With Friends Like These

Title: With Friends Like These
Time Period: March 11, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Bridget makes an excuse to drop in at the forge. Sorcha helps. "Helps."

The Dunmore Forge - a land of fire, metal, and unprecedented amount of dirt for a place so minimalistically decorated and well swept. The smell of the earth mixes with that of wood, water and pungent alloys all melding together to create a truly unique odor. But nothing there is quite as unique as the scent of drunken retired blacksmith. Niall's old master is back to collect his due, as deemed appropriate for having so generously granted the younger smith a shot at surviving in Dornie.

"There you go, Sir. Should be enough to last you to next season."

"Or next week! Harr! I'll be seein' you Niall… and watch that iron - it's getting a touch warm in here, innit?"

A large man, the former master nevertheless shows his incredible sense of balance as he pivots on heel, sways like a bending tree in the wind, and slowly steps through the half open door in the direction of the local watering hole.

Bridget's been mostly absent lately, at least from the town proper. Her duties have kept her close to home, keeping guard around the Ross family home. But today she's out and about and nearly running into a drunken former blacksmith.

She sidesteps smoothly enough, and lifts her hat to the man as he makes his way out. "Mister Fornell," she greets and apologies all at once without saying hello or sorry. Her hat is placed back on her head and she steps around him and into the smithy. After all, she's here to see a completely different blacksmith.

Mister Fornell does his best impression of the Walrus, swishing whiskers around a rumbly "'Scuse me" all the while clearly not having the capacity of sense to clearly look at who exactly it was he and his beer belly bump into.

Niall's turned to the afore mentioned iron in the fire, leaving his back temporarily to the doorway and Bridget as he inspects a flat rectangular piece roughly the size of a dinner plate. The glowing red hot piece is brought up quite close - some may think uncomfortably close - to the blacksmith's face before he lays it flat on a large stone table to let cool slightly. That's when Niall glances up, seeing a new visitor. "Hello there, miss." Yes, he called her 'miss' alright. "What can I do for you today?"

"You can do her for a big wet kiss on the lips" An out of breath Sorcha collides with the doorway having averted meeting the old smithy and catching Niall's words as she had sped to catch up at the sight of bridget. A quick flip of her body, it's her back to the lintel instead of her front, back of palm to her forehead and a fake fit of the vapors.

"Bend her back, make her swoon till she says 'Niall, my love, you are the one" A heady love laced sighs falling from her lips to punctuate, eyes lcosing except for a quick wink to bridget. And Sorcha makes three.

Her mouth opened, at first, to reply to Niall, but in the end, Bridget's mouth ends up hanging open for a while with Sorcha's entrance.

"Uhh— " The militia woman blinks, trying to think of something to say through her mortification and the blushing it's left in her cheeks. her gaze goes to Sorcha then, her brow furrowed and looking generally like she might only be able to get out expletives when she manages to get her words back. But she controls herself. At least for the moment. "It's a little early for drinking, isn't it, Sorcha?"

She swings back to look at Niall, still lingering near the doorway herself and hoping he somehow didn't notice that display at all. Somehow. Can she have magic now? It's a good time to turn invisible. "I just came to see if you'd take a look at my sword." It's a thing she does often enough, giving the impression that she might be a little paranoid about it's care.

Niall most fortunately also displays a professionalism in his place of work (and conveniently also his place of living, in that one corner over there) enough so that Sorcha's heady sighs get a chuckle rather than a bray. "Come on now Sorcha, any more sighs like that and it's more likely I'll have to kiss you out of a man's duty," quips the smith back. A quick wave beckons both women in to the forge, gesturing for them to take up any place at a safe distance from the heated piece on the table. "Besides," adds Niall, "by my blood, what times aren't too early for a drink?" The Irish roots swell along with his crooked smile. "But enough of that chat - let's see the blade, Bridget. And I'll be right on with you, Sorcha."

"Not been drinking. Delivering some clothes then back home to take care of me mam. No alcohol shall flow through these lips tonight. I shall pine away for my husband - kissing being his duty Niall - and wait for spring thaw to bring my own love back to me" She flutters a palm over her chest and steps in proper to let doors close proper and not let heat escape too badly.

"I'm here for Bridget. I have no need for any smithing, worry not!" She's in full swing tonight, a light day of working. "I wanted to see how the Ross's were faring. There have been rumors"

"Could have fooled me with your swooning about," Bridget says, leaning on her gruff demeanor in these troubled times. Of friends embarrassing her. She steps in further, not seeming to be bothered enough by the heat to remove her cloak or leather jerkin or any of it. Better to be ready. But she draws her sword to pass it to him my the hilt. Point held toward the floor, of course.

"Though it might have gotten some nicks in the last scuffle." 'Scuffle', she says. She glances back to Sorcha, expression uncertain for a moment and looking much like she might drop the sword and run.

"Patrick'll be back soon enough in the spring, true," Niall says with an agreeable nod. There's no weight of ulterior motive in the gesture, just a simple affirmation. "But did you want a drink before you went, Sorcha? Least you could have for the trouble of coming by. And same with you, Bridget." There's a canteen of water on a side table for visitors, a couple of wooden cups around it.

And ah, but if Bridget ran, Niall would have to track her down to return the sword. Wait, is that the point? Niall handles the sword with experience enough to not drop the weapon in front of the warrior. His hands are strong enough, taking the hilt and testing the feel of the blade's balance in them. "Hm. What were you scuffling with now?" Curious words, intent on finding the origins of what damage there may be.

She's crossed a line, asked a wrong question, something. The smile dropping as fast as the sword would if Bridgit were to actually take off at a run. She lifts a hand, looking as if she might settle it on her friend's arm, but pulls back, refraining at the last moment, settling to cup them in front of herself.

"pray tell that there's not been an attack by the wolf, out at the Ross's bridgit and that's how you've nicked your sword?" Concern and worry - more for Bridgit - that that might very well be a possibility.

"No wolf," Bridget says shortly to the both of them. A cross between being nervous and being protective of her family mixing enough to keep her terse on that subject, at least. "Just the normal things the militia scuffles with," she adds with a lift of her shoulder.

But she does look over Sorcha's way, a smile tugging at just a corner of her lips. Meant to be reassuring. Sorcha is one of the few people familiar enough with her expressions to read it as such, at least. As for the sword, it's well looked after, and seems her worry is mostly just that. Worry.

Niall hums and haws about a minute more over the sword, but after a run of his fingers over the flat of the blade close to the edge, he shakes his head to confirm no harm done. "Should be good for a few packs of them, this one," he says as he offers the sword back, "and let's hope you don't come face to face with the someone who would do any harm to it." And her, by extension, he implies. After a pause he starts to say more, but decides against. Just be a man and keep the mouth shut when there's women about, right? He clears his throat, placing a hand on the hammer in his belt.

NO wolf, and all is right with the rosses. Tap the side of the nose, wink wink. Sorcha offers a smile back and a nod, now reaching out to clap a hand down on bridget's shoulder and squeeze. 'what say, that we let Niall's close up shop at least for an hour or so, and drag him off to the tavern, have a drink or two, just enough to make the weight on our shoulders slide off, like water on a ducks back. least for a few hours yah?"

"Oh don't you worry. Something hurt my sword, it'd be they last thing they did." Bridget steps closer to take the blade back again, lingering just a moment, like she might have something to say to him specifically. But nothing comes out and she's left a little fidgety.

At least until Sorcha touches her shoulder and speaks up. Bridget nods a few times to the seamstress' suggestion and looks back to Niall. "I owe you a few drinks for the service. Yeah? I can be spared for a bit." And she needs a drink, too; whatever's Not Wrong with the Rosses is keeping her tense.

An hour or so? Niall eyes the pair of women, turning a few thoughts over as he directs his gaze to the fire. A couple of seconds blip by full of contemplation, and perhaps scheduling. "I think I could spare a moment with good company," he concludes, "but let me get the fire shored up so she doesn't go anywhere, and get a couple of projects on the down. That said, he takes up the still heated but not red-hot block from the stone table, setting it into a lower compartment of the main forge. It takes a bit more muscle to lift the metal rod that eventually allows him to shut the grated door to the flames. After wiping a brow with a somewhat clean rag, he nods to the visitors, letting them lead the way out.

'To drink, be merry and pretend… that we are ducks" Sorcha grins, turning for the door as Niall makes his preparations. "First roudn on me, if there's any more rounds, then it's on you Bri. Or well.." She smooths down her skirts getting a firm grip on hers. "The last one there gets to pay" She's being nice, waiting at least till Niall's ready, but her last three words, she's already bolting for the door. Grown woman, acting like a teenager. scanadlous.

That's okay. Bridget will just… watch. She steps back out of the way, at least, but totally forgets that she's holding her sword unsheathed as he goes about getting things ready. "Right. Ducks," she says absently.

So when the woman takes off, the militiawoman is totally unprepared for it. She whips her head around, then back to Niall, then remembers to slide her sword back into place. "I really hope Patrick gets here once spring rolls in," she comments dryly, and mostly to herself, before she nods toward the door. "We better go after her or she'll run us up a tab like you wouldn't believe."