|Swords into garden tools? Never!|
|Summary:||How quickly life goes back to 'normal', even when preparations must be made for the next journey.|
|Date:||18 August 2011|
|Smithie - Tall Oaks|
|With no need for a white smith truly, those tools are few and far between. The small thatched building has a large overhang that sees the outside work area where most of the work is overseen. Several large anvils surround a central dunk pool and is kept clear by the fencing. The ground is covered in hay and often kept wet to make sure no fires occur. Most of the things made are horse shoes and tools for the woodsman.|
|Thu Aug 18, 288|
Late morning, and the smithy fires are burning hot in the noon-day sun. Two horses are tied to a post just outside the small workarea, their heads down, relaxed. The banging of iron can be heard, and whether it was silent for the week Lord Dafydd Camden was gone, it certain is not now.
The thirdborn son of the line is in a loose, homespun tunic, a leather apron atop it, and sweat beads his brow. He is without his sword, though it hangs off to the side on a pin in a beam. In hand, a hammer to bang a shoe into shape— one, two, three loud strikes, and then he pauses, raising it to eye it against the light of the sky, and then down once more to bang, twisting the metal in hand to form it by feel.
After the second look, an arm with hammer in hand, rises to wipe the sweat from his face before dropping it once more and turning to eye the two almost sleeping horses.
"Okay.. I'm not happy about this either, but if one of you are going to make the trip, it's more than necessary…"
The sound of activity, so foreign and martial, in its way, from what she's been accustomed to since Ilya arrived at Tall Oaks, is sound enough to attract the attention of the Septa making her way through the square, bundles in hand. Meeting every member of the settlement is a daunting task. Some coming easily to her and others shying away from the woman with her foreign ways.
Still, it's enough for her curiosity to carry her steps in the direction of the smithy, the soft swish of her robes, as much as the sound of her feet in the rushes that lie here and there enough to announce her presence, falling into the stillness between strikes of the hammer.
While the Lord Camden wouldn't presume that all are acquainted with him, and he with all, there is a measure of assumption that one could recognize the Captain of the Guard, a lesser son of the Lord of Tall Oaks who'd departed and joined the Old Gods, the youngest of the current line of Camdens, obviously not including the heir. He's gotten greetings, welcome homes, fair wishes, and even request for news from without the border, and all accomodated with a nod of the head, a word or three before returning to work. Preparations for the next journey begin already, and once the shoes are done, then he has to check on the readiness of the guards; possibly rotate them out so they are fresh and eager for the road. Then practice at the butts, at the pells..
Without looking up, or around, Dafydd can feel the presence of another, and he addresses, "Thank you for your well wishes, welcome home— the journey was unremarkable and the Lady Liliana is suited to her new home. She has grown into a remarkable lady, and sent us home with wishes that she could one day return to see you all." There. That should about cover everything everyone's wanted to know…
The voice that answers the spoken acknowledgement of her presence is a merry thing, in many ways perhaps surprising, from a woman seemingly given over to a calling that requires such things as modesty, humility and solemnity. But if she had not recognized him, having only the back of him to be going on with, the voice she does recognize, from her brief introduction to the members of the House soon after her arrival. "It is certainly good to know that your journey went so favourably, Lord Camden. Though I pray you forgive that I will have to take your word on the disposition of the lady Liliana. I do not know her in truth, but have only the reflection of your own family's good graces by which to judge."
Twisting around now to see whom he addresses, Dafydd sees the woman in religious robes and nods his acknowledgment. "No, you do not know her, but know that she has gone from a headstrong girl to a fine Lady in the span of two years. A story, no doubt, repeated over and over in the annals of history." He gestures with a move of his head towards the Septa herself, "Present company excepted, I'm sure."
Putting the shoe aside, Dafydd smiles tightly and takes the couple of steps towards one of the two horses on the post. His tones turn slightly wry, though they don't lose the gruff edge, "If you've heard horror stories of my harshness, it's a fine compliment indeed."
Taking hold of one of the leadlines that ties the horse there, he moves to lead the one back towards the covered work area. "And the week, no doubt, has been quiet for you, Septa?"
"Oh, you needn't except me in that annal of history. I do seem to recall being more a headstrong girl in my youth than a fine Lady. Much to the chagrin of my father, no doubt." Ilya, out of respect for the work being done, and the forge, which, if given the proper provocation, might see fit to light her up like a candlewick, being attired in homespun, rather than leather, comes only close enough to escape the sun that dapples down through the canopy. "I have heard no such stories, though rest assured, if I had heard them, in the solemnity of the confessional, I would do my utmost to keep them properly secret." A nod, as the horse is brought forward, "Quiet indeed, though I am glad to know that you have returned. I must confess that I have need to press you into service, in the absence of another blacksmith."
"Then it appears there is hope yet," is more muttered than uttered as Dafydd ties the horse to the new location before taking up something that looks like large clippers, used to cut the excess hoof and shape it properly.
Placing the tool in an apron pocket, he straightens and turns such that the Septa has his full attention, if briefly, blue eyes studying the woman. "There is little need for a blacksmith in a land of trees, Septa, so there is, at most, two that know this trade. I am here, however, and you may ask what it is you wish of my services." As a blacksmith. "Nails to repair thatch, perhaps?"
Ilya, whether by rights of distance, or the cover of the sound of the horse's hooves, does not hear the muttered comment, and so, she turns her attention to the horse being led forward to the post. "Yet all the world is not a land of trees, and ever must we prepare for the world outside, as well as the world within our walls. But when time and likeness of mind see fit, I would not mind new nails. I am still hard at work repairing the old Septon's house, and they would be quite handy. As well, I would like to return the garden to flourishing. And his tools were..long in disrepair." clearly a woman who believes in reusing and recycling.
"Then you wish your tools repaired, new nails, and perhaps new ones with an edge." Dafydd nods, his head bobbing in the acquiescence. "Easy enough to do. Bring the tools around, and we shall see what we can do. Some rust removed, new leather wrappings, a new edge and they'll be good as new."
With the agreement in place, though not the time and arrangement, the Captain of the Guard/Farrier/Blacksmith moves to the front of the horse and pulls his foot up such that it makes it impossible for the animal to kick out, or bite him. The clippers are pulled out of his apron pocket and he begins to trim. "I'll have time to do them this afternoon, before dinner." With the sun still high in the sky for noon, and shining brightly, that gives him time to tend the horses, and to begin production of a few new nails, some angle irons for support..
"Your help would be much appreciated. The people have been unerringly kind, but I would feel poorly to take so much charity, when I could do well simply with a bit of help with what I already have." Curious eyes watch the man at work, from her place standing just under the cover of the smithy, free of the sun dappling through the trees, "I will not, then take more of your time, but will allow you to tend to the needs of hour horses, Lord Camden." And as she likely should plug the Seven, even in this last of the Old Gods, "And if ever you have desire of an ear, I am in your service."
Alyse walks into the smithie clad in sueded black trousers and boots, in a cobalt blue linen blouse and a black velvet jerkin modified for the female form by way of golden stays. All the support of a gown and none of the hassle. While the hazel-eyed woman cannot help but give Ilya a brilliant smile, her attention is more business like and focused on her uncle. "My Lord Uncle, if I may?" she asks politely.
Large pieces of hoof fall to the ground from the clipping, and when he works it around the one hoof, brings out a hoof knife to dig into the bottom and 'scoop' it out. "If the tools are beyond saving, I'll let you know. Our former Septon had a great deal of time on his hands, but tending his garden wasn't considered."
It's a difficult job the Septa has, what with a good portion of Tall Oaks that follow the Old Gods. Even Dafydd, in his moments of quiet, perform the occasional rituals for appeasement or aid for one venture or another. It helps when one has a real Godswood.
Straightening, once he runs a thumb across his work to make sure there are no variations in the hoof, he smiles tightly. "I appreciate that, Septa, though I'm sure it isn't necessary." Uh huh.. "It would probably be easier and more fulfilling to speak to the bowyer. I understand that there is mischief afoot with his wife." Who hasn't heard gossip over one or another of the small community? (Which makes indiscretions a great deal more difficult.)
The first hoof lowered, Dafydd goes to the second and begins the same.. pulling the leg, unbalancing the horse, and pocketing the hoof knife, takes the clippers out. Without looking up, his tones remain even, and with a *clip*, he intersperses his words, "Yes, Lady Alyse. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Alyse doesn't miss a beat. "Pardon the intrusion. I would like to request that you join me for lunch today. We have much to discuss and I would benefit from your input on a couple of matters."
"I think, that neither the Seven nor your Gods intend for us to walk along the path that is easy, Lord Camden. It is the fire which tempers us and shows us our true quality, but as the forge." A nod of her head towards the structure, set deeper into the smithy. "Besides. If I did not seek out work, in such a place as this, I would find myself the owner of an idle mind and idle hands. And there are few things that those are good for." The sound of the approach turns Ilya's head, and she offers a smile, "Lady Alyse, good to see that you have returned as well." And back to Dafydd, "But I will bring such things as I need you to look over in the afternoon, Lord Camden, and again, my thanks." But she knows better than to intrude on the discussions of nobles, and so steps back to allow them their conversation, stepping back into the sunlight.
"I will attend."
The moment the clipping is finished around, once again, the clippers go into the apron pocket and the knife comes out to pare down the inside and take care of the shedding frog. "Idle hands do no one anyone good, Septa. Agreed."
Pausing in his work to wipe the sweat from his brow once more, he goes back to trimming the hoof. "If they're not bad, they should be ready for you on the morrow."
Sensing that the Septa is stepping back to take her leave, Dafydd puts the hoof down and stretches backwards to stretch his back before straightening. "You're welcome."
"As are you, in my confidences and in my home." Well treated and well attended she has been, but it never harms anyone to try to drum up a bit more company. What sort of Septa would she be if she did not?