Cylus 2, Arc 722
The light had finally left Rharne so that the city was shrouded in twilight all trial long. Tristan and his family had begun to spend much more time in the house, apart from where running errands or walking the dog was concerned. When it was dark, being outside was just not particularly appealing, even if the cold had not taken a hold of the land yet. This particular trial, the young man bade his daughter, and his parents farewell after breakfast though because he intended to make a major purchase, if everything went according to plan. His old crossbow that he had had since Rynmere just didn’t do the job anymore; he’d known far less about such weapons when he’d bought it.
The rare ingots that Kirei had gifted to him about an arc earlier were in his domain bag that was hidden under his royal blue winter coat in order to minimize the risk of someone trying to take it – although Tristan didn’t know if there actually were thieves in the Glass Quarter. It was quite a posh area. The young duke who wasn’t sure if he was actually still a duke (Nobody had fired him, but the Rynmere of old was gone.) also carried a small lantern in his hand so that he would be able to see his surroundings better. He didn’t think he’d bump into things without it, but a little light would be helpful in any case.
As he walked – he had been told that the Foundry was located somewhere between the ascent to the Glass Quarter and the Sky Quarter – he wondered if buying a weapon in the city of the Immortal of Brawling really made sense. For a moment, he considered honing his skills in unarmed combat instead. While he enjoyed watching fights and was quite fond of Ilaren, he ultimately had little interest in beating people up himself though. He didn’t think he’d be very good at it. Besides, plenty of residents of Rharne seemed to own weapons.
It took Tristan a while to find The Foundry, and he actually walked past it once – in spite of being such a prestigious establishment, it was tucked away in a corner. He looked at the building for a moment before he extinguished his lantern and entered, letting his gaze sweep around the interior as he did so. It looked quite different from what he had always imagined a forge to look like. There were comfortable armchairs that were decorated with plush fabric and intricate metalwork, and paintings, most of which depicted the process of forging, hung on the walls. It was, Tristan decided, quite posh.
In spite of the fact that he was quite curious about his new surroundings, Tristan refrained from touching anything – doing such would be inappropriate – but approached an apprentice, introduced himself and asked if the Forgemaster could spare a bit of time; he’d like to discuss something with him. Considering the nature of his request and the rare ingots that he had brought, Tristan thought it best to talk to the man himself. Making what he wanted to have made seemed like something that would require great skill to him.
When Lag appeared from the backspace of the Foundry that was not usually open to customers, Tristan bowed deeply and respectfully as would be appropriate in his opinion, and then Lag led him to a pair of armchairs away from the others where they would be able to discuss things in private.
“My apprentice told me that you wanted to have a crossbow custom-made, Lord Venora?” the Forgemaster who gave Tristan the impression of being somewhere in his forties, with brown hair, asked. “Which material exactly were you thinking of, do you want a pistol crossbow or a normal crossbow, and do you also want it to be ensorcelled?” he continued.
As he waited for the young man’s answer, the Forgemaster pushed his forging goggles upwards, so that they rested on top of his hair, revealing his black eyes. There was something strange about his goggles, Tristan noticed and furrowed his brow very lightly. There were traces of something – ether, although he didn’t know that - trailing through the lenses and around the frames, as if they were filled with magic. The Forgemaster's goggles were, he decided, quite extraordinary.
The light had finally left Rharne so that the city was shrouded in twilight all trial long. Tristan and his family had begun to spend much more time in the house, apart from where running errands or walking the dog was concerned. When it was dark, being outside was just not particularly appealing, even if the cold had not taken a hold of the land yet. This particular trial, the young man bade his daughter, and his parents farewell after breakfast though because he intended to make a major purchase, if everything went according to plan. His old crossbow that he had had since Rynmere just didn’t do the job anymore; he’d known far less about such weapons when he’d bought it.
The rare ingots that Kirei had gifted to him about an arc earlier were in his domain bag that was hidden under his royal blue winter coat in order to minimize the risk of someone trying to take it – although Tristan didn’t know if there actually were thieves in the Glass Quarter. It was quite a posh area. The young duke who wasn’t sure if he was actually still a duke (Nobody had fired him, but the Rynmere of old was gone.) also carried a small lantern in his hand so that he would be able to see his surroundings better. He didn’t think he’d bump into things without it, but a little light would be helpful in any case.
As he walked – he had been told that the Foundry was located somewhere between the ascent to the Glass Quarter and the Sky Quarter – he wondered if buying a weapon in the city of the Immortal of Brawling really made sense. For a moment, he considered honing his skills in unarmed combat instead. While he enjoyed watching fights and was quite fond of Ilaren, he ultimately had little interest in beating people up himself though. He didn’t think he’d be very good at it. Besides, plenty of residents of Rharne seemed to own weapons.
It took Tristan a while to find The Foundry, and he actually walked past it once – in spite of being such a prestigious establishment, it was tucked away in a corner. He looked at the building for a moment before he extinguished his lantern and entered, letting his gaze sweep around the interior as he did so. It looked quite different from what he had always imagined a forge to look like. There were comfortable armchairs that were decorated with plush fabric and intricate metalwork, and paintings, most of which depicted the process of forging, hung on the walls. It was, Tristan decided, quite posh.
In spite of the fact that he was quite curious about his new surroundings, Tristan refrained from touching anything – doing such would be inappropriate – but approached an apprentice, introduced himself and asked if the Forgemaster could spare a bit of time; he’d like to discuss something with him. Considering the nature of his request and the rare ingots that he had brought, Tristan thought it best to talk to the man himself. Making what he wanted to have made seemed like something that would require great skill to him.
When Lag appeared from the backspace of the Foundry that was not usually open to customers, Tristan bowed deeply and respectfully as would be appropriate in his opinion, and then Lag led him to a pair of armchairs away from the others where they would be able to discuss things in private.
“My apprentice told me that you wanted to have a crossbow custom-made, Lord Venora?” the Forgemaster who gave Tristan the impression of being somewhere in his forties, with brown hair, asked. “Which material exactly were you thinking of, do you want a pistol crossbow or a normal crossbow, and do you also want it to be ensorcelled?” he continued.
As he waited for the young man’s answer, the Forgemaster pushed his forging goggles upwards, so that they rested on top of his hair, revealing his black eyes. There was something strange about his goggles, Tristan noticed and furrowed his brow very lightly. There were traces of something – ether, although he didn’t know that - trailing through the lenses and around the frames, as if they were filled with magic. The Forgemaster's goggles were, he decided, quite extraordinary.
