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Orsino

Under The Hill

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Sunday, June the 3rd, Lord's year 1319

Outside the town of Hastings

 

The afternoon heat beneath the slate roofing is stifling, made worse by the smoky forge. The young man pumping the foot-bellows wears only a smudged leather apron over filthy breeches.

 

At Amairgen's words he starts, dropping his hammer carelessly and stepping away from the anvil. A guilty look crosses his face, and he nods his head subserviently at the sight of fine clothes. "Save you, sir, the Father gimme leave to do this work, or I'd ne'er touch it on the Sabbath. Come again i' the morn, we'll do the best smithing you'll see north o' the water." His words sound a bit rehearsed, and there is a hint of fearfulness. He wipes a hand nervously on his apron.

 

The wooden bin farthest from the forge has a Cross carved in its front and top, the lid fastened with rope tied in a thrice-not, which Amairgen recognizes as a good-luck charm.

 

Brother Thaddeus reaches the door of the largest house, and there comes an anguished cry from inside as he opens the door. "The light! God keep me from the light!" The door shuts firmly, but there is the faint sound of voices from within.

 

The liveried man disappeared behind the same house, but Cormac spies him again as he rounds the corner. He waves to a younger man standing outside a smaller home, and rests the pike upon his shoulder. The younger man yawns, and glances once at Cormac before losing interest.

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Amairgen looks around the forge, sees if he can see any cold iron, picks some up or touches it to show he isn't of the fay. "I might be going Under the Hill soon. One of my friends has had the come-hither put on them. If Jesus, Mary, and the Saints bless us, we hope to follow her, Over There, where The People of Peace have taken her."

 

"I need to buy knives of unforged iron, in order to jam the door open. I'm sure you've heard the tales. I'll pay in silver or gold, and a good price, and the holy brother will likely bless you for your pains."

 

Amairgen looks the young smith in the eye, "Can we do business?"

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Sunday, June the 3rd, Lord's year 1319

Outside the town of Hastings

 

The young man, who appears to be in his twenties, smudges more soot on his face as he wipes his nose nervously. He looks Amairgen over suspiciously. "It's Them Others, eh?" He glances at the bin marked with the sign of the Cross. "Them's the reason a smith who loves life'll keep the unforged iron hid away, where such as Them can't smell it." He thinks a moment.

 

"I'll not take gold to thwart Them, but cross my palm with silver, an' I'll bang ye out summat knife-shaped, right quick-like, an' be about my real work." On the anvil before him, you note, appear to be manacles. "An' ye'll leave an' not tell nobody, least of all a churchman." He puts his hands on his hips, expectantly.

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I place ten silver coins on the anvil, "I'd like ten knives, if you need more coin, I'll give you more and ask God's blessing on your head if you hurry."

 

"As to other requierments, I'll not cross so useful a man as you."

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Cormac stands for a time working up his nerve and a line of questions. Then he approaches the younger man who appears bored.

 

The liveried man disappeared behind the same house, but Cormac spies him again as he rounds the corner. He waves to a younger man standing outside a smaller home, and rests the pike upon his shoulder. The younger man yawns, and glances once at Cormac before losing interest.

 

"Good day to you," Cormac says with a smile. "And how are you doing today?" Cormac will pause for an answer and then move onto some small talk if possible hoping for some useful bits of knowledge to surface before trying to ask any questions.

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Sunday, June the 3rd, Lord's year 1319

Outside the town of Hastings

 

The young man’s eyes light up at the sight of Amairgen’s, but a muffled cry from within the nearby house makes him frown. He shakes his head, and pushes five silver coins back toward the Irishman. “I’ll do two fer ye, but I dasn’t stop fer long. An’ it be nigh to dark.” He palms five coins in a soot-blackened hand, kisses his fist, and slips the money into a pocket. “Keep watch now,” he mutters, jerking his head in the direction of the large house. “Sing out now if any come from inside.” He pushes aside his earlier work, clearly a set of manacles, draping their chain over the point of his small anvil. The little forge hisses as he spits into the coals, and he crosses himself as he opens a bin behind him.

 

Eyeing Cormac’s clothing, the young man stands a bit straighter, and touches his cap. “G’morrow.” He is dressed in dirty woolen leggings and muddy shoes. The green tunic was donned, perhaps, in haste.

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"Young Man" says Cormac "could you satisfy my curiousity as to what is going on here. I was out walking and contemplating the beauty of the day and was surprised to hear rumors of something untoward." Cormac is keeping tone and body language friendly at this stage. It appears that this fellow may be sleepy and might not be to sharp as of yet.

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