Fate - First Reply Iron Lore

Outer City, Alliria, Forger's Alley



Xeraphine rubbed the coin between her gloved fingers. She turned it, appraising its two sides. On one side, a hempen rope encircled a skull, its teeth clamping down gaily on said hemp. One eye held a tiny fragment from some red gem. Perhaps a flawed ruby fragment. The other side was shaped like a red tear, or a drop of blood, formed from the same glittering stone fragment.

A most curious mintage, to be sure. She glanced between the low-roofed smithies that crowded this alley, belching out black smog from their furnaces, some ringing harshly with the work of their masters. It was doubtful any of them would trade this coin for so much as pig iron, even if the red fragments might be worth something. But even someone capable of appraising its worth might turn away from sheer superstition and fear of curses.

No. If anyone could help her make use of this tiny piece of iron, it would be her contact.

Her black dress shifted like the billowing smoke of the smithies yonder, away from the alley and towards the humble tavern on its corner. The Smith's Hammer and Tongs, it called itself, making no fuss about its purpose, that of serving the smiths working in the area. Pushing open its creaky, blackened door with a hand wrapped in velvet, she settled in, finding the seat and table reserved for her and her guest of honour. It allowed her the opportunity to glimpse through the grimy windows of the tavern, espying anyone else who might approach the establishment.

She kept her stiletto tucked neatly below the table, tracing its blade with her index-finger, feeling gentle heat billowing unnaturally from it.

The simply-dressed woman bumbled into the establishment, causing a mild stir, a few chuckles and many an old chivalrous craftsman eager to help her, though she waved them off fussily. Xeraphine kept half an eye on her, half-lidded and languid, though most of her attention was still claimed by the view outside.

It was only when the commoner approached her table that Xeraphine's spine grew taught and alert. Her one eye uncovered by coal-black hair narrowed, at once suspicious and guarded.

She had no physical description of her contact. Only a time and place. Zenith at this establishment.

Could this be the one? Perhaps the woman's befuddled entrance was but a ruse, the skill of a expert mummer on display. In that case, it was an impressive performance.

Or it could indeed be a chance encounter with one of the denizens of the Outer City. Only time would tell.

"Please, sit," Xeraphine bid the woman, neither confirming nor denying whether the seat was taken. There was natural command in her crystal clear tone, sharp and pristine as glass, an imperious air of nobility in her long neck and arching chin. Her hand shifted its grip on her stilleto below the table, hiding it behind her crossing legs, looking like an innocuous fold of her hands in her lap.

The pause that stretched between them was long and agonising. Xeraphine kept observing her counterpart, waiting for her to break this silence, to betray her purpose. A silent test loomed in Xeraphine's even gaze, testing how the other woman might react, the coin hidden and pressed against the handle of her thin blade.

Random Woman