Captain Repairioum

Lower Trades, Late Morning, Slatesteel Services

The fire of the recent festivals seems to be on its last embers, as the icy winds of winter seems to chill the streets. An open faced workshop billows out heat from an open door propped ajar into a deeper forge within, though two figures are in the workbench area facing the street. One is seated, an Eldanar man of copper red hair in a grey tanktop, slouched over a chair in the direct heat blast from the forge. Scarred and tattooed arm covering his eyes to shield from it, but basking it in it nonetheless.

The other is of a stocky Khazad woman, salt and peppered hair with a large scar on the side of her face that pulls her features taut. She's currently hammering out a armet helm with a rubber mallet, scowling. Mending a crack in it, it seems. "I swear ta' fuckin' all tha Reos find right like a screw inta a bolt, jus' cause a tool is mean for a purpose, it ain't mean ya gotta bash th' tool ova and ova again!"

Warrick groans. "I know, I know. But blame the others using maces on my skull."

"This is the third helm in two weeks, Rick!" she huffs, taking her frustration out on the armor.

"If I made it, it would have been five."

"Ya sayin' my work is bad?"

"Well my brains are in my skull so, no."

"Smart words."

Just the smithy Bryn was looking for! Unfortunately, though she was there once, she couldn't remember exactly where it was: let's face it, Alexandria is a giant city.

Fortunately, Warrick is already there, and the griping at him makes it MUCH easier to zero in on the place. She heads thattaways, giving the khazad and Warrick a lifted hand. "Ey! What'd he do this time?"

It's time to upgrade equipment. Tested as some of her pieces may be, they had finally been found wanting. This was the second best place to touch base with skilled craftsman capable of forging armaments of felling fell fiends. It's just a shame it's so cold while doing so. Carver's silhouette has never been described as shapely; now she looks like some wild creature. Mound of shambling furs and hide that both protect against blade and chill. The warmth, cherry-red, of the open workroom cannot help but draw moths to its flame and this little spotty bug huddles up with empty paws to warm them. "Hello." So much raw exuberance can not simply be contained.

Oh, she recognizes at least two. "Oh, hello." A little less cool, more familiar. "S'good to see you both."

Slatesteel wipes her brow free of sweat, about to fire another retort before she spots a customer coming up. "Heya lass- oh this sorry sack?" she jabs a thumb towards him. "Thinks its cocked up fun ta bash his face against sticks and stones."

"Armor doesn't work if you just sit there," Warrick defends, raising his hands defensively. A chuckle escapes him, and he shakes his head. "Hey Bryn. What are you up to..."

His voice trails off as he spots the figure coming up to chill their bones. It looked almost like a large street animal- and not the first time a gaggle of critters hung around the front- seeking shelter, but- "Oh! Hello Carver, good to see you too," Warrick greets, a foot reaching out to yank a stool into the pluming heat that warbles the air. "Cold yeah? Take a load off."

The smith gives a quick glance up after hammering a few more cracks back into place. "Damn Rick, you doing beats again? Knowin' everyone walkin' up."

He shakes his head. "Not in the Watch again. Friends from sorties."

"Better he blocks it with 'is face," Bryn grins at Slatesteel,"les' he get hit somewhers more pretty." She gives Warrick a light thump on the shoulder with her stump before turning to the 'boisterous' greeting from third. "Ey!" she gives a waved with her left to Carver. "Whatcha doin?"

"Thanks," Carver says, happy to take a seat. She stomps her feet as she settles in, fingers waving before the exhaust blown out from the forge. It is one thing she is jealous about the craftsmen's lifestyle. A blacksmith is only cold when the day's work is over. Her gaze drops to Bryn's missing limb and she grimaces. "Sorry." She looks like she may have been ready to ask more. Does it still hurt? Are you going to get some sort of artificer prosthetic? Ever feel like it's still there? Who knows.

In the end, she looks away without any of them blubbering to the forefront. "We met on some jobs on the path, but I, uh... well, I wanted to see about replacing some of my kit. So I'm getting a 'feel' for who does work in the area."

GAME: Warrick rolls dexterity: (8)+4: 12

"Aye tru' that, lass," Slatesteel snickers at Bryn. Warrick just sighs and shakes his head. He takes a thump readily, but is a bit surprised by the- oh, right.

"Holding up alright?" he asks of Bryn, nodding towards the stump. Straight and to the point. Slateteel takes note, but doesn't seem perturbed by it.

But there's talk of equipment being replaced! The smith perks up, all but tossing the helmet and rubber mallet at Warrick, ignoring his yelp of surprise as he stumble juggles the two items in the air. "Well ya came to the right place, lass. I make all the shit Rick has there, and all the stuff that he breaks is his modifications," she beams, half her face pulled taut from the scar on the side of her face. "Normally been making day ta day stuff, but some folks from the army come by for special orders. Name's Slatesteel."

"My old captain," Warrick adds, managing to clutch all the equipment to his chest, smearing soot on the shirt.

Bryn notes Carver's gaze, but doesn't seem to follow the ...apology(?). "Ain nothin ta be sorry about, that I know!" By the same tone, she shrugs at Warrick's question. "Holdin up fine. Pretty much all healed up. Worst part's been havin ta start carryin a li'l pig-sticker stead o' my big one. That 'n learnin ta use this one," she waggles her left hand, "when I gotta scratch my arse." They both get a wide grin for a moment before she looks to Slatesteel.

"Yer more popular than even Warrick, 'ere. Him still breathin gives good word fer yer work, y'know. S'why I came by. Figured I'd see if'n ye could make somethin fer me, too."

"Oh, you retired into the work of smithing?" Carver asks. "Probably pays better than the Watch did for either of you." That's part of why she's adventurin'! She rubs her cheek with her knuckles in thought. "Well... I was in the market for barding and personal armor, but he likes his heavier. I need to be light enough that I can still draw on my bow while also on horseback. Grandad just don't have to do that with his crossbow." Which, quite so innocently, she makes trouble. "Did you make his crossbow too? It was pretty impressive. Looked custom." Accidental craftsmanship drama.

She does show her hatchet. It's beyond chipped and old now. Well past its prime and obviously reheaded. "Oh, and this thing. I need a new sidearm but was thinking something less heavy. Maybe a long knife? What did you need, Bryn?"

Now that gets a laugh out of the smith and- surprisingly- from Warrick. They're rather light hearted about such a sudden and horrid development. "Got a lass that works fer me sometimes tha's got fancy metal arms, tells me th' hardest part is all tha pins and needles feelin' after its all healed up," Slatesteel notes. "But tha's good it's all good now."

The smith bobs her head to Carver. "Aye! Did my tour with hard ass over there-" she nods towards Warrick, who just grunts in acknowledgement as he's starting to work on repairing his own helmet, "-Watch paid like shit, army paid better, but eh, I like this work. Plus, been doin' this since I was a wee lass, so..!"

She leans on her elbows, listening to Carver's request, while Warrick misses a hammer at Grandad remark. There's a goodhearted sigh, but she ignores him. "Oh I sure make that bloody thing about three times over. He likes to throw it all the time. Was standard issue, but ended up makin' somethin' new back then 'cause he ends up usin' it in the front wit' the squad." She is more than happy to gab on her work.

The smith leans closer to inspect the hatchet wincing. "Awh, poor thing. Time fo' tha' to go inta reclaim, sorry ta say. Dagger's good fo' many things. Can throw 'em. Could prolly take the metal outta that hatchet if ya care 'bout keepin it around ta remake it inta something."

She looks to Bryn, curious. "And you? And don't worry, I'm keepin' a mental ledger." She grins.

"Now I know I ain' workin fer the Watch..." Bryn makes an audible mental note. To Carver, she offers, "If'n I get ta usin ma curveblade 'gain, yer welcome ta the pig-sticker I started usin. It's mostly just a knife about yay long..." She splays her arms to show, though there is some room for interpretation, considering. A good 2-3 foot long knife?

Then her attention flicks back. "Oh! Think I met 'er, once. Maybe? Oughtta chat at her again sometime..." With a blink, she re-returns back to her other, other thought. "Ye said ye mostly make tools, but also weapons 'n armors 'n all. Don' s'pose ye any good at makin arms?" She lifts her half-forearm, in indication.

Carver rubs at her cheek with the knuckles, breath steaming out. Bryn's offer of taking her pig sticker should have her giving a snort-laugh and some off-color joke, but new Carver is less fun. She is considering the standing offers. Then Bryn drops the real question. Her little barding and armor wishes are nothing to that christmas's miracle. She looks back to the Once-Army Once-Watchlady Now-Full-Time Warrick repairioum. That's by far the more interesting project.

Heck, Carver was curious if the former captain would even want a project like that.

"The Watch had its benefits," Warrick counters. "I got to choose my off days-"

"You of five people lad in all of Alexandria actually /like/ studyin' the law. Why you aren't a barrister I ain' got a clue." Warrick cuts her a squint, but she's already back on the topic of making things once more. "Aye. Schara. Good folk, talks a lot but tha's how they get they think their thoughts." The proposition gets her to blink. "I... don'..."

She trails off. Stares at the half stump. Rubs her chin. "... now I'll lay it out there I ain't as clever as I was a hundred years ago," she points out. "That bein' said. I... think I could cobble somethin' together. Slips on like a glove, leather straps to ya elbow and shoulder, movin' certain ways would make the fingers bend and release, watchin' Schara helped a bit..."

Warrick looks up, curious as well. There's a smack as she slaps the workbench. "Fuck it, let's try. No promises, and if it don't work for shite it's free. Beats makin' nails and fixin' his shit."

"... I still have that mead from the Kingdoms...."

"Okay, mostly fixin' his shit," she scoffs, grinning. "And you, lass." Slatesteel looks to Carver. "Can get you and whatever steed yer needin' fitted and all that done easy."

Bryn's eye widens, then her face cracks into a broad grin. "From what I seen, even yer worst's better'n others' best. That 'n it needs ta be strong 'n tough. Like me. Ain' nobody't make shite that lasts like khazad. I'll be payin, I expect." She is nothing if not optimistic.

She does give a nod to Warrick and jabs her thumb at Carver. "Don' need to put it ahead of others' stuff, neither."

"I'll bring by Deathless later," Carver says. "That's my horse. I love her." Because everyone needs to know that she would absolutely murder anyone or anything what tried to harm her companion. "She's an Aldui Red, color of the sunset, and fast like the wind. Way faster actually." Sometimes it's easy to forget that Carver is VERY young. Also an embarrassing specimen of a horse girl. "... But, I wanna watch you make the arm. I feel like, uh, I don't know." Her knuckle-cheek rubbing intensifies. "Like I need to. Do Bryn's first."

"You're goddamn right Khazad shite is built ta last. Why ya think his stuff only snaps when he does somethin' different!" Slatesteel beams as she walks towards the two customers, slapping Bryn on the back. "Nah, he can fix his own stuff. Don' worry. I ain' in no rush ta get anything done. That's how you make fuck ups."

She looks to Carver, brows raised. "Helluva name for a horse. Had a guy named Reed in th' squad with a Khazdul Stout. Shortest fuckin' horse I've ever seen, but gods damn that thing was wide as it was long. It didn't gallop for shite but it would just keep going forward. It'll be fun ta make armor fo' a horse again."

The smith is first to catch Carver's little cheek rub again. "How 'bout this," she offers. "We can all watch, Rick goes to grab that mead he's been blue balling me for two weeks on, and we do a lil' sketchin' on the how ya lasses want ya'lls shite ta look like in the forge, yeah?"

Warrick sighs, getting up and pulling on an overcoat that was tossed aside.

"Oh shut it, you live four blocks down."

Carver's smile is wide. It's happy. It's still missing it's front teeth. That sounds like a yes from her.

"Drinkin 'n plannin sounds perfect ta me!" Bryn is always keen on either or both of those... but maybe more the drinking. Carver's smile is conspicuous when she looks her way, and just makes Bryn's maw widen more. "Bout time ye started grinnin," she encourages, or teases, or both. Then her eye goes to Warrick with a chuckle. "If'n ye want, I can help. Might need ta bring extra."

Warrick visibly relaxes are Carver opens up. "No worries, I don't live that far, and the bar isn't much further to get some extra. You two get settled in, Cap will gladly chirp your ear off."

Slatesteel shoves the forge door open wider. "Now that's what I like ta hear. C'mon you two, if I ain' sweatin', I'm too cold. Rick! Get extra!"

He's already taken three empty backs. "Way ahead of you, Cap."

--End Scene-