What a dick.

"Ma'am, you need to get acquainted with men as know what a horse is and is not for," he says, with an expression of such earnestness that he cannot possibly be doing anything other than playing with her in turn. "It's still fifteen."

"Make it my offer and I'll throw in a positive testimonial that you are hung just as much, if not more, than a horse."

This guy. She really does like him.

"You're a damned persistent woman, anyone ever tell you?" Probably, he suspects. "Fifteen, ma'am, no less. I'll let my merchandise speak for itself."

As it were.

"All the fucking time." What a deadly grin she gives him. All teeth, some humor, and not a bit of actual danger. "Fine. Fifteen. But don't bitch and moan when I tell the female population that they'll need a magnifying glass to hear your merchandise."

Or the male population, if his preferences swing that way. Cindy pulls deeply on her smoke before eying the shop and the owner once again. "How long will it take?"

"I'm going to stop taking orders a while, soon," he admits - even with an apprentice working, the bulk of the work coming out of here is all him and he's been busier lately than usual. "I'll put this forward, give me a few days to sort you a design, and it shouldn't be long after that."

He'd rather work on something for Cindy than another cross-designed stake, if he's frank.

As long as her order isn't the one that's rejected, Cindy doesn't give a good goddamn what his schedule's like. It's not an immediate rush or anything. Cindy still has her other dagger, which by the way, is slipped into the space between the small of her back and her skirt's waistband, plus a gun. Those two are enough to hold her safety for a while. This purchase is more of a want than an actual need.

"I like red." Be creative with that, Seoraj.

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it’s naive to pray for world peace if we’re not going to change the form in which we live

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a single typo, i smite thee

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