Title: Feel
Time Period: August 16, 135AE
Characters Appearing:

Summary: In the wake of Rhagfyr's departure and haggling over dragon hide, someone opts to go the route less traveled in handling the widow Ferrier. And offer an option of revenge.

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.

Blake has a naturally low voice that is nearly a mutter by default, so when he lowers it further to speak in conspiratorial tones it nearly comes across as a whisper; grim as imagined sounds in the wind. "I am not one for debt in any form." He pauses as if in thought, but his dark eyes are steady as buried steel on hers. "I imagine you 'ave something to sketch upon. Close your shop for a few minutes and bring it to me, and I will show you something far better than a hauberk you'll never wear and drinks you'll have forgetten about by fuckin' dawn." He reaches into his vest and pulls out a closed pocket knife and a crude pencil in the same hand, then opens the former to sharpen the latter without looking down at either. Again he pauses, and again it seems to be to allow this to sink in rather than for thought time. "This offer remains 'tween the two of us. That clear?"

"LIkely wouldn't be a hauberk I would wear but one I would have made for a friend" But she's game. So with those words, from beneath the counter she pulls up a sketch pad and a jar of slender charcoal sticks to use. They're pushed across the counter to Blake before she turns and is doing as he asked. Closing the shop for a few minutes, or however long it is that she needs it to be closed. So says the sign. He is right. The drinks she'll always forget, and someone will come in for a seam repair and can pay for it that way.

Curiosity has her drawn back to the counter, and the cockiness and glimpse of happy melts away in the privacy of another person who right now, she feels probably more along the lines of emotionally. A lot of her attitude right now, is just for show.

Blake glances at Sorcha a number of times as she closes up the shop, and his eyes roam over her in a furtive, darting manner. He sets his pencil on the counter in favor of the charcoals, but sharpens one a bit further before setting the knife down to beside it. The charcoal moves to the pad and his hand begins to shake back and forth as if he has some sort of palsy. After a few seconds he sets his left elbow beside the pad; obscuring it from view from most angles as he leans against his free hand. A few minutes go by, only interrupted by shameless yet unperverted glances by the man. When he finishes, he shoves the pad across the counter and stands up straight. The charcoal is a little bit shorter as it is placed exactly back where it was. He puts his hands behind his hips and leans back over them a little to stretch his lower back.

The sketch is of Sorcha's current outfit. It is by no means professional quality, but there is a certain mastery of proportion to it, like that of an engineer's diagram. Shading is lacking and three-dimensionality is more implied than created. The difference between the sketch and reality, however, is a series of circles shown in crossection to be between two layers of fabric; rings sewn into place in a non-overlapping fashion to create discrete and silent ringmail by using the foundation of garb rather than connecting rings. "This is where you say, 'But that would weigh two fuckin' stone.'"

"You must think that I get out often enough to warrant even needing such and I would suspect that given your profession that you would know how to make things so that they are just as strong but with a fraction of the weight" Not trying to play up his skill but stating what she perceives to be the truth. She studies the drawing though, looking at it, the circles and the use of the fabric.

"Would you make a cage instead? Something to hold a bird with some space so that it is not confined? Would that be too below you?" She looks over, apologetic. Armor, even chain it seems, is not for her.

Blake's eyebrows lower and draw together. "Woman, you have a dragon's hide here, and in good shape. You can get a cage from a blacksmith for the price of a drink or maybe even a bat of lashes." He gestures with one hand at the sketch while still staring her in the eyes. "You think I don't notice the black ya wear? I am no' convinced that ya feel so safe as to think armor somethin' unneeded. There is no 'if' to danger here, but rather a 'when'." He looks down at her garb once more, and presses his lips together before shrugging. "But if you would prefer to tempt fate due to your sadness, I would rather not waste goods on you. Condolences." He scratches his cheek, smearing a hint of darkness onto it from the charcoal. Patting the hide twice as if to say farwell to it, he begins to turn towards the door….

"No one gets eyes batted. He's dead, but I'm still alive and I pine for him, even if he's six feet under" She rests her hand on the dragon hide, looking to Blake as he retreats. "We all tempt fate with every breath we take. It's the cost of living in this world that we live in, just that some of us, don't venture futher than our front doors for us to find it, or it to find us"

Her fingers press into the hide, then caress it. "I will make the pants. You make, what you will make in trade. if it is that chain that you have so sketched then… maybe I'll grab me a shotgun or two and hunt down the beast that killed my husband. Get me some more dragon hide." A soft huff at the thought of hunting it down.

Now that gets Blake's attention. He stops dead in his tracks, turns around and rips the page from the pad. "Fuck this." He examines her face as he folds the paper in half and slides it into his belt, and continues to stare as his hands come to rest on his hips. "I misjudged the look in your eyes."

"What you need is a loan of some serious armor and a crazy motherfucker that can track a dragon down and help you kill it." His eyes narrow. "For the hide here and a claw from the hunt, I swear you will have that beast's dark heart in your hand and its blood in your mouth. You will feel its body go limp on your spear and know the satisfaction o' revenge as your husband will know rest. Only blood… can pay for blood." Blake's hands rest on the counter as he leans forward again, upper lip twitching in half-expressed snarl. His volume drops to almost nothing at all. "Tell me you don't feel your soul thirsting for it." It isn't a command. It's a challenge.

"I dream of throttling it's neck with my own hands each night when I fall asleep in a drunken stupor" It's about the only way she can sleep these days. "I want nothing more than to see it's taking it's last gasp as life leaves it like it left Patrick. I want to stab it a thousand times over and make it feel the paint that I'm in every day. I want it dead, like my heart feels" Fingers press into the counter, turning white at the knuckles. "I didn't even have a body to bury Mister Esho. Just a box of goods and a memory that pales in comparison and will always pale, next to the real thing"

Blake nods slowly as he listens, but there is an almost palpable intensity about his person despite the seemingly sedate action. He doesn't even blink as he listens to her, and the muscles of his jaw stand out beneath his skin as he clenches his teeth further and further. Through them, he growls lowly at her as he leans even further over the counter as if he might crawl over it. "Feel how much his absence overwhelms you. Let it take you. Give in to the sadness. Give in to the horror. Give in to the rage. Society teaches us these things are weakness like the trembling through your fucking limbs that you cling to that counter to hide." He reaches for her wrists in a sudden motion, and attempts to grab them to pull her hands up in front of her face.

"And do what?" It's almost yelled at Blake, making no motion to resist him, looking at her hand that have been shaking. Between the anger and the alcohol, her stitches haven't been straight, and only through skill, and picking seams apart to redo, has she been able to hide it. Though it takes her longer to do things. "Do what with it? I'm a seamstress. My skills are in wielding needle and thread. Not steel and bullets. Id' last a day out beyond the walls. A soft woman in a soft job, mourning a dead man and wishing at times that she could join him. Wondering how much alcohol would it take. THat Mariah even leaves me alone anymore bewilders me"

Blake's low voice raises to a loudness and roughness that is nothing short of a warcry without warning as he tells her, "This is not weakness! This trembling is the strength you are failling to wield!" He is staring at her eyes as he tells her in a lower growl, "Look at it." He shakes her wrists violently with an overly tight grip and repeats himself in roar, "Look at it! Give in to the feelings ripping you apart and Let. It. Out. Fill your lungs with all you feel and shout. Shout from the soul so the beast you come for feels it in the very fabric of this world! SHOOUUT!"

Outside the shop, through brick walls, and glass, bolts of fabric to buffer, sorcha's scream is sure to be heard. Louder still within the shop as she lets loose, hands curled into fists, mouth open and wide. Her mother for once, isn't upstairs, or the woman might be making her way down the stairs no matter how hard it might be for her.

But no one tries to enter the shop, either too scared from the sound or preferring to just mind their own business. And it pours out from the brunette, from deep inside her till it dies out and she's left trembling in front of Blake with wet eyes, tears having cut a path down cheeks and panting softly. Dark eyes meeting dark eyes. Good thing Mariah wasn't here either.

Blake still has not blinked, and his eyes have grown somewhat bloodshot from the intensity of his own voice and the pounding of his blood in his prominent, healthy veins. His grip on Sorcha's wrists relaxes to mere firmness as he lowers her hands back down to the counter. He slides his hands down on top of hers. His voice is still rough from the shouting, but he speaks at a truly gentle volume that might seem even more so in comparison. "You live here, aye? Bring me all the fuckin' alcohol you have here. All of it; be it ale or spirits or anything else." He lifts his hands from hers and leans back to uprightness. Crossing his arms in front of his chest he simply adds, "Go."

She lives above, in the apartments that have existed there as long as the building that the shop exists in, has. She glances up, to the second floor with a soft huff. "I have too much of it" It would cover the counter, she knows that. She stands there though, for a moment or two, looking up at the ceiling before turning. Quietly, with little fanfare to her steps, disappearing through that back door. It's left open though, should Blake care to actually go through, but she'll be some time. Collecting bottles.

Blake bares his teeth as his brow furrows. "That is your weakness talkin' again." There's no mercy or pity in his voice or expression as he continues. "Unless you want to shame the fuckin' memory of your departed beloved further by continuin' to be a miserable cunt you will-" he breaks back into yelling with only a quick inhalation as warning, "-get your arse up those stairs and bring me that fuckin' alcohol! I don't care if there's a godsdamned distillery in your apartment and we have to bury this counter in a mountain of bottles! NOW GO!" The armor smith's hands slam down on the counter he speaks of with this last word.

She can hear the roar upstairs. She stops at the top of the stairs, palms pressed to the door, debating about leaving, leaving through the front door to her home upstairs and waiting till the armorsmith leaves. He's right. She is a miserable little… ahem. Who wouldn't be. But Patrick would be ashamed likely, to know what state she gets herself into night after night.

Blake is left standing there, the disembodied arms and legs of a teddy bear the sketchbooks and other pieces used in the creation of the bear. Fabrics that gleam and shine and others that suck in the light. Sans the seamstress, the shop front is cozy, and even back in the spacious workroom with it's singer, the dummy, divider used to change behind and the myriad of tools laid out and ready for use or project half done for customers, it's quiet.

And then there's Sorcha, exiting from the back with the bottles. Some with just mouthfuls, others halfway. Hoarded bottles that she has brought home from the tavern and wherever else it is that she has gone to drown her sorrows. Or people brought in payment for seamstressing services. It's a trip or two but eventually, the majority if not all of what she has, is laid out before him, her hand on a sealed bottle of something hard and grain based.

Demonstrating some level of patience and impatience at the same time, the customer-turned-demander paces back and forth between the counter and the door as he waits, and each time something is brought down to join the counter, he bobs his head in small nods of approval. Impatient, brooding approval.

The collection causes Blake's eyebrows to raise, but his jaw is once more flexed. He walks around the counter and tilts his head forward as he stares to Sorcha accusingly. "This is all of it? All of it," he repeats as if to be quite clear. "If I walk to where you sleep and feel around under the bed and beneath the clothes in your drawers and chests I will find no more? Not so much as a drop?" He pivots his left foot as if preparing to do exactly that, but the way he leans forward as he speaks to her might make impending violence seem just as likely. "Is this all of your drink?" he asks yet again, this time with his forehead almost against hers from proximity.

"It's all" The honest truth comes from her lips, looking back at the man. "Why are you doing this?" A veritable hermit himself, the two have never crossed paths and so far, besides Leonard, has been the only one to not take the poor you route, and pat her on the head. Or Mariah, who has just tried to control the self destruction as much as she can.

Blake just shakes his head at Sorcha as he reaches for the sealed bottle in her hand, as if that symbolizes something much more profound. "No questions. Feel. Focus. Sober up. Clear your head and soul of all the shit you 'ave clouded it with and prepare for your hunt. When you are finished shakin' for the fuckin' drink, come to my shop. This…" he gestures towards the collection of alchol with two palms-up hands. "Will be gone. And in its place will be everything you will need to put your husband to rest." He leans a bit further forward, so his mouth is over her shoulder and his eyes can no longer be seen. Into her right ear he whispers with exceptional softness, "Don't fuck up. No one respects a drunk; especially the drunk and the dragon that ends up eatin' 'er." He leans back, casts her one last glare and starts to make his way out.

No one respects a drunk. Truer words have never been spoken, not even the ones that follow. Blake steps in, whispers in her ears and she shuts her eyes tight, trying not to even breath. And when he turns, she does too, walking swiftly to the back room, get out of his line of sight and shut the door behind her. It's not the mad scrabble for a hidden bottle - she wasn't lying - that can be heard through the door. It's crying, sorcha slumping down, head back and giving in to sobbing.

The only sounds in the main room come a time later, when Blake returns with a wagon to load up the entire collection of alcohol. By the time he's gone, not even a scent of it remains, but there is one sign that it wasn't all hallucinated: A note scribbled on the sketch pad in sloppy script: