The Black Wyrm of Brandonsford

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The Blacksmith's

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Warwick watches as a small crowd gathers near his shop while he responds to Wren and Nessa.

"Morning miss," he says to the fair-haired girl, before lifting his eyebrows towards the river-runner. "Adventurers, I see. You've come to the right place. Plenty going on here lately."

There are a few items that might be of interest to the group inside the man's shop. Well-made daggers, a single long sword... and frankly little else. Save that a mail shirt of some kind gleams in the rear of the place, adorning a wooden mannequin.

"Apologies," he says to the shoppers. "I'm low on wares. My iron supply has dried up. The Guldar brothers used to bring regular shipments of ore from the mountains in the north. But I haven't seen hide nor hair for days. No, weeks. If you're all strikin' out, I would be pleased if you'd check on them."

About the 'charms,' he adds, "Not good luck charms. Wards. Against evil fairies. I'm beset by the damned things. The iron and such keeps them out of my shop, but I've seen them lurking at night, peeking in, and leaving dead flowers and other threatening talismans on my windowsills and doorstep."

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Ingrid's Shop

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Ingrid is busy rearranging items on her shelves, trying hard to not look like she's focused on what's happening across the street as Gann re-enters her shop. She looks startled when the Marchguard queries her.

"What -- what do you mean?!" she asks. "Why d-does he think the fae are trying to get into his smithy? All that c-cold iron. It's a terrible place for fairies, whether seelie or unseelie..."

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The Blacksmith's

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"Did you now," Warwick says to Wren when she divulges a little about the escapade with Naggeneen. He then answers the woman's follow-on questions, fairly curtly.

"Flowers, leaves and acorns and little trinket things, pieces of parchment with sigils and such. I burn them each morning." The burly man gestures with his head toward a work bench behind him, so that Wren and the others see a beautiful fern leaf on top of a piece of parchment or velum, folded in half.

"There's last night's. Headed for the furnace soon enough."

When Wren asks more personal questions, the man's brow furrows and he returns to his hammer, tongs and anvil to work. "I've no wife, no kids," he says tersely. "Too busy for all that."

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As Sable meanders in the shop a bit, amongst the barrel hoops, door hardware, saws, axe heads and plow blades, he notes that the daggers are plain but appear to be of good quality. Warwick's mark is a simple one, three upright bars low down on the blades. The sword looks well-balanced and sharp, but it's the mail shirt in the back that takes the man's attention.

It doesn't look like links of iron or steel wire comprise the armor; some rarer metal glints. Silver? No, too soft. Mithril. Aye, it might be mithril. And it wasn't crafted recently. Though in good condition, the mail looks old, and perhaps repaired once or twice.

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The Blacksmith's

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"Aye," Warwick says to Nessa, nodding in her direction. "Dark times in Brandonsford."

When Sable shows interest in the armor at the rear of the shop, Warwick brightens and walks to join the man. "It's a fine shirt, yes? Well beyond my simple skills. It was my grandfather's. He told me when I was just a boy it was crafted by Imperial armorers who could beat magic into this rare metal. Mithril."

Nearer the front of the shop, Wren sets aside the delicate ferns and unfolds the velum. Words are written in a flowing, gorgeous hand.

May your hearth remain warm, your arms strong, and your dreams peaceful.

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At Ingrid's

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In Ingrid's shop, the young woman's eyes shift back and forth for a moment as Gann speaks, and her cheeks color considerably when the man wonders about fae looking through windows and leaving gifts.

"Is -- is that what he thinks?" she asks, taking a step towards the soldier, then looking over his shoulder to try and get a better look at the smithy and perhaps its owner. "That sprites and red caps are trying to torment him?"

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At Ingrid's

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Ingrid is wide-eyed as she listens to Gann. She clearly thinks about what he's saying for a moment, but then wrings her hands. "I-I don't even know how to approach the man. He's just so... p-purposeful. And s-stern. What can an herbalist say t-to a blacksmith like him?"

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The Blacksmith's

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"No," Warwick says with a furrowed brow to Sable. "The fools didn't even tell me they were going out when they did. I don't know if this mail shirt would have saved any of them, but it wouldn't have hurt!"

When Nessa chimes in about it not being something to borrow, the broad-shouldered man shrugs. "It was made to be worn, this byrnie. I'm no fighting man, and I know my grandfather would be smiling if it again saw battle." Looking from Nessa to Sable and back again, he adds, "I'd consider offering it as payment for anyone who dealt with this dragon, and brought me a load of ore."

Wren changes the subject as she comes closer, and Warwick listens to her intently before he shakes his head. "A bunch of leavings and findings from the woods? With reports of goblins and worse lurking about? Seems like little fae bastards to me."

He avoids looking at the note and goes on. "And aye, I know my neighbors. Now why would my neighbors be leaving such things on my doorstep?"