#blacksmith

“Nope,” the blacksmith shakes his head. “Nothing but battle mages around here, and I’m the only artificer in forty miles.”

The traveller tugs on her grimy hair in frustration. “You don’t sell potions or amulets or sigils?”

“Wouldn’t know how to make ‘em,” he shrugs, looking at her with some concern. She looks in desperate need of a meal and a good night’s sleep.

“This place is spoken of as a bastion of magic! A font of innovation and power!”

“Well, I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I’ve got more magic in here than one person could possibly need. Provided you need it forged into a blade,” he replies.

It’s getting rather hard not to take her dismissal personally. He would never have expected someone like her not to value the crafting of magical weaponry; he has never seen anyone look more like a sellsword.

“You have nothing else?” she presses and this time there is desperation at the edge of her voice.

“Sorry…”

All the light seems to leave her eyes. Her head drops and the blacksmith can just make out a frantic stream of muttered words.

“Two months on the road,” she breathes, “dragging him from pillar to post as he wastes away, and there’s not a drop of healing magic in this damned place—”

“Heyday! I never said that!” he protests, urgently stepping forward. “You came here with someone in need of healing?”

Her eyes dart instantly up to his. “Yes. My— My charge. He is affected by some curse or illness… Something my skill could not protect him from.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” the blacksmith grins. He looks at her, sizing up the width of her shoulders. “Know how to handle a broadsword?”

“Of course I do.”

He takes one from its case, the flawless blade almost black, the glint of the steel almost warm as he offers it to her.