• Completed • Light and Tasteful

Job Thread // "The local blacksmith only buys his ale from Ye Olde Inn..."

The capital city of the of Rynmere, here is seated the only King in Idalos.
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Sabine
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Light and Tasteful

Light and Tasteful


Timestamp: 1st of Ashan, 716
Location: The Blacksmith

A community piece. That was what hard work and persistence had landed her.

It wasn’t that Sabine wasn’t grateful for the opportunity to work at the Rynmere Gazette. It was more that her first day on the job hadn’t exactly started out the way she’d expected. Rather than reporting on the Immortals war or being assigned to investigate city corruption, Sabine had been asked to interview the local blacksmith about why he chose to buy his ale only from Ye Olde Inn.

So, basically an advertisement.

The Gazette had insisted that highlighting the Andaris community would add some “local flavour” to the newspaper and was exactly what the citizens of Rynmere wanted to see. “Keep it light and tasteful,” her supervisor had said. Light and tasteful. He may as well have said, “We’re just trying to fill space here, mmmk.” Either way, it was going to end up being pure fluff.

But at least it will be “tasteful” fluff.

Sabine groaned and pressed her forehead against her palm. Truly, all her dreams were coming to fruition.

The smell of burning coals invaded Sabine’s senses as she approached the Blacksmith with the leather bag containing her writing supplies. The coals were already giving her a vague headache, and she had only been near the building for a moment. “I’m getting paid for this,” she reminded herself, before wrinkling her nose and pressing on.

Once inside the Blacksmith, Sabine was greeted with the site of a heavy anvil and forge in the corner of the building and an assortment of weaponry scattered about the remainder of the room. Working at the anvil was a white-haired, bearded man holding a hammer in one gloved hand and balancing a sword in the other.

A moment passed as Sabine eyed the older man, whose failure to notice her presence filled the space between them. “Hello?” Sabine said finally, raising her voice above the clang of hammer hitting metal.

The man raised his head. “Be with you in a jiff,” he bellowed, before continuing to hammer the hot metal into the shape of a sword. Sabine watched him with a curiousity that arose in spite of herself. She had never actually been inside of a forge before, nor had she ever seen weaponry being made. More than anything else, blacksmithing looked hard. Sweat pooled on the blacksmith’s forehead and trailed down his neck as he swung the hammer with expert strength and precision, though his expression was so serene that Sabine would have believed that he could keep at it all day.

She lost herself in her thoughts until, several bits later, the noise finally ceased and the blacksmith placed his sword to the side to cool. He dangled his hammer from his left hand while looking expectantly at Sabine.

“Are you…” she paused and scanned a piece of vellum pulled from her bag. “Master Yosef Sturgess?”

“Aye. What can I do for you?”

“My name’s Sabine Qe’azour, and I work for the Rynmere Gazette. I believe you were told I was coming today?”

Yosef set down his hammer, took off his gloves, and wiped his hands on his apron. “Oh, that’s right, that’s right.”

“Now’s a good time, then?”

“Now’s as good as any! Come in, have a seat.” The blacksmith pulled out two stools from beneath a workbench and shoved aside some tools and trinkets to make room for Sabine’s writing supplies. She pulled out a pen, portable black ink, and two pieces of vellum that she’d borrowed from the Gazette for her assignment. Despite Yosef’s best efforts, coal remnants still managed to smudge the vellum as soon as it hit the table’s surface.

Sabine swept her cloak under her legs and settled on the stool. She picked up her pen, pushed the word "fluff" from her mind, and raised her eyes to meet Yosef’s. “So, Master Sturgess-“

“Please, call me Yosef.”

“Yosef it is, then. Yosef, tell me: Is it true that you said, and I quote, 'I only buy my ale from Ye Olde Inn’?"
Last edited by Sabine on Sun May 01, 2016 1:32 am, edited 2 times in total. word count: 711
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Sabine
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Light and Tasteful

“I never said that.”

Sabine stared at the blacksmith for a long moment. “What?”

“I said, I never said that.”

“You’re telling me that you didn’t say you only buy your ale from Ye Olde Inn?”

“That’s right.”

A slow grin began to form on Sabine’s lips. “Just so I’m clear, you never told anyone that you only buy your ale from Ye Olde Inn?”

Yosef looked at her as if she had lost her mind, no doubt wondering if the Gazette had sent him someone a few threads short of a sweater. Perhaps she was hard of hearing? He thoughtfully shouted his next words, mouthing each syllable with exaggerated care. “Right. I only buy my ale from The Blacksmith Arms.”

Sabine’s laughter filled the forge, and she had to grasp the table to keep from toppling off her stool. Oh, this was too good.

She couldn’t wait to see the look on her boss’ face.

“I’m sorry… I’m not… laughing… at you…” Sabine forced out between gasps, hoping to ease the look of offense that was filling the blacksmith’s features. She took deep breaths as her laughter slowed, and clutched at her aching stomach muscles. Keep it together, girl. She still needed to come out of there with a story, after all, even if it wasn’t going to end up being the expected feel-good story about Rynmere’s favourite family-friendly inn.

Once she got herself back under control, she repositioned her pen and continued her line of questioning with a tamed humour dancing around the edges. “Why do you only buy ale from The Blacksmith Arms?” Sabine asked. “I think it’s an excellent choice, personally,” she continued hastily, noticing that the blacksmith still looked as if she had insulted his mother. “But all of our readers may not agree. What would you tell them?”

Yosef hummed as he considered his response. “I would tell them… I would tell them that The Arms makes the best ale in the city! Not sure what ol’ Hemlock puts in the recipe-”

“Hemlock?” The name didn’t sound familiar.

“Rufus Hemlock,” Yosef clarified. “He runs the tavern. Family business, see.”

“Ah, right.” Sabine began to capture her notes on the vellum in quick, loopy scrawl.

-only buys ale from The Blacksmith Arms
-best ale in Andaris
-Rufus Hemlock, owns tavern, family business
“Not sure what Hemlock puts in the recipe,” Yosef continued. "I just know his ale doesn't taste like donkey piss. And it tastes better the more you drink. Amazing stuff, isn’t it.”

It really, really was.

Yosef grinned. He seemed to have made a full recovery from Sabine’s earlier gaffe. “Plus, The Arms is a great place to drink at.”

“Tell me more,” Sabine said. “What makes The Blacksmith Arms such a good place to drink at?”

“Well, it’s one of the oldest establishments in the city, you know.”

“Oh!” Sabine looked up from her notes in surprise. “Is it? I had no idea.” She thought for a moment. “Though I suppose I don’t really know much about the city’s history to begin with.”

Yosef clucked his tongue at her. “That’s what libraries are for, dear.”

She reddened. “Anyway. Enough about me. You said The Arms is one of the older businesses in the city. What else do you like about it?”

“The people,” Yosef said. “I don’t get there often because work keeps me busy, but when I do, I’m always entertained. The Arms attracts a lot of travelers. There’s always someone willing to tell their worldly tale.” He thought for a moment. “Plus, they let me hang on to my sword. A blacksmith’s got to have his sword nearby, you know. It’s just good business.”

And good self-defense, Sabine added privately, thinking of the few unsavoury tavern characters she’d chanced upon in the past. “Fair enough. Looks like that’s it for my questions! Is there anything else you’d like to share with our readers?”

“Nothing else, except to ask how could I not like a tavern named after my own profession?”

“Very good, sir.” Sabine smiled, finished the last of her notes, and dropped her pen carefully on the vellum. “Well! This was… enlightening. I think I should have enough to go on.” She grasped Yosef’s outstretched hand, mixing black ink with blacker coal. “Thank you for your time. You can expect to see this article published within the next few trials.”

She blew on the vellum to dry the ink before rolling up her notes and stuffing them haphazardly in her bag. Polite goodbyes were exchanged – words which neither would remember – and Sabine took her leave.

Now to actually write.
Last edited by Sabine on Mon May 02, 2016 3:22 pm, edited 3 times in total. word count: 826
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Sabine
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Light and Tasteful

Location: Sabine’s Home, Lowtown

“Doesn’t taste like donkey piss” - Local blacksmith recommends The Blacksmith Arms
Sabine tapped her pen thoughtfully against her cheek as she considered what to write next. She had identified a clear winner for the headline, but had yet to put a single word down for the body of her “light and tasteful” article.

“Tell the truth,” she said quietly to herself, and put pen to vellum once more.

Yosef Sturgess claims the ale at The Blacksmith Arms is the best ale in Andaris the only ale in Andaris that he will drink.
Her pen made soft scratches as she wrote and rewrote, and candlelight flickered against the vellum. It was only mid-afternoon, but no light came in from the shuttered window. The apartment was perpetually dark these days.

Sabine left her pen in the inkpot as her thoughts turned to the second soul in the room. She squinted at the small lump lying in the apartment’s sole bed and tried to decide if the blanket was rising and falling with her mother’s breath.

Fuck.

She couldn’t see the blanket move.

Sabine’s blood ran cold as she shoved back her chair and half-ran to her mother’s side. “Please be alive, please be alive,” she muttered. She dropped to her knees and pulled back the blanket just enough so she could bend over her thin chest.

There.

A wisp of a movement. A soft exhale. A sigh, and something resembling a tiny snore.

Her hands shook as she carefully repositioned the blanket over her mother’s small frame and moved quietly back to the table. Not today, Sabine assured herself. She closed her eyes, folded her arms around her body, and clutched at her shirt in an effort to steady her hands. Not today.

But someday.

And maybe someday soon, if her father didn’t come back.

That was why she needed that job – why she was writing this stupid article in the first place, despite her supreme distaste for inanity. She was going to pay off her father’s debt and bring him home, if it was the last thing she did.

She was going to fix her family.

Sabine swallowed and opened her eyes with a newfound intensity. Finish the article, move on to the next. That would be her goal.

For the time being, at least.

“Doesn’t taste like donkey piss” - Local blacksmith recommends The Blacksmith Arms

By Sabine Qe’azour
1st of Ashan, 716


Yosef Sturgess claims the ale at The Blacksmith Arms is the only ale in Andaris that he will drink.

The ale “doesn’t taste like donkey piss,” says Sturgess. He adds that “it tastes better the more you drink.”

The Blacksmith Arms is one of the city’s oldest businesses. It is run by Rufus Hemlock and has been in his family for generations.

What is Hemlock’s secret to having the “best ale in Andaris”?

Sturgess suggests that it comes from both the tavern’s arcs of experience and its patrons. Travelers are known to frequent The Blacksmith Arms and share tales of their adventures.

A potent recipe, indeed.

Reader: We want to hear from you! Do you agree with Yosef Sturgess? Please write in with your views.
Word Count: 1985
word count: 598
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Griffin
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Light and Tasteful

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Sabine


Skills
Endurance: 1
Observation: 2
Investigation: 1
Interrogation: 2
Socialization: 1
Writing: 1
Appraisal: 1
Story-Telling: 1

Basic Knowledge
Location: Blacksmith
Mother: Fading fast
Yoseth: Blacksmith
Blacksmithing: Hard work

Specialized Knowledge
Journalism: Patience provides opportunity
Rufus Hemlock: Owns the Blacksmith’s arms, one of the oldest establishments in the city
Yosef: Only drinks at the Blacksmiths arms
Gazette: You have something to prove
Death: Checking for death, are they breathing?
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word count: 144
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