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The forge was nestled up against the wall that divided the artisan district from the noble district. It was easy to find, however, for all of that; the closer one got to the forge, the less snow there was. The heat from the place radiated out for about half a block until the steps leading up to the shop and the open, glowing forge were normally clean and dry most days of the week. Only rarely did it ever accumulate any snow.

Since it was in the early morning, there was not much business, and the air was free of the clangs of metal on metal, or the pounding of hammers on the anvil. A dog barked in the distance, but it was too early for more than a few couriers or messengers to be out. It was a relatively peaceful morning, actually, and the snow wasn't coming down, though the grey clouds that hung low in the sky promised it would snow later. And probably heavily.

In the middle of it stood Ayle, pulling his gloves on as he surveyed the forge: a wide space, with a low ceiling held up by beams that were blackened from smoke. The front of the forge was open to the street to let the heat out, and he was thankful for it. Pushing hair out of his face with the back of one hand once his gloves were on, he stood overseeing his apprentices shoveling coal into the furnaces and preparing the work stations, laying out the many and sundry tools needed for that days' work - he himself had a busy day ahead of him.

One of the Swords had had their blade snapped in the Blackwood, and piecing it together was going to be a delicate job. He'd made the sword, and it was a nice piece. It was a shame it was now in two pieces.

The forge was not a good place to stumble into, half-drunk and with wobbling feet; there were things littered over the floor, crates and pieces of iron, tables whose corners were exactly hip-height, and chunks of coal or wood near the forge itself. Ayle and his apprentices knew their way around the forge by heart, could have found their way through blind, but not so for others.

Thankfully the doorway was mostly clear, and when Ever blocked most of the light coming through, except what could stream through his furs, Ayle would look over his shoulder and then grin in greeting, walking to the door. It was the kind of grin that men called wolfish and women usually universally fawned over.

In this instance, it was, at least, welcoming -- he'd been running low on supplies, jerky and leather specifically. Each hilt needed to be wrapped in leather, he needed leather for aprons and gloves, and there was always a need for food. The thought of actual good meat, seared over the fire, set his stomach to growling.

Ayle'd look him over, expression turning from amusement to something approaching shrewd businessman: "Let's see what you've got. I hope it wasn't any trouble?" He jerked his chin towards the blood. Ignoring the red eyes, the throbbing headache Ever clearly had.

"Wash it in vinegar and it ought," Ayle said, rubbing the leather between gloved fingers; a moment later he braved the chill and pulled off a glove to actually touch it with his real fingertips. It was soft, smooth; it would go on the finer swords, the ones made out of cleinstone, or maybe the nicest iron ones. The glance he flicked Ever was appreciative. "But don't wait any longer. It'll be pink." One side of his mouth quirked up at the thought of it. "Pink and crusty."

"Need me to fix that for you?" He tapped the two pieces of the blade. "The hell did you do do it? It's iron." He was still amused by the mournful look on Ever's face.

"If you can get me more of this leather," he'd say -- that would be the payment. That leather was going to fetch him some decent amount of coin wrapped around the hilt of something nice. In the past month or so, since the Blackwood had stirred, the nobles had wanted things to hang at their hips, usually made out of cleinstone ... and no noble would be able to turn up their nose at leather that soft.

He'd turn from the table and venture deeper into the forge, past the huge furnace that was beginning to glow with orange-yellow heat and fire, and then to a rack of just-finished weapons. There were a few swords, but mostly knives, ranging in length from palm-sized (to fit in a boot) to something about as long as his forearm. It wasn't a pretty object, but it was well-made, sharp, and durable. He'd hand it hilt-first to Ever when he returned. "More leather ... and don't break this one. The hell were you doing prying at a stone?"

Ayle looked at him a moment: maybe doing calculations about what he needed. Maybe trying to figure out what the hell Ever had been doing out there, in the Blackwood -- ultimately he shrugged, expression sobering up. "What can you spare? I'm going to be doing a set of weapons for the Swords, and I got some cleinstone." Which had been sitting in the back of the forge in its natural state, jealously guarded, for weeks. "If you've anything more like what you showed me, I'll take it all. This is impressive."

He actually did smile -- a truthful one. "I'm willing to pay for it, too." He'd built the forge on his own money, and it had been pretty surprisingly successful. He wasn't hurting for coin.

He ran his fingers over the leather; after a moment, paused to strip off a glove and then, despite the chill, did the same bare-fingered. It was fairly thin, but not thin enough to tear or stretch, and finely-grained. Despite its delicate appearance this would last. It was pleasing. The scraps could be stitched together -- one of the apprentices had a fine hand with it. If they took their time instead of rushing, the stitches turned nigh-invisible.

The cold eventually began to seep down into his hands; he could feel them stiffening up, and his look went quiet as he pulled his glove back on. Maybe calculating how much to pay, or what to offer -- whether to bother keeping Ever out of the tavern or the brothel when he would likely be back within it in a fortnight or less. Not entirely his problem, but -- if it meant Ever wouldn't blunder to his death in the Blackwood...

Ayle shrugged, tossing his hair back; his braid pattered against his back -- his blue eyes direct, watching Ever's face. "I can offer you coin and a replacement for that blade you broke. How's that?" Blades wouldn't get him drunk. Or as drunk.

Ayle regarded him with eyes that had made many a woman swoon: they were a brilliant sort of blue, and coupled with his near permanent tan from the forge, and his blonde hair, had probably -- almost definitely -- gotten him into trouble when he was younger. Ayle didn't follow the same path that Ever did. In fact, his path was the wider and more well-traveled one. But it didn't mean he couldn't rise to Ever's ridiculous game.

It made him grin, wide and wild and wolfish. Deliberately ignoring the flirtatious bent to Ever's words. "Fine. You can bunk with the apprentices. You get a rug on the floor, and you'll have to mind the dog. And Riley snores in his sleep. I hope you don't mind. And the forge is only a few blocks from the pub."

"If you're ever too drunk to walk," Ayle said, regarding him mildly, "You can sleep in front of the hearth." He trusted Ever not to dally with any of the apprentices. Ayle himself might chase him out of the forge if he did, and it was rumored that had he not been a blacksmith, Ayle would have been a Sword. He wasn't half-bad with a blade. "Wait a moment," he added, and would turn away to stride across the forge, back into the shadows at the other side of the room.

He would slip into an office and return with a pouch of coins which jingled merrily as he set it down in front of Ever. "Dagger's yours. Try not to break it on stone this time," another good-natured jab. He really did have to wonder what the hell had happened.