The Sharpest Point (Open)

Vash rose early that morning, he’d been at the forge most of the night, but was still up just after the sun peeked over the Eastern horizon. He had repairs to make and was seriously considering keeping the shop closed that day, though he knew that the repairs and testing the weapons people claimed were damaged was something that he could do while open. He got dressed and made himself a light breakfast before descending the stairs from his apartment over the shop. Once he was in the back room of the store he located the box of knives and swords he had taken in to sharpen. Picking up the case and finding a whetstone to start with, the Swiss moved to the front of the store, unlocking the door and then settling behind the counter to work on the blades until a customer arrived.

The blond man checked the pistol at his hip and then picked up a decoratively hilted throwing dagger. He rather hated these, they had to be sharpened just right to keep them accurate in addition to being next to impossible to forge considering the exact difference that had to exist between the hilt and the blade. Ah well, all he had to do with this one was sharpen it, not craft it.

Francis frowned. Deeply.

It wasn't that he didn't take care of his most prized belongings, but it had been a while since he'd had his dagger sharpened. (Only his work and kitchen knives, but he used those on a near daily basis; it was impossible to ignore common utensils, especially if they were the best bullion could buy. Which would explain why he was in his current predicament.) Despite carrying it on his person every time he frequented Aldmoor, it'd been ages since he'd... used it. It was hardly a plaything--he'd cut himself plenty of times to know it wasn't a decorative edge--but here, in this dusty little oasis, a hard look and a swift kick had been enough. Whatever the presumptions about Aldmoor, he could count the number of times he'd drawn it from beneath his robes on one hand. And for drawing blood? The only thing that would rust this blade would be time. (Probably.)

Tracing the pads of his fingers over the ivory grip and gold decoration encompassing the hilt, he gave the wootz steel another mournful look before sliding the blade back into its filigreed sheath. He could sharpen his Laguioles and K Sabatiers perfectly fine--but he wasn't about to potentially ruin a memento of his father due to lack of knowledge and precision. Especially not this one.

(He couldn't quite tell the value of knives--they weren't his expertise--but even when he was twelve and gifted with the Pesh-kabz, it was quite clear that his father hadn't just 'picked it off a street vendor somewhere.' (It was evident just from the teasing smile on the man's face. He never did find out where it was plucked.) His mother hadn't been particularly pleased with the choice of birthday present, but then again, she ended up presenting him with a katara for no apparent reason, after he finished his apprenticeship.)

Oh, well. It shouldn't cost too much to have it professionally sharpened. (He may as well bring the katara--purely ornamental at this rate--if he was going to pay for the service.) There was a... blacksmith? Forger? Weapons merchant? Someone of that profession in Ostnesse. From what he'd heard of him... what was it? Something with 'zeed.' Ah, Zwingli.

Blond, young but as parsimonious as any elder; 'cold as the desert nights.' Yet, quite attractive.

Or so he heard.

It shouldn't matter in this case.

Nodding to himself, Francis gathered both weapons in question and made his way out the door, locking up after himself. After a few missteps and (rather pleasant) detours for directions, he found himself outside a rather plain-looking forge. Humming at the lack of decor, he let himself in.

Vash worked carefully to sharpen the edges of the ornamental blade he was working on. Considering the lack of wear on it, and the pristine condition of the scabbard his guess would be that the dagger was entirely for decorative purposes. Why the owner would wish it sharpened as such was beyond him, but they were paying handsomely for it—perhaps even more so now that he realized exactly how much etching there was on the blade for him to avoid. It was one thing to sharpen a blade that was designed to be put to practical use, and another to work with knives designed purely for decorative purposes.

He finally sheathed the blade again, setting it with the others that he had finished with, rubbing his eyes and sitting back. He still had several knives to sharpen, and business had been slow that day, but the sound of the whetstone was beginning to grate on his nerves. After another moment, the Swiss rose, stretching, and picked up the finished knives with the intent to return them to the back room. He slipped into the rear of the shop, placing each blade carefully on the shelves. Ducking back into the main shop, he picked up the crate of dull knives and returned them to the back as well before perching himself behind the counter again.

The young smith reached under the counter and located his sketchbook, setting to work on a couple of new designs for guns that he’d been mulling over for some time. Adding a couple of knives in the shop mightn’t go amiss, they were easier to carry and far quieter than guns. He could always try it and see how they sold.

Glancing up as the bell over the door rang, Vash returned his sketches to the shelf under the counter. His green eyes scoped over the man who had just entered. He was tall, or at the very least taller than the Swiss, and he carried himself in such a way that Vash would be rather surprised if a good amount of his build wasn’t toned muscle. The smith’s gaze moved to the knives the man carried, but he asked anyway, “What can I help you with, sir?”

((After such a beautiful reply this one feels almost inadequate. On the other hand I think I may blame the fact that looking at that dagger and katara has my Vash muse moderately speechless about anything but those blades.))

>> It'd been years--no. Possibly ages since he'd last stepped into a... an armory? Smithy? Such terms rang archaic in an epoch of airships and industrialization, yet fit the environment like a well-tailored glove. A perusal over the displays made Francis aware of his mistake: the interior clearly reflected 'gunsmith' as opposed to 'blacksmith,' with armaments arranged atop shelves and hooks in a manner that bespoke meticulous devotion and a lick of pride--one far from a grandiloquent vanity. A subdued--but open--satisfaction. A man's surroundings, his veritable abode, spoke volumes of he who managed his arena.

(They say that ten minutes spent in another's antechambers revealed the true persona of a person, non? With this man, however, Francis dared not think of the consequences of such an action. Speaking of which.)

Turning his curious gaze upon the attendant behind the counter, Francis allowed himself a brief moment in which to indulge in the man's quiet--in more ways than one--countenance. Sharp grassy eyes that held his, cool but for a brief spark of impatience at Francis's dilly-dallying. Blond tresses nestled against his cheekbones somewhat limply, and the Frenchman could both see and smell the light scattering of sweat--barely beginning to dry--tarrying at the gunsmith's brow and hairline, darkening the hairs about his forehead. Perhaps the man had just been in the sun? Ah, no. The bitter scent of silver and stone--that settled upon his slightly parted lips like a superfine dust, a metallic taste--lingering about the other's person cast forth an image of Zwingli before a whetstone, eyes focused on the sheen of blade against the hone. It wasn't unpleasant, the idea of this lissome man and his--Francis's eyes flashed downward to the other's hands--slim fingers gripping the handle of his knives, firmly... yet delicately.

Perhaps he should state his business before his thoughts went elsewhere. A congenial smile worked its way to his mouth as he strode forward, narrowing the distance between him and this--rather attractive, his mind supplied--silently passionate metalsmith, one hand reaching for the knives at his side so both could place them delicately before the other atop the counter. He let himself indulge in the warm, underlying smell of grass and wind and snow that somehow accompanied the Swiss (and the question of whether the man was a Romand) prior to answering--a languid, melodic drawl he'd perfected over the years whenever he found himself captivated by the presence of another. "A simple sharpening. These are very precious to me, and I figured a professional would be more equipped to the task of preserving their function and beauty."

Vash’s gaze moved from his customer to the two knives that had been set on the counter. The sheath of one of them caused him to bite back a sigh, hopefully it was less ornate than some. He withdrew the Pesh-Kabz from its sheath, carefully examining the blade. It looked as though it had hardly been used. He checked for nicks and the like which would require more time spent. The smith glanced up at his customer, having finally placed his accent as French. He had been raised speaking German, but two of his fellow apprentices had been Romands and he knew smatterings of Italian as well. “It is a fine blade. May I ask how useable you wish it to be?”

Even as he asked he turned his attention to looking over the Katara. This was something he felt far more comfortable working with. Double-bladed to aid with a straight thrust, and very few ornamentations. There was no need to worry about chipping filigree on that knife. Looking at the blade itself though he could see which one was actually more cared for and it wasn’t the one he would have used. Practicality said to carry the Katara, but it looked as though the Pesh-Kabz was cared for more, meaning use. And it had come smoothly out of its sheath rather than sticking as a blade that remains either fully out of its sheath or constantly inside it might do.

“I can certainly sharpen them for you, monsieur. How much practical sharpening do you wish for them. Decorative weapons should probably have slightly less of an edge on them simply due to the danger of accidental contact. However, if you wish, I can hone both to full usefulness.” The Swiss’s gaze rose to consider his customer again. It certainly appeared as though the man could pay well. Though the blades were a simple enough matter to sharpen when compared to the difficulty of some of the ones he had been working on earlier. He’d have to see how much the other would be willing to pay.

((And likely that will be what I have the ability to write between now and getting my teeth dealt with. Ireland was gorgeous, and I'm almost sorry to be back.))