Spirean (Blacksmith) Idol. Top Forger? Mastersmith! So you think you can forge?!

Moirean

PUBLIC NEWS #5703
Date: 7/6/2014 at 18:48
From: Moirean Seirath
To : Everyone
Subj: Blacksmith Job Opening

Sapience,

Due to tragic circumstances, the city of Spinesreach finds itself in need of a new city blacksmith. I am opening up interviews for all talented smiths in the land. Find your way to the Spires and present your applications at the Spire of Government, bottom level, Civic Services Office, Maintenance Division. Top notch candidates will be invited to participate in a public display of their skills before final selection is made by the city.

- Chairwoman Moirean Seirath

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Severin, in the year 424 MA.

---------------------------

(Market): You say, "Good with forging and looking for a new career? Read the latest public news, #5703 for a potential job offer!"

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith tells you, "I apply now."

You tell Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith, "Yes, yes, there's an application process."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith tells you, "MADAM. I wish to apply!"

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith tells you, "No process. Just apply. You talk."

Office of Civic Services and Municipal Affairs. (Spinesreach.)
A warren of offices, record rooms and meeting chambers, this section of the government spire is starkly simple in its decor, with whitewashed walls and immaculate crimson rugs creating a uniform series of hallways and corridors. A large waiting room takes up the bulk of the publicly visible space, with stiff-backed wooden benches offering uncomfortable seating beside tables filled with out-of-date periodicals. Clearly intended to instill a sort of city pride, framed posters hang along the walls, depicting bland and forgettable civic workers cheerfully engaged in a variety of occupations: a picture of a window-washer is captioned to read "Scrubbing spires is a top job!" next to an image of a young, fresh-faced citizen depicted cheerfully stamping immigration papers, with the title of "See yourself in Proletarian Affairs!" while "Cleaning halls is a ball!" comes complete with an illustrated toy ball bouncing along behind the janitor. Sweat pouring from his massive forehead, Grul, an obese Troll stands here. His grand moustache touching the floor, a Grook blacksmith works the forge.

You put your hands on your hips and go, "Hmmm!"

(Spinesreach): You say, "Damnit!"

(Spinesreach): Ishin says, "Eh?"

(Spinesreach): You say, "I need some help in here!"

(Spinesreach): Ishin says, "In where."

Eying the Grook, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "You take my donut. I want new one. You give. Now."

(Spinesreach): You say, "It looks like the secretary for the Civic Services office is out sick (I'm guessing a hangover) and I need help managing these applicants-."

Gyle, the Imp blacksmith cartwheels in from the east, landing, bowing, and presenting his hammer with a flourish.

You stare implacably at Gyle, the Imp blackmsith.

You say to Gyle, the Imp blackmsith, "That does NOT look safe."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith beams broadly at you.

GAYLE, MY SHORTY:
Dark red, bat-winged, and clad in a leather apron, Gyle is short even by Imp standards. A manic grin rests perpetually upon his face, and his silver-white hair shoots straight back from his scalp. Bulging muscles cord his limbs and his frame, and his skin is leathery and scarred, the result of long hours spent laboring over a forge or unstable mixtures. In addition to a wide assortment of blacksmith's tools, Gyle carries beakers, flasks, and a wide variety of vials in every spare pocket he has. Beneath his apron, he wears clothes that were once fine - a dress shirt, a vest, a long pleated kilt, and high boots - but they are now charred, stained, and torn beyond belief from lack of care.

SULLIVAN, COLONEL SANDERS:
This spherical fellow is perhaps three feet tall, and just as wide, being shaped almost precisely like an egg. Though his arms look thin and spindly, he appears to have no difficulty hauling the implements of his trade. He wears a dingy kilt, and a thick leather apron that are clearly no defense against the soot that stains his bluish skin, while he scrutinizes his work through a hazy monocle. His facial features seem almost insignificant behind the tremendous blonde moustache that curtains either side of his face, the tips stroking the floor. He is called 'Sullivan.'

GRUL, GLORIOUS GRUEL:
Large enough to make navigation through doorways quite the hassle, this hulking behemoth of a Troll must spend just as much time stuffing his face with delicious goodies as he does forging. His portly frame necessitates a leather blacksmith's apron that'd likely serve just as well as a tablecloth than an apron, and the stained shirt and rumpled kilt he wears are hardly any different. His gleaming head, devoid of hair in its entirety gleams with a fresh layer of sweat that perpetually seems present despite the cold climate.

Flatly, Faerah says, "...Well they were certainly quick to apply."

Ishin nods his head in agreement.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith scowls at the other smiths, harumphing, causing his moustache to wiggle like a jellyfish. "I have not taken your filthy donut, Troll," he informs Grul.

Frowning, you say to Faerah, "Maybe there is a surplus of blacksmiths. The land is rather calm, afterall, no war to spark - heh - their business."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith doesn't even notice the entrance of the others, his attention set fully upon the mustachioed Sullivan. "No, you eat it. Is icing on your lip," the Troll declares as he raises a sausage-like finger to point towards the aforementioned lip.

You have emoted: Moirean takes note of the brewing confrontation and lifts a hand to rub at her temples. She grunts.

(Spinesreach): You say, "...and if someone could bring up some trays of refreshments, that would be really swell."

Ishin lifts his arms, crossing them over his chest as he glances at the Grook. "There does indeed seem to be something foreign on your face."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith marches up to Grul and Sullivan with a swagger, his overlarge hammer balanced easily over his shoulders. "Why not split it?" he suggests, canting his head onto one side.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to Gyle, the Imp blackmsith, "Is already eaten!"

(Spinesreach): A conscripted Spirean soldier says, "Rally to me, citizens of Spinesreach! There's trouble at 'Outer city road!'"

You shout, "No enemies are allowed to apply. I should have mentioned that!"

Licking his lips, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "...oh. That changes the situation somewhat."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith crosses his spindly little arms. "The nerve--" (pronounced 'noyve') "O' this fellow. Hullo, Spireans! There shan't be a need for this... farce of an audition. I come bearing a propah sixty years of experience in smit-- smitty-- smittery."

(Tells|Atticus): From an unseen place, Atticus communicates to you, "Does put a bit of a limit on your applicants, does it not?"

(Tells|Atticus): You tell Atticus, "We already have three, thank you."

Craning his head upward to stare at Sullivan, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "I've been working metal since before you were a ball-born squiggly."

(Spinesreach): You say, "Comrades? Anyone? Some trays of refreshments for the applicants would be rather appreciated."

You have emoted: Moirean quietly echoes, "Ball-born squiggly..." in clear confusion.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith is so flabbergasted, his monocle pops right off.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "The noyve!"

Faerah's jaw sets as she looks at Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith, an eyebrow ticking upward in his direction before her gaze shifts to Gyle, the Imp blackmsith. "You lot... -Do- know what happened to our last blacksmith, mm?" she flatly asks.

The Grook's announcement is enough to tear Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith's attention away from the donut ordeal for at least a fleeting moment. "Yeah?" he declares defensively. "Well I make steel like you grow bad mustache."

Doubling up and pointing, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Oooooh!"

You raise your index finger to your lips and emit a forceful "Shhhh!" at Faerah.

Through gritted teeth, you say to Faerah, "Ix-nay on the urder-may."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "Outrageous! Gennlemen, I was led to believe this would be a fair and balanced audition."

Tucking the elemental globes into his pockets, Ishin watches Faerah and you with a look of wry amusement on his face.

(Tells|Atticus): From an unseen place, Atticus communicates to you, "Didn't mean that you wouldn't get any applicants, merely that some who would care to test their mettle are enemied for reasons as simple as being trade minister, you see, Ser."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith sets his hammer down upon the ground and hops up, using the haft end as an impromptu seat. His tiny wings give a flap as he regains his balance, and he begins to idly juggle empty glass phials.

(Tells|Atticus): You tell Atticus, "I don't see why a citizen of Enorian would want to be Spinesreach's blacksmith. That seems like a conflict of interest."

(Spinesreach): Ishin says, "I'll go get some refreshments, I guess, since everyone else either isn't paying attention or doesn't care enough."

Faerah raises her hands a bit in your direction in obvious concession, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Very well. I'll go fetch a few brews for these..." The Idreth pauses, her eyes roaming the gathered as her nose scrunches up a bit. "...Gentlemen."

Offhandedly, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Troll's right. It looks like a worm died on your lip."

You have emoted: Moirean bobs her head back and forth for a few minutes, trying to follow the thread of conversation, before she lets out a sigh, striding down the room to sit behind the counter at the far end. She peers at a cup sitting beside a stack of papers, sniffs it suspiciously, and then leans back, eyes watering.

You mutter, "De...ite.. ..t sick with a hangov..."

(Spinesreach): Pypo says, "Too busy figuring what the guards were all riled up about."

With a grunt of agreement, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Big hairy one."

You have emoted: Moirean clears her throat as she retrieves a quill from the scribe's desk. "Right, gentlemen," she states. "Form a line and let's get the basic paperwork filled out first, before we get to the...practical part of the interview."

(Tells|Atticus): From an unseen place, Atticus communicates to you, "I'll give you that, it was just that word of competition piqued my interest."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith hefts his enormous hammer, a tool more suitable for icebreaking, and makes an 'after you' gesture at the other smiths.

(Tells|Atticus): You tell Atticus, "Very well. Come and show us what you have."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith hops down and crowds forward with an eager snap of his wings, the comically overlarge hammer bobbing upon his shoulders as he advances.

Quill at the ready, you say to Gyle, the Imp blackmsith, "Name?"

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Gyle, of Sehal, formerly Minia."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith's eyebrows raise at the mention of 'paperwork' as he offers you a level stare. "No can write," he bluntly states. "You write, I talk, or no apply." He gives the hammer he wields a vague sort of wave as if to emphasize his following point, "You no want that."


Still visibly bristled from the slings and arrows of his fellows, Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith idles his time at the back of the line, frowning in concentration.

Ishin clears his throat rather loudly. "Gentlemen," he says at the trio of smiths. "Refreshments have been served."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "I do declare! This flower was a-wiltin'."
You have emoted: Moirean calls out to Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith, "We can assist with the transcription." She glances up from her writing to point out, "Also, courses at the Institute are included as a job perk, free of charge."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith helps himself to a cup of Liquid Strength, bobbing his eyebrows thankfully at Ishin.

Ishin nods at the Grook, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat before leaning back comfortably against a nearby wall. "Welcome."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith nearly swats those around him out of the way to stampede on over towards the refreshments offered. In a way as impressive as it is gluttonous, he scoops up the various crepes, snacks, and even the casserole. His arm curls protectively around his newly-acquired goodies before he steps back to take his place in line once more.

You say to Gyle, the Imp blackmsith, "Previous Employer, Length of Service and Reason For Departure?"

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Kemo, Lord of the Imps. Centuries and centuries as an alchemist."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith hesitates for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth as a maniacal gleam enters them.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "...creative differences."

You have emoted: Moirean's eyebrow raises. Her quill scratches against parchment. She clears her throat and stares up (rather, down, given his lack of height) at Gyle.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith beams broadly at you.

You have emoted: Moirean grunts and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Special Talents, Certifications, Specialities," she rattles off.

Pressing the open palm of his left hand against the clenched fist of his right, Atticus bows respectfully.

Ishin glances to Atticus, before he hooks a thumb in the air. "Beat it."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Alchemy. Smithing. Made most of my own tools while I was working for Lord Impy on the hilltop there. On a NONEXISTENT BUDGET, MAY I ADD."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith looks a little upset as his left eye begins to twitch spasmodically.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith huffs and puffs, looking for all the world like a dog who can't quite muster up the breath to bark at Grul. "Indignant bastard! The noyve, eatin' up all those fine treats."

Atticus says to Ishin, "I'm permitted here, for the time being, unless I mistook the Chairwoman's intentions."
Ishin says to Atticus, "Unless you're planning to move up here for the job, beat it."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "I say, son, I- I say, this is a Spirean affair!"

Glancing up from the paperwork, you say to Ishin, "He was curious about the process. He can stay."

Ishin shrugs a shoulder a bit, his hand returning to his pocket.

His mouth full - with an entire crepe he'd just shoved in it, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Hesh not apply. Ish too shkinny."

Whipping his head around, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "I bet everyone looks skinny to a mountain."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith peers at Atticus suspiciously.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith guffaws merrily at this.

Ishin says to the Troll, "He's also a Sinclair, and a Templar, and engaged to the Abbess of the Sentaari. All black marks."

Just after swallowing down the crepe in its entirety, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "No mountain. Is more for love."

You have emoted: Moirean finishes noting down Gyle's statements, reaching the bottom line of the application. Her lips purse at the final question and she pauses a moment, before reading off, "Why would you be best suited for this job? Include your strengths, motivations, etc, so on, so forth."

Faerah smirks, leaning against the wall and content to simply watch the events unfold before her.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith pauses, looking you up and down. He lets the hammer fall, leaning upon it as he edges forward, and meets your eye conspiratorially.

Softly, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Because, between you and me? I like making things that make other things dead."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith makes one of his bulldog noises, and calms himself with a stroke of his moustache, and a gentlemanly sip at his drink.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith, "He just say he make head? How he make head? Head is living. No make head."

You have emoted: Moirean's head tilts in acknowledgement, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she loudly presses down a large rubber stamp across the paper, emblazoning the top with, "CONDITIONALLY APPROVED." She maintains an expression of neutrality, however, and shuffles aside the application to withdraw another, calling out sharply, "NEXT!"

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith glances askance at Grul, in no great hurry to go just yet.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith blows a kiss to you as he struts away, moving to observe the refreshments on display.
Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith waddles forward with a grunt, the hand that wields the hammer lifting to wipe some accumulating sweat from his forehead with a beefy forearm.

You have emoted: Moirean eyes Faerah from across the room. "Want to handle the paperwork for this one, Inquisitor?" she asks.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith quickly devours a sweet, strawberry crepe.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith quickly devours a sweet, strawberry crepe.

Loudly, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Is all of this alcoholic?"

Ishin says, "The blackberry sweet tea isn't, I don't think."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Good. I know to avoid THAT, then."

Ishin says, "You'd have to ask the General here, though."

You have emoted: "It's Spinesreach," Moirean answers. "I think these CHAIRS are alcoholic."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith snatches up the nearest cup and chugs it down in a single, smooth gulp, promptly recovering a second.

"Mm." Faerah's shoulders rise and fall in a shrug as she shoves herself from her place against the wall. "Certainly," she replies before looking between Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith and Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith. "Which one of you is next?"

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "I think it's Dr. Mountain there."

You have emoted: Moirean slides down from her chair, vacating the spot behind the desk for Faerah. She hands the quill over with a flourish.

"Is me," Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith states with a concise nod, but not before leveling a glare at Gyle.
Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith hangs back, resting against the weight of his hammer. "By all means, let the ah... Troll fellah head on up. Just going to finish wetting my whistle here." His teeth make the word 'whistle', well, whistle very loudly.

Faerah slides into the chair, tapping the quill on the parchment pad before her. Her gaze sets on Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith for a moment before she flatly asks, "previous employer, length of service and reason for leaving?"

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says aside to Gyle, "They don't ask for the fellah's name, I noticed. Can't trust a Troll to remember."

"It hardly matters if we don't want him," Faerah says to Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith, another shrug soon following her words.

"Am work for self," Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith answers. The arm previously holding the plethora of goodies is now quite empty, only some smears - which he hardly makes an effort to clean up - remaining. "Is not pay good. Want make more."

With a proud nod, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Is make best pot and pan in land."

"Ah. Self-employed. So no references?" Faerah asks, her head tilting at Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith. "Do you have any... Samples of your work?"

You have emoted: Moirean tucks her arms behind her back and begins a slow circuit of the reception room, pointing out, "We will, of course, have them demonstrate all of this, should their initial application be approved."

Glancing over, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Looks like he made his own face."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith seems to pause for a moment, as if to recite Faerah's words once over in his head before answering. "Is ask hard questions," he states, a touch of nervousness finding its way into his tone. "I smelt all samples and sell to afford trip here. Is expensive."

Ticking off a pudgy finger with each statement, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Is buy food. Buy new apron - need big leather and big coin."

"Ah." Faerah responds, nodding at you. "Well, the Chair will give you supplies to prove your talent should your initial application be approved. Do you have any notable commissions? Other than... Pots and pans?"

(Tells|Atticus): From an unseen place, Atticus communicates to you, "Seems with these three you do have it covered, Ser, personally I would go with the Imp, thank you for allowing me to attend."

(Tells|Atticus): You tell Atticus, "Mmhmm."

Nodding eagerly, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Is make giant knife. Cut through skull in one hit for cook!"

The word 'cook' seems to distract Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith for a moment as his attention shifts towards the location the refreshments previously rested. Noting the distinct lack of them, his shoulders slump somewhat before he glances once more at Faerah.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith breaks the moment's silence with a loud 'slurp' - it seems he has found the bottom of his beverage.

You have emoted: Moirean makes a noncommittal sort of noise, eying Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith thoughtfully.

"Skull-cutting knife..." Faerah says, more to herself than anyone else as she scribbles the words on the top of the parchment page. "Sounds promising, at least." Her gaze lifts to you and she shrugs, "...I see no reason not to at least put him through the practical."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith knocks back another drink, moving on.

Reaffirming the notion with another nod, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Yes, is put me through. Other apply too weak. Not enough meat for forge."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "Pfah-- I say, the forge is a gentleman's affair! It takes finesse now, young man."

Wheeling, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "WHO ARE YOU CALLING SMALL?!"

You have emoted: Moirean gives Faerah a faint nod, agreeing, "Conditional approval, yeah. Stamp him through."
Gyle, the Imp blackmsith brandishes his hammer, his eyes flashing with dangerous insanity.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith grunts, and grunts a little more, backing away from Gyle. He's said his piece.

You have emoted: Moirean's gaze shifts to Ishin, eyebrows raising. "Want to fill out the forms for the last guy," she grins.

Addressing the two other applicants, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "You two is fall in fire and burn. Is not safe. No make big weapons if not able to lift."

"...Though I do wonder if we have enough food in Spinesreach to satiate his... Appetite." Faerah mutters to herself, stamping the application as conditionally approved before standing up and returning your quill to you.

Angrily, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "C'mere and see how much I can lift, you big, mountainous, DORMANT VOLCANO."

Standing steadfast in his spot, as if the interview was to continue, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "No, no, is enough food. Hunt for self. Job now, yes. Start now."

You have emoted: Moirean brandishes the quill, presenting it to Ishin in a challenging, dare-ya-to manner.

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Ishin nods and straightens up from the wall, heading over to the desk. He reaches out, taking the quill in his left hand. His blue eyes turn to the Grook, whom he then gives a large, canine-baring grin to.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith smiles back genially. "Yes suh, me suh?" he asks.

Taking a step to the side to eclipse Sullivan, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "No, is no need for more apply. I make you big sword, or hammer."

From behind Grul, Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "Excuse me, suh! That's quite rude!"

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Get out of the way and let Mr. Wormlip say his piece, ya big goober."

Ishin glances up to the Troll. "Move," he says quietly, his expression hardening.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith blunders on over and out of the way dejectedly, nearly bowling you over in the process as he hardly seems to even notice you standing there.

Ishin nods, taking the seat that Faerah previously occupied. He pulls it up a bit, before leaning forward onto the desk, quill sticking up from his left hand. "Previous employer, length of service, and reason for leaving," he says, though his eyes seem to repeatedly travel down to the Grook's legs, as if something else were on his mind.

You have emoted: Moirean lets out a squeak, bouncing backwards. "Applications will be denied if applicants squash the Chairwoman!" she cries out.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith huffs, visibly affronted, but shakes it off and becomes calm. With a 'don't mind if I do' smile, he power-walks up to Ishin and extends a hand. "Sullivan P. Allgood at'cha service, sir. Please, call me Sully."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith swaggers over to Grul, reaching up with his hammer to prod the enormous Troll in the shoulder.

Staring up with a smile and speaking gently, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Hey. Kid. Kid. Guess what."

"No no, is no squash," Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith frantically declares as he takes a step to the side to avoid the oncoming dilemma - a step to the side that lands a massive foot right upon one of your. As if knowing exactly what he'd just done, his eyes widen in fear and he retracts his foot. "Still give job! Is sorry!"

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Kid. Calm down."

Ishin gazes at 'Sully', then down at the hand in front of him. "I'd like frog legs for dinner," he says instead. "But the Chairwoman wants me to interview you instead. Answer my questions, hmm?"

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith laughs this off gregariously. "Don't mind if I do, suh. Former serviceman of th' Crown Smelting Co. down in little Attica. I worked under the supervision of Miss Mocpotl Issah for sixty years. Thought to move the family when the Beast Queen threatened to have the town leveled."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith looks over his shoulder and grins smarmily at the other two, as if to suggest they might learn a thing or two by keeping their eyes on him.

You have emoted: Moirean positively YOWLS as her foot is trampled on. She staggers backwards - or, well, tries to, but fails, foot pinioned by the troll's bulk, and she begins to slap her hands at him. "Sit!" she shouts, as if scolding a misbehaving hound. "GO SIT DOWN!"

Ishin's left hand moves as he fills out the blanks in the application, his eyes lifting when he's done to stare down at Sullivan's legs again. "Did you bring any examples of your works?"

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith gasps at Grul and you. "The noyve!" He shouts.

Faerah smirks at Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith, before she bats Ishin a bit. "If you want grook legs, Jensen sells them in the Stuck Pig," she scolds.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith pats down his apron and finds what he is looking for. "Yessuh, yes I did, suh. Right here."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith produces a... a very nice thing, whatever it is, leaving it on the table.


Sullivan drops an iron doohickey.

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"whatzit328744" an iron doohickey.
This whatchamacallit is forged from iron, fancy and replete with decorative swirls and curlicues. The metal is thick, good and heavy, but still delicate enough to emphasize form over function. It even has a little loop at the top, should you want to hang it.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith's head sinks, and he steps away as instructed to linger in the doorway, or before it rather, seeing as lingering IN it would take some quite crafty construction to support his frame.

Ishin takes the bat with the utmost grace. "They're so good fried," he says under his breath to Faerah. He reaches out and picks up doohickey, turning it over in his hands a few times. "What the Pit does it do?"

You have emoted: Moirean hobbles backwards to slump down into one of the uncomfortable wooden seats arranged around the lobby. She lets out a sigh, pinching at the bridge of her nose, and sits back to watch the applications.

"These... -fine- gennlemen are well-versed in the crafts of war," Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, pronouncing that last word as 'wah'. The very picture of smarm, he leans aside on his hammer. "I can turn a cuttin' edge with the best of them, but I have yet to see a blacksmith match Sullivan P. Allgood for aesthetics."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith's hands sink into one of the pockets of his apron, and his face lights up. Subtly, perhaps exaggeratedly so, he slowly withdraws a strawberry crepe that had evidently fallen within its depths.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith quickly devours a sweet, strawberry crepe.

You have emoted: Moirean watches Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith eat with a sort of nauseated fascination, unable to tear her eyes away from the horror.

Snorting, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Listen to that rubbish. That thing he made doesn't even do anything. He's just putting you on."

Ishin makes a derisive sound under his breath. "So what else have you done other than this...useless thing," he asks, hefting the whatzit in his right hand to toss it up and catch it a few times. "Something useful. We love useful things up here."

"I like pretty things," Faerah flatly says with a shrug.

Waving a hand energetically, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Useful like big knife that cut skull!"
Ishin tosses the doohickey to Faerah, giving her a faint smile.

Faerah says, "...I like knives that cut through skulls too. Decisions, decisions."

"We could march on down to the old shop in Attica and I could bore you to teeyahs showin' off the bland Green Lake armament collection," Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, hemming and hawing dismissively. "But I always believed in showcasin' something original."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Yeah, original's a word for it."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "Never you fear, old Sully can make a fine blade, or hammer, or pick, or axe, or anything you need. And damn quick, too."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "The frog's a walking boondoggle."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith blows his monocle again, turning plum in the face. "The noyve!"

Ishin turns his blue eyes away from Sullivan's legs to you. "Conditional?"

In an only-slightly-conspiring-fashion, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to Ishin, "Is find beefier frog legs. Easy. And have knife for cut through bone!"

A faint sound comes from Ishin's throat, somewhere between hungry and thoughtful.

You have emoted: Moirean finally manages to break away from her transfixed stare at Grul and his grub. She blinks a few times, refocusing, and gives a sharp nod. "Conditional," she echoes, and then clears her throat, tightening up her Chairwomanly demeanor. "That means all three of you are approved for final interviews for the position."

Ishin lifts the conditionally approved stamp, mashing it to the top of the application in front of him, before he slowly stands to his full height.

Sharply, you say, "That process is not easy, bear in mind. You will have to demonstrate your ability before the city, forging items before our eyes, so we can assess your talents. The city will then vote, via referendum, who will take the role."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith bobs the upper curve of his body in a genteel nod. "Thank ya kindly, Chairwoman. And to you gennlemen..." he turns to the other smiths, "May the best smitty win."

Tilting his head to one side, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Yeah, that was my idea when I came in here."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith's eyes widen with fear as he turns towards the doorway. "Is good!" he yells before awkwardly trying to squeeze himself through the frame. "Must leave, is have... business," he nervously clamors together. After a few tries, he barges his way through the door, leaving a rather nauseating smell behind that seems to curl through the spacious office.

Jerking his head after the Troll, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith comments: "I wonder if he's half Tsol'aa."

Mumbling, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Nutty."

You yell, "Get back here!"

You rub your temples in frustration.

Faerah waves her hand before her face, grimacing a bit as the troll leaves.

Voice raising, you say, "BEFORE YOU GO - we'd like to induct each of you to the city."

You say, "When you are prepared for your practical interview, let us know over the citytell medium and we'll gather a crowd up to assess your work."

"Shall be no need, ma'am," Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith declares proudly. "I'm a Proletarian of the Lion of four months."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith is positively drenched in sweat as he returns, eyes only slightly bloodshot as he eyes those gathered. He wobbles on over towards you to whisper within your ear, far more loudly than intended, "City is maybe need new outhouse. Can build."


You say, "..."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith stares implacably at Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith keeps a stiff upper lip, but considers a few feet of distance from Grul.

Glancing over, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Hey. Wormlip. At least we don't have to worry about THAT cavernous depth."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith grins mischievously at Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith.

You have emoted: Moirean takes a few, furtive steps away from the Troll, eying him warily. She breathes through her mouth, just to be safe.

"I... Think we should continue this... Outside." Faerah says, coughing a bit.

In a rush, clearly eager to get this done with, you say, "Right. Welcome to Spinesreach. Visit the Winterbreeze for welcome materials and a tour and all that."

Voice growing frantic, you say, "Dismissed!"

Ishin wryly says, "...yeah, I even lost my appetite for Sullivan's legs."

"Your jealousy of my fine - and natural - hairpiece acknowledged, I do believe this shall be a one-on-one gentleman's duel, yes," Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith answers.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith nods faintly, his eyes beginning to water as he meets Sullivan's gaze.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Yeah. Well. Seeya."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith seems unfazed - he has no nostrils.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "Until we meet again."

Gyle, the Imp blacksmith struts away to the east.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith grumbles something about 'effort' before dismally wobbling away towards the east.

A Grook blacksmith wobbles his way east.

You let loose a long breath from your lungs, exhaling slowly.

You say, "So. That happened."

Ishin wipes the back of his hand across his forehead in relief.

"I'm a fan of the grook, personally." Faerah says, hand still waving the putrid scent of troll from her vicinity.

You say, "....I think I need to go get drunk, now."

You have emoted: Moirean lets out a weak, uncertain, "...Hroagh?" before wandering out of the lobby.

#hroagh

Moirean

WAIT NO, I got best title: Spinesreach's Next Top Forger.

Aarbrok

As long as Aarbrok gets the opportunity to Use "Sashay Away" once in game, I will be happy

Moirean

Since I seem to be in charge of this audition process, my vision is for them to make stuff publicly for the city to see and everyone will get to vote on which we want, so I am hoping everyone gets to interact with them and take part in the LIVE GRAND FINALE FORGE OFF FOR THEIR LIVES.

Aarbrok

Xenia is clearly Paula...because drunk.

Moirean

I'm probably Tyra. Like...cycle 18ish, where she's letting all the crazy just hang right out.

Aarbrok

Im a mix of Ru Paul and Simon Cowell

Ishin

I'll be Usher.

Xenia

Aarbrok said:

Xenia is clearly Paula...because drunk.

I prefer to think of Xenia more like Mary from Do You Think You can Dance. But I'm pretty sure she's always drunk too.

Moirean

Oh, Mary Murphy is actually a family friend - we first met her years ago when she brought her dog (a schnauzer named "Cha Cha") in for grooming at my mom's salon. Her public image is kinda one of those unfortunate results of reality tv editing, from what I can tell. She's a really hyper and bubbly and impulsive person and the whole fame/tv thing has made her a bit derpy, and I suspect it's edited to highlight that. That's just what I think, though.

/tangent

Xenia

Well, Mary Murphy is seriously my favorite judge on that show. Also, it's totally how i would see Xenia acting as a judge. Let's face it, she's sort of derpy, impulsive and hyper.

Moirean

PART TWO!!!

(Spinesreach): Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Citizens is hire Grul now. Will show skill."

(Spinesreach): You say, "Hush you. I'm setting things up, fatty."

(Spinesreach): Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "I say-- that ain't quite how it works, suh. It's to be a fair contest!"

(Spinesreach): Rajazel says, "Where are his credentials? Does he even know what a hammer is?"

(Spinesreach): Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Is say before, no fat, is more for love."

Ironmaw armory. (Spinesreach.)
Decorated in the military uniform of Spinesreach, Thuneron, the Captain of the Guard remains vigilant here. A broad locker stands against the wall. A conscripted Spirean soldier coldly scans the area for threats. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. You see a sign here instructing you that WARES is the command to see what is for sale.
You see a single exit leading west.

(Spinesreach): You say, "Right."

(Spinesreach): You say, "Report to the city armory."

Kelliara arrives from the west.

(Spinesreach): You say, "Blacksmith hopefuls and citizens alike!"

You shout, "The final round of interviews for the new Spirean blacksmith are commencing now, with a public demonstration of skill to take place in the city armory! Coordinates 52762 if you want to attend!"

Kelliara yawns and fishes her cigar from the pocket of her coat. With a polite nod to you and Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith, she leans against a nearby wall, and take a short drag.

Ironmaw armory. (Spinesreach.)
Rack after rack of armor, polished to a bright shine, fill one side of this room, the scale and plate erected on stands to almost resemble orderly rows of soldiers assembled for drilling. Weapons occupy the other half of the chamber, with enough dirks, whips, daggers, axes and swords to equip nearly an entire army. Set in the middle of this efficiently organized inventory is a large, sturdy desk, covered with requisition forms, tidy tallies of stock and meticulous lists of names enlisted in the city militia, ensuring a quick and brisk issuing of gear. Decorated in the military uniform of Spinesreach, Thuneron, the Captain of the Guard remains vigilant here. A broad locker stands against the wall. A conscripted Spirean soldier coldly scans the area for threats. A sigil in the shape of a small, rectangular monolith is on the ground. Resting on the ground is a cube-shaped silver sigil. A large mastiff is here, growling softly. Sweat pouring from his massive forehead, Grul, an obese Troll stands here. Kelliara is here. You see a sign here instructing you that WARES is the command to see what is for sale.
You see a single exit leading west.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith wobbles on in, his hand clutching one of the antlers of a rather large deer carcass he drags upon the ground just behind them. This rather gruesome display leaves quite the mess of viscera and blood streaks along his path, but he hardly seems to pay any mind to it.

Gyle, the Imp blacksmith struts in from the west.

Laytha enters from the west following Eugenides.

Laytha bows respectfully to you.

Your pose is now set as:
Moirean sits here behind the main desk, next to Thuneron.

Eugenides smiles at you.

Giving a dramatic flourish of his oversized hammer, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith declares, carelessly, "Sorry I'm late. I was busy preparing my winning speech."

Pypo arrives from the west.

A stray, brightly colored wooden ball rolls by, helped along by the breeze.

Waving the hand that isn't clutching an antler, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Is only good for words. No is make forging from words."

You have emoted: Moirean settles down into a seat behind the main desk, beside Thuneron. Her head comes up about on par with the table-top and she lets out a grunt, slipping out of her chair. "Right, right," she mutters as the aspirant forgers wander in, her attention fixed mainly on her vertically-challenged seat.

Pypo bows respectfully.

A Grook blacksmith trundles in from the west.

You drop a bone stepladder.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith huffs his way into the room, tamping at his brow with a damp washcloth, the better to keep his skin moist.

Kelliara says, "Are we taking wagers on who wins?"

Grunting and tilting his head, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "You're good for makin' something, mountain man, but it sure ain't FORGING if you know what I mean."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith sniggers evilly.

Quietly, Eugenides says to you, "Care for a bet?"

Eugenides says to Kelliara, "I'm up for one."

"I do hope I ain't too late! I had a bit of a ruckus with the kids," Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith explains.

You have emoted: Moirean plops her stepladder down in her seat, clambering back up to sit again beside Thuneron. "Senator," she tells Eugenides. "Adjutant," she nods to Kelliara. "Join me at the judging table - we need to ensure no HANKY PANKY or FUNNY BUSINESS goes on."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to Gyle, the Imp blackmsith, "Is good for making smashed Imp when keep talking."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith grunts at Gyle, the Imp blackmsith noncommittally.

Lifting his eyebrows, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "I don't need to talk to you. It's not like you're REAL competition."

Eugenides, walking to join the imp, says to Kelliara, "Perhaps I shouldn't bet."

You have emoted: "The winner, however-" Moirean starts, breaking off into a frown at the mention of smashed Imp. Her eyes narrow and after a moment she clears her throat, loudly starting over. "THE WINNER HOWEVER will be chosen by the city, via referendum."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith waves a hand toward Grul, dismissing him with a very rude Impish gesture.

Hardly managing to stifle another grunt, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Is not know competition if punch in throat."

(Spinesreach): You say, "All citizens are invited to watch the interviews - your votes will determine our new blacksmith!"

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith marches up to join his competitors, too tired to join in the banter, as it were. His moustache leaves twin trails of water in his wake, as does his sack of smith's tools.

(Spinesreach): Rajazel says, "Pick the one who doesn't lose any limbs just trying to light the forge."

Smiling, Eugenides says, "At this rate it'll be a vote on the one left alive."

Pypo says, "Two soverigns on th' troll...to lose. One soverign on the imp to clock the troll to win place in guard. Three soverigns on the grook man to fall under the hammer!"

You see the following people here:
Eugenides, Moirean, Pypo, Kelliara, Laytha

Kelliara casts a dicerning eye over each of the contestants. After a few moments, she pushes off the wall and moves to join you and Eugenides, exhaling a small puff of smoke. "Would certainly make things interesting."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith hefts the deer carcass he holds by the antler into a more comfortable position that ultimately winds up leaving the Troll holding it by the neck in more of a headlock than anything.

You have emoted: Moirean gives Thuneron, Captain of the Guard a nudge, whining, "Move over, you're blocking my view."

Pypo chuckles long and heartily.

Eugenides says to Thuneron, Captain of the Guard, "Lift your leg."

Thuneron, Captain of the Guard stands aside, waving an arm. "As you wish, Chairwoman."

Setting his hammer down on the ground, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith hops up onto the haft, taking a cross-legged seat with wings outstretched for balance.

You have emoted: Moirean sits up even taller, craning her neck to peer at the applicants. Her gaze then travels past them, to a set of forges at the back of the armory. She beams widely. "The final step is simple!" she explains.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "I am ready and willing, miss Chairwoman!"

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "Rearin' to go, like a wiggly tadpole on a hot Midsummah day, yessir!"

With an affirmative nod, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Is stamp on Grul's paper saying hired. Is simple, yes."

Laytha says, "Is it ok to vote for the least irritating?"

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "It's always okay to vote for me, lady."

Pypo nods his head at Laytha.

Laytha blushes furiously.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith winks knowingly at Laytha.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith flashes a sly grin at Gyle, as if to encourage the playful ruffianism of youth.

Menelaus enters from the west, riding a donkey.

You have emoted: "Forge," Moirean declares. "More specifically, you will need to produce a product - or trio of products - which address the following specifications: First, utility. The item should be something we can use." At this, she casts Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith a pointed stare. "Second, design. Make it look nice."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith straightens up, half-lids his eyes, and gives a none-too-proud stroke of his moustache.

Quietly, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Doohickeys."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith snorts arrogantly.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith rolls her eyes.

Pypo snickers under his breath.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith rolls his eyes. His. Eyes.

Laytha takes a closer look at Grul, double checking that her initial guess at his gender was correct.

You have emoted: Moirean pauses here, chin lifting, before she announces the third specification. "Finally, whatever you make should be SPIREAN. You are competing for the job of the Republic's blacksmith - show us that you know what being a Spirean is all about."

(Spinesreach): Aarbrok says, "Spireans."

(Spinesreach): Avani says, "Yes?"

(Spinesreach): You say, "All citizens are invited to watch the interviews for the city forger help in the armory (v52762) - your votes will determine our new blacksmith!"

(Spinesreach): Aarbrok says, "Nothing really...just a glorious announcemen...Ahh there it is."

(Spinesreach): Aarbrok says, "See, I pull myself from the lab awaiting good news."

(Spinesreach): Aarbrok says, "And the Chairwoman manages to have it so promptly."

Nodding, Eugenides says, "Aye. Also something that would look good on my desk. I feel the office is lacking in decor."

You have emoted: Moirean stares incredulously over at Eugenides. "Your office is covered in murals," she flatly states.

Kelliara says, "Is that what they are being called?"

Defensively, Eugenides says to you, "Yes, but my desk is covered in paperwork, and it'd be nice to have something to hold it all down."

"My hammer is at the ready, citizens," Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith declares, his jowls bouncing with each word. "Forgive me my rudeness if I am so bold as to put forth that I shall finish my works with the utmost quality, and at greatest speed."

You have emoted: "Art," Moirean blithely insists, turning her attention back to the potential blacksmiths. She raps her hand on the desk and tries quite hard to look official. "Any questions?"

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith offers not only a nod of his own head, but one from the deer cradled in his left arm as well.

Kelliara wryly says to Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith, "Does your friend have a name?"

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to Kelliara, "Is named food. Is for eat."

Kelliara gives Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith a single, solemn nod. "Good name."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "What kinds of forging tools are allowed in constructing the weapon? I am not merely a blacksmith, but an alchemist, and I have access to processes that these neophytes... probably... haven't the faintest clue about."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith smirks.

Aarbrok peers about the crowd present, a hand raised to his chin as he examines each potential blacksmith, though his eyes settle upon the Imp curiously.

Kelliara wryly says to Gyle, the Imp blackmsith, "Do you have a clue about them yourself? Or do you simply use them and hope for the best."

You have emoted: Moirean looks a bit uncertain - but also slightly excited - at the mention of alchemy (and potential explosions) and gives a thoughtful nod, vaguely allowing, "Be creative."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith guffaws privately to himself for a moment - and then he nods at you, his grin gaining a manic edge.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Briiiilliant."

Laytha takes a step back.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith scoffs heartily, giving a good-natured roll of his eyes. "I'm no jack-of-all-trades, my friend. I focus on the smithing, and nothing but the fiiine smithing."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Any finer, it might actually be something USABLE, mate."

Evidently having no mind for the courtesies, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith shuffles on back to the largest of the forges to claim it for himself.

Aarbrok leans against the doorway, a smirk painted on his face.

Pypo says, "Lets hope can demonstrate the practical use..."

Menelaus quietly watches the three smithies and the on-lookers with an unreadable expression upon his steely countenance.

You have emoted: "If there are no further questions," Moirean says, hands clapping happily together. "Let the interview begin! Gentlemen - fire up your forges and may the best blacksmith win!"

Eugenides says to Laytha, "After the competition join me in the H&H and I'l regale you with the story of the time Moirean lost a hand after a failed alchemy project blew it off."

With a snort, you say to Eugenides, "That was a GATE."

Laytha grins mischievously at Eugenides.

The ghost of a smirk passes fleetingly over Menelaus's lips as he glances at Eugenides.

Pypo hums a happy tune.

Aarbrok says, "More a planar disruption than Alchemy, get the knowledge right."

Aarbrok snorts arrogantly.

Eugenides says, "Oh? And what happened at the crafting office?"

Menelaus says, "...losing ALL the hands she has now?"

Eugenides says, "I'm just saying, There is a precedent."

Aarbrok says to Eugenides, "From first hand experience, a worker disagreement I handled."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith trundles toward his chosen forge in a comical frog-hopping gait, unfurling his smithy gunna with a tumultous clang. "May the best gen'nleman win, sirrahs! Have at you!" With this, he fires his forge.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith leaps down from his hammer, bounding across to a nearby forge. At the prospect of forging, he has become quite animated, and he sets his hammer aside, beginning to juggle an odd collection of little glass vials in his Impish fingers.

Eugenides says, "You'll have to tell me that story another time."

"Mmmm..." Aarbrok softly utters.

Aarbrok says, "Let the men work, eh?"

Menelaus looks away from the conversation to pore over Gyle, the Imp blackmsith with a keen gaze of his fiery eyes.

Eugenides nods his head emphatically.

Aarbrok goes back to leaning against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest and observing curiously.

Laytha chuckles dryly at Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith with cynical amusement.

Eugenides says to you, "Have any of them offered bribes?"

You have emoted: Moirean glances aside at her fellow "judges" and at the gathered Spireans, nodding in approval. "Feel free to ask them questions as they work," she encourages. "Quiz them on their process."

Juggling back and forth in a growing blur of action, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "One vial, two vial, red vial, blue vial... green vial... ochre vial... vermillion vial... Could be the heliotrope... Khepri curse it, how do I have THREE vermillions..."

Aarbrok wiggles his fingers menacingly and gruffly mutters, "Maaaagic."

Eugenides says to Kelliara, "Is vermilion a color?"

Kelliara says to Eugenides, "Do I look like an artist?"

Frowning, you say to Eugenides, "I think it's a taste. Like. That rice sure tastes vermillion."

You wrinkle your nose in distaste.

You say, "Or is it what we hunt for Ghada?"

Tilting his head, Eugenides says, "I thought it was an act. Like I got enemied for vermillioning."

Eyes widening, you say to Eugenides, "Not in PUBLIC, Senator."

Eugenides says to you, "Oh, never."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith takes a moment to actually get started, first undergoing a preparatory process that borders on the ceremonial. This involves laying out tools just so, adjusting his kilt and facial hair until it settles just right, and clearing his throat until he is able to croon his distinctive Ulangian folk song in a soft voice. Once he gets going though, his corner of the armory is a whirl of steel and glowing iron.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith drops the carcass with little fanfare next to his forge before withdrawing a handful of coal from the large front pocket of his apron. "Grul is make a blade real good, is forge 'till coals is dregs," he loudly sings to himself as he tosses piece by piece into the awaiting forge. "Is make a knife so good and sharp, is cook up Sully's legs." By the end of his little song he's withdrawing a tinderbox that certainly has seen its better days. With a quick stroke of the flint, he sets the coal ablaze.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith shrugs, tosses up his hands, and steps back. His hammer rises in a rush, and he swings, hard - once. Twice. Three times. Glass splinters into the depths of the forge, and a brilliant green fireball roars up with a noise like a warhound clearing its exceptionally mucus-y throat.

"Mmmm..." Aarbrok softly utters.

Laytha says, "Sullivan If you make me something I can use, you'll get my vote..."

Kelliara wrinkles her nose in distaste.

You have emoted: Moirean's eyes widen and she lets out a happy, enthusiastic gasp at the fireball and promptly begins to applaud. "WHAT WAS THAT?!" she cries out.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith tosses an oddment of scrap metal into the forge, one after another, and then stands back, arms folded, surveying the eerie greenish flame with a cold, insane stare.

Quietly, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Household materials in the right proportions."

Menelaus says, "Parlor tricks can be explained, it is a similar concept as pyrotechnics, but it is still interesting none the less."

Aarbrok says, "In fact, I would fancy a scimitar....I am keen on persuasion with such glorious curvature to a blade."

The ghost of a smirk passes fleetingly over Menelaus's lips as he glances at Gyle, the Imp blackmsith.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith flinches, scowling at Gyle's corner, shaking his head in bewilderment. "The noyve! Turnin' proper smithery into some flimflam snake-oil show."

Turning and raising his singed eyebrows as he gives his icy reply, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Doohickeys."

You have emoted: "Household materials..." Moirean echoes, eyes widening, as if told a very important revelation. "*I* have a house. I bet *I* have household materials!" She squirms a bit in her seat, as if suddenly eager to go off and test.

Aarbrok repeats again for good measure, "Curved...Swords..." he trails off, muttering to himself as he watches the workings of the Blacksmiths.

Pypo lets out a cheer, thumping his tail on the cold ground, humming to the racket... The vials clanging, the singing grook, pounding of the hammer by the troll, the flame and noxious smell as he sways to the simple beat.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith steps to the side to admire the roaring flame that bellows from within the depths of the forge, but not before accidentally stepping foppishly upon one of the legs of the deer carcass that sits beside it. The bone beneath the flesh snaps sickeningly beneath his immense weight. "Oops," he mumbles beneath his breath before shiftily kicking it to the side in hopes that nobody had noticed.

You have emoted: Moirean forces herself to focus and drags her attention towards the other two candidates, calling out, "Mister Sullivan! What is that you are doing now?"

You have emoted: "And you, Mister. Err. Grul," Moirean shrilly asks. "Are you planning some sort of exciting mixed-media creation, with that corpse?"

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith seems to be the only one crafting in a straightforward manner. Already he has his heavy gloves and tongs, pounding his hammer gingerly on a glowing arc of steel. "My dear Chairwoman," he yells over his own din, "I mean, first, to demonstrate the craft of my kinfolk."

Thoughtfully, Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "I don't suppose it would be rude to ask if refreshments are kept on the premises? Perhaps a little... sweet tea?"

Aarbrok turns his gaze to you, his muttering subsiding as he thinks upon the works at hand, "No...let me track you some." he says turning to the Grook.

Aarbrok says, "A moment."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith scoops up a pair of tongs, spin-shimmying his way to the forge, using them to juggle the white-hot pieces of metal. One after another he lands them on the anvil, absently tossing the blackened tongs over his shoulder. Lifting his gigantic hammer in a two-handed grip, he slides it back and forth, striking the bits so softly that it seems as if he's playing pat-a-cake.

Aarbrok mutters to himself, "Sweet tea...." pursing his lips he heads to turn, "...yes very well."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith bends at the waist with a grunt of exertion in an attempt to reach for the deer's sliced-open stomach - this first attempt quite visibly fails. With a determined huff of breath he bends forward once more and successfully manages to wrap his grubby hands upon the flap made by whatever incision splits the beast's gut from groin to neck. "Is keep mold in guts," the Troll explains just before plunging his hands inside to withdraw a rather sizable metal mold. "Is keep nice and warm for forge. Is make blade smell good like meat."

You have emoted: Moirean's gaze is drawn back to Gyle, the Imp blackmsith's antics, repeatedly dazzled by the showmanship, but she does her best to stay impartial, politely nodding and smiling an uncertain smile at the Troll's pitchy explanation.

Her smile a bit stiff, you say, "And. Err. Mister Grul, what. Umm. Benefit does a meat-blade confer?"

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith snorts arrogantly at you.

"You can almost admire his veracity...no it should be respected..." Menelaus mumbles obliviously to him self, in a not-quite-so-quiet voice.

"Tempering your blade in meat? What a notion!" Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says delightedly, wrapping up the process of hammering out his shape. He seems to be making a battleaxe.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to you, "Is need benefit? Is meat. Is own benefit."

Laytha chuckles at Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith.

Aarbrok mutters with a handful of bottles and cups, stacked and staggered, sloshing about, "Sweet...Tea?" now sounding more like a question as he sets the glasses down rather unceremoniously, "...Te....whiskey....cocktails....drinks." now that the muttering subsides he nods setting down a variety of glasses and handing three specifically to the Blacksmiths present, "...yes tea..." he says cocking his eyebrow up with a sideways smirk.

Aarbrok says, "Refreshments!"

You have emoted: Moirean gives a slow nod, consider Grul's words. "Meat is meat," she sagely - and hastily - agrees, clearly relieved by Aarbrok's arrival with the refreshments.

Aarbrok wipes the sweat from his brow, as he drops off the remainder before those officiating, "...and some for our judges." he says quietly.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith pauses, dropping his hammer aside again - there's a vial in his hand once more, filled with slime-green, viscous substance. He pours it out onto the metal. The reaction is instantaneous; thick, choking smoke rises around him, and he moves in a blur of action, odd limbs, hands, and wings prodding out of the cloud. An outside viewer might think, from the noises and the frenzy, that he was having a battle with himself.

Eugenides says to you, "Well, cheapest seems to be the Grook. After that our friend Grul, though I'm not sure the local... Meat population could support it. Gyle seems to be the most expensive, what with her Vermillioning and what not."

His angry, purple face peering out of the murk as he squeaks indignantly, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "I. AM. A MAN."

Menelaus snickers softly, eyeing Eugenides.

Squinting, Eugenides says, "You sure?"

Menelaus says, "Time for new spectacles Senator."

Sitting back, Eugenides says, "I'll have to take your word for it."

Menelaus says, "Those boots are very fashionable either way, if you ask me."

You have emoted: Moirean peers sideways at Eugenides, lips drawing into a frown. "Do all Imps look alike to you people?!" she shrilly demands. Her eyes narrow. "Is that why the guards keep calling me Chairman?!"

Beads of sweat break out on Menelaus's brow.

Thuneron, Captain of the Guard covers his mouth with his hand to hide a grin, but fails to hide the amused twinkle in his eyes.

Eugenides says to you, "No Sir."

You have emoted: Moirean lets out a sharp, indignant snort at Eugenides, crossing her arms over her chest and sulkily returning her attention to the forging. Her legs swing from atop her stepladder, kicking the desk a few times, before her pouting slowly shifts back to eager and intent observation.

"Much obliged, sirrah!" Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, accepting an ice-clinking glass from Aarbrok. He takes an experimental swig, hums his considerable pleasure, and sets the glass down on the anvil. "Gen'nlemen! I warn you that I shall now temper my blade; those of you wary o' steam are advised to cleah a space."

Aarbrok offers a curt nod of acknowledgement to the Grook, raising his glass in return.

Pypo says, "Meat on a stick with fruits an vegitables!"

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith's nostrils flare wide - he ducks back inside the cloud. There's the clinking and clanking of claptrap within the confines of the caliginous accumulation, accompanied by curses and contemptible comparisons. Small bits of metal fly away from the forge, as if tossed with great force.

A violent hiss and a rapidly expanding cloud of steam fills the room as Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith dips his weapon into the water. All the while, he sips at his tea, quite accustomed to the heat and disturbance.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith languidly goes about plucking a series of small steel cubes produced from his pocket into the mold. With delicate precision, he arranges them neatly within its confines until it's filled before, in quite the opposite manner, shoving the mold within the forge. As it hisses and begins to melt, he turns his back to the forge to wobble on over towards the offered refreshments. A skeptical gaze is turned towards the glasses and he chances a glance to Aarbrok with an expression a downtrodden mix of disappointment and hunger. "Is no bring food?" he mumbles in question.

Comprehension flashes across Aarbrok's face.

Waving a hand dismissively, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Is fine. Is bring own."

Aarbrok says, "...moment."

Aarbrok asks, "I ...buffalo?"

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to Aarbrok, "No no, is not miss best part."

Aarbrok raises an eyebrow questioningly.

Aarbrok nods his head emphatically.

The steam from the Grook's corner dies down at last.

Leaning over to you, Eugenides says, "Can we afford to feed the troll?"

Menelaus says, "I wonder if he would not be a better cook for the Indorani, than a smith at all."

Menelaus ponders Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith's profile, deep in consideration.

You have emoted: Moirean leans sideways to murmur back to Eugenides, "Well. We somehow manage to keep Ferrik sated..."

Menelaus grins mischievously at you.

Eugenides says to you, "Have you seen the devastation in the buffalo population?"

Pypo snickers under his breath.

In a quiet tone, you say to Eugenides, "Why do you think I had to build a buffalo paddock in my estate?"

Kelliara blinks.

Kelliara tilts her head and listens intently to you.

Kelliara says to you, "Indeed?"

Aarbrok resumes his post then, crossing his arms and nodding, "..best part." he says to himself, though the steam moving he seems inclined to glance towards the Grook yet again.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith leaps from the smoke, the tongs in his hands containing a small, box-like object. Thick vapors cling to it, and he holds out a narrow vial filled with scarlet liquid. He upends it, with a serpentine hiss, onto whatever he has just made, and shoves the combination of substance and masterwork into the depths of his green-burning forge. Another backlash of fire takes off what's left of his eyebrows, and he stumbles away, his hair curling at the ends, giggling exuberantly before plunging the device into the water. A pillar of steam and bubbles shoots up like a geyser before boiling away, and the Imp - triumphant in victory - throws up his tiny fists and cackles.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith grins snidely at Gyle, uttering a guttural "huh." With considerably less fanfare, he walks toward the Spirean judges, carrying his work bare-handed, a sweating glass of tea clutched demurely in the other.

Aarbrok nods his head at Sullivan, and then towards you as if to acknowledge the works heading this way.

You have emoted: "Yeah, I cleared out part of the forest behind the stable-" Moirean begins, but then shakes her head, ending the sidebar as the forgers approach the main desk with their creations. Her eyes widen in anticipation and she scoots eagerly forwards in her seat.

Laytha says, "I don't suppose I could trouble someone for a spot of food? All this watching has worked up quite an appetite..."

Eugenides says, "Perhaps some fawn?"

Eugenides points accusingly at Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith's eyebrows lift at his own statement as he turns around to run - well, as close to a run as a man of his stature could manage - back to the forge. Hastily he slaps on a pair of gloves and withdraws a set of grips to pull the mold from the forge. In one impressive arc he hefts it overhead and directly into a barrel of water just beside him. Steam hisses upwards from the barrel in roiling gouts, but when he lifts the grips they wield only a gleaming cleaver. "Is have food," he declares with a decisive nod.

Eugenides smiles at Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith.

Cleaver in hand, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith steps towards the deer carcass. With one mighty swing he hacks through marrow and meat alike, severing the head from its shoulders with what seems to be minimal effort. "Is need only few seconds," he reassuringly comments as he grabs up the head by an antler and tosses it into the forge.

The smell of burning meat is soon accompanied by the rancid stench of charred fur as the deer head sizzles and pops within the confines of the forge.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith plunges into the forge once more with his grips to pluck the charred head out of the makeshift oven. With a triumphant grin he lobs it towards the onlookers to land upon the ground with a sickening thud. "Is ready for eat!" he declares with a broad beam.

Laytha's "meal": a charred deer head.
Cooked quite clearly beyond perfection, this charred dear head retains all of its wonderful deer-y fixings. Burnt antlers, crisped eyeballs, and a singed snout make for quite the gruesome display altogether.
It weighs about 6 pound(s).

Laytha sways slightly back and forth, eyeing a charred deer head nervously.

Laytha smiles meekly at the Troll's offering.

Laytha nibbles lightly on a charred deer head.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith reaches down, recovering his own device - it's certainly not a WEAPON, but it has odd protrusions and appears to be comprised not just of sides and legs, but gears as well. All told, it fits in two Impish hands. He begins to approach the judge's table, still holding the device, but he appears to be stringing bits of it with twisted cord, drawn taut. Experimentally, he brushes one of the ends of the device. A loud CLICK sounds, and his grin intensifies.

Kelliara raises an eyebrow at Gyle, the Imp blackmsith.

You have emoted: Moirean begins to bounce up and down, eagerly watching as the Imp's creation is presented. Each click and clack seems to delight her, until she can contain it no more. "MAKE IT DO SOMETHING!" she calls out with glee.

Aarbrok acknowledges the click, curious of the works the Imp has he notices details rather curious of the design, though the Cabalist that he is, he does not flinch, just returning a similar grin back in the Imp's direction.

Pypo snickers under his breath.

Eugenides leans away gently from the box and raises his shield.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith drops an Impish bolt trap.

An Impish bolt trap:
A mazework of gears, ratchets, and coiled springs, this Impish trap is a spectacular example of fine detail and masterwork. Made from a series of precisely-arrayed iron parts, a crossbow-like mechanism sits atop its mount, linked to a hook at the front for the presumable attachment of a tripwire. Although crude and soot-stained, the machine appears to be basically functional, and a Spirean sigil has been hammered into its side.
It weighs about 5 pound(s).

Again, Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith displays a marked lack of showiness, able to be overlooked by the Troll and Imp. He waits patiently for his turn, carrying his axe by the handle, slurping noisily at his tea.

Laytha eyes the incredible delicacy of the battleaxe in Sullivan's hands.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith whistles, blowing a tunnel through his moustache. "That's a... fancy little doohickey indeed, Mr. Gyle."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith stoops low over the machine, pulling a long, wicked crossbow bolt from his back pocket. His tongue works into the corner of his mouth as he sets the projectile into the mechanism, pulls back the cord again, and - with great precision, trips the hook at the front. THUNK. The bolt quivers in one of the legs of the desk, moving too fast to be glimpsed in the intervening moment.

Flatly, Eugenides says, "Does it work?"

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "I dunno. You tell me, lady."

Aarbrok snickers under his breath.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith hops back a full second after the trap fires, squeaking out a "Heavens to Betsy!"

You have emoted: Moirean squeals in delight as the trap violently shoots the bolt at the deck, bursting into eager applause. "AGAIN! AGAIN!" she demands.

Nodding approvingly, Eugenides says, "Well done. It'll even fit in your purse."

Imperiously, you say to Eugenides, "YOU go test it!"

Menelaus raises a hand to his mouth, stifling a laugh.

Aarbrok looks towards the Grook, "Sullivan is it, it would seem you hold a practical, ...dare I say useful balanced looking weapon...." he seems rather unphased by the bolt flying into the wood and continues as usual over the commotion, "..do come forward, let us get a good look.." he enthuses.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith takes his place beside the other two competitors with a ragged exhalation of breath. Sweat has saturated his clothing to such an extent that they nearly seem another hue altogether now.

Aarbrok says, "Mind the trap though."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith marches his way forward, wary of Gyle's bolt trap, his tea glass tinkling. He sets his weapon on the desk.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith drops a rather fancy Grookish axe.

Laytha's starry eyes fall on a rather fancy Grookish axe in complete admiration.

You have emoted: Moirean blushes at Aarbrok's words, ears drooping down as she reigns her enthusiasm back to more responsible levels. "Yes," she coughs. "Let's see the axe."

"Mmmm..." Aarbrok softly utters.

a rather fancy Grookish axe:
Every little bit of this battleaxe is filigreed, carved, and turned with wavelike motifs, making for a weapon that is both artful and highly hydrodynamic. In the Grook fashion, it whistles piercingly when swung, a consequence of the friction-reducing holes that march along its long blade.
It has 30 months of usefulness left.
It weighs about 6 pound(s).
You may use the following commands with this weapon:
swing
hack
slash

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith leans forward, taking a look at the Grookish axe with raised non-eyebrows.

Aarbrok says, "May I...pick it up."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith gestures casually in a 'help yourself' manner.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Hey. Frog. I know I gave you a lot of crap, but you know how to forge."

You have emoted: Moirean frowns, eying the axe, and asks, "How is this Spirean, though?"

His eyebrows too raising, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Huh. Is make decent axe."

Aarbrok says, "A good forger, can create....anything imagineable, he chose to put detail to show his personal style."

Eugenides says to you, "What isn't Spirean about an axe to the face?"

"It ain't," Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith answers proudly. "My folk needa weapon that can chop through water like butter, if it please ya. If it's a Spirean work you're wantin', I have a finale in mind for you."

Aarbrok extends his arm out, hefting the axe in his other.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith turns his head, first to Grul, then to Gyle, and nods politely, a knowing smile on his face.

A rather fancy Grookish axe moves in a wicked blur as Aarbrok buries it in himself. ]--- I died at this XD IMMA TEST THE AXE OUT GUYS

Menelaus says, "Not bad."

Aarbrok lets out a howling curse as the axe carves into him like a hot knife through butter, "GODS BE DAMNED....That is a clean cut." he says, admiring the even slice of the blade as the blood begins to flow out of his arm.

Laytha says, "Finale! Finale!"

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to Eugenides, "Hey, is not give him answers! Is make him lose so Grul cook up legs for fancy meal for Spireans."

Eugenides picks up an Impish bolt trap.

Eugenides fiddles with the trap.

Laytha steps away from Eugenides.

You have emoted: "Spirean-themed was part of the challenge," Moirean sternly says, the effect rather ruined by her excited stares at all of the newly-forged toys.

You say to Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith, "Mister Grul!"

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith wobbles forward to place his own creation belatedly upon the desk for observation.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith drops an oversized meat cleaver.

an oversized meat cleaver:
Forged from gleaming steel, this cleaver's massive blade in comparison to its quite regular wooden handle renders it almost comical. Its edge seems to have been relentlessly worked upon to make it quite lethal in such a way that it'd undoubtedly slice through even the thickest of materials the wielder would for whatever reason desire to carve through.
It weighs about 10 pound(s).
You may use the following commands with this weapon:
swing
hack
slash

Eugenides says to Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith, "Too true. I apologize. In return..."

Menelaus turns and says to Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith rather seriously, "Please get some pigs so you can make bacon-wrapped portions?" A hopeful look upon his face.

Eugenides gives a triangle shaped bottle to Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith.

Eugenides nods his head emphatically.

"If is win, will make any food," Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith decisively states to Menelaus with a nod. "Cleaver is cut through pig like Spirean booze."

You have emoted: Moirean points out to the Troll, "There's no Spirean theme." Still, she seems rather impressed by the massive blade, and she fidgets a bit in her seat, as if eager to get her grabby little hands on it.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says to Aarbrok, "A fellow like me'd slather that in a bit o' poison - Green Honey, we call it."
]
Menelaus says, "Heh, honey wins over vinegar yet again."

Aarbrok raises his free hand, bloody as it is to his mouth and rubs in consideration. His eyes moving from the cleaver to the Grook, "I do like a man with a plan, poisons, good touch, I could use one of your culture up here in the North, sadly I am rather ignorant of Grook customs." he admits.

Eugenides says to Kelliara, "What do you think?"

Kelliara says, "I did not see the cleaver."

Aarbrok quickly strikes himself with an oversized meat cleaver. ]-- Because Spireans practice EQUALITY with our self-maiming

With anger in his eyes, Aarbrok shakes his fist at the sky and yells, "Curses!"

You have emoted: Moirean abruptly leans back in her seat, eyes narrowing in thought. Her lips purse, and she declares, "I'm not impressed. I'm not satisfied." She peers at the three forgers, each one in turn, and then says, "...not yet."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith releases a derisive snort towards you. "Spireans is creative. Is make good food - how is not Spirean? Is make easier for cook." His arms fold over his chest only to be held in their place by his protruding stomach.

Aarbrok extends the cleaver out for Kelliara, handing it off kindly.

Menelaus says, "I think our Warden Jensen, would like your cooking Grul."

Aarbrok nods his head at Kelliara.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to you, "If not impressed is forge for city by self. Hmph."

You have emoted: "ONE FINAL TASK!" Moirean insists, raising her voice shrilly to be heard over the crowd. She grins, her smile stretching broadly across her face, as she elaborates, "...One final item."

Simply, you say, "You three will work - together - to create something exquisitely, fundamentally Spirean."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith folds his arms, standing resolutely beside his trap and gazing over at you. His wings give a small flutter as he adjusts them into place.

Aarbrok says, "...together."

Laytha fidgets impatiently.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says nothing at all in a very pointed way. His silence is deafening.

You have emoted: Moirean repeats, "Together."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith scoffs. "I work alone," he protests.

Aarbrok says to Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith, "Me too." ]-- AS YOU HAVE DEMONSTRATED!

You say, "Not in Spinesreach you don't."

Aarbrok raises an eyebrow at you.

"If is make frog legs with Imp, is count for together?" Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith asks with a tilt of his head.

Eugenides nods his head at Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith.

Turning an oversized meat cleaver over in her hands Kelliara eyes it critically. Slowly, a grin pulls at her lips. "This, I like."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "Y'all keep mentioning 'frog legs'. Is that some sort of hifalutin' curse?"

Aarbrok says to Kelliara, "Thought you may appreciate that one."

Firmly, you say, "There is strength in individual work, but part of what makes us a city is our ability to come together for projects, events and even battles."

Despairingly, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "This is worse than when Khepri died."

With a searching glance at Gyle, the Imp blackmsith, Laytha frowns dubiously.

Aarbrok rubs his neck idly, clearly in little care to mend the wound bleeding on his arm, his clothes now rather stained he shrugs, "Chairwoman has a point, you may not like it, but a Spirean tradition is Unity, even if you gotta work with bastards who irritate the Pit out of you." he admits.

You have emoted: Moirean lifts her chin and insists, "Together." Her head tilts sideways, and then she points out, "...time is ticking."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "Piffle! If I wanted to work with others, I would have taken up a different profession."

"They is make good items, but together?" Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith grunts. "No. Imp is blow us up. Is sabotage." His head shakes quickly in such a way that undoubtedly sends a few greasy beads of sweat flying towards the other forgers by his side.

Eugenides says, "Imps do that, but you learn to love them."

Jerking a thumb toward the Troll, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "He's not wrong, you know. I'd light him on fire just to laugh."

Aarbrok says, "Consider the gold....the reward...the opportuuuuunity."

Aarbrok urges those about him onward.

Licking his lips just once, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Is never eat Imp though. Is maybe good."

You have emoted: Moirean's stern facade cracks a little at that and a hint of a gleeful grin dances across her face. It seems that part of her, at least, is anticipating that.

Pypo says, "Explosions fix everything!"

Menelaus says, "You might be able to make an automaton between the three of you, the sky is the limit. Think of that potential and be pragmatic here, fellas."

Menelaus nods his head at Aarbrok.

Aarbrok says, "An Automa-who...."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to Menelaus, "Is cook you so you is not talk?"

Aarbrok peers at Menelaus suspiciously.

Aarbrok nods his head at Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith.

Aarbrok urges those about him onward.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith clears his throat.

Eugenides says, "Grul, All them buffalo you want if you work with the others."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to Eugenides, "Is not make promise can't keep."

Aarbrok says, "All the glory of your fine works, and creativity if you can manage one task outside your comfort level."

Laytha says, "The way I see it, if one of just starts on something, you'll still be working alone until the other two decide to reign in their pride and join you..."

"I respectfully decline," Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith announces. "A Grook does not share his secrets."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "I'm with frog legs, here. I'm a lone Imp."

"And is nobody make blade so sharp as Grul," Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith also declines with a shake of his head. "Is not have reputation ruined."

Laytha says, "Shall we vote then, on what we've seen up to now?"

Eugenides says to you, in Tekal, "Chance we can rope in all three? I see a use for each of them."

You have emoted: Moirean leans back, her voice lowering as she confers with her comrades. "I was thinking of hiring all three," she murmurs - her words are *just* loud enough to be heard across the room. "But if they can't work together..."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to Gyle, the Imp blackmsith, "You is kinda smart. What funny language she-man there speak?"

Reaching out to clamp a tiny hand over Grul's mouth, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Shut your deer hole. I'm listening."

Aarbrok says to you, "With all due respect Chairwoman, do the Cabalists, Syssin, Sciomancers...work together, or specialize in different things to a collective result."

Aarbrok raises an eyebrow at you.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith saunters over to the forge he used previously, arranging his goods (but conspicuously, not stowing them), keeping an auditory hole turned toward the conversation.

Aarbrok says, "Carnifex as well, apologies..."

Aarbrok clears his throat with obvious error.

You have emoted: "Well, we don't try to eat each other," Moirean retorts. "I mean, except for Jensen."

The corners of Menelaus's mouth turn up as he grins mischievously.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith's mouth opens to chomp down on the hand. He licks his lips as if to discern a flavor, but evidently finds nothing worthwhile. "Is make proposal?" he regards with a tilt of his head.

Aarbrok says, "And that being said, would I go on gallavanting as one of...."

Aarbrok looks out towards Grul and nods, a smirk on his lips.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith jerks back his hand, scowling and backing away from Grul.

Menelaus says, "It is odd being a Consanguine being afraid he is going to be eaten, not the other way around, around here...with Xiuhcoatl too.."

Without warning, Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith picks up his hammer, assembles metal, and begins to smash it triumphantly, filling the air with ear-splitting clangs.

Laytha throws up her hands and cheers wildly for Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith!

Kelliara tilts her head and listens intently.

You have emoted: Moirean glances up from the Spirean huddle, peering over at the sudden racket. "I mean, if they are going to kill each other-" she starts to say, but falls silent, blinking at the clanging.

Aarbrok steps back as the hammering begins, curious of what may be underway he ceases his inquiry and watches...

Gesturing towards the two other forgers, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "You is give us time for get to know each other. Learn work, technique. We maybe build new forge space together. If is liked, we all three get hired. If is not, maybe you pick."

You have emoted: Moirean glances back to the Spireans, clearly curious what they think about the proposal.

Laytha says, "Not a bad idea... if they can all learn from each other and provide us with a larger range of expertise..."

Aarbrok says, "I..mean...we could have a Blacksmiths Union."

Eugenides says to Aarbrok, in Tekal, "SHH... don't use the U-word."

Aarbrok says, "I...they could ea...no..NO it is Spirean and it is fair."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith stares dead ahead, absorbed wholly in his work. It goes by in a flash, and though his noise threatens to overtake the conversation, in no time he is already thrusting the components into the water, cooling them.

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to you, "You is get nice shiny new forge room. We is all three get job. Win for all, we have feast to celebrate."

Aarbrok considers a moment, "...Until they blow it up." his eyes settling on the Imp before he turns back to the Grooks direction.

Laytha tilts her head curiously at Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith.

Kelliara ponders the situation.

Eugenides says to you, "Or, perhaps a new spire?"

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith nods once to himself, evidently quite satisfied with his suggestion before turning an expectant gaze upon his fellow forgers for input.

Kelliara looks thoughtful and says, "Can have plans for a larger forge done within a day or so."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith stares into a corner, a vial beneath his nose - he appears to be inhaling the fumes from it.

Heaving and sweating up a storm, Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith returns, carrying his work, some chunky entity draped beneath a curtain.

Aarbrok looks upon the Grook anxiously, curiosity besting him this time around, "Yes...yes." he whispers under his breath.

You have emoted: "It would all involve lots more paperwork and forms to fill out," Moirean muses with a frown. Still, the promise of potential spires and/or explosions definitely is swaying her. She bites her lip, holding back her final decision, as she waits to see what the Grook has.

Interested, Eugenides says, "What's this?"

"I'm an ol' bastard, and stubborn as they come. Set in my ways. It might be I speak out o' passion more than fairness or sense. Might be I can consider workin' with these gen'nlemen," Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, and unfurls his latest work.

Aarbrok opens his mouth but says nothing.

Kelliara raises an eyebrow questioningly.


THE MASTERPIECE: a monstrous, fourteen-string guitar of roaring lions.
Able to stand up on its own, the guitar is nothing less than a love letter to all things Spirean, and defies description. Its fourteen steel strings race across a neck the length of a bastard sword, humming at the very slightest touch. The guitar's body is pure iron, heavy as a warhammer, and divides its real-estate between menacing spikes and beautifully-crafted lions, the latter of which are frozen in defiant roars. If two of its spikes could be said to be shoulders, then the blood-red flag strung from them would be its cape, the colors of the Northern City flying proud from the instrument.
It has 300 months of usefulness left.
It weighs about 11 pound(s).
You may use the following commands with this weapon: ]--- YES IT IS A WEAPON

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says, "But you leave the outfitting of your soldiers to -me-."

Kelliara says, "That-."

Aarbrok says, "I..."

Aarbrok peers at a monstrous, fourteen-string guitar of roaring lions suspiciously.

Aarbrok says, "This..."

Aarbrok stares pointedly at a monstrous, fourteen-string guitar of roaring lions and strums his fingers impatiently.

(Spirean Hunters): Aarbrok says, "I was hoping to play it and shatter the suns."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith turns, staring at the guitar. His unfocused eyes go wide - the vial drops from his hand with a crash. Whatever is in it promptly begins to burn through his boot.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Holy shiiiiiooooOOOWWW."

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith frowns dutifully and takes a step back, wearing that strange mix of pride and mild embarrassment unique to stubborn old fogeys.

Aarbrok says, "Good...Gods."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith hops back, clutching his tiny foot.

Laytha says, "He gets us..."

You have emoted: Moirean positively COOS as the patriotic paraphernalia is unveiled, clapping her hands to her cheeks as she gazes at it with delight. "It's so PRETTY," she purrs.

Aarbrok says, "May...May I ..."

"Whoa..." Menelaus says with clueless fascination.

Eugenides leans back clapping and says, "I'm impressed."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith can't help but allow his jaw to drop as he spies the guitar. He stammers briefly as he attempts to come up with the proper words.
]
Kelliara asks, "Can any of you others top that?"

Setting his foot down with a wince, Gyle, the Imp blackmsith offers the only proper reply he can muster - he merely makes the sign of Khepri and bows, low, to Sullivan's awesome abomination.

Shaking his head resolutely, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Cannot beat string-thing there. Is pretty."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "He wins."

Turning to you, Eugenides says, "That went well."

You have emoted: Moirean is won over by the final creation. She bounces up and down in her seat and slaps her hands on the table-top, crying out, "Ok! Ok!" She clears her throat and her voice gets a bit more Chairwomanly, as she lifts her chin and stares at the three blacksmiths.

"Misters Grul, Gyle, it'll be a pleasure woykin' with you," Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith says curtly, and harrumphs quietly to himself. With no further comment, he turns and helps himself out of the armory. ]-- Yes, he just dropped the mic and walked off the stage

...Two blacksmiths.

Formally, you say, "On behalf of the Republic of Spinesreach, I, Chairwoman Moirean Seirath, am pleased and proud to-."

You blink.

Aarbrok cant keep his hands off of it, its just that beautiful, "I...this.." he is lost for words, which if anyone knows is something that does not happen, Ever.

You say, "Well then."

You shout, "YOU ARE ALL HIRED BUT I GUESS YOU FIGURED THAT OUT."

You see Menelaus shout, "HROAAAGHHH!!!!"

You see Aarbrok shout, "Hroagh!"

You see Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith shout, "HRUMPH!"

"HROAGH!" Laytha shouts, her voice defiant like a challenge to the Gods themselves.

Sullivan, a mustachioed Grook blacksmith shouts, "The noyve!"

Tsvanni's voice powerfully resounds, "HROOOAAAGGHHH!!!! I think."

You see Gyle, the Imp blackmsith shout, "THANKS, LADY! WE REALLY APPRECIATE IT! HROAGH, BY KHEPRI AND SPINESREACH! HROAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHhekhekeck."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith coughs softly.

Menelaus throws up his hands and cheers wildly!

Laytha chuckles at Gyle, the Imp blackmsith.

Standing, Eugenides says, "It was a pleasure."

Kelliara says to you, "Shall I start designing a larger forge for the three of them, then?"

Eugenides says to you, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

With a nod, you say, "Get that new workshop planned out. If anyone wants to help the Chief Engineer..."

You point accusingly at Kelliara.

You say, "Well. She's right there."

A frown wrinkles Kelliara's brow as she articulates a "Hrm...."

You say, "Have fun!"

Kelliara looks thoughtful and says, "Actually."

Laytha claps her hands together merrily.

Kelliara looks thoughtful and says, "May need a trip to the Crag. Have a thought." ]-- She told me about this thought today. IT IS GONNA BE AWESOME

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith claps his beefy hands together in a quick round of applause that likely sounds most similar to the slapping of a steak against a brick wall.

Laytha says, "Well done everyone!"

Menelaus seems to have a hard time just containing him self and isn't sure what to do so he just stews and broods in place, a dark look on his face.

Eugenides says to Kelliara, "I must rest. If you still need help when I return, just let me know."

Kelliara tucks an oversized meat cleaver away with her belongings. "I am keeping this," she states, grinning savagely.

Aarbrok says, "And...I...this."

Aarbrok fawns over the guitar.

Aarbrok says, "Probably should give the deer head to the Warden."

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith grabs Gyle, the Imp blacksmith up in a mighty hug, his large arms squeezing the Imp's much smaller form in a triumphant embrace. "We is all make it! Is no more cook orphans!"

Pulling out the trap some what reluctantly, Eugenides says, "Thought it'd go great on my desk."

With a slow nod, you say to Eugenides, "Fair enough. keep it then!"

Trying to hide his excitement, Eugenides says, "Yes ma'am."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Just a thought, lady."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith grins mischievously at Eugenides.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Link it up to the doorknob, and get rid of ALL unwanted callers."

Eugenides says to Gyle, the Imp blackmsith, "You did a wonderful job on the design. It'll be well kept."

Kelliara asks Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith, "Have you forged many items like this cleaver?"

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says to Kelliara, "Is make all the time!"

Kelliara bares her teeth at Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith in a feral grin.

Dipping his head quickly, Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith says, "Is go find food now though bye!"

Grul, an obese Troll blacksmith grumbles something about 'effort' before dismally wobbling away towards the west.

Kelliara says, "Indeed. I need to start on these plans."

Eugenides nods his head emphatically.

Kelliara says, "Will be in my workshop if I am needed."

Eugenides says, "I hear sleep calling me."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Yeah, I'm gonna go drink, and then I'm gonna find some Impish ladies of the night."

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith winks knowingly.

Gyle, the Imp blackmsith says, "Ta-ta."

Laytha grins mischievously at Gyle, the Imp blackmsith.

Gyle, the Imp blacksmith struts away to the west.

"You people don't pay me enough," Thuneron, Captain of the Guard mutters.

You grin mischievously at Thuneron, Captain of the Guard.

You say to Thuneron, Captain of the Guard, "To be fair, you're still being docked for selling off the uniforms and weapons for vodka."

Scoffing, Thuneron, Captain of the Guard says, "They fight better with vodka than with blades, what can I say."

With a sad nod, you say to Thuneron, Captain of the Guard, "Tis true. Hopefully the new forgers can fix that!"

Moirean

I just have to say, I absolutely loved the Spirean sidebar and banter and conversations we had going throughout this, as well are the amazingly well-played mob trio. This was hella fun, thanks to everyone involved, gods and mortals alike.

Ishin

Man reading this makes me wish I had stayed up just a little longer, but I have a Fallujah reunion I'm driving to today so I couldn't

Moirean

This was a few days ago, I was just lazy to clean it up.

Toz

Going to put six strings on my warhammer so I can rock people to sleep.

Meyvitch

^_^ I loved this. I need to hang around Spireans more often. Or steal the guitar. How about I just steal the guitar.

Moirean

It's by the piano. In the Institute. Head southeast.

Toz

We have a piano?

Moirean

In the Institute! Southeast from the Inner Gate! There's a piano AWESOME METAL GUITAR there!

Aarbrok

Piano, where?

Meyvitch

#InTheInstitute #Tothesoutheast #Hroagh.

Slyphe

#unsurehroagh

Eugenides

We have an Institute?

Toz

It's to the southeast. With the piano.