Character Generation
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| Crafting Hall |
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| Vaulted ceilings rise thirty feet above the floor sloping gradually but leaving enough room for long stained glass windows to allow a modicum of natural light into the hall. The hard packed clay floor, blackened over time and worn in places of high foot traffic, slops gently up to the tavern room or rises steadily with stone steps to the quartermaster's store. Down the hall are long rows of work benches, tanning racks, tool chests, and stools. At the farthest end are three large forges that burn day and night, their hearths dumping massive amounts of heat and light into the building. Anvils dot this end of the room as do large barrels of oil, water and, in some smaller ones, blood. A small outdoor pole lathe provides a constant supply of shafts for arrows, spears, and staves. Students and craftsmen are welcome to work here so long as they provide their own materials. |
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It is not strange at all to find Gabe around the Crafting Hall. What /is/ a little strange is that today, he isn't doing any of the work. He's standing a short ways away from one of the weaponsmiths, waiting quietly and attentively while someone who actually knows what they're doing does some repair work on his sword.
It isn't odd, either, to find Donovan standing near the large central forge working ores into billets of iron or steel for the craftsmen of hall. A moment of silence between the hammer blows hears the burly man comment, one hand lighting a cigar by way of the forge's coals, "'s gettin' raih schallangen tuh keep ta steel flowin' aye?" to which the adept taking inventory nods as his only response.
Gabe doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but when the pattern of noise changes from a steady tink-tink-tink of hammers on metal to actual conversation, he can't help but turn his head. The comment's enough to get his mouth twisting into a sympathetic grimace. "Being locked away like this isn't doing our supplies many favors, is it?" he asks, raising his voice just enough to carry over to Donovan and the adept.
"Ain't neither noa fayvoren oos aye." Donovan calls back, one leg moving to start pumping the bellows and driving the forge hotter. His cigar pulls work out a timing of light across his face where the bellow pulsed blast burns white hot against his tanned skin before darkening to a dull orange glow as he sucks down another breath of acrid fumes. The adept shrugs in reply, focusing on his counts. "Ous 'at yar woarken o'r thar eyh?"
Gabe squints slightly before he picks himself up, taking a quick look to check on the progress being made on his sword before he moves across towards Donovan, instead. He can wait just as easily over there, after all — though he does make sure to leave the much larger man plenty of space to work. "Sorry, I think my ears are trying to retire for the night before the rest of me," he grumbles sheepishly, waving a hand in front of his own face.
The burly man bellows out a large cloud of smoke as his barrel chest heaves a laugh. "Whua anewthah unn thah canoa unnerstan o'waerd o'whua ayhm seyyen, 'khah." he smiles and then hefts some tongs and pulls free of the white hot forge a crucible of shiny liquid. "Ye best be stawnden bahk noo." he states before he pours the liquid into an ingot mould.
Gabe manages not to inhale /too/ much of the cigar smoke when Donovan laughs, and to his credit, he looks more amused than anything else. "I wouldn't say I can't understand /a/ word. I'm catching some of it," he replies with a wry, self-depreciating smile. He's certainly picking up enough of it that he doesn't need to be told twice before he steps back, giving Donovan some extra room to get around the mould. "I'm sure it's just a matter of training my ear. I'll get it."
<FS3> Donovan rolls Smelting: Good Success.
The metal hisses but there are no pops or crackles and it quickly sets and cools to a steel gray color. "Ahh, thah be whua ayhm luken faer." He blankets the mould in a thick wool batting 'cooling' blanket and smiles to Gabe. As he puffs on his cigar he scratches just under the eyepatch and then Donovan hangs up his tongs and walks over towards the craftsman at work on the blade, "Noo thahs noa ah propah blayde. Weell hafftah waerk oot ah bit o'thah steel fore ye." a pause, "Afar thah' ayhm offtah thah sahk."