==== January 27th, 2014
==== Sori, T'ral
==== (Backscene) Jungle-bound T'ral puts in an order for a sweet Sori-made machete.

Who Sori, T'ral
What (Backscene) Jungle-bound T'ral puts in an order for a sweet Sori-made machete.
When There are 0 turns, 1 month and 23 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

Sori-Icon.jpg t-ral.jpg


Smith Wing
Clearly a place where Things Happen, the Weyr's Smithy is a busy place. Long lines of wooden workbenches and tool racks greet visitors. The tops of the benches bare heavy scars of cutting and burning in some places, and remain pristine in others. One side of the area is given over to a cluster of forges, anvils, bellows, and quenching tubs. Two noticeably smaller forges are tucked off by themselves, obviously intended for finer work or even jewelry. On the opposite side of the hall, as far away from the heat and flames of the forges as possible, is an area for the woodcrafting contingent of the Weyr's Smiths. Carefully stacked cords of wood line one wall, drying before use. In the very back of the Smithy, as far as it could be from everything else, is the massive structure of a smelting furnace, fed by a set of four massive bellows that are set up to be pumped by two people each. Stairs on either side of the structure give access to the top of it, and a primitive crane assembly looms over all of that, ready to lift massive crucibles of molten metal from the furnace. Various doors, all with good locks, lead off of the open space, either to store rooms or offices for the more senior Smiths.

The forge is cooling, but the loud clang of a heavy hammer pounding into hot metal is unmistakeable, "Sharding…. Rimer…. idiot's going…." Sori mutters over the echoing clang of hammer on metal. A loud hiss of metal being quenched is heard at the end of a long string of cursing. Is this really the sweet girl from Igen?

T'ral ducks into the Smithy, eyebrows raised as he looks about the bustle of apprentices and journeymen to and fro. Top priority? Not getting in the way. Next priority? Finding a certain senior apprentice who may have once been a sweet girl from Igen, but sure doesn't sound like one. He edges around until he's in the young Smith's line of sight and waves to get her attention. He pulls at the front of his shirt, encouraging a gust of air. Dark eyes look back and forth as he waits for an opening to talk, "Sori. A minute?"

Sori looks up with her chin tilted to one side, "Sure," said while she wipes her hands on the heavy leather apron worn to protect her from flying sparks, "Whatcha need?" Rimer, dark blonde hair and dancing eyes ducks round and out of the smithy. Sori levels a smoldering glare at the back of the other senior apprentice's head, then she's clearing the look and returning her attention to the rider in front of her, "T'ral, yes?"

The bluerider nods, she got his name right. He shifts weight from one foot to another, bringing the focus of his bearing and his heretofore distracted gaze solidly down on the Smith, "You're known for blades, right?"

Sori nods, "I've made a few," she admits. Strictly speaking, this is true if by a few the number is in the dozens that is, "Whatcha lookin' for?" she asks, tossing another glare at one of the other female apprentices as she leaves the smithy before she's smoothing her face again. Subtlety? No, Sori hasn't a clue what that means, "Belt knife? Or something a little fancier?"

The bluerider's eyes don't shift, but he does flick a bit of perception in the direction of Sori's scowl. Trouble came from anywhere at all, sometimes. T'ral's shoulders tense in a sort of shrug. He screws up his face, hands opening to describe… what? "I don't know. Not fancy. I'm gonna be doing sweeps and work in the jungles. I want something between a knife and a machete." He furrows his brow, "Is that a thing?" His eyebrows tick up, "Oh. Or a hatchet?" After that inspiration his face falls back to study of the Smith.

Sori nods as she snakes a hide off a small stack of them before moving to a work table. Quick, deft lines are sketched onto the hide, and when the girl is done there's a pair of blades. One a hatchet, and one that's somewhere between belt knife and matchette, "This would be the easier to make," which means it would be the less expensive, and it's the hatchet that's tapped, "but this would be more fun to make," and the other blade is tapped. It's in the blue rider's court, and Sori doesn't really care which he prefers. Work is work after all.

T'ral looks at the sketches, openly admiring the economy of line and the speed with which she produces the images. "That's what I was thinking of." He taps a finger steadily on the drawing of the knife-machete. Thinking. He shrugs and draws a forearm across his brow. Wow. Really hot in here, eh? He draws a breath and blows it out of pursed lips, "How much? Or… a trade?" Though what he could trade he had no idea. Prymelia would know, but she wouldn't be back for a while.

A calculating look is given to the sketch that's tapped, "How about," quick mental calculations and a small number is written next to the indicated blade in Sori's quick, cramped handwriting, "We could shave that in half if you could bring in a couple of hides that can be used for sheathes?" the sum is close to a full mark, but there's the hides on the table to shave that price down a good bit, "I'd have to get approval from Aaron of course, and he'll have to stamp the blade saying that it meets the standards of the craft before you could take possession," still an apprentice after all.

Pursing his lips T'ral removes his hand and watches keenly as Sori scratches a number down. Funny, her script is very different from her drawing. He quirks a brow at that and shakes his head to clear it. He takes a deep breath and rubs at the muscles between neck and shoulder, an arm slung across his chest. He clears his throat, "What type of hides?" If she said feline, he'd probably just pay the full price or go with the hatchet.

"Whatcha got? I'd prefer herdbeast or better wherry, but feline would do in a pinch," Sori says, but let's see what T'ral has shall we?

The massaging arm drops and he nods, looking from the sketch to the Smith. "I can do herdbeast or wherry. Feline," he pfffts. Not happening. Too pricey to buy. Too dangerous to hunt. All right. Down to brass tacks. He tips his head back, a lift of chin, "How much to get you started and how long will it take?" Wait. He blinks at Sori, eyes wide. Crap. I was supposed to haggle. Prymelia would be deeply offended. He clears his throat and schools his face to neutrality. Idiot. He cocks his head and awaits Sori's answer. A shower of sparks fly from a nearby workstation and T'ral spins towards them, half way to putting up his dukes. Fisticuffs. With a shower of sparks. Go T'ral. He relaxes and rubs at his neck, bashful.

"A sixteenth mark would get me started, the blade itself isn't what's time consuming. I can get that done in a day or two. It's the hilt, sheathe and accompanying hardware that would take the time. Two sevens would be how long it would take," Sori answers, "Find me a nice conch shell, and I could shave another sixteenth of a mark off," which would drop the price to just over a sixteenth. Like as not T'ral won't find a better price anywhere.

"I'll bring marks or goods equivalent to that sum in two sevens time." He puts out a hand to shake on the deal before fishing a sixteenth mark from his beltpouch and pressing it to the drawing. "I'll bring the hides or shells by as soon as possible. Otherwise, see you then." He sketches a brief bow and withdraws, "Oh, if you need to get a message to me, the dragon infirmary is the best place to leave it." He smiles, "Thank you, Sori."

Sori nods as she puts the sixteenth mark in the locked box on a small desk at the back of the smithy, "You're welcome," and she's off to find what's needed to start the commission.

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