Some Fine-Looking Smith

[Ollie]

Myrrah chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully.

"So you'll forge it?"

[The Stranger]

"Yes. You've got enough for the three prongs, what do you want the handle out of?"

[Ollie]

There was still something bulging within the sack. Kneeling, Myrrah undid the last of the drawstring and revealed a large branch of wierwood. Several of the crimson hand-shaped leaves still clung to the thing, and crystallized sap the color of blood had hardened where the thing was removed from a tree, but the piece was thick, sturdy, and long.

"This."

[The Stranger]

The blacksmith raised his eyebrow, "can I shod it in Iron? would be a shame to have this nice head be hacked off and left sitting on the battle field."

[Ollie]

She teetered on the balls of her feet for a moment. "Three," she decided. "Three bands of iron will suffice, no?"

[The Stranger]

"Should be about right sure. staff's not the long, but then, neither is your wingspan, if your brother is about your size."

[Ollie]

That sounded about right. "He's a bit bigger, but the weirwood'll serve." She nodded, removing her wig and shaking her soft brown locks of hair free.

Myrrah pushed the branch across the table to the blacksmith, and with a silent smile, plucked a blood red leaf from it and tucked it in her hair. "Leave the weirwood unadorned; Ollie said he'll carve that himself."

[The Stranger]

The craftsman frowned, disappointed.

"As it please you. How shall you pay?"

[Ollie]

She sucked her teeth for a moment, contemplating the order. "We can pay in gold or frog's legs," she chuckled, "Whichever you prefer."

Hovering over the worktable for a moment, Myrrah canted her head to the side. "What sorts of decorations can y'do to the iron banding?" she asked, with a genuine curiosity.

[The Stranger]

"Scrollwork, coloring in the metal, decorative work. I will have to listen to the metal, and decided what it tells me."

[Ollie]

She nodded slowly, glancing about the shop. "On the iron banding around the haft..." she said, hmmming for a moment, "he'll want an etching of waves. Graceful with a power, frigid like the northern sea. Around the banding at the head, an etching of suns and stars, piercing in their brightness."

Myrrah licked her lips. "On the middle iron band," she said as she plucked the weir-leaf from her hair and inhaled it's aromatic scent deeply, "the hands of the Old Gods, protecting all they see."

"You can do this?" she smiled.

[The Stranger]

"I do not take requests." the smith replied. "The metal must tell its own story."

[Ollie]

She continued to smile, wider.

"That is its story."

[The Stranger]

The smith returned the staff, and put the rocks on the counter.

"The metal must tell its story. It can not be dictated by the likes of you. Find someone else."

[Ollie]

"By all means, listen to the metal," she said, smile hanging determined but limp on her face. "I was just giving you the preview... Would you really give up the chance to work with this?" Myrrah asked, gesturing to the ore.