Open Chronicles The Wyvern's Nest

[Petra Darthinian]

Eth Tikund

​

She found herself smothering a smile into her glass as the man who had seated himself next to her, bantered with the barkeep. They seemed to have known each other well enough. And the mention of a grandfather peeked Petra's casual interest. There were rumors she had heard of a revered old man who was behind the genius of the tavern's brews. And upon drinking one of his creations, she couldn't blame anyone who went about spreading such tales. In fact, if she ever met the man and he proved to be as delightful as his brew. She would bestow upon him a bardic lament in gratitude.

Looking down into the quickly emptying dregs of her pint, she was pulled from thought when the man next to her, spoke to get her attention.

"Careful, it'll get you hooked." Came the male tenor.

She turned and look at the fair man in surprise. The elf never was one that people found easily approachable. For starters, she stood out even amongst other elves, as taller and more thickly built than what was normally seen among her people. And now that... well, she was changed; And thinking back to her brief stop in Eredale with Valdr, it seemed that that same bubble of pariah still followed her amongst her kind and others.

So the open face and friendly nature of the man beside her was a quiet balm on her soul.

"You new around here? Can't recall seeing your face before, and we see few enough travellers, what with the roads being so dangerous." He paused, catching himself a moment too late. "Forgive me, it seems I left my manners at the door." He raised his mug. "The name's Faramund- Syr Faramund, though, I think we can forego the title given our current surroundings." Smiling, he nodded to the golden-skinned elf, an expectant look in his eye. "And you? What's your name?"

She was planning on coming back to this town regardless once she got back from Route. So starting off on the best foot she could with the locals was her best bet for finding answers. The man's smile called for one on her own lips as she answered, "New I may be. To you and this tavern. But I can assure you it wasn't quite so dangerous for getting here, seeing as how I did not take the roads." Her smile turning coy as she took another sip from her pint. Tucking a wayward black curl behind her ear with her other hand.

Putting down her now empty glass, she twisted in her seat towards her neighbor, hestitantly she raised her green-scaled and draconic right hand over her body towards the man. Her voice lilting with a Fal-Addassian accent she had never quite gotten rid of since visiting there for a decade, "Merry met, Syr Faramund. I am Petra Darthinian, songweaver of Eredale. But since we are apparently now drinking partners and doing away with titles, you may call me Petra." A wink of one reptilian eye followed.

Quickly, she noted the large bag that the man had dropped between their stools. She nodded towards it, "Since we are now friends, I hope you don't mind my curiosity."

Faramund Old Man Gorm

 

[Faramund]

Eth Tikund
​

The elf looked at him in surprise, and Faramund, not the man he once was, thought for a second that he might have made some sort of social faux pas. The smile she returned put such thoughts to rest, however, and the big knight allowed himself to relax a touch. Now that he was safely returned from his adventures, he could afford to, if but for a short time. Astenvale, Faramund well knew, was safe thanks to the combined efforts of Periwapp Thunglegrop, the Order, and, in some small way, the Watch.

He could rest easy knowing that bandits, brigands and other such ne'er-do-wells wouldn't come bursting through the tavern's front door anytime soon. Petra must have known this too, if the set of her shoulders and her posture were anything to go by.

Smiling, Faramund held up his mead in salute. "Well, Petra Darthinian, songweaver of Eredale and honoured drinking partner, allow me to be one of the first to welcome you to Astenvale." Taking a pull of mead, Faramund placed his mug back on the bar. To his not-so-great surprise, he found that he had already downed half his drink. No doubt the other half would soon follow.

All in good time.

Following Petra's gaze to the sack at his feet, Faramund shrugged in response. "Go ahead and take a look if you want. It's just my brigandine and pauldrons... Or what's left of them, at least." The knight's face took on a sombre expression as he relived his most recent of fights. Eyes that had seen far too much in far too short a time turned to regard Petra. Seconds passed before Faramund came back to reality. With an apologetic grimace, he wiped the look from his face. "Planned on popping over to the Wyvern's Nest later. There's a smith there, Rulgak, who by all accounts is something of a prodigy when it comes to the use and application of hammers and tongs." He smiled, shrugged again. "Cheaper and easier to get this lot repaired than replaced. I would do it myself, but the damage is a bit beyond me..."

Trailing off, Fara let his gaze shift back to the bar and its myriad occupants as he twisted on his stool. With his back pressed against the bar, the knight waved a casual hand towards Petra, noticing as he did the scaled hand and strangely-shaped pupils. "And you? What business brings you to Astenvale?"

Old Man Gorm

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Eth Tikund

​

The barkeep swung back around to the duo with fresh beers in tow, without being summoned, the woman was a force of nature in her element and Petra admired her foresight. She dropped a gold coin on the counter and the woman snapped it up without missing a beat. Returning Petra's smile and admiring eye.

Noting that the knight chose to raise his glass to her instead of shaking her outstretched hand, her smile turned a little bitter and she tucked her hand back to her side. Instead, she returned her attention back to his burlap sack as she took a long drink of her new pint. "Of what's left of them? I imagine whatever you faced was a beast of the Spine, then? Were it not for Norvyk and Syr Rangvaldr, I probably would not have made it in as complete a piece as I did." She paused, flexing the claws of her right hand. "Well, in as complete of a piece as I could hope for anyways."

She noted the faraway look that Syr Faramund had adopted, she understood it well, and in lieu of the momentary silence, she drank more of her beer to give him space to think and come back when he was ready. Quietly, fidgeting with the handle of her pint glass as she waited.

Seconds passed before Faramund came back to reality. With an apologetic grimace, he wiped the look from his face. "Planned on popping over to the Wyvern's Nest later. There's a smith there, Rulgak, who by all accounts is something of a prodigy when it comes to the use and application of hammers and tongs." He smiled, shrugged again. "Cheaper and easier to get this lot repaired than replaced. I would do it myself, but the damage is a bit beyond me..."

On mention of his plans, Petra slapped a hand down on the counter. "Did you say a blacksmith?! That was on my to-do list for today before I leave for Route. Do you think she is skilled enough to commission a saddle fit for a dragon?" Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and she realized she was leaning forward half out of her seat, before she sunk back down to her stool with an apologetic grin at Faramund.

Faramund Old Man Gorm

 

[Old Man Gorm]

Eth Tikund​

"By the gods! Ain't ye the ugliest bastard I seen all day, since I looked in the mirror!" An old dwarf bellowed with a hearty laugh. He had a thick pipe clenched beneath his teeth and broad grin. His beard was thick and braided with ornate golden beads and other baubles. A rotund keg was held up by a taught belt where a pair of Dwarvish knucklers sat clasped. "An' who be the lass ye tricked into sitting beside ya!" Another bellow rocked his mighty frame.

He would sidle up between the pair, his belly lunging forward to bounce against Faramund while a powerful hand slapped roughly against Petra's back. His free hand would pull the pipe from his mouth. "Faramund ye old sweaty dog! Glad ye made it back to us!" He would take a draw from his pipe and blow a perfect smoke ring at Petra. "And what of ye, lass? Yer new here." A thick hand rested upon his brawny chest. "Ye came here an that makes ye family. Name's Gorm, patriarch of the Irűncask Clan."

Faramund | Petra Darthinian

 

[Faramund]

Faramund tilted his head to the side as Petra's smile withered a touch. She returned the scaled hand to her side, and Fara realised that she had misinterpreted his actions as an insult. Not that she could be blamed for doing so, really. Refusing to shake someone's hand was as good as in most cases. He would just have to make it up to her somehow.

Raising an eyebrow, the knight nodded as Petra's attention suddenly piqued. "Blacksmith, armour-smith... call her what you will. As for crafting a saddle for a, uh, dragon... you'll have to ask her that yourself." Pausing in thought, Fara's eyes widened as Petra sank backwards on her stool, an apologetic look on her face. "Hold on a second... did you say 'dragon?'" He asked. Before the doubts could set in, however, a deep voice spoke up, stopping his racing thoughts swifter than three pounds of steel ever could.

Turning, the knight smiled as he recognised the man to which it belonged.

"Gorm! As I live and breath!" Sliding swiftly to his feet, the big knight laughed as the stout dwarf threw himself forward to bump chests. It was like meeting a charging bull head-on, but Fara stood his ground all the same, damned fool that he was. "I'm glad to be back, old friend. I see business hasn't dwindled in my absence."

Directing his smile towards Petra, Faramund slapped his old friend on the shoulder as he sought to acquaint the two, though, Gorm had already made a start in that regard. "Gorm, I'd like to introduce you to my new friend, Petra Darthinian. She's a songweaver come down from Eredale. Petra, this is... well, you know who this is." Suppressing a grin, the knight reclaimed his seat before Gorm could think to take his place.

"We were just talking about Rulgak," Faramund informed him, watching Petra out of the corner of his eye as he snatched up his mead. "The lass here wanted to know whether she could commission a saddle. For a dragon, no less." Winking at the elf, Fara continued, "what do you reckon? Is that beyond our resident smith's talents?"

Old Man Gorm

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Eth Tikund​

Gods be damned all men.

Is the only thought the elf could muster as a driving force smacked square between her shoulder blades. She had been mid sip from her pint, when the blow came. Immediately she choked and started coughing. Jovial laughter and another male's voice talking over the sounds of her ingracious spluttering. She slammed down her glass and covered her mouth with her scaled hand, ineffectually trying to cover her mouth from spewing beer.

Please note, Dragonsmilk was not nearly as delicious coming through one's nose. And damn if she didn't feel the shadow of amusement trinkle down from her dragon. She sent an irritated snarl back in his direction and she felt him fade with another laugh. Jerk.

Flicking as much of her beer off of her hand as she tried to recover herself; Petra pushed her pint away from her. Thoroughly disinterested in imbibing any more. The elf shot an indignant golden glare at Faramund when he introduced her to the stranger behind her. Plastering a smile that was more fang than anything before rotating on her stool and facing the man known as Gorm. With a gregarious facade, she thrust her right hand out to the dwarf for him to shake. Beer still dripping from the tips of her black talons.

"Hello and well met, mighty Gorm. It seems this place is filled with endless praise of your brews. I myself am almost inspired to song because of it. It was a welcome reward at the end of a long flight." Her eyes slid to Faramund as he mentioned the blacksmith, Rulgak. "And yes, a saddle fit for a dragon. Even being warriors such as yourselves, I think you both would run screaming at the sight of the blisters I've accrued from Norvyk's unforgiving scales." A real smile fell into place at the mention of her dragon, all snark considered.

Old Man Gorm Faramund

 

[Old Man Gorm]

Eth Tikund
​

When an unstoppable force collided with an immovable object was just the result of the Gorm/Fara belly-bump. The bar top behind Fara shook and one old man fell drunk from his stool down the ways with a laugh. "Please, lad. We both know I make more coin when yer not around! Haha!" Another hearty laugh, followed by another slap on Petra's back while she was already in a choking fit, extending it. He then slapped his own keg for good measure.

Faramund didn't miss a heartbeat diving into the introduction and as he spoke, Gorm took a long thoughtful pull from his pipe as he turned to look back at the Elf, who shot a fiery look at Fara then offered a scaled hand? Kids were into some odd kinks these days. He would eye the sopping wet hand before blowing out a smoke longboat which would sail through the final moments of the smoke ring.

Hello and well met, mighty Gorm. It seems this place is filled with endless praise of your brews.

The pipe came free from his mouth as he gripped her hand tightly. "Thats because I ban em if they go the other way! By all means though, I'd love a good song." He let out a hearty laugh and as he released her hand, he would clap Fara on the gut, wiping the the stout from it.

"Parthinian? Eredale?" He would ask with a wiley old grin. "By Halobards Beard! Last time I went to Eredale, I ran into the only elf that could get the earth moving, if ye catch my gravel." he nudged her with his elbow. "Was fetching me a tonic from the Ape. Sinjé, I think her name was. What a lady."

That grin would remain for few moments as he scratched his bearded jaw with the lip of his pipe. "Dragon saddle? As far as I know there ain't been no Knights riding dragons in the Order. Shes got the skill, its just a matter of time. She'll need to take measurements, do trial tests, the like. Old Ashton would probably be able to help, he's the only elf alive I've met that has ridden atop a dragon, though that was Tzarvilkahn's sire." He hummed a bit, still in thought. "Doable, but will take some effort."

At Petra's jest, he would laugh once more. "Not at all, I know who I'd be seeing at the Ape for a tonic!" He slammed the bartop heartily. He then clamped that pipe between his teeth.

Petra Darthinian | Faramund

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Eth Tikund
​

The elf was speechless.


Old Man Gorm Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Eth Tikund
​

Meeting Petra's glare with a look of mild indifference, Faramund sipped his mead. Apparently the dragon-rider had taken a disliking to Gorm, and as could be expected from one capable of taming a dragon, she met his casual jovialness with fire and bile. Extending her drink-sodden hand -or was it claw?- for Gorm to shake, the elf expressed her displeasure by pretending otherwise. Or so it seemed.

Watching from the side-lines, Fara took another sip of mead as the two shared words.

By the time Gorm was done theorizing, Faramund had finished his first mug of mead and moved onto the second, which had turned up exactly when he had needed it most. Brineholdt had an uncanny knack for that, and Fara found himself appreciating the blonde dwarf, though, not in any way that might earn Gorm's ire. Or Glynnfort's for that matter. The only thing worse than fighting a dwarf was fighting multiple dwarves, Fara well knew.

A tale for another time.

Glancing towards Petra, Fara was surprised to find the elf at a loss for words. No doubt Gorm's words had got her thinking, though, Faramund could only guess as to what. "And that, it would seem, is that." Shifting on his stool, Faramund turned his gaze towards Gorm. The man seemed to be his usual chipper self. Fara nodded at his 'keg'. "You gonna lug that thing about all day or are you gonna have a drink with us? No worries if you can't, but be mindful... Petra here is like to mourn the loss of your company."

Old Man Gorm Petra Darthinian

 

[Ars Propheta-Capabilis]

The Teahouse​

---

Syntax appreciates the wonderful scratch with a rattling noise, similar to a woodpecker at full-pace, as Ars dismounts from the little saddle and begins rummaging around within the pack strapped to the beetle's back.

"Good morning, Ars." replies Galvanhad, voice powerful but not deafening, "Care for some tea?"

Ars pulls from the pack a little bundle of moss, and offers it to the beetle, before turning to face Galvanhad.

"Thank you, tea sounds magnificent!" Ars makes a grand gesture of confirmation and appreciation, excited at the prospect of tea, and strides forth to investigate a long stick on the counter, about his height in length.

Not wood... Feather shaft.

Ars gives the forgotten, disposable toothpick a roll with his foot and peers around at the vast teahouse.

Nothing to write upon? Hm.

Ars makes a gesture of writing towards Galvanhad, hoping for a slate and chalk, while Syntax gnaws pleasantly- and somewhat noisily -on the moss treat.

---

Syr Galvanhad

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Faramund's words acted like a fire under Petra's ass. She flicked out her arm and rested it lightly against the armor of the Knight's, attempting to interrupt him. Her smile strained as she reeled from the way too much information she just learned about Gorm's casual interest in her mom.

She shuddered the thoughts away before increasing her grip on Faramund's arm, enunciating her next words. "Oh no no no." She laughed nervously. "You see, Syr Faramund here offered to introduce me to Rulgak posthaste, seeing as how I'm on a bit of a time crunch. But I cannot wait to return. Hopefully with a song entow to rally this family of drunkards! Nothing like a bawdy tavern tune to get the blood going!" She mustered a wink and a nod goodbye at Gorm, before standing up and leaning over to snatch up Faramund's linen sack and earnestly shoving it into his lap. Making brief eye contact with the Knight, a silent plea to play along.

Petra dug into her coin pouch and dropped a small pile of silver, as a tip, on the countertop for the bartender. When she turned back to Gorm, she paused, taking on a more sincere air, "Truly though, thank you for the information. You're not the first to tell me about Brother Ashton, but this only confirms my need to speak with him. As for Rulgak, I am excited to put her craft to the test." She smirked and brought the pointer and middle fingers of her clawed hand together and up to her brow in a quiet salute before she moved away from the counter and made her way to the entrance of the Salty Bitch, dodging any lewd comments thrown her way. Every intention of waiting for Syr Faramund outside.

As she passed the same roaring fire on her right near the door, the dancing flames warmed her scales, tempting her to spend the rest of the day drinking away and telling stories with the rowdy locals of Astenvale.


Old Man Gorm Faramund

 

[Old Man Gorm]

The old Dwarf watched the Elf do a factory reset before his very eyes with a howling laugh and sharp glance to Fara. The grin that that Dwarf had was as telling as the time itself, especially at the nervous laughter.

The hand clutching Fara's arm was also a good touch, especially with Gorm between the pair so she had to cross over him. His big bawdy laugh would ring out as his pipe tapped against her arm. "Ye best hurry along now, Fara!"

One final sturdy slap on the back for Petra as she gathered the payment. "Ye crazy kids run along now. Hope to see ye again 'fore ye leave Petra! If'n not.." he had a big toothy grin. "... tell yer mother the ol' Tunnel Dog Gorm says hi." Another hearty laugh followed by his mighty hand slapping against the keg. "Later lad!" A parting belly bump for Fara.

Petra Darthinian | Faramund

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

Tea House​

Galvanhad would offer a smile to young Ars and would lift the mighty myconid gently by the waist after he had tested out a toothpick, before setting him onto the rim of his own tea cup. "Then share mine."

Ars would signal out a need for something to write with, but no cursory glance would yield no expedient results. Tanith had grown busy with another customer who had recently entered and so the elderly knight continued his hunt around the counter. "No such luck yet, Ars. I need to get back soon for my classes. Need a lift? Or will you be able to find your own way?"

Ars Propheta-Capabilis

 

[Faramund]

Clambering to his feet, Faramund saw the rest of his mead off before placing the empty mug on the bar. A belch and a belly bump followed, though, not in that order. "Later, Gorm!" Placing a meaty hand on the dwarf's shoulder, the knight brushed past his old friend, a sly smile on his face. "Sinjé... why does that name sound familiar?" Not expecting a response, Fara made his way over to where Petra waited. A few ribald comments dogged his steps.

He ignored them with a single-mindedness one might expect from a former sword-for-hire.

"Well, that was fun." Strolling past the roaring fire and raised pints, Faramund placed a guiding hand on Petra's shoulder, gave it a squeeze. "Best we were on our way, no?" Nodding towards the door, Fara led the way outside. Sunlight and songbirds greeted him, and the burly knight found himself breathing deep the air. Apart from the unfortunate whiff of cow dung, the air was quite refreshing. Sobering, even. Nothing like that surrounding the big cities in the Reach and Northern Kingdoms.

A cart trundled past as he turned to Petra, an apologetic look on his face.

"You'll have to forgive the old man," he said, strolling slowly up the street towards the village proper. "He's always been a bit... rumbustious, shall we say? Part of his charm. Or so he keeps telling me." Smiling at the elf, the dawnling placed his freehand on the hilt of his sword as he walked. The sack of damaged armour jostled gently against his side, each step making the contents rattle and click as they slid together. "By the way, is this your first time visiting Astenvale? I meant to ask earlier, but got a little sidetracked, as you well know." Glancing over at his elven companion, the knight shrugged his shoulders.

"Gorm has that effect on people. One minute you're having a quiet conversation with a beautiful stranger. The next... you're listening to a tale about her mom."

Petra Darthinian (Old Man Gorm )

 

[Petra Darthinian]

The beer had been far stronger than she had anticipated on an empty stomach and dammnit, she hadn't even had three. What was in that stuff?!

When she had been visiting the grand tree halls of Fal-Addas, she had been known to hold her own with the best of them. Even honeyed fae wine, which was a favorite import into the elven capital. Maybe she had let her edge dull? Because this dwarven crafted brew... Ha! If only Faramund knew how grateful she was for the guiding hand on her shoulder, leaning slightly into his palm for support as they made their way outside in the fresh air. The alcohol had dulled the sensitivity of her song weaving, so although they were walking towards the central market and an increasingly bustling throng of Astenvale residents and travelers, she didn't have to protect herself from the overstimulation.

They walked side by side towards the center of town, her head standing at just his brow. She was a tall and well built woman. An unusual stocky curvature to her frame that was not common amongst elves, especially ones of Eredale. So with Faramund at her side, they cut an intimidating figue, cutting through the crowds with ease. She glanced sideways at the Knight as he offered her a petinent grimace and an explanation.

Faramund was casually chatting at Petra as they moved between merchant stands. The rising din of people buying and selling was loud enough to swallow the ingracious gigglesnort that erupted from the elf's chest. A reaction to the Knight's compliment.

"Beautiful?!" She sneered unintentionally. "Yes, because a scarred face, the freaky eyes of a dragon and the arm of one, is in every way beautiful and not scary in the least." She was quiet for a beat before giving a quick scoff and turned to look fully at her companion. A feral look in her eyes and her lips pulled into a grin. "Thankfully, I prefer my men to find me terrifying." A wink before she continued on, noting that they had reached the center of town, "Also, yes. This is my first time here. So why don't you—" She tapped his hand on her shoulder with her right claw "—show the way so we can get this show on the road, because we haven't even gotten to the good part yet." Eager to move the conversation along after her small confession. She didn't mean to give away that insecurity.

Damn that beer.

Faramund Rulgak

 

[Faramund]

"Find you terrifyingly beautiful, you mean?" Raising one caterpillar-like eyebrow, the dawnling wore his amusement on his face as the two reached the village green. Petra, for all her dragonesque qualities, was also elven. She boasted a few scars, true, but then you'd be hard-pressed to name a warrior who didn't have at least one. As to the eyes and arm, well, he supposed he could concede that point. To a degree, anyway.

They weren't so much scary as different, after all. Just... different.

Returning her grin, the big knight shook his head as the elf hastily moved the conversation along. Despite her reaction to his compliment, he could see the effect his words had had on her. Not wanting her to feel uncomfortable, Fara answered her prompting with a lazy nod. "All right then, since you insist!" Taking the lead, Fara followed the dirt road west. It was only a short walk to the Nest, he knew. His familiarity with the village and its inhabitants shortened it further.

A couple minutes passed. Drawing to a halt outside a two-storey stone structure, the knight turned to his elven companion, a small gleam in his eye as he inclined his head towards the sign above the door. "We have arrived," he said, happy to state the obvious for his new friend's benefit.

Petra Darthinian Rulgak

 

[Dejan Damir]

Ever the teacher, Dejan watched as the older knight sought to commission the young apprentice. Syr Dorn could certainly be intimidating but it would make for a good opportunity. There was no substitute for experience, the two Pursuants were testament to this fact. Orders given, he watched the lass scurry away to see to her new task.

Dejan’s commission would not be as easy to complete. As he expected, there was a need for materials that were not readily available. The head blacksmith had also brought to light another consideration, one that saw beyond immediate need. There would potentially be a need to arm more of the Order with these blades. Acquiring this exotic leather would benefit not only himself but also other members of Anathaeum.

A worthy cause, one that he must see to personally. He could not ask another knight to take on what he had already begun. It was his duty as a knight-pursuant to help ensure the future of the Order and its members.

“I shall see to the acquisition of this rare leather,” stated Dejan with utter surety. He already had a few ideas on where to begin. The knight hoped that he could avoid hunting the decidedly dangerous monsters by leveraging some of old contacts. Experience told him that things would not go the way he wished. Having an extra hand would certainly help in this particular endeavor. With that in mind, he turned to the older knight.

“Fancy a trip?”

 

[Ars Propheta-Capabilis]

The Teahouse​

---

Ars lets out a little yelp at being carefully lifted by the waist, and perches on the rim of the cup as Galvanhad sits him down. "Then share mine."

"Thank you!"

Ars carefully balances, and dusts his feet off away from the tea, before lightly dipping his up-curled toes into it.

"Oh!"

It was indeed was wonderful, warm and tasting of special herbs...

---

Many moons ago, when the Vale was a just a bit younger,
the Eldyr Tree cast a broad shadow, damp and warm, and it was there
that they had burst forth by the dozens. Ars was merely a sprout then,
slim as the toothpick, and with his siblings they had strode from the loamy soil with purpose.
Their Great Shrouding Grandmother to him had given a pull towards Astenvale.
And it is to Her they return every so often, reborn new of flesh, mind kept safe.​

---

"No such luck yet, Ars. I need to get back soon for my classes. Need a lift? Or will you be able to find your own way?"

Ars looks up at Galvanhad and adjusts his pince-nez, fogged with steam, smiling at the memory. He then nods broadly as he replies, miming out the action of lifting.

"A lift would be nice, thank you!"

Syntax continues to chew upon the moss, walking nearer to the cup at Ars' call.

---

Syr Galvanhad

 

[Syr Dorn]

Dorn watched Amelia accept her task and retreat to see it fulfilled with folded arms. A wry grin on his face once she was gone was all the sign Rulgak needed to know he was in one of those moods.

I shall see to the acquisition of this rare leather.... fancy a trip?

Dejan had shifted to the old Battleaxe and the grin grew ever wider. "Beats drinking in class." He rolled his shoulders. "She should be done before the hour, depart then? We can always hit Eth Tikund while we wait."

It had been a good few years since last they journeyed together, so Dorn would look very much to this opportunity to work alongside another experienced blade. After all, for a warrior his age, it felt good when the young came to him for assistance. Even when those young had hair so gray, it matched his own beard.

Then again, what did youth have on experience? Nothing.

"Rulgak, I'll be back later for my axe." He would say before turning to leave with Dejan.

---

Spoiler: OOC note

Figured this would be a good point to end the scene, since Petra and Fara would probably be a bit later.

---

Dejan Damir | Rulgak | Petra Darthinian | Faramund

 

[Syr Galvanhad]

THE TEAHOUSE
​

It was always interesting to Galvanhad to see how other races did everyday things, to learn more, so that he may accept more. For each were found worthy in the eyes of the Eldyr, regardless of the version of the Eldyr you worshipped.

He would watch as Ars curled his toes to better taste the tea. It was weird to see, though beneficial to his own study. For one day, when the strength of his own body failed him, Galvanhad would turn to the path of Gylbert or Ashton, compiling compendiums and manuals to aid the training of the young, well after he was unable to do so.

A lift would be nice, thank you!

Came the response and so Galvanhad would hold up a hand for Ars to settle into from the lip of the cup and ease him down to Syntax. He then took his cup and poured it into a odd papercraft cup, one that was enchanted to not go soggy with the addition of liquids. Just incase Ars wished for more later.

With the tea transferred, he would set his hand down for Syntax with Ars to climb on before lifting to set both atop his shoulder. "Let us depart." He would wave to Tanith, who reciprocated the act while she dealt with a table and the trio would depart the Teahouse. Down the steps and into the Astenvale road, before they turned to the Monastery. Another great day for those of the Vale.

---

Ars Propheta-Capabilis

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Oh for Xisyassa's sake.

Petra was so terribly out of practice at flirting. Let alone receiving compliments, no matter how genuine. But nonetheless, a flush of bashful pleasure colored her cheeks at Faramund's compliment. In return, she mustered a grin and a soft elbow into his side as they continued on.

They walked in companionable silence, sobering as she walked, matching the Knight's stride with her own long legs. She found herself internally reaching out to the gilded bond with her dragon. It hummed at her attention, eager to sling magic and song at a moment's notice. Instead, she sent Norvyk a pointed thought directed at him. The act getting easier as time went on and she practiced speaking with this... draconic entity in her head.

"I hope you are close." She thought to her dragon. "I will need you soon if we are to make sure your measurements are correct, unless you've decided to suffer a horse saddle for the flight to Route."

His presence, when she focused on it, was depthless and terrible. Terrible like a hurricane. Like a wildfire. Like she was trying to tie the tail-end of a gust of wind down long enough for her to have a conversation with it. The entity was bigger than her, vast and primal like a force of nature. And yet if she focused, there was quiet at its center. A sentient and endless cunning, but also curiosity. The raging chaos forgotten when there was such overwhelming peace to be had at the eye of the storm. It was a humbling exprience, to be allowed into the mind of such a great and terrible sentient predator. Even with so little time spent between herself and Norvyk, she could already see where they were changing. She prayed it was for the better.

Petra didn't have to tune into her bond to know the indignant growl that Norvyk would have made. The thought pulling a mischievious grin from mouth. She didn't hear her dragon's further reply if there was one, as Faramund stopped them at the front of a two-story cobblestone building, a hammer eblem mounted above the large green oak door at the front of the shop. Nothing like a little obvious advertising.

This had to have been one of the largest smithies she had ever been to. Most of the ones of Falwood were small run family businesses, or noble houses and capital had their own commissioned royal blacksmiths, typically kept within their employ of services only.

She could feel excitement bubble up as the smell of fire and brimstone coaxed her forward. The elf smiled over at her companion, "Arrived we have, good Syr." She stepped forward and grabbed one of the large wrought-iron door handles and heaved it open, a bell going off above her at her entrance. Curious, she looked up and saw it was actually a raven that sat on the nook of the door above. It clacked it's black beak at her excitedly and trilled another bell-like ring as Faramund entered behind her. Fluffing its feathers before settling in for what seemed a nap.

How delightful. She marveled to herself.

Rulgak Faramund

 

[Rulgak]

“I shall see to the acquisition of this rare leather,” Replied Dejan, to which Rulgak met with a nod and a smile. Grateful that he would take upon the task, his agreement left her with confidence that the smithy would be able to arm other knights who would surely arrive seeking the same sidearm. Anything that was a present threat to one was bound to become a threat to others, and Rulgak was relieved with the assurance that her smithy would be stocked and prepared for it.

“I appreciate your efforts. Those it'll help protect will, too” Rulgak responded. He stopped to take Ars and his mount back with him, lowering his cup to allow both within. Soon enough, the both of them were on their way, towards whatever business would next occupy them on that day.

Rulgak had her own hectic workshop to attend to. As soon as Dejan and Ars had left the shop, Rulgak returned back into it, filled with smiths and apprentices carrying on with the day's given tasks. All took extra care to appear busy the moment the heard the workshop's heavy doors swing open, lest Rulgak's spot some poor lazy soul in need of motivation. Thankfully for both her and them, all she observed had the requisite sense of urgency she sorely required.

At least while she was looking. The recent lull in productivity hadn't left her mind, and the smiths had best hope they keep up with the schedule. Rulgak continued around the smithy at a slow pace, her gaze shifting from station to station as she moved. She'd just completed a round of inspections, so there was no cause do to another so soon. That she had so recently was likely a contributing factor – they had time to catch up on their work before she'd be around to check again.

The apprentice she'd sent for the charcoal returned through the smithy's side doors, with a small cart containing the requested charcoal beside him. Tilting and pulling on the barrel, it fell onto the ground with a loud thud and muffled clatter of the contents within. With a foot holding the door open, the apprentice strained to drag the heavy wooden barrel into the workshop. A couple of steps back were taken at a time before he wrenched to pull the barrel, scraping the stone floor beneath at a steady rhythm. The young man was clearly strained, his task exponentially more difficult without the aid of a wheeled cart to ease the charcoal's travel.

“Give me that. I need you to go sharpen swords. At Amelia's worktable, pick up where she left off.” Rulgak instructed the apprentice, grasping the barrel in a hand. Her other pointed in the direction of the table she referenced, before also taking hold of the heavy, tilted barrel. Walking back at a normal pace, Rulgak dragged the barrel much faster than the poor apprentice had, the series of scrapes now a steady dragging sound as Rulgak effortlessly hauled the charcoal over to the furnaces.

“Right away, Rulgak!” the apprentice said, before turning away in the gestured direction to take over the work. In short time, he was already busily sanding away at the edge of a new sword, one of many that were still yet to be completed.

But the raven's ringing would interrupt her thoughts. It was well timed, at least. She'd done what she needed. With her cursory inspection complete and that further task delegated, Rulgak returned to the shop, her large frame bursting through the smithy's swinging doors once again. Within the shop, Rulgak spotted a woman with an upward gaze, while Faramund made his entrance, causing the raven to chirp a bell chime once more.

“Seeking something?” Rulgak asked, once Faramund had rejoined Petra.

Faramund Petra Darthinian

 

[Faramund]

The raven squawked again as Faramund strode in behind Petra, an amused expression upon his face. "Might not want to linger there, Petra," the big knight warned, gently nudging the elf aside as Rulgak appeared from out back, looking as fierce as ever. "Ol' Snappy has been known to shit on the occasional customer. Some people consider that good luck, I hear. Who knows, stand there long enough and maybe you'll find out."

Smiling, he gave the dragon-rider a quick wink, then, turned his attention to Rulgak.

"Seeking something?" The orc smith asked. Nodding, Faramund placed his sack of armour on the counter with a heavy thud.

"Your expertise, mostly," he replied, foregoing the usual song and dance and making to undo the sack's bindings with deft -and somewhat cautious- fingers. Pulling back the sack's corners, Faramund revealed the acid-pocked, claw-marked steel within. "Got some armour that needs repairing. A brigandine and a set of pauldrons. Nothing too fancy, I assure you."

Pausing, he took the opportunity to show Rulgak the ruined cloth and battered steel clustered within the sack's confines.

"Normally, I'd attempt the repairs myself, but I feel I have neither the skill nor the materials to accomplish such a task on this occasion." Meeting Rulgak's gaze, Faramund smiled apologetically, as if by allowing his armour to do its job, he had somehow failed her. "Was wondering if you or one of your apprentices could take a look at it, see about granting it a new lease of life? Rather not waste good steel."

Having said his piece, he turned to Petra. Arm outstretched, he waved her forwards.

"I'd also like for you to meet Petra Darthinian. She's a... friend of mine come down from Eredale. She has a request that I believe you'll find most interesting."

 

[Rulgak]

"Your expertise, mostly," was Faramund's response.

“That I can provide.” Rulgak said, speaking plainly but earnestly. She was a stoic sort, hardly given to much expression beyond the requisite anger to instill ethic in the apprentices and journeymen when needed. But that burden was for the workers to bear. While serious, such motivation was reserved for the smiths and the smiths alone. Rulgak was ever ready to help, if not more than a touch reserved.

"Got some armour that needs repairing. A brigandine and a set of pauldrons. Nothing too fancy, I assure you." Faramund requested, and he was right that it was a simple task to handle. Something like that could be tasked to the apprentices under a jouneyman's supervision, leaving the more skilled smiths to tackle the more difficult work. But Rulgak would not need to make such a suggestion, as Faramund did so first.

"Normally, I'd attempt the repairs myself, but I feel I have neither the skill nor the materials to accomplish such a task on this occasion. Was wondering if you or one of your apprentices could take a look at it, see about granting it a new lease of life? Rather not waste good steel." He continued, even expressing his polite concerns about being unable to do so himself. It was no matter, noble as his efforts were Rulgak hardly minded making such repairs. Maintenance was one matter, but the smithy was simply better suited to the task of repairing armour. Not that she'd dissuade anyone from doing so, there was value in being able to care for one's own equipment. Rulgak just saw it as another duty, among those she had the honour of being responsible for as the head smith.

“Repairs should be simple. Five days, at most.” Rulgak replied, and it was a generous estimate.

“The apprentices ought to be able to restore it to fighting condition.” Rulgak added with a nod, glad that Faramund was in approval of the work plan she'd already intended to implement. He was a humble sort, hardly one to ask, and to Rulgak's orcish senses this was true etiquette. Self sufficiency was respectable strength, and because of it Rulgak always felt more inclined to help Faramund a bit more than the others, when he was accepting of such aid.

"I'd also like for you to meet Petra Darthinian. She's a... friend of mine come down from Eredale. She has a request that I believe you'll find most interesting." Faramund continued, and Rulgak's interest was raised immediately. She'd already a strange ingot to work, but Rulgak imagined Petra's request must be more strange than that. Hopefully, the smithy would have the means to see the item commissioned, though Rulgak was hard pressed to think of much that they couldn't handle.

“Rulgak. I'm the head blacksmith here. It's good to meet you.” Rulgak said, speaking rather stoically yet politely to the elven lady in Faramund's company. “Now, what is this interesting item you seek?” Rulgak asked next, with her stone gaze broken into a look of subtle curiosity as she awaited Petra's answer. That Rulgak would be kept busy was a given assumption, but that the work would be interesting was a counted blessing.

Petra Darthinian Faramund

 

[Petra Darthinian]

Petra granted the Knight another laugh. He had an easy going and inclusive nature that made it easy to like him.

She was about to reply when a deep female voice, a pleasant treble to her songweaver ears, came from the swinging doors behind the front counter. The bubble of sound contained by the doors was burst the moment that large and muscular female orc pushed passed them. But even the harmony of hammers as they struck against anvils, the roar of many fires, and the metallic clangs of armor and swords couldn't swallow the strong voice of the female orc that greeted them.

“Seeking something?"

Faramund took the initiative and stepped forward to sling his bag onto the worn wooden counter. Petra creeped up beside him to peek at the contents as he opened the bag to show Rulgak a pile of partially ruined and pockmarked armor; the elf silently raised a brow at the claw marks across its surface, wondering as to its origin. But the orc seemed unaffected and went about assessing the armor with a keen and practiced eye.

While they hammered out the details of Faramund's order, Petra found herself drawn to an armor stand that was in the corner by the door, she had completely missed it on their way in. It was remarkable. The metal itself seemed to be galvanized and bright with a blue-white tinge. She couldn't see a blemish anywhere. And the gilded edges were done in a bright cobalt blue, she wasn't sure what kind of metal that was? The whole thing was sleek and modern. But what she found most remarkable, was the runes and different etchings that were decorating the entire ensemble. In fact, she was sure she recognized some of them. She squinted and drew closer, her hand outstretched to try and make out the translation, if there was one, when Rulgak's direct words cut through her trance, causing her to snatch her hand back like a child who had been caught in the cookie jar.

"Rulgak. I'm the head blacksmith here. It's good to meet you.”

Petra cleared her throat and turned to face the orc with a polite smile.

"Now, what is this interesting item you seek?"

Now her smile turned into an eager one.

"Madam Rulgak, well met." Petra nodded her head in acknowledgement. "I've heard that your title of head blacksmith is well earned! So tell me.' She sauntered forward, placing her hands on the counter as she leaned forward, an excited gleam in her draconic gaze. 'How do you feel about trying your skill at making a saddle fit for a dragon of storms?"

Faramund Rulgak