Extract It From The Source

Title: Extract It From The Source
Time Period: August 16, 135 AE
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Two men descend upon Pins & Needles for separate purposes.

Mornings suck for Sorcha, who - after a long night of the inevitable drinking - is hungover and not relishing working. But by now, it's become the afternoon and the mourning dressed widow is at her counter in the Pins & Needles, working on pieces of felted wool, hand sewing what seems to be some animal of a sorts.

Dark curly hair tamed back by a strip of leather, row upon row of fabrics - some mundane and others that clearly can in no way be produced locally. Baskets of wool, a rack of wooden hangers with pre-made generic shirts and canvas or cotton pants, dresses, meant for those who don't have the time for something custom made. The door is open, the bells above the door back in place and the summer breeze making it's way through the shelves to behind the counter and the work area back there.

There's singing happening - Rhag might be familiar with the voice - but it's no bawdy sailor song but something more pretty and traditional. Sorcha, is singing while she works. Something that she hasn't done in a few weeks.

Today Rhagfyr wears an old coat; not in the 'this looks shabby' sort of way, but in the 'this is likely ancient but is well preserved' manner. Perhaps filched from the carcass of a museum in one of the cities, or looted from the scuttled remains of a collector's ship or home. It's got a naval feel to it, a rich teal colour, perhaps some sort of admirality dress coat. To the trained eye, it's clearly been repaired in places but is still in excellent condition, considering. Aside from this most fundamental outfit, his attire is the usual sort of swashbuckling fare.

He swaggers into the shop, catching the sound of the singing and quietly whistling along in some vague harmony as he navigates the aisles and gives the wares an idle inspection. Slowly, he moves toward the working seamstress, coming up short and flashing a toothy smile when he remembers who exactly it is that owns this shop.

The door is opened slightly, then shoved. It swings hard enough to stop just shy of banging against the surface behind it. Blake walks through the entrance during its brief opening, but stops just beyond the threshold. As the door returns from its apex to close, the dark gaze of this newly-arrived customer shoots left, then right. He sniffs through his nose unlike many that do this time of year that are suffering the pollen. His inhalation is more along the lines of trying to identify something just barely affecting the olfactory senses. Finally looking towards the propietor and other customer, he walks slowly forward while examining them; left hand on his hip and right hovering at his side opposite his sword, but in good position to draw it. After a few seconds it is Rhagfyr's coat that has his entire attention. He's clearly staring at it as his upper lip twitches.

A seamtress owns this shop and not a seamstress. If that conversation is to be remembered. Just like Blake's attention goes to the coat, so does Sorcha's. Though it's more because of the design, the color and construction as opposed to oohh pretty. "Welcome to Pins An- oh" It's you. That look says it all as Sorcha's gaze settles on Rhag's face.

Another glance takes in Blake and the seamstress is straightening up. "Pins and Needles. Are you both here for repairs, need something made or come to dangle your coat in my face or question my honor just a little more" The last, you know, directed at Rhag. Blake, she recognizes from around town, but the two have never really run in the same circles. Niall caters to all her metal needs, though the hulk of a metal singer sewing machine in the visible work area, easily near 300 years and still working, might garner a blacksmith's attention. "Nice Jacket"

Despite the lackluster welcome, Rhagfyr maintains his broad smile. "Why, yes. That is the very reason I came here, to strut around in my dashing attire and taunt the drunken seamstress." The loud banging has him spinning toward the door, on instinct mostly, fingers flexing as though to draw and fire. He doesn't though. Instead he just gives this new arrival a long study, with the curve still lingering on his lips.

Everyone loves coats. Satisfied that this is still true, he turns back to Sorcha without another word for Blake. "I actually came in search of a fabric supplier for sails; I was unsure whether you sold bulk or simply made things." he explains, taking a sliding step sideways to make room for the other man before the counter.

Flex. Flex. Flex. Blake's jaw muscles are working as if he is chewing his own teeth. His stare doesn't break from that complimented garment Rhagfyr is wearing, and he doesn't step fully up to the counter even though the other customer has politely given him space to. The only sign given that Blake hears Sorcha is his scalp tightening behind his ears; pulling them a fraction of an inch back but making it clear he is listening in an alert manner. As he replies, his eyes move not back to her, but rather up from the old coat to that of the man wearing it; narrowing. He speaks in a quiet voice that carries a subtly lesser version of the local accent with it. "No. I'm here for a custom piece. I can wait for you to finish with him," a nod is given towards the man he stares at.

"Oh, he won't be a moment. Given that He actually wants the fabric maker, who is two blocks over" Hywel's name rattled off her tongue. "Unless you've a keen mind for a multi-fabric'd expensive sail. I have the amount of canvas coming out of my arse though, if you really want to get it from me. I can spare it" Which is to say, she'll do business with him, if he wants to deal with the cost. because she'd need to make a profit. And because he called her drunken.

Not cool man, not cool.

But she is. And she does have an alcohol problem, recently exacerbated with the death of Patrick. One that Mariah has been trying very hard to conceal from patrons of the shop. She looks to Blake then, offering him a hint of a smile. "You're the other blacksmith right?" Maybe He'll get some business off of Rhagfyr too, if she can help it. "I have some dragon skin that would make good chaps when working around the fire"

"I don't have to extract it from the source, do I? I'm not sure my lady would approve of that." Rhagfyr's gaze flicks down toward Sorcha's hips to indicate his meaning although he doesn't stare or leer. "I suppose it all depends. Cotton would be easy, reinforced lightweight fabrics are awfully hard to come by." It never hurts to ask. Cost doesn't seem to deter him.

The profession of the other man makes him turn back again, regarding the fellow anew. "Dragon skip chaps are all the rage on the continent, so I hear." he supplies, in a mock whisper, talking up the wares as though this fashion tid-bit is something stolen from next month's Vogue, were it still to exist. "You don't happen to be familiar with cannon, do you?"

Blake perhaps replies to both of the others in the room at the same time. His stare is unfaltering on the captain's eyes when they are directed his way. "A blacksmith is a maker of pots and fuckin' horseshoes. He works with iron and crafts shite a strong child could make. I make armor. You," Blake's head inclines just slightly towards the man, as if his stare wasn't enough to indicate the target of his statement, "would have better luck at the factory."
Finally, he breaks eye contact with the man to look at Sorcha. "I'm interested." 'Distracted' might have been a better word for what he is, though, as he looks back at the previous target of his stare as he steps up to the counter; closing distance. His eyes narrow momentarily once more. "Have we met?" His tone is accusational rather than the indifferent or friendly, as one might expect with the question.

"My apologies" To calling him a blacksmith. But he's focusing his attention on Rhagfyr and indicated interest in the dragon hide, so she puts down the felted bear that she's been making for a customer and turns off toward a door that leads to the back. Likely to get the leather in question. "Not from the source. Alas, you shall have to talk to the ladies at the Dove for that kind of action Captain. Getting your fabrics!" And she disappears.

That smile doesn't wither in the face of Blake's modesty, nor as he closes and makes his demand. One brow arches upwards as the pirate stands there, unintimidated. It would never do for the much storied rogue to be browbeaten by a common blacksmith. Erm. Armoursmith.

"Sadly the factory doesn't quite fit my needs." he replies, even toned and even slightly jovial. "Perhaps this Niall may be of more help, if he's not still as deep in his cups as he was when I last met him." This comes before answering the actual question posed, along with a grateful tip of the head toward Sorcha. "I do not think so. I'd likely remember your charm and winning personality, if we had." Another show of teeth, "Rhagfyr Llyw. You are?"

There is a pause as the name is considered with another narrowing of the eyes. As if some test is passed, Blake's intensity lessens a tad. "I have better fuckin' things to spend my energy on than… charm." His upper lip curls back slightly like saying the word 'charm' puts a bitter taste in his mouth. "Blake Esho." No hand is offered. In fact, his right hand is still hovering to his side in perpetual readiness to draw that saber; a weapon more fit for a sailor or calvaryman. The scabbard even has a sea motif to it if one stares hard enough. Waves are etched into the cuirboilli, but sun has faded it nearly to invisibility. "What kind o' cannon do you employ? More importantly, 'ave anything worth my while? Castin' is a fuckin' bitch."

Rhagfyr doesn't appear to expect a hand, nor does he reach for one. The pirate doesn't have a sword, although there's signs in the lie of his coat that there's blades of some sort beneath, along with the gun slung in easy reach. There is something in his posture that implies readiness while maintaining the relaxed air; this is a man who is no stranger to casual violence and murder. But that goes with the territory. "We've a mix; long guns, demi-cannon, an Armstrong even. Picked up quite a varied collection over the years. Then some mounted deck guns to go with them, for picking off crew."

A tip of the head toward the door, "The Pysgod's out in the harbour, you'd be welcome to have a gander some time'f you're interested, isit?"

Blake's sour expression makes his incoming refusal of the invite all but certain, but something causes him to pause. His eyes narrow yet again, but this time so much more thoughtfully and with his gaze falling off to the side. He shakes his head, but his words show this is to cast off something in it rather than to decline. "Sometime. You'd be best off with the blacksmith, though. Those are iron models, aye? Bronze sure as fuck is safer, but I gather ya aren't in the business o' safety." He turns towards the door Sorcha disappeared towards, and his right hand finally comes to rest on his hip to make his stance symmetrical. "She off slayin' the fuckin' dragon or fetchin' it?" he mumbles half under his breath in curiosity as to what is keeping the proprietor. "Last time I stepped into the back of my shop some cunt tried to run off with part o' my display."

"Dragon was slayed. But It's not like this cunt just keeps it laying about. Never know who might steal it. The really expensive stuff, isn't kept up front with you lot. Not even my mirror is kept out there" Comes from Sorcha, as she exits out the door she'd entered, having left it open and hearing the conversation. "But I can go gather some girls and see to slaying another one. DOn't think it'll be so pretty though"

"So he gets an invitation to the harbor and I'm not allowed to have even touched your coat, much less looked at it's construction. Or even been invited to the boat." Scoffs Sorcha good heartedly as she emerges from the back. It's easy to see the dragon hide on top of the two different kinds of fabric for Rhagfyr to look at. Black, a fair good size if she were to unfold it, and that's with some already used. THe last of it though, is here. back to the counter she moves, putting the hide down in front of Blake and then the other two, cotton and canvas in front of Rhag.

"My safety, but that's about it. I'm not one for actually firing the things, so you'd might better talk with Bernadette for specifics. She loves to go on about the guns." Rhagfyr lifts a shoulder just slightly. Sometime is a better reaction than anticipated. There's a wry twist of lips at Blake's last comment, turning then to Sorcha as she reemerges.

"Maybe you should slay some more. There could be something to having dragon skin, inflammable sails." he muses, peering at the fabric that's displayed but then cutting her another grin, "You don't let customers pull cloth from your arse, I don't let people touch my coats. We all have our foibles, right?" Fingers rub either side of the cloth, feeling out the thickness and quality. Quiet for a moment, "I'll need to check with your other fella, but I'm looking for a regular supplier. Not huge amounts, but enough for fixins. Since I insulted your honour," A hint of sarcasm, "I figured I'd give you preference."

Blake doesn't seem the least bit caught off-guard for having been overheard, but her commentary does cause his eyebrows to raise as he looks Sorcha over as if he is seeing her in a different light. Dragonhide, however, pulls that dark gaze of his down towards it like moth to a flame. His fingers spread wide as he places his hands on the hide and feels it like a lover's back. He slides his palms outward to test the yield of the material, then makes fists to lift it and turn it about. The others might as well not be there during his examination. His focus is completely absorbed. When he places the fabric back down, he asks a question before looking up from it. "What are ya interested in receiving in exchange for this?" He pinches the material, thumbs his nail across the held skin as if in afterthought and finally lifts his chin to look at Sorcha. No offer is made, but like most of Dornie's citizens he seems to expect an exchange of goods rather than some sort of money.

"This stuff comes from the other man. My fabrics either come from him, or came from what my departed husband brought home to me when off on the ships. But if you want to check with him, then by all means, be my guest" He'll either buy from her or he won't. "But they won't re-enforce it for you" and she will. It'll be a big job, that's for sure, and it's not a common request that she's ever had. But it'll keep her and Mariah busy, that's for sure, if Rhagfyr opts to go with them.

But it's Blake's question that draws a puzzled look. What would she need from an armorsmith. "Credit. For the future. In case I have need of small piece of armor" Or chainmail, or who knows. "And four drinks at the Tavern" Always with the drinks at the tavern.

"That makes it easier then. I'll talk to the crew, get some estimates on how much we need on what term basis." A small shrug, Rhagfyr is apparently willing to pay costs for the important things. Like the ship. Or fine wine, were it obtainable. His gaze slides across to Blake as he inspects his future purchase, the smile indicating he recognizes that that particular sale might already be made.

"I'll come back. Maybe I'll let you take a gander at that coat you liked so well." That's a big maybe, but the mere suggestion is an offer of goodwill.

The thinning of Blake's lips as they press together makes it apparent there is something about Sorcha's extremely humble request that he doesn't like. He glances at the departing Rhagfyr, making no signs of farewell, then looks back to the woman and lifts his left hand. He turns it over to expose the dark gray stain of carbon on his palm and the bottom of his fingers from working with some sort of steel, and beckons her closer as he leans forward over the counter. His right hand remains steepled on the dragonhide.

"I'll not hold out my hopes for such a gander but maybe I'll convince you to part with your own trinkets and let me make you one to rival that which you already wear." But it seems he has to go and converse with the ship, take measurements and that's fine with Sorcha as she dips her head in farewell to the Captain of the ship. It goes without saying that the appropriate fabric will be sequestered and not for sale to others till he makes up his mind. Or indicates otherwise.

But then Blake is beckoning her to lean in, and she does, across the counter, looking to the carbon on his hand then back to his face, eye to eye. "Yes?"

"T'ra." Rhagfyr offers to both, lingering for just a second as Blake looks to make some secretive proposal, which only widens his smile. He doesn't pry further, turning on his heel with a flair of garmentry and then stalking for the exit without another word.