What a man does for money, can bring him to the sky, for a woman, he's going past the moons.

Oran, the mercenary...

He deftly turned the blade aside, striking another heavy blow to its red-hot surface. The clanging of the smithy echoed through the small town, as the black smith once again took up his morning work. A legionarre passed by, glacing in at the smith creating his newest sword. Sweating profusely, he doused the blade in the water barrel, a cloud of steam rising as it cooled. As if timed, the customer, another legionarre from the nearby fort, came in.

"Here you are," the blacksmith said "a blade, tenfold steel, with silver tracings, as always."

The legionarre grunted and dropped a bag of coins onto the counter. Oran turned, his normally bronze-hued skin flushed reddish, and covered in ashes from the fire. Counting out the coins he smiled, another days work finished, he thought to himself, as the legionarre turned and stepped out his door. Almost as soon as the guard left, a scuffy dressed man stepped into his small smithy.

"H'ndrud guld fe ye ter repar meh gar" the man muttered, barely comprehensible, as he dropped a pile of broken leather jerkins, rusty short swords, and various pieces of armour, all ill-matched and rough.

"Are you sure you can pay for the fixing, it'll be at least five hundred gold.... sir..." Oran anwsered the dirty fellow, eyeing him suspiciously.

The fellow spat on the floor, and lifted a blood stained canvas bag from inside the rags. "Tha'll pey fe 't"

Oran eyed the bag and touched it, hearing the clink of coins within, "Very well, come back tommorow and I'll have it patched up for you."

The bandit, for thats what he was, turned and hobbled out, "I se ye 'n the mornin' ten" he called back.

Oran set to work first on the swords, carving off the rust and letting in fall in flakes around his stool, once he had cleaned as many swords as would hold together during the derusting, he set to work on patching the leath jerkins...

The next morning...

Mist flowed down the hillsides from the nearby mountians, turning a light blue in the morning light, slowly fading as the sun rose in the sky. The morning was pristine, the mist had left tiny dew drops on the grass that glistened in the morning sun. The gear that had been left old and ragged, was sitting well repaired and restitched on the counter of the smithy, Oran sleeping soundly in the small room in the back. A sudden rapping broke the morning tranquility as the bandit rapped on the door of the smithy with a rough cane that he leaned heavily on...