A Serviceable Weapon
Business had reached an all time low for Droitwich Merrivale. His services once heralded the finest in Bree-land had taken a severe knock on the account of his now tarnished reputation as a blacksmith. It was a knight who sparked the flame, who spent a significant amount of coin on both sword and armour within his establishment in preparation for a melee. What was supposed to be a friendly tournament ended in chaos, as both items failed the knight at a crucial moment resulting in both a fractured shoulder and wounded pride. It is said that the blade came clean off the hilt, and the armour collapsed upon contact. Word spread like wildfire across the country, rumours that encouraged the blacksmith to drink, a vice that undoubtably caused the problem in the first place.
Ever hopeful, Droitwich sat behind the counter staring at the setting sun outside the adjacent window. He sighed, slowly rising to his feet to close for the day. As he did so, the unthinkable happened. The door swung open and a young, somewhat peculiar looking hobbit entered carrying with him a large sack. The first thing Droitwich noted of the hobbit was the fact he was wearing boots, causing him to almost mistake the fellow as a young man. Upon further observation he could see that he was also dressed in hard leathers and chainmail, armed with what looked like a gnarled wooden club; presently serving as a walking stick. “Good afternoon!” said Remaric Malvern, striding across the shop floor with a smile upon his face. “I trust you’re still open? I was worried I’d miss you.”
Droitwich raises his eyebrows, at first taken aback by the customer. “Ah, I- I mean, yes! Yes, we’re still open, master hobbit.”
“Remaric, please” answered the hobbit. “Or Remy, to my friends. I am quite sure with the business I intend to bring you will become just that!” When reaching the counter, he swung the sack over his shoulder and slumped it down upon its surface. It was a heavy, metallic sound. Accompanied by a wooden thud as he added his large club turned walking stick beside it. “You are Merrivale, are you not?”
“I am” said Droitwich.
“The man who provides shoddy armour and weapons to paying customers?” said Remaric. At this, Droitwich glared at the hobbit and opened his mouth to protest. Before he could do so, Remaric raised his hand. “Now, don’t be insulted! I am merely reciting the rumours you’ve no doubt already heard! No, as it happens, I am a hobbit of second chances. I have found those eager to right a wrong work twice as hard to prove themselves. Which is why I decided to bring my business to you.”
“Well…” said Droitwich, his anger receding. “Listen, I assure you that what happened with my previous customer was a momentary lapse of professionalism.” Remaric nodded, eyeing the drink bottle upon the counter.
“No doubt” he said, reaching up on his tiptoes to undo the string wrapped around the sack. “I’ve quite a big order for you, Mister Merrivale. Quite big indeed.” When the mouth of the sack opened, pieces of armour poured out onto the surface. It was plate by design with very little in terms of integrity left. It was dented, scratched, and damaged; coloured a shade of steel blue. “Well, what do you make of this?”
Droitwich lifted a gauntlet, its tattered leather straps hanging loosely. He began to inspect the rest of the armour which was mirrored in quality. “My professional opinion?” he asked Remaric.
“Nothing less!” he replied.
“This in junk, ruined. I would even go as far as to say antique by the design alone. Where on earth did you find this?” Remaric folded his arms, his lip curling.
“That is a long story which I shan’t bore you with today. Let us just say that it was acquired with great effort and has a sort of… sentimental value to me.” He then reached up to the counter and slammed his palm upon the gnarled wooden club. “Then there is the matter of this!” Droitwich turned his gaze away from the armour to the club, which had also seen better days.
“What do you expect me to do with that?” he asked, curiously.
“What do I-?” Remaric laughed, shaking his head. “My friend, what sort of a salesman are you? No wonder you’ve barely any customers!” Remaric seized the handle of the club and raised it into the air. “This club here has saved my life on more than one occasion. It has felled not only goblins and wolves, but trolls and creatures beyond imagination! What do I expect you to do? I expect you to make it a weapon worthy of such deeds.” He placed the club back upon the counter beside the armour. “I want you to use all of your powers to make these items before you worthy of a warrior!”
Several days past since Remaric visited Droitwich’s store. Although initially hesitant of the hobbits demands, he was right about one thing; he was eager to prove his worth. Why on earth a hobbit of all people wanted a suit of armour and weapon was beyond him. Yet, it would certainly make a good story to share across Bree and draw attention to his business. Droitwich toiled for hours reworking the steel and sizing it to Remaric’s measurements. He drew upon all his knowledge and skill to fashion the armour to its former glory and restore its integrity. The club on the other hand proved more difficult. It was made of ash, a strong wood which is why it had survived this long. Droitwich recalled Remaric’s only guidance. “Use your imagination! Play music, conduct experiments. Make this club a force to be reckoned with!” Droitwich embraced the challenge accordingly.
On the seventh day, Remaric returned to the shop dressed this time in finer clothes. He removed a large, feathered hat from his head and nodded at Droitwich who this time stood ready and waiting for his customer. “Welcome back, Remy!” he said.
“Good day, Merrivale. I received your letter, today’s the day eh?” Droitwich nodded, marching over to a wooden stand which was covered by a large cloth. This had not escaped Remaric’s notice, who had already moved over towards it.
“It was difficult, I won’t lie to you. The armour in particular was hanging on by a thread. That being said, feast your eyes!” Droitwich pulled away the cloth to reveal a set of armour of which bore the same characteristics and shape as the original but had increased in quality tenfold. Its steel blue colour glistened, all that was damaged and dented completely restored. To Remaric’s delight, it had been scaled down to a size befitting of a hobbit.
“This is remarkable work, Merrivale. Remarkable!” The hobbit ran his hand along the smooth, cold surface of the breastplate. “It just goes to show that second chances are worth the gamble.” His eyes strayed from the armour to a long wooden box, propped up against the wall. “And is that…?”
“You’ve a keen eye, friend. I hope that it is everything that you expected and more!” said Droitwich, stepping aside and extending his hand to the box. Remaric approached and paused for a moment before opening the lid, like a child anticipating a gift. His eyes lit up and a smile spread across his face as he stared down at the club, which had been transformed into what could only be described as a fierce looking weapon. The ash wood club had been wrapped and reinforced with steel caps at its tip and middle. Fine leather had been wrapped about the handle with a further steel cap added to the hilt. The hobbit took the club from the box. Although heavier than it once was, there was power in it as he twirled the weapon in the air.
“You’re an artist. This club would make Bandobras Took himself envious, make no mistake!” He lowered the club and rested it against the ground. “A force to be reckoned with indeed.” Droitwich smiled, already contemplating what his competitors would make of this customer of his.
“I am glad to have been of service, Remy. However, there is the matter of payment which is… well, substantial given the circumstances.” Remaric nodded, pulling from his belt a coin purse which was near bursting at the seams. This took Droitwich by surprise.
“Ah, that comes with a completely different story entirely” said Remaric.
