Sunday, MOTH 5, 5th. Elfier City.
After breakfast, Fyar went straight to Robert's shop. He had thought about asking Laura to go for a walk, but the girl was busy with work at the inn, so Fyar decided not to bother her.
When he arrived, the rhythmic sound of a hammer striking metal greeted him before he even opened the door. Inside, the air was warm and smelled of acrid charcoal and hot metal. Various hammers, tongs, and files hung neatly on the stone walls, next to finished swords and shields. On the sturdy workbench lay pieces of metal and several burnt, cracked bullet casings.
Fyar watched Robert, who was sitting in his chair, holding a glowing piece of iron with a pincer and slowly hammering it on an anvil. The blacksmith didn't even look up when Fyar entered.
"Soo.. Can you make them?"
Robert placed the hot iron into a tub of water. Steam hissed out, filling the air with a distinct smell. He let out a heavy sigh, then wiped his sweaty hands on his leather apron.
