Closed Forging Ahead (Fia)

[Fia Eaven]

Not yet, sage colored eyes said. Fia wasn't permitted to give Dariel her cheek or the top of her head. She was snared in the seemingly rare pleasure thawing his face and made to partake in his smiles. A fool when faced with another's gladness, Fia abandoned whatever she carried so she could return them their spirit. It did her good to supplant her recently oppressive thoughts. Her laughter slowly kindled, warm and fluid as firelight. Predictable as she was, Fia colored under the compliment, but a wise glint in her looks showed she did not hold them too dear. "You're right kind. And a seer to match." She let humor gently gild her face. "I sing to keep meself company. Do a middling job of it. Not all of us could be finches, have to have a few ravens. I like a bit of noise, I 'spose. Sounds like living." Brought to sudden levity from the gray trenches of recent days, she indulged a mote of play. "I'd have you know, I'll make your weapon sturdy whether I get a pretty word or not." Fia remembered the small furors Dariel stirred when physically overtaken by a thought, and it made her walk faster, almost matching his longer gait. "But I do think I may not live to see the forge, if'n I don't get out from underfoot here." When Dariel guessed around her ideas for his weapon, Fia's smile was surprisingly secretive. "Aye, we'll burn and cross as it goes. Best let the iron speak what it will." Defying expectation, she didn't scatter words as they walked. There was nothing forbidding in her form or dour in her feature, but her thoughts were new coals, slowly ripening in color and intensity. They wound her inward for a span as the pair traversed the Zintia peak. She became sensible to the world in brief spans, her eyes drawn towards common majesties: an especially fine carving in a lintel, a unique slope of skyglass, the change in cobblestones. "I'm glad for this task," Fia said in time, "Hinges and drawer pulls don't ask much of the heart…This will feel like meeting with someone." Whatever Dariel rendered of himself in their brief acquaintance would be drawn against the anvil, melded with the iron. She would be compelled to look for him whenever the project was taken up. It was an odd link to a relative stranger. The Touch of Fire had an elegant show room, populated with samples of work and pieces for purchase. Fia delighted in the array, but still felt disjointed from it. She was more accustomed to a forge beginning with a wooden door and packed earth. Whenever faced with something especially fine, she behaved like a pleasant guest. "Have a look about." She held her hand out for her scarves, "Thank you for toting them."

[Dariel]

Faint chuckles ran from Dariel's mouth when Fia admitted that yes, she too sang during her work. In the back of his mind, he half-remembered more people who sang when they worked. In the fields, or when threshing grain or sawing wood. But none of them had faces. They were just part of the crowd; drones. Drones who neither stung nor begot queens. Like the boy he shed on the road to Lhavit. Like Keper's natural son. But how much better off was the old man for having a new son who would amount to something? Dariel couldn't not like the old bookbinder and it colored his words. "My father does it as well. The singing. You remind me of him in several ways." They weren't as smooth and glib and ritualized as his flatteries. Not as firmly delivered, but warmer for it, too. Like dim light crawling across wood. "That is a very good thing. He is a modest man of warm passions and delicate hands." "People are often surprised we are related." A dryer sentence thrown in to keep the conversation light. He did not wish to project his father on the redhead for both their sakes. And, polite amusement aside, she would soon think him a hollow flatterer of few convictions. Too late. Much too late, it seemed. He had to stop again, just for the moment, step in front of her even if he had to stem the tide of people to do so. Present his chest open and unguarded more so than have anyone look at anything. "Though I fear you believe me no longer, I only speak what I see and... and what I feel and maybe hope. I will not claim that I know your being whole, only that I have high hopes for what I have been able to perceive." Dariel had to stop himself there. Since he neither expected nor required an answer he instead turned on his feet and continued, walking a step ahead of the metalworker, even if he had no idea where they went. What he did have was the brisk stride and steely gaze -and pointy elbows- to part the crowds a little for her, break the waves of humanity washing against their prow. A mindful eye trained on Fia for indications of turns, his mind was left to wonder as to Fia's plans. In the end he had to capitulate, not for a lack of imagination but a lack of knowledge. Which possibilities were sensible? Which conducive to her skills? And which ones found her own approval? If he ever decided to procreate, his expectations could not be more vague. "In that case, I will need more Kina so I can come back. You may not realize this, but your approach to this is rare. I already said that, did I not? Ah, and I was trying to be more impartial, too." Habitually ducking through the doorway, Dariel entered the showroom in good cheer.Lhavitian interiors were so lovely bright, even without a lot of lamps or candles. Skyglass outside, Skyglass on the threshold, sometimes even inside, it all created a diffuse all-encompassing glow during the day and at least a seviceable half-light by night. Eyebrows curved atop wandering eyes as they spied hoes and shovels keeping company with spears and slender swords. A whole section of the room was given to large curved knives. Daiel assumed them to be some local specialty but deduced them as fairly impractical to use for anything but portioning huge quantities of food, such as whole stags or cartwheel sized cakes. Above it all hung the scent of oil, even more pervasive than the metal or the faint whiff of coal. "A curious place. I would have expected, well, a furnace for one." But what did he know? Dariel shrugged to himself, then carefully balanced out the bundle of scarves and delivered it to Fia's waiting hands before his eyes went a-roving again. "And the mixture of implements offered is likewise, well, curious. But seeing as how Lhavit is likely one of the safest cities in the world, I can see there being little demand for tools of war." War being the important term there. To Dariel's mind it was inconceivable that people obtained weapons as accessories or sporting equipment. Weapons existed to kill things, or keep them from being killed. But what did he know?

[Fia Eaven]

Fia chuckled at Dariel's observation about the glaring lack of the accoutrements of a smithy. "Aye, as would I. Puzzled me at first, but it's all tucked up in the back, nice and dim. Lhavit loves its glister but 'tisn't good for a forge. Have to see the color of the metal when it glows. So it's kept a bit from skyglass." As Dariel browsed the weapons, Fia thought to help him along. "If'n there's something beyond my talent that inspires, I'll get another, older hand to help guide me. So don't be hampered by me age. I aim to sketch what I have in mind for you in the morning after I dream on it a bit." Peculiar that a woman who seemed more earth than air would make this a stipulation. "Won't be a marvel but you'll see the lines fine." Fia stowed her personal things away and regretfully parted with the crisp sweetness of the lavender soap. Char and the tang of iron would be her perfume once again. Not the most feminine fragrance, but adding sweet incense to the hearth would make her few friends among the other smiths. When Fia turned from her task, she caught Dariel's musings on the mingling of of wares. "Where I'm from everyone had something for defense. But I made more horse shoes than dirks. Not as much art in horse shoes though." The smith passed close enough to Dariel to beg his pardon as she reached beyond him for a long dagger on display. "Here," she carefully offered him the weapon. It was a gesture of trust in any situation, made especially profound considering the quietness of the shop and the brevity of their acquaintance. Her eyes flickered briefly from the handle to Dariel's naturally cruel face. May Priskli be good to her hope. "Hold this one in your hand a mite. It's got a little more weight in the grip than some." She hesitated before delivering her presumption. "That's for precision fighters. Choppers like a bit more heft in the bladed end." Fia drifted back, waiting for his appraisal. "You know, I'm not like me father either." A thought resurrected, proving she was listening even when quiet. "I know you make sport, but it's likely good you don't match your father's manners overmuch. Like having too much weight in the handle or in the blade. A bit o' balance and all."