Wendealynn

"What?" says Wendealynn, voice flat and unimpressed over the bit of her pipe. Out of respect for her employer, the young dwarf takes the paper and tucks it into her tunic. She takes a puff, letting the smoke shield her briefly from the elf's enthusiasm, then gives a sigh of acceptance. "Fine, let me see what's up."

Rather than stand outside in broad daylight, Wendealynn seeks the privacy of the forge. She takes her time setting down her belongings, putting on her apron, and seeing to the smithy's daily maintenance before finding a moment to look over the paper and any writings that may be upon it.

Wendealynn flips the paper over, seeing if there's more. "Really?" she says, deadpan and the diametric opposite of Lothiwnye's giddiness. As the embers fade in her pipe, Wendealynn stares coolly at the elf for a long moment.

Finally she takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, tapping out her ashes. "All right. If you think you can manage the shop while I'm gone, I'll go on this bug hunt for you. Queue up the orders... eh, somewhere." The dwarf idly waves her hand at the cluttered workbenches while she removes her apron to set it back on its hook.

She kicks in the door to a closet that serves as her office, revealing a well-oiled suit of chain mail dressed upon a mannequin and instruments of war upon a weapons plaque on the wall. Grabbing a backpack from under her desk, Wendealynn stuffs a multitude of traveling gear into it before changing into proper attire and sturdy boots. She strips the armor from the dummy and slides it over her head, cinching the waist with a thick belt, and a solid warhammer finds its place at her side.

Shouldering her pack and her shield, Wendealynn pauses. She looks at Lothiwyne as if to say something, but at the last moment simply lifts her mailed fist to the elf and leaves it hanging in the air, expectantly.

"Never met 'im," says Wendealynn, accepting the awkward pat. "Seen his work around town. Good stuff. Ours will be better." Competition was fierce in a town with three smithies, but this only stoked the fires of Wendealynn's desire for perfection.

She reaches up and takes Lothiwyne's hand. Delicate and light, like most elves, but Wendealynn trusted the callouses and rough patches that denoted working hands; this elf was no slouch. She closes Lothiwyne's fingers into a fist, then brings her own to lightly bump together. "'S not a dwarf thing," Wendealynn says quietly, hoping that despite her stony demeanor, her tone belies the respect she's given to the elf. "Just mine."

A smile cracks through the corner of Wendealynn lips, but it is quickly buried under a forced cough. She fusses with her pipe even as the heat flushes her cheeks. "All right. Don't burn the place down," Wendealynn says without looking back, walking in the direction of the Meese docks.

Wendealynn steps to the forefront, shouldering her way through any spectators if need be. She does not intend to listen to any proclamation through someone's rear end... since she expects more than enough of that from whomever she has to meet.

While she waits, the dwarf packs and lights her pipe.