[center][h1][color=808080][b]3[/b][/color][/h1][/center] Meanwhile, the Blacksmith, his place of work now just several meters away, stopped what he was doing to stare on at Jack’s interaction with the guard. As normally expected of a blacksmith, he was a hefty sort, though not the fat kind of hefty. He was dressed in tanned trousers and a brown leather apron that didn’t seem to have done a good job at protecting his tattered yellow-ochre shirt over the years. Matching his tattered shirt was his cold stone face - much of it lost behind a dark beard - though the parts that did show were well scarred. One eye was missing. Nose crooked like it had been broken many times since he was born some 40 years prior. The guard said, ‘Why are you here, stranger?’ losing not even a portion of the severity in his tone. He was just a tad shorter than Jack, Jack being a few inches north of 6 feet, but the guard more than made up for this with a massive barrel chest, plated with iron armour that seemed to have been forged to conform specifically to the shape of his torso and shoulders. The rest of his [b][i]duds[/i][/b], a term, Jack later discovered, used to describe a guards uniform, was strikingly similar in design to that of an ancient roman soldier, with a deep red under-tunic, iron Baltea skirting the crotch, and leather sandal-like footwear. The guard however wore no helmet and held no shield. Both hands were gripped at the ready to the hilt of the very large swords sheathed and hanging from his metal hip belt. Jack wasn’t really feeling threatened at all. He could take care of a lone guard with a sword if need be and had in his life been confronted by much scarier personalities, such as the tiny winged beast he had encountered in the woods only 15 minutes earlier. So he smiled for the guard, slightly, consciously making an effort not to come across as patronising. ‘No need for that,’ he said, glancing to the guard's sword, ‘I’m just a traveller passing through, maybe up for some work if there is any coin to be made here.’