The Black Wyrm of Brandonsford

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At the Mercantilist's

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Cedric shrugs at Rowan's question. "It depends who you believe. When the pigs and goats started going missing--no one believed the farmers and herders at first. It seemed impossible that a dragon was to blame, but there were enough eyewitness accounts that it really does seem that the black wyrm of old is back, or some offspring of it I suppose."

Looking through the thick, imperfect glass of his window, the merchant gestures with his eyes towards the woods surrounding Brandonsford before he continues.

"And once everyone began sheltering within the walls overnight, and retreating back from the forest even during the day... the woodcutters, mushroom gathers, trappers and other outdoorsfolk all agree. These woods have changed. They're greener now, and thicker. Some says they've seen fairie rings, and others lurking goblins and silent fae hounds. Rodduk the hunter, rest his poor soul, swore he saw some ten foot giant crashing through the woods here, felling trees near this cleaning."

The man's finger lands on the map, in between the points that mark the witch of the woods and the barrow mound.

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The Herbalist's Shop

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Ingrid is offering Gann a difficult-to-read, perhaps distant expression when Wren mentions the smith again. That burns the shop-owner's cheeks red, and she has to work at a response before one comes.

"I-I-I'm sure I don't know. H-he keeps to himself. We've never spoken, n-not really. Well, that's not entirely true. He says hello in the m-morning and the evening, but we've never... I've never..."

Glancing out the window, Ingrid's eyes land on the man as hammer-falls ring and he gets to work. Her blush moves to her throat, to her chest. "He's very strong. Protective. But gentle, I think."

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The Herbalist's Shop

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When Wren continues to call attention to Ingrid’s pinings, and then actually says she’ll go talk to the smith, the lean woman’s eyes bug in her head and she rushes to block the exit of her shop. Her voice brims with panic.

"W-what?! No! Please, don’t!"

The nervous woman’s hummingbird heartbeat eases some when Wren reveals more of her plan, and after biting her lip and thinking for a moment, Ingrid nods slightly, almost imperceptibly. "You — you won’t tell him?"

Gann vouches for his friend’s matchmaking skills, but that only causes Ingrid to turn red again. Glancing out her window, across the way, the woman wrinkles her brow in thought before saying, "Okay. Okay! J-just — just check on him, p-please. He’s been b-behaving strangely lately, hanging things hither and thither all over his shop. I-I see concern on his face, but no cause for it!"

Wren seals the deal when she mentions having other business with the smith, and promises to not mention the shopkeeper.

"Thank you," Ingrid says, stepping away from the door. "His name is Warwick. And no. He has… no idea."

"Absolutely not!" Ingrid says quietly but somehow fiercely, absolutely terrified by the notion.

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The Blacksmith's

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As Wren exits Ingrid's shop, with Gann trailing behind her, she has only to cross the not-very-busy main street in town (the only one partly cobbled) before she finds herself at the smithy.

"Morning," calls out the man at the covered forge, pausing his hammering when he sees potential patrons arriving. His shop smells of hot metal, and quite a number of tools, hinges, spikes and other iron hardware is scattered around in barrels, racks, and hanging on the wall.

Also on the walls, and the man's door, Wren and Gann see... charms? Good luck tokens, everywhere. Horseshoes, dangling rabbit's feet, four-leaf clovers, St. John's Wort, tiny iron bells--the man appears to have decked out his workspace with every lucky charm possible.