The young woman's eyes opened with surprise as V'aleera shouted to Osvald. A look of concern and worry crossed her features before she quickly drew the plate away, bowing her head as she set it back upon the table.
What business,would bring a Dragoon to this shop, one who knew his name so well...
The Smith lifted the nail-rod in tongs, slipping the shaped metal into the forming slot fixed to the anvil he worked. He lifted his hammer to prepare for the four quick strikes that would form the rosehead, and finish the nail. But, he paused.
He lifted his head and looked toward the office, he thought he had heard something. He spied the unusual sight. He didn't quite recognize her as a Dragoon, but her import must have seemed obvious—he had heard something after all. His serious expression showed no hint of change. He nodded toward her, and raised the index finger of his empty, heavily gloved hand to ask for just a moment more.
He turned his attention back to the nail, it must be struck while hot. He lifted the hammer, driving it against the flattening end of the rod with four successive shots of force. With the final blow landed he grasped the tongs once more, lifting the nail and adding it to the bath.
He turned to inspect the other nail-rods awaiting their turn for the hammer in the heat of the forge, and stepped away to lay hammer and tongs upon a workbench. He removed the thick cloth gloves that protected his hands. Massive hands; long powerful fingers, large even for his size. They lifted the tinted goggles that protected his vision, and set them aside. Bright blue eyes ringed by scorch-black. He wiped his brow with a cloth, and stepped slowly, voicelessly toward the office, floorboards creaked beneath his weight.
Shoots of curly, blonde hair escaped the wound cloth bandanna that protected his head. He was shaven, but long-since, and a fair, ruddy stubble mingled with soot and black dust upon his broad, angular features. Why is it that Highlanders always seem so stoic?
What business,would bring a Dragoon to this shop, one who knew his name so well...
The Smith lifted the nail-rod in tongs, slipping the shaped metal into the forming slot fixed to the anvil he worked. He lifted his hammer to prepare for the four quick strikes that would form the rosehead, and finish the nail. But, he paused.
He lifted his head and looked toward the office, he thought he had heard something. He spied the unusual sight. He didn't quite recognize her as a Dragoon, but her import must have seemed obvious—he had heard something after all. His serious expression showed no hint of change. He nodded toward her, and raised the index finger of his empty, heavily gloved hand to ask for just a moment more.
He turned his attention back to the nail, it must be struck while hot. He lifted the hammer, driving it against the flattening end of the rod with four successive shots of force. With the final blow landed he grasped the tongs once more, lifting the nail and adding it to the bath.
He turned to inspect the other nail-rods awaiting their turn for the hammer in the heat of the forge, and stepped away to lay hammer and tongs upon a workbench. He removed the thick cloth gloves that protected his hands. Massive hands; long powerful fingers, large even for his size. They lifted the tinted goggles that protected his vision, and set them aside. Bright blue eyes ringed by scorch-black. He wiped his brow with a cloth, and stepped slowly, voicelessly toward the office, floorboards creaked beneath his weight.
Shoots of curly, blonde hair escaped the wound cloth bandanna that protected his head. He was shaven, but long-since, and a fair, ruddy stubble mingled with soot and black dust upon his broad, angular features. Why is it that Highlanders always seem so stoic?
![[Image: 21282370099_a814a08664_o.png]](https://farm1.staticflickr.com/590/21282370099_a814a08664_o.png)
