(killing your own horse for the meat? that's pretty mental...)

As the messenger left the blacksmith's abode, Peter followed. The mesenger quickened his pace with more delibrate footsteps through the muddy streets. At first he believed he'd been spotted, but soon enough the chap turned right for the tavern to relieve themselves. In any case, 'ol Pete went around the building to search for a back way in (there was none) before going inside as well.

The ruffian hated these border-taverns... far too likely to meet a familiar face, or get into a brawl and encounter a familiar face with authority to dole-out some swift vengeance... But such were the risks taken in pennance. He made sure his 'mark' for this evening had their tongue well-lubricated.

Once the paige had become a little too well acquainted with the barkeep's betrothed barmaiden, he decided to bail the runt out by claiming the poor kid was his servant, and would be punished accordingly for such a disgraceful act of lewdness. Upon taking things outside, he leveled with the kid, and asked if he'd done what was requested; by making the strong albeit decietful implication of being one of the officer's own men sent to spy on him. It didn't take too much collar-scruffling to get confirmation that yes, the order for a new blade had been placed, half paid for up-front.

That, followed by a few words of advice, such as to lay-off the meade until he'd seen and done something he'd rather forget, and the paige was sent-away on the next caravan; a little to unsteady on their feet to entrust with walking home.

This meant the 'smith would be here longer, and that she was crafting a top-notch blade... not particularily knowing who it was meant for... And with the paige sent-away empty-handed, someone else will have to retrieve it. Best to do-so in person.

Premium blades, now half-off. Could either sell it to their rightful owner for the other half, or pawn it at full-price.