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

[serjeant]

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.

Comments

[fish]

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.

[fuckyouboots.livejournal.com]

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.