Wil Foxglove stares long at his newest creation. With the assistance of a visiting Eorling, he was able to complete a fine sword. His meaty, hairy hands grasp the hilt: despite his inexperience with swords, he lifts it with ease and allows the sunlight of the midday to grace its metal form. He flashes a toothy smile, proud of his handiwork. At this rate, he could make a dozen swords and sell them for a significant price on the wider market. The Watch might even use the swords--if they knew how to use them in the first place--or else he is stuck crafting clubs and staves again. Before he voices his own dismay, the gate to the blacksmith's courtyard swings wide open.
Sophie Leafcutter flies through the gate, a look of excitement plastered over her freckled face. Donning a simple outfit: gray shirt; brown pants; brown vest; and topped with a straw hat, she points at Wil and declares her intentions with force.
"Listen 'ere you metal-smackin' rat, you got the sword ready for fightin'?" Wil meets her brown eyes, slightly obscured by a rogue tuft of almond hair, and doubles the enthusiasm.
"Aye, Soph. Take a look at 'er, she's 'bout the nicest thing I made for seasons." He pushes the blade to her with the hilt closest, allowing for ease of exchange. Sophie takes the sword and brings it dangerously close to her face, staring as if she knows exactly what to look for.
"Wil, this is shinier than a spider's eyes. When didya learn to make a sword like this? She's perfect!" She throws her arms into the air, ignoring the sword's reach. Wil winces at each of her dramatic movements, hoping that the blade never strikes home on either of their poor souls.
"Well, got this horsefriend, aye. Eorling or somethin' like that. He fixed me up with some ideas and I went with 'em. Not as hard as I thought, aye, and this the result. You like?" He gestures vaguely to the weapon, the smile of pride stuck upon his dry lips.
"Aye, I do! Can't figure if'n I'll ever need it, lots of those Windswept types can fight harder than our toughest by miles, but I can't join no adventure with no weapon. 'Less I bash 'em with the lute." She jests, though using a lute as a club has crossed her mind in the past.
"Did ye get the armor from Lane Daisy?" Sophie interrogates Wil with her eyes, hoping for one answer only. He scratches at his neck and allows his hands to do the talking, his right index finger pointing towards the dilapidated shed on her left flank. Sophie marches towards the destination, sword in tow, and she opens the doors with a measured touch. Inside the shed is a mannequin, covered from head-to-toe in an assortment of mail, light plate and heavy leathers.
"Wil... it's really 'appenin, ain't it?" Sophie remarks with wonder, her gaze sticking upon the armor that sits before her, ready to be donned by its new owner. Wil keeps himself silent, allowing the moment to speak for itself. Sophie cannot think of anything but what lies ahead. The more she looks at the armor, the more she imagines wearing it, finding the future she always desired.
