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Animir next asked Thorkil what he'd like to do, as the day was waning. He told her he'd rather like a shield, having been weaned off his original polearm to a shortsword, so they returned to Blade Street. This time, Thorkil selected the premises, and unsurprisingly chose a shop with dwarf-runes on the outside. Entering, they discovered the proprietor was a dwarf, one Aldua Foamwolf, and Thorkil was soon deep in bargaining with him, along with considerable beard-tugging and arm-waving, all in Khuzdul. Slightly bored, Animir browsed around the shop. Most of the products weren't her thing - axes and warhammers are not common elven equipment - but after a while something caught her eye. As was fairly usual in this sort of place, about half the wares were made on the premises, and half were second-hand. Quite a large number of the second-hand items, though, had a peculiar rune carved on them. All were of good quality, but for some reason, something she couldn't put a finger on, Animir found herself repelled by the ones bearing the mystery mark. Looking up, she saw that the deal was done and Thorkil was hefting a sturdy shield, considerably bigger than the one she herself used. He looked quite pleased with it, and Aldua was turned away tucking money into a safe place. Taking the moment, she whispered to Thorkil, "Do you know what that rune is?" and pointed to it. The dwarf squinted, then shook his head. "Never seen that one before," he admitted, "probably a maker's mark. Look, I have one too;" and he turned his shield over to reveal the same sigil on the back. Aldua looked up, and as his eyes met Animir's she deduced from his flat gaze that this was one of those dwarves that didn't like elves much. Unbothered, she accompanied Thorkil out of the shop and they set off to look for lodgings. South of Crensel, they found a nice-looking place called Seagull's Pickings. As is ever the way, the place went quiet as they walked in, then subsided into muttered discussion of the newcomers, but she felt quite comfortable; the place was quite light and clean compared to some. The host, one Quirke, was overjoyed to have an elf in his inn, and rooted out some fine wine for her as well as thick brown ale for Thorkil. As they ate, Animir picked up snippets of conversation from around her. Most were pretty meaningless, but there were some recurring threads. Several revolved around second-, third- and fourth-hand tales of inexplicable failures of weapons and armour. Stories of shields that failed, swords that sheared, spears that skewered their wielders were being traded by merchants concerned about business and mercenary captains worried about business and survival. No-one had first-hand evidence or eyewitness experience, but many swore their sources were reliable. |