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Description
A soft, lilting melody drifted through the window, causing a young man to pause his work. He sat down the hammer in his hand and walked to the door, turning the ancient latch. An official entourage was passing by, and two of the members spotted him, calling out.
“Ho! Desmond! Have you finished the shields we sent for?” Said the elder of the two, his face flushed from both excitement and drink.
“Not quite yet,” said the young man. He had a strongly muscled frame, seemingly just out of his apprenticeship.
“How much longer will they take?” This came from the younger man. From the looks of him, he was a fop. He had wine stains down the front of an otherwise elegant tunic, which belied that fact.
Desmond turned and motioned towards the door. “I was just finishing the second one, sirs. If you would care to wait, it should be done in just a few minutes.”
This idea appeared to suit the older man. He was a local night by the name of Ernest, well respected for his patience and love of the people. The noble son of the mayor of the town, Drek Flairen, was enraged, however.
“Why should I have to wait? I should have you head for this, blacksmith!”
Desmond simply scoffed at him. “Sir Ernest, your shield is already done. Come and take if, if you’d like. It’s on the rack, farthest to the right, blued as you requested.”
Sir Ernest nodded and stepped into the hot forge room, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially with Desmond. “Watch yourself with him, Desmond. He’s been on the warpath all day.”
Drek stood there fuming at Desmond. “Well, are you going to finish my shield, or will I have your head?”
Desmond stepped into the smithy for a moment, coming back with a half-finished shield. He tossed it to the ground a few feet in front of Drek. “I shan’t. You’ve not paid me for it, and I’m sick of you. Leave this place now, or be made to leave.”
Drek exploded at this treatment and drew a short sword, rushing in at Desmond. The smith stood his ground until Drek came into range. Then, with all the strength from his years of training at the forge behind it, he launched a right hook. His muscles unraveled as his massive fist made contact with the nobleman’s chest, launching him across the dooryard to land face up on the doorstep. Ernest stepped out and grabbed the unconscious nobleman by his collar, throwing him over his shoulder with the grace from years of experience. He also sported a beautifully made blue shield with a silver fox emblazoned on the front.
“He deserved it, Desmond. You’d better lie low for a while, though. I’ll try and keep his father from coming after you. The shield is perfect, and I left you a few extra coins in the smithy for your work.”

Description
A soft, lilting melody drifted through the window, causing a young man to pause his work. He sat down the hammer in his hand and walked to the door, turning the ancient latch. An official entourage was passing by, and two of the members spotted him, calling out.
“Ho! Desmond! Have you finished the shields we sent for?” Said the elder of the two, his face flushed from both excitement and drink.
“Not quite yet,” said the young man. He had a strongly muscled frame, seemingly just out of his apprenticeship.
“How much longer will they take?” This came from the younger man. From the looks of him, he was a fop. He had wine stains down the front of an otherwise elegant tunic, which belied that fact.
Desmond turned and motioned towards the door. “I was just finishing the second one, sirs. If you would care to wait, it should be done in just a few minutes.”
This idea appeared to suit the older man. He was a local night by the name of Ernest, well respected for his patience and love of the people. The noble son of the mayor of the town, Drek Flairen, was enraged, however.
“Why should I have to wait? I should have you head for this, blacksmith!”
Desmond simply scoffed at him. “Sir Ernest, your shield is already done. Come and take if, if you’d like. It’s on the rack, farthest to the right, blued as you requested.”
Sir Ernest nodded and stepped into the hot forge room, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially with Desmond. “Watch yourself with him, Desmond. He’s been on the warpath all day.”
Drek stood there fuming at Desmond. “Well, are you going to finish my shield, or will I have your head?”
Desmond stepped into the smithy for a moment, coming back with a half-finished shield. He tossed it to the ground a few feet in front of Drek. “I shan’t. You’ve not paid me for it, and I’m sick of you. Leave this place now, or be made to leave.”
Drek exploded at this treatment and drew a short sword, rushing in at Desmond. The smith stood his ground until Drek came into range. Then, with all the strength from his years of training at the forge behind it, he launched a right hook. His muscles unraveled as his massive fist made contact with the nobleman’s chest, launching him across the dooryard to land face up on the doorstep. Ernest stepped out and grabbed the unconscious nobleman by his collar, throwing him over his shoulder with the grace from years of experience. He also sported a beautifully made blue shield with a silver fox emblazoned on the front.
“He deserved it, Desmond. You’d better lie low for a while, though. I’ll try and keep his father from coming after you. The shield is perfect, and I left you a few extra coins in the smithy for your work.”