Tools of the Trade [Hrafnir & Mant, Open]

[Gwendolen Lawrence]

Tools of the Trade

Note!You should note that the events of his thread are happening at the 81st of Fall, and might move on unto 82th of Fall. After this thread is completed, the time between this thread and reality will not be played through.



81th of Fall, 510 A.V.

Gwendolen sat down with the two men around the table. It was early morning, and the light poured in through the cracks in the brick wall. She gnawed on the bones of the chicken she ate the day earlier, and seemed rather happy. After a few minutes of gnawing, and a few of almost choking from her attempt to swallow the bone whole, she was back on her former place at the table. Gwendolen laid down five silver coins in the middle of the table, and started to talk.
-"Even though our friendship hasn't lasted for long, I'd like to come straight to business. Now I'm not talking about our former discussion of kitchen knives, but meat." She looked at the two men, for a reaction and continued her speech.
-"You see, during winter times, many successful hunters tend to retire, and wait until spring before they start to dwell the woods again. This would result in that the prices of meat would rise through the land. There's also fewer deer than there is under the season of fall, which would result in deer meat rising in price. I've watched the price rise the last year, and this year should be the same." Gwendolen gave them both a grin, and snatched up the silver coins from the table. She drops them down into her leather satchel again, and picks up a gold coin. With her grin rising even more than before, she countinues.
-"This would be the profit of each meat, five miza silver coins." Snatching up the coin again, her grin vanished into a mere smile.
-"I'm rather sure you both are interested in gaining a profit on this, boys. That can't be done to easily. Therefore, I demand one silver, for each gold coin you earn. Would that be fair with you two? If you disagree, this could get rather disturbing." The last sentence was said with such a tone that not even a beggar would find it threatening, and with a smile she looks at them both awaiting an answer.

[Hrafn Alaric]

81th of Fall, 510 A.V.

-"Correct me, if I seem to get anything wrong. What are you doing in this little arrangement? So far, me and Mant seem to be the only ones doing work!" Hrafn called at the girl, slamming his fist into the table, standing up; sending the chair flying.

-"So, listen here lil' miss all that. You hunt meat which we can eat, the rest we sell to make extra profit. Meanwhile, me and Mant produce and sell kitchen knives at 8 sm per one. So, if you want to keep taking and wasting space, you better get productive - and soon." Hrafn finished, somehow remaining calm.

-"You two figure this mess out. I'm stepping out to grab some Iron. Mant, get a grindstone when you can, then go out and gather thick, sturdy wood for handles." Hrafn muttered as he slammed the door behind him.

[Mant Liknessa]

81th of Fall, 510 A.V. Mant quietly nodded to that statement, rose tiredly up from the table and departed the workshop with his bald head emitting a faint shine. He looked around himself when he stood outside of the small smithy, and headed immediately to the inn he had eaten at since he came to the city and prepared to eat a common meal. The inn was named The Golden Dragon, or, that was what the sign dangling in front and above the main door called it. The people that regularly visited it called it just 'The Dragon', or simply 'Dragon'. The smell that came from it was brimmed with the essence of warm porridge and hearty steak, and sometimes the strange, appetizing smell of cooked root vegetables. Mant entered it. His low boots hit against the tile-covered floor and he looked with his glare on the sparse visitors in the morning. He went, with his boots making a dump noise against the tiles and settled himself at a table, waiting for someone to attend to him. After a short while, a girl came to him with a somewhat tired look on her face, obviously wishing that she could have slept more. "What'd you want?" She asked him. "Some good oatmeal. I want bread aside, too. With beer. Please." (Common meal.) She nodded shortly and left him. After a while she returned with the oatmeal, two loafs of bread and a mug of light ale. Mant nodded pleased towards her and handed her the Mizas, then focusing on the meal after she had counted the coins and departed him. He picked up a spoonful of the oatmeal, and put it into his mouth, feeling the thickness and the well-boiled substance of it. This was no mere gruel, this was real porridge with the strength of to saturate a man for several hours. Slowly, with the patience, though not the elegance, of a professional he chewed his substance 32 times until all the think and unnecessary bits in the porridge had turned to near-liquid mass, he swallowed it and felt it slowly plummeting into his stomach. Then, he dipped his wooden spoon into the oatmeal yet again and saw the yellowish-white, or just plain yellowish-brown in an another light, colour the oatmeal consisted off lying flatly on the spoon, and after that he dipped the spoonful into his mouth. The taste of the oatmeal was flat, but national-romantic in its essence. It had a distant taste of rye porridge, of the special kind which had beer in it for added taste, but it was nearly invisible in the mass of the raw, plain-tasting oatmeal. 32 times he chewed that bit, and then he hungrily consumed the rest of the porridge without thinking of chewing it, just interrupted some times by eating the soft-tasting loaves and pouring down the light ale in the mug. When he was done, he rose himself from the chair and departed the Inn with his stomach filled and his body ready for today's work. When he exited the Inn, he left the empty wooden bowl and spoon, and the clay mug, behind him. He stared around himself, though, this time not brooding nor penetrating, just curiously examining the surroundings of the area, and prepared himself to search for someone he could find a good grindstone at and perhaps someone that could help carrying it. He stepped towards a building in the hallway to see if he had a spare one and perhaps, if he didn't have one, instructions to one who did have a spare one.

[Hrafn Alaric]

Hrafn kicked the stone pebbles in the hallway, they must've fallen out from the sturdy old brick walls, he strangely found it entertaining and soothing. As he walked down the lonely hallway, he hummed to himself, similar to a bee. He pushed open the door, and the immediate illumination of lamps and candles greeted him. Aaah... the Great Bazaar. Food, materials, spices and weapons, if you wanted it, you'd just step into the Great Bazaar.

He searched for his regular, he always got cheap deals from him. He saw him, not to far away. A stubborn, short man with greasy black hair, the runt of his family you could say. "Aye! Ye lukin' fer sumthin' are ye!?" he called, a bit loudly. -"Yes. I am looking for Iron." Hrafn responded, making sure he talked slowly as the thick pillock might not understand him. "Iren! A necessity for eny smithey! Ach-ach-ach!", he called, his hacking laugh made Hrafn grit. -"I'll take... 8 pounds of it, sir."

He seemed to wheeze, perhaps he was calculating how much he'd get.
"If my calculations are correct, it's 3 gold minx's." Of course it wasn't, the idiot. He hardly could do the math.
"S'pose you're right mate!"
Success!

Hrafn handed him the 3 Miza's and grabbed the Iron, he placed it on his toolbelt and wasted no time. He hurried back home.

[Gwendolen Lawrence]

81th of Fall, 510 A.V.

Gwendolen hasn't moved since both of the men left the room. She has been staring at the door, in desperate attempts to think up a strategy, in order to make some money by tricking the two men into a trade. Just as Hrafn enters the room, after coming back from his business, she stood up and dropped the chicken bone in sheer joy, due to the geniality of her idea. Staring blankly at the man, she started immediately.
-"Sit down. I've got an offer to propose." If he would take the offer to sit down, or not, that wouldn't matter to her. As long as her offer would reach his brain, it should be fine.
-"I hope you remember my former offer, and I'm sorry if you misunderstood anything." She almost lowered her head slightly, but raised it immediately again.
-"You're to give me your money by the end of all, and I'll handle the negotiations with the merchants, and I'll also arrange 'few men to pick the meat up. For my work with this, I'd like to be awarded with one silver coin each gold coin you earn on this trade. Would that be good enough, sir?" She smiled at him, but as the taste created by the bone was gone, she started to gnaw on it once again.

[Hrafn Alaric]

81th of Fall, 510 A.V.

Hrafn ignored her and walked past. He drew the metal bits one by one from his belt and dropped them on the table. -"Chirp chirp, said the dove." he hummed to himself. He turned gracefully, almost like a ballet dancer.
-"Ta, you can work for us. For 50 coppers per golden coin. You go around selling - the more you sell the more we all get."

He turned his back on the woman again and started working.
Hrafn fired up the forge with his first attempt of using the flint, as the forge ignited in flame as the first spark flew, years of training payed off. He nursed the fire gently by spreading dried grass over the flame, the coals in the center quietly snarking.
He gripped his tongs and removed the iron from the forge and onto the anvil. He gripped his hammer and chiseled and nursed it into a fine, curved shape by hammering it's end. He held the iron with the tongs so it was angled horizontally as he carefully thinned the edge which would eventually turn into the blade. After 15 minutes of continuous work, he dropped the blade into the trough of water.

Lastly, he gently bent, curved and shaped the blade into perfection. -"Brilliant..." he uttered.

He stood over his product proud, he gripped the next bar and started anew.

[Mant Liknessa]

81th of Fall, 510 A.V. Mant slowly walked through the main gates of the Great Bazaar with a vengeance, having entered it from a smaller hallway going downwards. His eyes focused on the colourful, open stalls, or shops at the sides, which urgently directed people to them and presented their goods. Eventually, after a throughout searching for a stall or store, he reached a stall under a plain, grey canvas tilt which dealt in blacksmithing accessories. The shopkeeper lifted his glaze up from his calculus and said: "D'you want to buy somethin'?" Mant, not showing any emotion as usual, formed his hand into a directional stand and poked with his forefinger at a grindstone with all the wood frames and well-functioning parts that was necessary to make it work. "Is that for sale?" He asked, staring brooding at the shopkeeper under his bushy eyebrows. The shopkeeper carefully laid his pen away and said: "Yes, it is. Do you want to buy it, or what?" "Yes," Mant said. The shopkeeper found a new paper from the bunch and wrote down some near incomprehensible numbers on it and said: "Large or ordinary? The ordinary one is cheaper." Mant's expression turned immediately after that statement into a thoughtful one emitting... well, thoughtfulness. Mant's expression morphed into one pretty similar to the facial look a Jamouran usually would get after eating (or, in some cases, drinking if it is especially liquidic) Dryrassian yoghurt made of fermented horsemilk, and, in its own sour-stomached way liking it. You see, Dryrassian yoghurt is unique in that way that it actually have wondrous results for people who have digestion issues, and it doesn't, though your mileage may vary as in all other things, necessarily taste bad. Not as much as Nuitic cuisine when they have recently taken up cooking. "How much the normal cost?" Mant responded in his matter-of-factly way, and got the chilling response of "25 gold mizas." Mant counted up his money with a dire patience, and then looked firmly and darkened on the stallkeeper. Which is an impressive feat, compared to the brooding stare he usually wields. "Do you know anyone who can help transporting it?" The stallkeeper, of calculating wit and speaking in a chilly voice comparable to the one Mant had, said: "Well, I'd suggest a girder, if you can find one." "Can you lay it off? Until I find one or someone else to help me. Of course." "Well, sure, but be quick, I don't got all the day." Mant, with his baldness of shininess that reflected the lights in the great bazaar, turned around after having signed a hastily scribbled agreement with the shopkeeper of him laying it off until one could help carrying it to the blacksmith and then left the stall, seeking for a girder or something else to help him. After a while, having looked for a girder he suddenly passed a shop selling provisional, though sturdy-looking, wheel carts which could be dragged by hand. A seemingly honest-looking, but with a weird flick in her eyes, shopkeeper stood in there in front of a table with her hands folded over her crotch. Mant looked intrigued on them and stopped in front of her. "Can I help ya?" She asked him when he got to the table. "How sturdy are they?" "Very s'urdey, ya can use 'em for 'ransporting wares from place tha place. 'ey are very good." Mant looked closer at them, walking to them and looking below them to see their shafts. "How much can they carry?" "Loads, guv'nor. Loads and loads from place tha place. They are specially made by me." Mant turned and looked her straight in the eyes, having resumed his brooding stare which seemingly pierced through her soul. She looked confused back at him, releasing a croak when he spoke: "Can they take a grindstone?" She flinched her eyes from him, and then responded with: "Aa... grinds'one? I'll be hones' guv'nor, ya need one wif a s'urdy s'ark for 'fat." "Do you have one? A sturdy one." "Eyah, but 'll cos' a bi'." "How much?" He asked, still looking on her. "10 goldies, I guess. I's lowes' price I'll give for a good one." She shrugged, looking on him while she retreated back a bit. "6 minx." "Ya 'ryin' 'o ruin me? I go' 'o feed myself 'oo." "7 minx, then. I hope that's enough." "Hah, 9 goldies, I'll no' s'and for bein' robbed by mah own cos'umers." "8 gold mizas." He looked firm now in his decision, standing tall as the large man he was and towered over her. "... 8 goldies, fen. I ain' goin' 'o sell 'o ya again." She turned to one who stood in the background and dragged it out behind her. She placed it beside Mant while he stood and counted up money. His eyes ran over the mizas, adding and subtracting in his mind, and then counted up 8 gold mizas which he held in his hand before testing it by jumping at it. It didn't crack. "I hope ya are done 'ryin' 'o wreck my wares before I have sold 'em." He just handed her the mizas, took up the cart and went towards the blacksmith stall. "Done already?" The shopkeeper asked when he saw Mant returning. Mant simply nodded. "I guess you want help to lift the grindstone up on that thing?" Mant nodded again in a very redundant fashion. "Well, I am not going to help you." Mant frowned, took up his pouch, counted up the coins he was supposed to pay to the shopkeeper for the grindstone, and added one silver for making him help putting it up on the wagon. The stallkeeper looked at the silver mizas, got the hint and helped Mant getting the heavy grindstone on the wagon. Mant then departed the bazaar with the grindstone on the wagon, careful for not making it fall and break, and went for the upward ramps away from the bazaar.

[Gwendolen Lawrence]

Note!You see, after a short discussion, I just realised that it should be '81st of Fall' instead of '81th of Fall'.

81st of Fall, 510 A.V.

Gwendolen sat upon the chair, and watched Hrafnir work the steel against the anvil. She couldn't understand why the iron reacted to the hammer the way it did, but she left that question at the back of her head, only to return to sitting without moving an inch of her body, except the eyes. Watching the hammer going up and down wouldn't amuse many, but Gwendolen seemed rather joyful after watching the hammer for a few minutes. The stone wall behind her wasn't the most amazing of works. It was worn out, and one of the stones were missing. She could hear the sound of merchants haggling, and the sound of bards singing and playing their hymns. She could also hear the sound of men and women walking outside, and the sound of the hammer in the background. What would be most important of all, would be the talking men outside the room. Their discussion about women and their wives weren't of importance to her, but the market prices were. With a slight smile on her face, she placed her face against the hole, just in place to be able to see through the wall. It was a rather huge commotion outside, but she could recognise a well-known face through the masses of people - Mant. She stood up and grabbed the cloak from the wall and swept in herself in. She walked up to the door and turned her face to the working Hrafnir who obviously was stuck in his work, but she gave it a try.

-"Hrafnir." She stared for a few seconds at him, but quickly continued.

-"What about you craft a dagger for me? You might consider it to be a rather selfish demand, but I'll return the favour by changing our deal to zero miza." She gave him a nod before he could answer, and quickly left the smith. She ran towards the location where she had seen Mant through the hole, in hope that he hadn't come far.

She ran through the hallways with haste, as she didn't want Hrafrn and Mant to pact against her in the trade. After a few minutes of hassle, and running through the wrong alley to another part of the castle, she made it through. She saw Mant, driving a wheelbarrow which was loaded with a grindstone. She ran up to him, and quickly began to speak.

-"Greetings, Mant! Have you by any means thought on the Trade I offered you? It's rather good, if you ask me. If successful, you would earn two times the amount of gold you currently have. Wouldn't that be great?" She gave him a rather fake smile, and started to anxiously chew on the chicken bone, which now had almost cracked into two pieces from the constant chewing.

[Mant Liknessa]

81st of Fall, 510 A.V. Mant glared hard on her behind his bushy eyebrows. His arms ached from the stain it had taken on him to drag the grindstone up to the current level without it falling off the Spartan, and just well-made enough to hold the grindstone, wheelcart. He opened his mouth, and responded to Gwendolen's quick-paced question with: "Maybe. I make my decision later." He continued dragging the wheelcart after him, and after a short time he reached the smithy. His glare focused entirely on the door, perhaps in an attempt to make Hrafn open the door if he stared long enough on it. Eventually, he yelled: "Hrafn! I need your help!"

[Hrafn Alaric]

81st of Fall, 510 A.V.

Hrafn brought the hammer down like an elegant, carefully calculating each hit and shaped the edge with elegance. Hrafn's views on life could always be solved by grabbin' the ole hammer and walking to the anvil. Somehow - crafting and creating things was always the getaway in life for him - probably his Isurian heritage kicking in.

-"Ahum?" he blurted out as Gwen dashed out - a fast one she was. He couldn't really rule out that she was a thief, could he. A dagger, he heard? It'd take time to make a good one. -"I guess I could fancy one out of the spare iron..." he muttered to himself while shrugging.

He heard a high-pitched noise as his Pycon friend appeared from behind the tools. -"There you are, Peeloh. We never could quite get you speaking - could we?" he asked - a futile attempt of course, but he liked to think that Peeloh could understand him. He stroked his clay chin with his index finger - he seemed to laugh. That was what his father left him - and only him, an old hammer and an illiterate, mute Pycon. He squealed in happiness as Hrafn stroked his back gently. He seemed to spring with life as he jumped off the table to the sack in the corner. He grabbed an apple and gave his old friend. -"Aawh, shucks, you always took care of me - didn'tya?" he smirked.

With the first bite, he heard his name being called. -"Bah, stay put you!" he called as he walked reluctantly outside. He opened the wooden door to be greeted by the familiar beard of Mant and charcoal hair of Gwen. -"By Sultros. Now that is a grindstone!" Hrafn called as his gaze met the grindstone. -"Bloody good work, Mant. I'll help you with that." Hrafn gripped the grindstone with both hands. "On three!" Hrafn squatted and prepared to do some heavy lifting. "One..." Hrafn straightened his back. -"Two..." He nodded at Mant... "Three!"

The two men lifted the heavy machinery into the smithy successfully. -"Brilliant! We'll have to compose a poem about this day. Peeloh! Give the melody!"