(121-04-28) Fangirl
Summary: Prospero Storm comes to get some armor fixed.
Date: Date of play (28/04/2014)
Related: Trial of the Seven

Smithy — Champion's Way

It is a summer day. The weather is warm and overcast.

The smithy shop has been built carefully to allow for the heat of the forge, and the actions of a large bellows, without danger of catching the place on fire. The walls are a thick stone, and the roof as high up as can be. There is a bit of a show area by the door, where a weapons rack has been set up, with the latest wares on display. The center of the room is the forge, reaching back to the chimney, and fronted by several different sized anvils and matching bellows. To one side, shelves line the wall, with hammers and other smithing tools each in their place. To the other side, a door leads to the Smith's living quarters.

And, it's a smithy. It looks like a smithy, sounds like a smithy, and smells (ew) like a smithy. In Westeros and beyond, such places are immediately recognizable. The summer heat only makes the shop even more of a warm place, as a few patrons mill about and hammers clang. This particular establishment appears to be run by a short, hirsute Braavosi with a bald fringe on his head and a gregarious smile and manner. He pops out of the back now and then, barking orders at employees and greeting customers.

One such employee though stands next to a rack of servicable, well-made armor pieces. At least, one would assume the shop girl is an employee. She is also taller than the man she finishes plying the smithy's wares too, moments after. The youngish blonde woman is a tall, robust sort with a sturdy frame and thick arms. All of these would be considered 'imposing' upon a man, but on a woman, they seem a little at odds with her enthusiastic smile, high voice and rapid speech. "Very well. Come back again!" She is wearing an apron over her dress, and brushes a few beads of sweat off her smudged forehead with the back of her hand.

Following the sounds and hopefully not the smells, a new patron approaches the smithy on a crystal white steed that looks like it's seen several years already, though not as many as his rider. Prospero Storm makes for a deceptively unimpressive looking rider, an older man with long grey hair and unshaven chin and a bushy caterpillar of a mustache, lacking armor clothing his body and instead in leather and cloth while he keeps his horse's pace to a slow walk down the street. The large, heavy looking hammer hanging from his belt is about the only thing that looks properly dangerous. He pulls the reigns to stop his steed, then vaults off it with more dexterity than any man his age should have. Hup!

Reigns tied to a hitching post, Prospero gathers up pieces of his rather beaten up and woebegone looking armors in his arms and toddles towards the smithy proper with long, firm steps. "Ho there!" He calls in greeting, nudging his way past someone doing some browsing. "Whew, like a second sun indoors, here."

Spiros of Braavos, man of many successful (depending on who you ask) business ventures and considerable alopecia, is of course right there on the shop floor moments after Prospero arrives. The smaller man deeply nods his head and claps his fingertips together. "And a wonderful mid-day to you, my guest! Welcome to this smithy. I am sorry for the heat of the forge, but it is second only to the fiery passion of our craft!" He grins broadly in a gesture that he has probably practiced a thousand times. This guy is also a total schmoozer.

The young woman with the apron has found herself without a customer and turns her head to also study the new arrival, with a slight narrowing of her eyes for a moment before smiling brightly. "Yes, Welcome! Is there something I — err, someone can help you with?" She wipes a smudge off her sleeve and then the fingers onto her apron.

Can't blame a guy for being a salesman in a business such as this. Like the car dealership of it's day. Buy these big expensive things made of metal! "Mmhmm," Prospero murmurs gruffly, sounding not especially impressed and a little judgey in that 'you'd better have passion for this' sort of way. "Yeah, I'm familiar with what a forge is like," he notes, with a quirk of an amused smile for a joke only he's in on. His brief chuckle for his own 'joke' only get gets trails off as he cants his head towards the woman. "Aye? Oh. Well, see, some people tried to put some holes in me." He wiggles a finger through some links of chain-mail that've been broken. "So there's a few broken bits and more than a few dents in my kit."

"Please, let me see if I can get a smith to take a look at this for you." Spiros says. Salesman indeed. "Ilona — see if you ca"

"Oh Spiros." The tall young lady cuts in, with an pleasant enough sigh. "I can appraise." Her large eyes trail back towards Prospero with an affirmative nod and holds out a pair of hands that look decently callused. Appraise indeed, she's put some effort into manual labor allright.

"All right." The Braavosi says, bounding back towards the smithy proper to consult with someone. He sounds fairly resigned. So it's settled. Ilona, for her part, is happy to display a face of exemplary Westerosi customer service. "I'm called Ilona." No surname. Just a commoner, she says towards Prospero now after a hardly a pause. "And I'll be happy to take a look if you set it down here?" There's a fair amount of empty counter space gestured to, just for this very purpose.

If Prospero looks a touch skeptically at Ilona when she cuts in, he looks far more intrigued. "Well then," he says, noting the look of a pair of hands that've seen hard labor. "Nice t'meet you Ilona. I'm Ser Prospero Storm, but you can just keep it to Prospero. Enough of a mouthful, that." He grins, long used to having a slightly ridiculous name. Besides, its been awhile since anyone's made fun of it. With a grunt he hefts his armors up onto the counters space with the cacophony that is chains and clanging plate.

Even with the clanging of the smithy in the background, if one were to really pay close attention, one could hear a proverbial pin drop. The fair-haired maid's mouth begins to hang open ever-so-slightly but then she catches herself. Shaking her head. It may just be a side effect of the business she works in, but that name rang a bell. "I /THOUGHT/ it was you, Ser!" She exclaims, beaming brightly. "I saw you in the Trial of the Seven. Please!" Again she beckons at the counter and helps catch their weight. This girl can lift. "I mean Prospero — " she begins, looking from the now-named knight to his ruined armor. "I see a cut across the maile here that's maybe a span…" She begins to reach under the counter, fetching some assorted tools.

Meanwhile, Prospero just lays his kit out on the counter like he didn't say anything particularly of note. The silence and the looks don't actually go as unnoticed as he makes it seem. "Oh, yeah, I'm slightly shorter than the six foot twenty you hear about. It tends to throw people off when they meet me in person," he explains as a possibility for not knowing him right off. "Oh, aye? Ha! I hope you had a good seat. I did." Har har. Greyed brows lift as she catches the weight of things. Nice. "Like I said, Dornish bastards trying to put holes in me. Story of my life, it seems."

For some probably-obvious reasons, Ilona avoids making any direct references to Prospero's height, or anyone else's. She's used to being tall, so — well, you take these surprises in stride, you do. Her rough hands work their way along the surface of the metal, and — well, she does smile a bit at the man even as she makes a good show of focusing on her work. "I can see they tried, s—- Prospero. Tried and failed. This may require a whole new mesh but I believe it can be fixed. Maybe even better than before." She says of one gap in the maile, before continuing her inspection diligently.

She must be hanging around in the section of town where everyone isn't at least six feet tall. Prospero watches her work, a touch more familiar than the average warrior with the trade, though he couldn't do any of the work himself. When he catches one of those smiles, a wide grin appears beneath his mustache, showing teeth. "No one's managed a hole big enough to fell me just yet." Unless you've heard that one story where he was slain, but then lighting struck down from the sky, raising him up again to keep fighting. "Better than before? Why, you gonna to put my son to shame?" He seems frankly far too amused for that to be a warning.

It is only Lords, highborn knights, and fabled warriors with 8 or 9 blades at any given time who reach such a lofty stature. Ilona is, after all, is a commoner. Or smallfolk, as they say, although those who coined such a phrase probably never thought of the irony of its one-day use. She eventually produces a large chisel and grips it firmly in her right hand, scraping it against the metal with a certain vicious concentration.

"We aim to please, Ser." Ah, there's the Ser thing again. "Your son made this? I /would/ have to compliment him on his work."

A dragon must have coined the term for to them everyone is small folk. Also, flammable. But that's neither here nor there. "So I've heard. I think. That other feller said something along those lines, anyway." Prospero has already kind of forgotten, sorry Spiros. "He followed the family trade, as it were, just wasn't my side of the family." Thus, his slightly more than usual knowledge of arms and repair.

"Oh, Spiros. Spiros is a good man. He lets me.." It's clear now, with the application of a few other tools what Ilona is doing. She is taking measurements of the damage. Using the chisel as a guide, she lightly runs the blunt instrument against the ugly gash in the metal, brow knitting a little bit in a mixture of concentration and outright frustration. "Oh, damn it to the Seven Hells!" She snaps as she loses traction with the tool but once. "Heh. Excuse me." She looks up at Prospero, slightly abashed — but not too abashed. Not a delicate flower, this maid, and her smile is a bit embarassed, but not enough to apologize more than that.

"My father was a smith. Tried to raise m' brother to be too but he wasn't interested." She narrates a little while sounding flat-out puzzled why anyone wouldn't want to jump headlong into this fascinating line of work. Another tool is produced, one used for delicately snapping, a firm set of tongs as she files of a sharp, jagged edge of metal, which falls upon the counter with a clang. "I think this will cost, oh, this many silvers." She holds up an array of fingers. "But maybe I can get to give Spiros a discount if you like the work. It's not every day we get — well, we've had well-regarded knights in here before. But they weren't ten feet tall and spitting lightning, if you understand what I'm sayin' Ser?"

Whups. Prospero's brows lift up in a look of mild surprise for the slip of the tool, not the cursing. It'd take a lot saltier language than that to get a rise of of him. "Would it help you if I weren't watching? I've heard enough complains from people losing their nerves around me when I'm staring." He points two fingers at his eyes and then down at the counter. You know. Stare powers. "Hmmhmm. How about if I like the work fixing what I've got, then you help me complete the set as full plate?" He's got a pocket full of Dornish ransom that he'd just love to spend on equipment to turn around and spank them with some more. "And then you can say whatever you want. Lightning and all."

"Please, Ser. Don't worry about that, 's a common thing. I'm not some sand roach staring you down upon the the field either so I'm sure I'd need not be afraid!" Ilona laughs again, easily. Her voice is a little high and the laugh that follows is even higher, and refuses to be drowned out by the clanging of metal upon metal coming from the forge. And then — it dawns on her just what the man is asking.

"You want to see m — our best work?" Her big hands clutch the maile to her as she practically beams a smile at him. "You shall have it. And in but a few days I would think."

Ser Prospero Storm laughs, a low booming noise that's appropriately like the distant sound of thunder. "No no," he assures, still chuckling a bit. "You're no sand roach and I wouldn't say such a thing a'tall, or I wouldn't be here," he finishes with a dismissive sort of wave of his hand paired with a crooked sort of smile. He nods his head once and slowly in affirmative. "That I do, miss. Your very best. Can't go around letting folks get easy shots at me." He taps his side where one of the holes in the maile would be if he were wearing it.

"I'd /hope/ not, Ser." comes Ilona's sudden and spirited response. "I was just a girl from Ashford" see, she's a Stormlander too! "before I ended up in King's Landing. And then here." She begins to stretch out the armor on the counter as she goes to retrieve some pieces from another room in the back — used for storage. This only takes a moment or two as she jauntily returns. "I think I like it here."

"Ah, talented and traveled. I would ask what'd bring you to this place, but I can't fault a person for wanting to get out of King's Landing. Though, if you were hoping to escaping running into the dragons left and right, seems like this is a poor place for it. Can't spit without hitting one and you don't want to do that." Prospero hooks his thumbs in his wide belt and rocks back and forth once. "Good, good. Important to find a home."

"Oh, it was Spiros that decided to leave. " Ilona tells the story slowly and easily enough. And loudly. "There was a misunderstanding. To some, all Braavosi look and sound alike. I think?" It's entirely unclear how many Braavosi someone like Ilona has met in her life. "I started working for him there and he decided to keep me on." Not a very exciting story, but a story all the same.

"Dragons have their own forges. And some o' their own steel too, Ser. I'd like to just see that metal once. In my life." She proceeds to wrap a few pieces of chain together.

"Uh-huh," is all Prospero says to the beginning of that story. He neither agrees nor disagrees that Braavosi all look and sound alike. They don't, but sure some people would think so. Others would know the difference but just not care. It doesn't matter. When you got to get out, you've got to get out. "Worked out for you." He gestures at the forge and in general Oldtown. He snorts in agreement of Targaryens with their own forges and steel, though he laughs once and shortly. "I'd say the same, except it's more likely that someone'd be swinging it at my head than I would get to hold it."

"But Ser, forgive me for talking like I know more about battle than I do, but it didn't look like you needed their steel to win out there." Ilona offers with a pointed mixture of frankness and haste. A loose wrapped link is threaded through the hole as she bends a few pieces of metal with the tongs, ever-so-slightly. The maile looks as though it's had the proper measurements to take the forge, now.

"Uhh, So, Three days time? I might be able t' cut it t two."

"Ohhh, ha, no. You've got me there. I don't need it, as you rightly say. But they are nice, aye?" Prospero sighs, perhaps imagining cutting through swaths of enemies like warm butter. "Three days'll be just fine. If I come back in two, it'll be a real emergency. The sort where someone's after my head." It happens from time to time.

"Y'can always take one of /these/ in the meantime. It's no plate-and-maile, but —" Ilona begins, as she continues puttering around with the armor and putting everything in its (more or less) proper place. From behind the counter, the young woman hefts a rather intimidating, (apparently) well-balanced and well-made warhammer. It's a one-handed weapon, but definitely the sort made for all the giants that seem to live in this damn city.

"It's definitely good for a few laughs." She sets it on the counter with a /clunk./ Ah, upper body strength. Who has it? Ilona.

Prospero blows out a whistle that sounds reasonably impressed watching Ilona heft things around. "Not a lot of ladies picking those up. Not even the ones who try to make violence their trade." There are more than a few warrior women running around the town, though he has yet to see any one of them swinging a heavy mace around. "Ideally I can manage to stay out of trouble for a few days. Usually all I have to do is introduce myself to trouble and it goes away."

Prospero's immediate reaction earns a sudden abashed blush from Ilona. But she looks — well, more flattered than embarassed. She doesn't linger on it. "It comes with the trade, Ser. And — I've been seein' a /lot/ of that!" Ilona exclaims. "Did you see Ser Fulk the Sutble knight a woman from the Stormlands?" She's gossiping like a farmhand, now. "Oh, of course, I'm /sure/ you would." Because he's SER PROSPERO STORM. Gods, Ilona. "Well, you can carry that in lieu of your armor in the meantime. If you would like. Try it out. No coin needed." She's really trying to push that hammer on him.

"Oh, yeah—oh?" His expression says: Ser Who the Whatnow? "No, no. I wasn't there for that. A woman knighted? Ha. Bet that caused a stir. Seems like a fair few folks getting knighted round these parts, lately. Not entirely unexpected, with the combat around, but some unusual recipients. Huh." It's okay, Prospero was probably still drunk from the night before when it happened, so he wasn't even there. Which is less like a farmhand and more like a lout, but. He does pick up the hammer in a big hand, testing the weight of it and adjusting his grip before he takes a step back so he can swing it around a bit. Some patrons who have been watching the exchange also take a step back irregardless of where they are.

Well of course, a lot of this goes over Ilona's head. Because it's not like Ser 'Just Prospero' wouldn't have a finger on the pulse of the latest knightly gossip in her mind. Her eyes light up with glee as she watches the man wield her, err, the shop's hammer. If he took a close look at it, there is a maker's mark on it. A fist with a lightning bolt.

"I wouldn't understand what that would be like, you know? Anyway, let me know what you think of that, Ser. Please."

Around this time, Spiros the Braavosi has emerged from the forge, looking massively sweaty and wiping his forehead with a fine linen cloth. He sees the hammer being swung and purses his lips.

Around this time, Ilona notices his return and says again to the knight, "Three days time at the most, Ser Prospero." She's loud, of course. And loud enough for Spiros to hear her. The short man's thick eyebrows arch upwards wildly, presumably in recognition and he is smart enough to understand one thing.

When you have a very /established/ customer, it pays not to ruin a sale.

This particular knightly gossip just happened, but it's more likely he heard it in passing and thought it was a joke. Apparently not! Prospero swings the hammer around, looking like some sort of wild Norse God trying to hide among humans by being weathered and grey of hair, even if that hair is still long enough it blows in the breeze. "I think the weight of it is good, enough to get the motion without wearing the arm out. Balance ain't bad, though it's not the same sort as swords, o'course, though you must know that." He stops trying to mansplain at her.

"Three days it'll be then," Prospero says loudly. Probably a little too loudly, he's not a great actor, even if he understands what's happened when Spiros appears again. He winks at the Bravossi seller and then again at Ilona when the man's back is turned.

"It's the Reach, Ser. I've been' told that they expect swords, here. Not that a sword isn' an elegant piece." Ilona chatters on, the chatterbox that she is, her eyes bright. "But you come out with one of those, you'll walk away from a fight on your feet if they're not expecting it." She gets to stowing Prospero's armor offering her surprisingly professional opinion. "I have it, Spiros." Whether she is talking about the burden of the armor, or precisely something else it is quite difficult to say.

Spiros has given up and pretty much gives Ilona the run of the place. This is probably not quite the first time things have played out this way. But if the smithy is still in business, they must be doing something right, after all.

This task completed, she comes back to Prospero and hands him a carved token with an open, callused palm. "If there's some reason I am not here, or Spiros — you might merely bring this back when you pick it up, Ser." And there, the smile he receives is unmistakable. Whatever the reality of it, — it is a sort of subtle hero worship.

"Aye, aye, they do. More people know how to use one — or think that they do — than other weapons. And Reach folk're all about the Knightly ideals, courtly-like. More Tourneys here than anywhere else in Westeros." In case she hadn't already realized that. Prospero says all this while he tosses the hammer just a little into the air and catches it. Just in case anyone thought only blade-masters could be flamboyant with their weaponry. He stops fooling around when presented the token, which he takes from her palm carefully, big hands and thick fingers not well-suited to more delicate tasks. "I'll do that miss Ilona." The token gets tucked away in his coin-purse, replacing the silver he holds out to her in turn with a smile. "I'm sure it'll be something to look forward to."

Big, rough hands are a commonality here. It also probably goes without saying that Ilona will avoid washing that hand for days to come. But one would already have suspected that. Her blue eyes widen a bit as she watches the hammer work proceed flamboyantly, and the hammer itself. There's a certain pride in the item, and her decision to give it to him. "I will make sure of it, Ser." She just calls him 'ser'. Too bad, buddy. After hesitation, she takes the silver and places it in a box near the counter after eyeballing it. She doesn't even count it. "Enjoy your future ransoms in the meantime."

At least no one is likely to notice a lack of hand washing. For all his flamboyant toss of the hammer, Prospero does catch it without any troubles. No dropping it. Likely he wouldn't have tosses it at all if he thought he couldn't catch it. Also it probably would've hurt the floor more than the hammer if he had. He does huff a sigh through his mustache. Ser. The uncounted money isn't short. Spiros, at least, will count later. "Oh, I will. You have my word on that." With a merry wink, he leans the hammer on his shoulder and turns on a heel before strolling out the way he came.

"Warrior bless you, S — Prospero STORRRM!" Ilona calls out as she simply watches the man depart, with a wave. Of course, it's a bit loud and attracts a little bit of attention. A few heads turn. "Was that? Naah. Couldn't be." One onlooker says to another.

"And my dearest thanks to you, Smith." This prayer is uttered aloud — but to none but herself. She smiles slightly before heading off in haste, to get to work.

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