[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/230709/b2d64c98395f01e2c7cbdf98293c4c91.png[/img]

[color=saddlebrown][b]Time:[/b][/color] Evening
[color=saddlebrown][b]Location:[/b][/color] Village on the outskirts of Roshmi
[color=saddlebrown][b]Interactions:[/b][/color]
[color=saddlebrown][b]Mentions:[/b][/color]
[color=saddlebrown][b]Equipment:[/b][/color]
[hider]His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots
A hooded, oilskin cloak
His bow, unstrung
A musket
Two pistols
Two hatchets
His travelling pack[/hider][/center]
[hr]
“I knew you’d be back, kid.”

The village blacksmith’s voice was harsh, but his words were affable and teasing. Scathael’s ears twitched as an involuntary show of his annoyance at the interruption. He didn’t respond, pretending to hear nothing, and instead focused his attention on the partially-disassembled musket neatly laid out on the workbench in front of him.

It was an interesting weapon. Certainly more interesting than whatever inane chatter the leonine smith had just attempted to coax him into, at any rate. A wheellock firearm, the musket was an interesting oddity at a time when almost every gunsmith in Avalia seemed to favour the more modern snaplock mechanism. And for good reason; a snaplock was simpler and cheaper to manufacture, easier to maintain, and much faster to load. Everything any gunsmith or gunner looked for in a weapon. At least, that was what the dwarf who had sold Scathael the musket had said. The dark elf hadn’t any reason to doubt the merchant’s words, not when he had been so eager to get rid of the thing that he accepted the robber’s price Scathael had offered with relief instead of complaint. 

“Aye, our wee village just has a charm few can resist.” A different voice – this one belonged to the village’s chief huntsman, Scathael recognised – spoke. His words came out smoother, and carried a smile within its melodic and lilting tone. “But truly, it’s good to see you again, Scathael. You did good things for us last time you were around. Don’t suppose we could convince you to stay? I know my wee Vallana here would love it if you decided to stick around longer. You should’ve seen how mopey she was while you were gone.”

Perched on a high stool beside Scathael, the vulpine girl sputtered. “F-Father, s-stop it,” she protested in a whine, almost dropping the brass plate she was polishing. Scathael placed a hand on her back, preventing her from completely losing her balance, though it was more out of concern for the plate than it was for the girl's safety.

Aside from that minor action – which wasn’t enough to get him to look away from his task – Scathael didn’t pay the huntsman’s question any heed. There were still plenty of tiny and easy-to-lose components dotting the tabletop, and the flickering lamplight made them cast dancing shadows that confused even Scathael’s keen eyes. Missing even one of them would render the musket useless. He had to be careful in putting the thing back together. Senseless talk was a distraction he wouldn’t, and couldn’t, allow. 

“Interesting firelock you’ve got there, by the way.” The blacksmith was, if nothing else, persistent. “I haven’t seen a wheellock in ages. I think that’s what you’ve got, at least. You’ve done plenty of strange work to it, I can tell. Can’t say I understand what for, however.”

That brought the ghost of a smile to Scathael’s lips as he popped the firing mechanism back into its carved slot in the stock. Few could discern his intentions for the musket from just a glance, and that was always a source of pride for him. It was a vanity, he knew, and certainly one borne from his pride for his work, but it was one of the few which he allowed himself. 

He secured the mechanism firmly into place with a handful of screws, then held out his hand. Vallana gave him the brass plate, and he similarly fastened it to the butt of the musket. After giving everything a forceful tug to make sure all was right, he raised the weapon and aimed it towards the night sky. A push and swing of the trigger guard forward tightened a spring within. He returned the trigger guard to its original position, and squeezed the trigger. The quiet whirr of a steel wheel spinning at speed inside the mechanism was all Scathael needed to know that all was well. 

Satisfied, he lowered the weapon and finally turned to face the two men sitting with him in the front yard of the blacksmith’s home and shop. 

“May I?” The blacksmith asked and held out a hand. Scathael shrugged and passed him the musket. The blacksmith turned the weapon over, looked down its sights, and felt its heft. “Impressive, I’ve to say. I can’t recall the last time I handled a wheellock that wasn’t on its last legs. This feels very well-crafted.”

Vallana beamed. “I helped!” 

She had really only handled parts which Scathael had given her. None of them were essential to the basic functioning of the musket. However, the dark elf kept that information to himself. He couldn’t bring himself to, especially not after hearing the joy in her tone and seeing the wide smile stretching across her face. He might be a dour grouch of a dark elf, but even he wasn’t immune to the innocence of a child. 

[color=saddlebrown]“Yes,”[/color] he said simply. [color=saddlebrown]“You did.”[/color]

“But I have to ask,” the blacksmith continued. “Why not just get a snaplock? It’d save you all this trouble to keep this antique in working order.”

[color=saddlebrown]“A snaplock’s easily doused by rain. A wheellock doesn’t have that problem,”[/color] Scathael replied. [color=saddlebrown]“I simplified the mechanism. Reduced the number of parts by more than half, re-built the entire mechanism as a single block that’s easier to remove, and–”[/color] he pulled his chair forward and pointed to a segmented portion at the rear of the barrel. [color=saddlebrown]“–made it a breechloader. Makes it easier and faster to load. You also tension the spring by operating the trigger guard, which makes it even faster to fire. I’d say this thing fires at least five times faster than a regular muzzle-loading musket. It still needs work, however. It’s less powerful than a regular musket of the same length.”[/color]

“Less powerful, he says,” the huntsman repeated with a chuckle. “Unless you’re planning to hunt a dragon or shoot through a solid block of steel, I don’t think the difference would matter.”

[color=saddlebrown]“Who knows?”[/color] Scathael regarded the man with a deadpan expression. [color=saddlebrown]“I might run into a steel dragon one of these days and wish I had something that could hurt it.”[/color] Vallana gasped, and so he clicked his tongue and quickly added, [color=saddlebrown]“It’s a joke. Only dragons I’ve ever heard of are made of scale and blood. Bad manners and worse houseguests, though, I’ve heard that too.”[/color]

The blacksmith snickered and shook his head. “Don’t worry, Vallana. He’s only being half-serious.” Holding out the musket in front of him, he gave it an approving nod. “In all honesty, you did fine work with this one, Scathael. You’ve taken a wheellock and turned it into something a snaplock could only dream of. I’ve only got one other question, however. Why do you carry a bow on your person if you’ve already got such a fine piece of weaponry?”

[color=saddlebrown]“The bow’s for hunting,”[/color] Scathael replied simply. [color=saddlebrown]“I want my prey dead, not its meat obliterated.”[/color]

At that, the huntsman guffawed. “See? This dark elf understands! If you want a good cut of meat, it’s bolts and arrows you’ll have to use.” He gave the blacksmith a hard, but friendly slap on the back and turned to Scathael. “Truly, Scathael, you should stay. We could do with another smith in this wee village of ours, and I don’t think anyone would complain. We live simply here. You’d have a nice, peaceful life, I imagine. After spending the time I assume you do on the road, that should sound quite pleasant, aye?”

Scathael exhaled slowly through his nose. The huntsman was right; it did sound great to his ears. Deep in his heart, however, he knew that it would only ever be a dream. The chance for him to settle down passed a long time ago, along with the one person he likely would have ever settled down with.

[i]The features of her face fading from memory. Yet still beautiful enough to warm his heart. “So.” Her voice, so clear in his head. “What do you think? This place would make a nice home, I think.” A smile on his face, and one on hers. The rest of the world falling away. Joy. Expectation. Anticipation. All filling his body. And then a flash. In the cave once more. Fear clawing at his heart. Regret sapping his strength. A body, broken beneath rocks. A scrawled apology, red ink darkened to brown. Pain. Tears. Anguish.[/i]

Scathael shook his head and blinked that vision away. Then, he cleared his throat. [color=saddlebrown]“Thanks, but I’m going to have to decline.”[/color] He turned back around to pack up his tools. [color=saddlebrown]“It’s not for me.”[/color]