The locals of the Oaks Inn and Tavern had indicated the town had a blacksmith of sorts, and Peter was inclined to investigate... Anyone working this late into the night seemed quite dedicated. Aside from the warm glow of the forge, the dull cherry-red of hot iron, there was no light besides the stars and moon that shone outside. The man knew his work-ethic, and Peter respected it by remaining silent until the work was done...
And then she turned.
The locals neglected to mention the blacksmith's young age... or bossom... but he has heard good reviews, so he leaned against a beam and decided to watch this mystery at work awhile longer.
He watched her close-up shop, unseen as some old habits died harder than most -especially the habits that have kept him alive- and chose to keep his distance. He'd heard gossip of her brawling quite well whenever her and a patron came to blows (again with no mention of her being of the fairer sex) and knowledgeable enough to mend wounds as well as armor... But her age... could someone so young could not cope with the hardships of being a partisan-mercenary?
The unspoken question was only given a partial response when a messenger came bearing news of a commission of sorts. The nature of which could be anything, even as simple as making a dozen nails for the kingdom's stables. However, he addressed the woman as a 'blade-smith', and with great haste. Here he had a choice, to either listen to the deal as it happened, or to offer his own services to assist in hopes of learning through building of trust...
Or, he could just wait for the messenger to leave, find a dark alley, and question him in the usual manner.
Ohm,
DarkStar,
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O O,
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