Relic took the cup in her talons, and lapped up the dark liquid loudly once it had cooled. She knew sweetness, the earthy taste of greenery, but she didn't know cream. it was an odd white marbling, slightly thicker than water. It tasted of something, not strongly, but it tasted. A stray thought shot through her brain, disappearing quickly - poison? - probably not.
We're not going to question the mechanics of lactose tolerance in Origin. Either the cream is magical, or Relic is going to have a bad time in an hour or two.
They moved on to properly beginning the repairs. She watched as the armour was cleaned, recieving individual treatment on the softer parts (the leather) and the metal. Relic hadn't seen any surface get this kind of treatment, other than the tavern counter that Bartholomew seemed to be constantly wiping down. But even that counter didn't get this kind of attention to detail.
Watching the brush and cloth dance across the surfaces, Relic felt... a weird amount of envy. This inanimate object was getting more attention and gentleness than she'd gotten her entire goddamn life. Is that what it took to be looked after? Being a set of fancy armour? She'd been doomed from the start.
"Nobody uses that... I am The Blacksmith. The Story Painter, to some. And that is all right."
He kept on working, and did not think to mention the cream. But it was cream; it was low in lactose, without the need to be magic. Unless Relic chugged a bunch, she should be fine, he knew: he was always careful with these wonderful, fragile friends.
Eventually, the dent was gone, and he set the armor down to cool. "Almost done with the metal... and then I will repair the... leather."
He touched lightly on one of the red ribbons as he waited, and hummed in thought. "My brother is focused on... exchanges, yes. He has a good heart, but... I think he is a little... jaded." He leaned in, a little, his attention clearly on the ribbon. "I imagine this... means something, but I do not know... what." After a moment he turned, blinking at Relic. "Will you... return to me, and tell me this armor's story... if you find it?" It had a plaintive tone, almost a childlike request, innocent and fascinated.
@Relic
Nobody uses that.
There was a beat as she mulled over his second title.
Her eyes widened a little, the only sign of her surprise. Sure, her armor was mysterious and bad-ass, but she hadn't realised it'd caught The Blacksmith's attention - or maybe he did this with every client, don't get weird about it. (Relic was already weird about it. She had zero friends.)
As he worked--rubbing a patching substance in, scraping it away, polishing--he explained how important it was to keep the leather supple. He explained how to do that, too, and how to balance "supple" (with fats and oils) with "clean" (soaps), as some oils could quickly turn rancid.
He also spoke of his ability to paint stories, and demonstrated, too. "It is possible to... learn the magic. I can teach it if you... wish? Perhaps... gather others for a story." He lifted a hand, and a cascade of pale blue light gleamed across a piece of stone.
It showed a scene: a tiny fairy sitting in a chair, sipping a drink, while a horned figure and an antlered one sat across from her. The lines of the image gleamed, and there was a smile in the Blacksmith's voice as he spoke again. "Like this. It is... a silly nickname, maybe. Anyway... I think that we are done. You may stay, of course... or visit the Underforge... to see it. But your armor is... finished. Unless... you have any other questions?" he asked, softly polite as always, as he turned to regard Relic.
@Relic
Relic had given up on magic a long, long time ago. It was a kind offer, but-
Her gaze shifted away from the Blacksmith, as if embarrassed by the prospect of having to leave at all.
Relic began to shuffle her way towards the exit.
end