#quel'dorei

He stepped towards the back, heavy, somewhat clumsy footsteps on stone flooring that seemed to echo in the space between rough long ears that had seen better days. Surely she wouldn't mind if he took a peek at what her current project was. She was always in the middle of one, it seemed. Probably had an unending list of customers who wanted a piece meticulously and painstakingly crafted by her.

As he made way for her workshop proper, where all of the magic happened, he smelled sulphur and fire, iron, and the telltale clove that hung about whatever she stuffed her pipe with. All of those things had become just about synonymous with her. Dirt and grime and oil and sweat. All part of her hard work and tireless efforts.

It didn't take her long to notice him. "You should be watching the front," she began, not looking up from the blade that she had on anvil as she hammered it down as she shaped and flattered the metal.

Looked like a longsword from where he was standing. Maybe for a soldier. Could have been a decorative piece. Maybe something for a rite of passage or the kind of blade that would wind up a family heirloom. It was too early to tell, honestly. What he could determine was that it wasn't her first attempt. That didn't surprise him either. Everything she did had to be perfect. That was kind of her deal. She didn't sell anything that she didn't personally approve of.

Maybe the mark of a good businesswoman. Or an artist. Who said smithing wasn't an art? Hard to believe otherwise when Weash saw how much Zarynei poured herself into her craft.

"There's no one out there right now," he spoke up, waiting to intersperse his words between the loud collision of her hammer against what he guessed was probably ironclaw ore, judging by the shade it was. And maybe its properties. He was still learning that part. She could have told him immediately, though. She probably knew them from sight, from touch, from smell, from... anything. "I just wanted to see what you were doing. You've been at this for a while. I can get us something to eat from somewhere in the city if you want."

When she finally stopped, she rested her hammer down on a side, lifted a hand and swept back some of that ochre and bronzed hair before she reached for a leather-bound book that she had at a safe distance away. "If you need to eat, you should eat." And as if she knew he'd immediately ask specifically about her, she continued. "I don't have time to stop."

He didn't agree. She had time to stop. She just didn't want to. He doubted anyone was going to rush her. Not if they wanted quality product. Half the time he was convinced that Zarynei buried herself in her work because she was either avoiding something or she just really enjoyed her work. If it was the former, though, he didn't know what it could be. He had been working for Zarynei for about a decade to the present point in time, but still didn't know much about her.

She'd been a soldier once. Saw more than a few frontlines. Eventually enlisted as a free agent. And then at some point decided she would never do that again, which resulted in the establishment of her smithy, which more often than not provided goods to other military units and squadrons. Maybe it was trauma. He couldn't ask her that, but it seemed reasonable. Sometimes she was asked by customers if she'd consider returning. Something about how having her on the field would be a boon, considering her extensive service history.

Zarynei didn't seem receptive to it.

"Did you notice if Sunhawk or V stopped in?" she asked him, the wire frames adorning her frame sliding down the bridge of her pointed nose. "Correspondence indicated that they would. Their pieces are done, if so."

"Uh..."

Weash squinted, looking over his shoulder back towards the way he'd come in from. She got a fair amount of business and plenty of window shoppers and potential customers with questions about what kind of custom work she'd do. He'd often thought that maybe having a record of interested patrons would be of benefit, but in the same way that Zarynei tended to intimidate him into silence, he hadn't yet found the courage to bring that to her attention. And though he knew who Sunhawk was, 'V' was sort of a rather cryptic alias to go by. That could have been anyone.

"I don't... think so?"

He heard her sigh and knew immediately that was probably the wrong answer to give, though he doubted anything he said would have pleased her. Sometimes he wondered why she let him stay there. She certainly didn't seem to like having him around, but by the same respects, she didn't seem to like much of anyone. Of course, she was a very professional woman and when she was consumed by her work, she wasn't a very welcoming presence.

...She definitely couldn't have been that way all the time, could she?

When he watched her turn her attention onto the forge, with embers that had long since cooled, she was already in the process of stoking it once more. He didn't know how she could handle it. She'd been in here for hours and it was almost like the lingering, suffocating hot air was incapable of touching her.

"I'll keep my eyes and ears open for you," he reassured her, hoping to soften whatever quietly seething temper she might have been hiding beneath that stone-like composure of hers. "You sure you don't want me to get you something? Or... you know. Maybe step away and take a breather? No one expects you to work yourself into the ground."

Her response was the same one she'd given him so many times before. He knew not to take it personal, too. Dame Ty'linde was an old woman. Well. He didn't know how old. He just knew she was old enough that her patience and tolerance for many things was rather limited. Even when it came to him, she only had so much mentor affection for him before she wanted him to leave her in peace.

"Fuck off, Weash."

Most others wouldn't have appreciated that. But he understood what it really meant. At least he thought he did. She didn't hate him. In the end, she most likely wanted him to take care of himself. Or, she was telling him that sometimes he just couldn't endure the heat in the forge. He would have believed that. Between the growing temperature and Zarynei herself, that forge was nothing but hot, hot, hot.

— @daily-writing-challenge