Fate - First Reply The Strangest of Smiths

[Chaceledon]

Falwood in Winter was miserable for Chaceledon. He had rented out a forge in the Elven city of Fal’Addas, and that had lifted his mood substantially. There was snow on the ground in the elven city this time of year, several inches thick, but the forge beat back the cold fingers of winter. Especially a forge lit with dragonfire. The snow had no chance against the violet flames, and Chaceledon’s little open-air stall was the epitome of warmth. Even the roof had no snow on it, since the hot air from the forge melted it off.

Despite it looking like a blacksmith’s shoppe, Chaceledon wasn’t here to sell blades to the locals. The dragon used blacksmithing as a way to blow off steam when his captor had proven to be too much. The wraith who had kidnapped him, and ruined his body, kept him cold enough to have to stay human...they didn’t agree often. When their fights got out of control, Chaceledon went aboveground and forged until the metal ran out.

Consequently, blades fit for kings lay untouched along the open-air counter. Falchions with ivory and ruby hilts that could cut flesh as though it were air. Smaller blades for every discernible use from delicately curved fishing knives to impressively baroque karambits. There was even a bearded axe, the handle a fire darkened cherry.

The man at the forge taming the blade of a longsword was anything but normal. His long hair was pulled back and adorned with silver pins, all depicting deer and tiny seed pearls for driving snow. His robes were a delicate gunmetal blue, with silver threads showing swirling snowflakes. His eyes were colored in blues and purples to show off his lilac eyes. Even his fingernails were made of glass, tiny sapphires glinting from beds of silver flake.

Chaceledon looked like he would be at home in a fae court, not pounding metal angrily.

 

[Maeanna Moonbeam]

The familiar scents and sounds flooded her mind with memories of her childhood as she walked down the snow covered paths toward her home. A simple brown cloak covered her body almost entirely and she kept her head down, gaze locked on her heavy boots as she relied almost entirely on her ears and nose to get her safely home. She had taught herself to do this at a young age when she hadn't yet learned to control when or how her body shifted. Most people didn't like seeing an Elf girl with the face of a dog, or some gangly creature with random tufts of fur sprouting all over its body. So, she kept low and quiet into adulthood despite being able to control her body and being of at least average beauty. She kept her long, wavy red hair tied at the base of her neck with a strip of old leather and made sure to keep her icy blue eyes from making contact with another's gaze. While her people and the others that had taken up residence in Falwood were civil at the very least, the occasional glare from one who knew her still sometimes riled up the beast within her, and she dared not let it out.

As she rounds a corner, she accidentally bumps into a stand of goods and knocks a few over with the heavy pack she carried over her shoulder. In Elvish, she says, "My apologies. I'll pay for those," and digs the amount of coin needed from a pouch hanging at her hip before picking up the food and continuing on her way. She was just wondering absently about what she was going to do when she got home when the familiar and lovely sound of a Smith at work reaches her trained ears. Her step immediately quickens and she smiles, gaze lifting ever so slightly to avoid another accident, and she soon finds herself staring at a very oddly dressed being working the anvil. She glances about before setting her pack down, along with the food, and then steps into the intense heat. "What kind of fire is that?" She asks, raising her voice over the ringing of steel and raging of the flames so she could be heard well enough.

Chaceledon

 

[Chaceledon]

The forge was hotter than most smiths could stand, or seemed logical for forging. Too hot, and most metals became brittle and shattered. Instead Chaceledon was working as though the heat weren’t a problem. Not a bead of sweat on his forehead. His makeup wasn’t even running. He thrust the longsword back into the coals, throwing up lilac sparks and gouts of flame. Dragonfire didn’t fear any cold winter.

Chaceledon looked up as a woman set down a pack and food inside of his rented stall. He eyed her up and down. That food was going to cook itself in a place this warm. One could easily set a roast to baking on one of the side tables.

“Nothing’s for sale girl.” Chaceledon told her when she inquired about the fire, pulling up a stool and setting about re-pinning his hair. “I destroy everything when I’m done here.”

Maeanna Moonbeam

 

[Maeanna Moonbeam]

Maeanna is forced to take a few steps back once she was over her feelings of awe and wonder and noticed how hot it really was in the stall. She lifts a hand and wipes the sweat from her forehead on her leather glove as she continues to look around. Everything was so beautiful and amazing...

She grins slightly when he tells her nothing was for sale and then gasps, jaw dropping, in shock when he says that he was simply going to destroy it all. "Wha..!" She looks back at him and takes another step forward. While she wanted to try and convince him not to seek such beautiful pieces, that was not why she had stepped in.

"I didn't ask if anything was for sale," she says. "I asked what kind of fire that was. I've never felt such heat or seen flames that vibrant of a color. Especially not... violet. Is it magic?" She asks as she tilts her head and takes another half-step forward. Mae desperately wanted to get closer and look more closely at the fire, and get a proper look at the sword the man was creating but the intensity of the heat kept her away. Already, any snow that had fallen into her cloak had melted away and dried off entirely.

She pulls off her hood and removes her gloves, only to pull them back on when she discovers that they kept the heat off almost as well as they did with the cold.

Chaceledon

 

[Chaceledon]

This girl couldn’t take a hint. Chaceledon raised an eyebrow at her. Of course it was too hot for humans. It was over a hundred degrees, which would set most smiths to shoving their heads in the nearest rain barrel every so often. He finished his hair, and looked at her. Well, he supposed it wouldn’t do any harm to be honest. He was safe here. He paid good money to the elves to be left alone, and Oor paid good money to the nobles to make sure he wasn’t getting any sort of foothold among the elves. Couldn’t have him escaping the leash, after all.

Oor, his captor, had crafted a supremely evil method of keeping his slaves on long leashes. Chaceledon might not see or hear of the wraith for months, but his influence had worked its way into the higher echelons of places he visited or stayed. Every innkeeper in the man’s pocket, every noble advised to take his complaints on deaf ears.

The dragon may have looked free, but Oor could pluck him out of that city any time he pleased, by sheer social connection. If Chaceledon wasn’t so angry at being constantly kept cold...he might have admired the almost dragon-like commitment to fucking another person over.

The dragon checked his nails over, and frowned. Hm. Maybe silver wasn’t the right choice. “Dragonfire is heart fire. My color happens to be violet, so violet the flames will be.” he told her, and gently blew on his nails. A soft plume of purple flame licked the glass, allowing him to simply pop them off. Chaceledon set them delicately on the table, and picked up a rod of blue glass from a hurricane jar on the far end of the table. He set it in the flames, long enough to soften, and settled the molten glass to his index finger.

The dragon drew forth a bead, and snipped it with a pair of scissors. He moulded it into a coffin nail shape with his fingers, seemingly oblivious to the fact he was shaping glass as though it were clay. A little heat smoothed the shape, and he added little twisting curls of silver to the blue. Then reheated the rod, and another nail was crafted.

“The elves let me craft here once a season. Aside from the people who use this place to get the chill out of their bones...it’s been peaceful.”

Maeanna Moonbeam

 

[Maeanna Moonbeam]

Mae had drifted back toward the outer reaches of the hearth to get out of the intense heat but not before she heard the man explain the fire's color and watching him... burn off his fingernails?! She stands there staring, entirely dumbfounded, for several moments before she realizes what she was doing and corrects herself.

Mae looks down at her feet as she silently reprimands herself for being rude and then clears her throat. "You are a dragon," she states with a small smile, clearly in wonder at the idea of it. She opens her mouth to say something else but refrains, and then repeats the process a few more times as each thought that comes to her mind is shut down by her internal monologue. "No, he's probably heard that question a thousand times." "That's a stupid question, keep it to yourself."

Finally, she turns her attention to the different weapons that littered the stall and gestures to them. "Why aren't they for sale?" She asks, which was naturally her second main question after he had answered the first.

Chaceledon

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon could feel her gaping. “Dear this is what happens when a raping maniac tears out your fingernails. Close your mouth, you’re beginning to resemble a bass.” he said, a tad snootily. He didn’t like people staring at his mutilated nailbeds. Dragons prided themselves on perfection; it was why he wore high collars and several layers of robes to hide the scars of his captivity. Before he would have dressed in a manner humans considered outrageously skimpy. He had enjoyed showing off his body; he’d once attended a party with nothing but an exquisite mink ruff and the tiniest scrap of cloth between his legs. Ah, how he missed those days. Now he had scars across his ribs, back, chunks missing from his beautiful calves. His face was the only thing spared.

“Congratulations, your powers of perception are truly staggering.” Chaceledon looked up at her only once. Yes, he was a dragon. Gods, had they truly become so rare that one couldn’t identify a dragon by his heat and beauty? How far he’d fallen.

He did sigh dramatically and wave a hand to cool the glass at her next question. “Because, dear, if I had any sort of strong reputation for making decent weaponry, I might escape and we can’t have that happening.” His voice dripped in sarcasm. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in ten thousand years of captivity it’s how to keep a slave without ever laying a chain on him.”

Maeanna Moonbeam

 

[Maeanna Moonbeam]

Maeanna curls her fingers into her palms as if to protect her nails from such things that he spoke of. She shivers in reaction to the description and grimaces. "I apologize," she says, bowing slightly at the hips and dipping her head briefly. "I meant nothing by it."

She takes his biting comment with a bowed head and then takes half a step closer before saying, "I've never seen a dragon in human form before. I haven't even seen a dragon close up before but... you are a person and I should not have reacted as if you were some kind of animal put on display for the masses. I beg your forgiveness."

She bows again slightly at the hips to better express her regret toward her actions and words and then frowns deeply as he explains why he wasn't selling any of his creations. He was a slave... She feels her jaw clench and her eyebrows furrow as the realization sets in, and she shakes her head slightly before looking away to deal with her rising anger and sadness. "If you want, I can take your wares and sell them for you. I can save the money for you..."

She bites on her bottom lip and sighs softly. There was so much resentment in his voice, hiding behind his sarcasm. She could empathize to an extent. "I don't know if that would actually be any help or if you even want any help..." She kept letting her words trail off, not wanting to offend him or he scolded again as a result but she was the kind of person that always tried to help when she could.

Chaceledon

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon sighed and looked over at her. He felt a little guilty for making her feel so poorly, especially given how kindly she’d spoken to him. He checked his nails and reached over to pat her hesitantly. “I’m sorry dear. Being in this backwoods little city...it makes me a little foul-tempered. Listen, I’m not chained here.” he said, making a conscious attempt to put gentleness in his voice. “Let’s go get a drink. It’s the least I can do. Do they serve anything other than ale here? Because I think I would shove someone’s head into this forge for a half-decent cup of wine.”

It wasn’t the best apology he’d ever come up with, but he was trying. He had been in captivity for far too long if he was developing the same manners these backwoods elves had. She looked like he’d killed someone close to her. “And you can...pick something you like.” he gestured to the tables.

Maeanna Moonbeam