[closed] the smith of ferelden

[unshut]

WHO: Barrow, John Silver, Kostos, Ilias
WHAT: Mages, Templars and Swords - oh my!
WHEN: Vaguely Drakonis
WHERE: Ferelden
NOTES: OOC Post

It's said that the forge at Farrow's Crossing has been burning uninterrupted since the Steel Age. While that is almost certainly a fairy tale proudly perpetuated by Bann Egan, what is undeniable is that Farrow's Crossing is home to some of Ferelden's finest smiths. Weapons and armor crafted here are renowned for their quality, the production of which is fed by the mines located in the nearby hills. --Which is probably what drew a band of still-rebelling mages there. Doing anything to interrupt the flow of raw material from the mines to the forges could deal a real blow to the Bannorn's economic stability (never mind its pride and reputation), and so Bann Egan has offered a significant trade deal on arms from his forges to anyone who can root out the apostates and either send them packing or deal with them a little more permanently. He's not particular about where they go, but they can't stay here.

Comments

ii.

[hornswoggle]

The sight of templars clangs against every single instinct John has. Should he not turn and leave? What in the world propels him forward? He knows, but there is always a moment of doubt, of incredulous disbelief as he reminds himself of his allegiances.

Not for the first time, he feels the full weight of what he's involved himself in and feels tired.

It helps to have a lifetime of deception to fall back on as he looks from one templar to the other, then tips his chin towards the door.

"Are they taking visitors?"

As if this is a social call.

[unshut]

There's no conversation to interrupt; it's clear neither Templar (in their full armor, sweat plastering down their hair despite the bitter weather and mud splashed up boots and over greaves) has quite wound down to the point of discussion. The pivot of their attention from the main house to here, to the stable yard, to John is very sharp indeed.

"Who are you meant to be?" asks the older of the two men. There's a small cut on his brow, a dark crease of dried blood.