Spring 20, 512
The air hung pungent with the smell of what seemed to be heat itself, the coals of a smith's forge burning in the home and shop of Charles Kelntro the Third. The exterior of the building was partially washed, within easy arm's reach, the higher stones being clung to by the remnants of charred coal. The building had been engulfed in flamed, no doubt, but survived. Zeltivan buildings were resilient in that way, as Trente had realized after the storm. Ah, yes, the storm must have washed the charcoal below from the walls, meaning the tools within were likely damaged to an extent. Good news for Trente, being an prospective client.
He paused outside, reaching to the cling on his side, producing the thick vellum notes he had taken. Carefully he read over each request, calculating what he could of the cost. He wouldn't pay more than forty for a basic sword even as a singular purchase. And in bulk he would expect at least a modest discount. Then there were the objects which had inscriptions upon them. A tricky business, the calculations. He managed a rough estimate or two however. nineteen objects in total, some had requested none, some had requested multiple pieces. He consulted those that had requested multiples, and reassured they had the money he had approved such. However, he expected an influx of requests within the next two seasons as word of the association spread. He knew this as more than just a single bulk request, he needed to commission this man to do the bidding of the Association, to be there for them in favor and naught. He too was a Zeltivan blacksmith, had been since he first set metal in fire over five decades before the Association was first thought of. In fact, this is why Trente chose the master, he was fast, well known, and a symbol of the smithing community. Of the artisans. Trente's youthful appearance won him graced in the court of women, but when it came to ruling he was quickly realizing it to be a severe handicap. He needed a strong experienced face to be association with the gatherings. To be held the steel and foundation which they trained upon. Knowledge was the cornerstone of the Association, and age was required for such. Apparent age.
His reasons for tarrying were not purely to double check his math, no. He was drinking in the smell, the slight heat coming from the open door before him, and the feeling of soot slowly gathering on his face and clothes just from proximity to the building. He remembered such sensation from his childhood, when his mother had taken them to the artisan's district to live with that contemptuous man. He was not cruel, not to her or her boy in any case. Though a brute of a man he was. She would have never tolerated mistreatment. No, he treated her, and her coin purse quite well. That is when Trente realized that money did not exclusively belong to the leaders, and the knights. It fell in the hands of those that were the most useful. In a society the most useful unfortunately were dubbed only two classes. The ones that killed, and the ones that healed. Doctors, smiths, and a knights would always rule the economy with their blatant war amongst themselves. Feeding their own greed with bloodshed, then healing it as if they were saints. Trente felt the familiar churning sickness within him as he philosophized, and remembered.
He remained however, forcing himself to think. Proudly he focused on the doorway before him, the memories of his mother's long nights, and thoughts of his own future. What would his women's place be? Where would her merits shine, in bed or by his side? Ultimately questions unanswerable, but he knew what road he was stepping down. He was to become one of the many wealthy individuals who profit off the blood of others, and eventually give their own body to the horrible unstoppable currents of economy. Money, money, money.
The air hung pungent with the smell of what seemed to be heat itself, the coals of a smith's forge burning in the home and shop of Charles Kelntro the Third. The exterior of the building was partially washed, within easy arm's reach, the higher stones being clung to by the remnants of charred coal. The building had been engulfed in flamed, no doubt, but survived. Zeltivan buildings were resilient in that way, as Trente had realized after the storm. Ah, yes, the storm must have washed the charcoal below from the walls, meaning the tools within were likely damaged to an extent. Good news for Trente, being an prospective client.
He paused outside, reaching to the cling on his side, producing the thick vellum notes he had taken. Carefully he read over each request, calculating what he could of the cost. He wouldn't pay more than forty for a basic sword even as a singular purchase. And in bulk he would expect at least a modest discount. Then there were the objects which had inscriptions upon them. A tricky business, the calculations. He managed a rough estimate or two however. nineteen objects in total, some had requested none, some had requested multiple pieces. He consulted those that had requested multiples, and reassured they had the money he had approved such. However, he expected an influx of requests within the next two seasons as word of the association spread. He knew this as more than just a single bulk request, he needed to commission this man to do the bidding of the Association, to be there for them in favor and naught. He too was a Zeltivan blacksmith, had been since he first set metal in fire over five decades before the Association was first thought of. In fact, this is why Trente chose the master, he was fast, well known, and a symbol of the smithing community. Of the artisans. Trente's youthful appearance won him graced in the court of women, but when it came to ruling he was quickly realizing it to be a severe handicap. He needed a strong experienced face to be association with the gatherings. To be held the steel and foundation which they trained upon. Knowledge was the cornerstone of the Association, and age was required for such. Apparent age.
His reasons for tarrying were not purely to double check his math, no. He was drinking in the smell, the slight heat coming from the open door before him, and the feeling of soot slowly gathering on his face and clothes just from proximity to the building. He remembered such sensation from his childhood, when his mother had taken them to the artisan's district to live with that contemptuous man. He was not cruel, not to her or her boy in any case. Though a brute of a man he was. She would have never tolerated mistreatment. No, he treated her, and her coin purse quite well. That is when Trente realized that money did not exclusively belong to the leaders, and the knights. It fell in the hands of those that were the most useful. In a society the most useful unfortunately were dubbed only two classes. The ones that killed, and the ones that healed. Doctors, smiths, and a knights would always rule the economy with their blatant war amongst themselves. Feeding their own greed with bloodshed, then healing it as if they were saints. Trente felt the familiar churning sickness within him as he philosophized, and remembered.
He remained however, forcing himself to think. Proudly he focused on the doorway before him, the memories of his mother's long nights, and thoughts of his own future. What would his women's place be? Where would her merits shine, in bed or by his side? Ultimately questions unanswerable, but he knew what road he was stepping down. He was to become one of the many wealthy individuals who profit off the blood of others, and eventually give their own body to the horrible unstoppable currents of economy. Money, money, money.
