Deep within the stone foundation of the Tower City, the roar of forge-fire burned hot sweating away the chill of winter winds that wreaked their havoc upon the blasted Highlands of Coerthas since the Catacylsm. Industrious hands that allowed the city above to prosper were busy with their soot-heavy work.
The Miqo'te, so out-of-place in the full dignity of her Ishgardian military regalia, stood outside a squat-stone structure built of roughly hewn stone carved out of the base itself. A metal roof seemed worse for wear: it had taken a beating during the Dravanian assault, protecting the shop itself from the heaves of falling debris that had assaulted these carved-out-avenues.
The loud peel of hammer striking metal echoed again-and-again from within the shop. The heavy breathing-sound of the auto-bellows forceful driving air in its repetitive inhale-exhale pattern accompanied the roar of fire that gave the full impression of a metal shop operating at full capacity.
The front door hung carelessly open, allowing a steady flow of fresh air into the office in which sat the Master of the shop: the Duskwight, Dunois. The view from the outside, exposed him in profile. His long white hair, slender strands that settled upon his shoulders, lent him the dignified look of experience. With his right-arm still in a sling, and spectacles perched perilously upon his slender but prominent nose, he sat engrossed in a pile of papers from the under-sized chair of his desk. Neither the sound of hammer-strikes, nor the presence of loiters out front seemed to penetrate his steady focus.
The Miqo'te, so out-of-place in the full dignity of her Ishgardian military regalia, stood outside a squat-stone structure built of roughly hewn stone carved out of the base itself. A metal roof seemed worse for wear: it had taken a beating during the Dravanian assault, protecting the shop itself from the heaves of falling debris that had assaulted these carved-out-avenues.
The loud peel of hammer striking metal echoed again-and-again from within the shop. The heavy breathing-sound of the auto-bellows forceful driving air in its repetitive inhale-exhale pattern accompanied the roar of fire that gave the full impression of a metal shop operating at full capacity.
The front door hung carelessly open, allowing a steady flow of fresh air into the office in which sat the Master of the shop: the Duskwight, Dunois. The view from the outside, exposed him in profile. His long white hair, slender strands that settled upon his shoulders, lent him the dignified look of experience. With his right-arm still in a sling, and spectacles perched perilously upon his slender but prominent nose, he sat engrossed in a pile of papers from the under-sized chair of his desk. Neither the sound of hammer-strikes, nor the presence of loiters out front seemed to penetrate his steady focus.
![[Image: 21282370099_a814a08664_o.png]](https://farm1.staticflickr.com/590/21282370099_a814a08664_o.png)
