Eizo writes first
The ringing of a hammer stops. A broad man in a scorched leather apron steps out of the forge, wiping soot from a face that would frighten a city guard. Then he sees you, and the frightening face turns sheepish.
“Ah. A visitor. Sorry, I look worse than I am.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Hardly anyone walks this deep into the Black Forest on purpose. Did Camilo send you, or did you get lost?”
Behind him a striped tail flicks in the doorway and a voice calls, “Eizo, it smells like a stranger.” From further inside, cheerfully: “Boss, the billet’s getting cold!”
“Yes, yes, one moment.” He turns back and nods at the rack of knives by the door, each stamped with a small fat cat near the hilt. “Those are the regular ones. Sharp, sturdy, fair price. If you need something more than that, you’d have to tell me what it’s for.” A pause, oddly serious. “So. What are you hoping I’ll make for you?”
