A different side of life [Ebony x Kolath]

Genevieve Madeleine Jafferison pulled the hood up on her long cloak. She was wearing a feeble disguise in hope that no-one would recognise her. Being a princess, there was no real time for her to escape the prejudice of her daily life. And with the growing promise of her inevitable marriage looming, Genevieve felt like sometimes it was all too much. She didn't resent the fact that marriage wasn't a question, it was a statement, but she did feel like sometimes the weight of her future suffocated her. She was reminded constantly about how much she was turning into her mother, not only in her looks, but also in her action and personality.
Genevieve imagined her mother, the regal, composed creature that sat upon the throne next to the ruler of her country. Like Genevieve, Queen Victoria had the same long, soft blonde hair that hung down to her waist. Unlike Genevieve however, it was always styled in an elaborate hairstyle, swept away from her face. They both had the same delicate heart-shaped face, adorned with high cheekbones and full red lips. The only resemblance Genevieve shared with her father, King Oliver, were her intelligent gray eyes. Her eyes were one of her best features. Perfect almond shape, bordered by full lashes and filled with wisdom beyond her young years.

Young. That was a controversial word thrown around the palace. At seventeen, it seemed almost scandalous that Genevieve wasn't married yet. Often, her mother had told her that she was married herself two years before her, and that she would waste her chances at being a mother if she delayed any longer, but Genevieve chose to ignore her. Her father had made it clear that it was better to wait and find the right man, then rush into a marriage that was wrong for both.
Genevieve was taught to take no opinion in the matter, and just listen. In the end, after the shouting had died down, Victoria would storm out of the room and Genevieve would live in chaste for another day.
Though many compared Genevieve to the sharp, stubborn nature of her mother, she liked to think she was more like her calm and thoughtful father. Her two parents were so vastly different, it sometimes surprised her that they could even be civil to each other. Oliver was water while Victoria was fire.
Genevieve thought she was somewhere in the middle. A warm breeze which headed it's own way, oblivious to it's surroundings. Of course, her life was quite the opposite. Not only was she completely aware of her dangerous and controlled surroundings, but she was also tied down by the wishes of her demanding mother, and the role she had to play as her father's daughter.

That was why she had run away. Well, it wasn't exactly running away. She had confronted her parents, telling them she wished to leave to gain some experience in the world beyond the golden gates of the castle, but what she didn't tell them is when she would return. She didn't have any plans or any idea of how she would live in the village, but she trusted her resilience and dedication to see her through her adventure.
Though she was a princess, Genevieve had a certain number of skills that one would expect to come from someone of her status. For one, she was a very skilled liar and actress. Secondly, she had a natural talent at creating things. Though she had only ever practised on the small scale of her mothers spinning needle, Genevieve knew she had a knack at making objects. She hoped that somehow her skills would come in handy and she would be able to gain a job.

She was wearing a long gray cloak, but underneath she was wearing something that would have been unacceptable in the castle. For one, she was not wearing a skirt or a dress. Instead, she had taken some old riding linens to make her look the part. Instead of a jewelled tunic, she wore a quilted doublet with a black corset around her tiny waist. Upon her feet, were shoes made of silk usually sat, lay leather boots that also were once riding boots till they became worn and useless. Her hair was tied back with an old ratty ribbon and her face was smudged with dirt. Instead of silk gloves, she wore fingerless ones made of thin gray wool. She looked like a poor villager, and her slight frame did wonders to make the part more believable.

She was ready to try and find a new life.

Eligus stood over his hot forge slowly working the metal through the coals. He watched it closely letting the metal get red hot but not letting it over heat. There was a trick and specific balance that was needed. The heat could perfect or ruin the metal, only a few masters knew the secret of the metal that put iron to shame. A few masters and then there was Eligus, he was a high level journeymen in the craft in skill and rank, but his age was far less than it should have been to be at the level he had attained. At twenty five he should just be leaving his master on his journey not ending it and setting up shop in the capital city.

Eligus' skill was unmatched in the entire city, even the guild master couldn't meet his timing and speed with which tasks were complete. When forced to every smith in the entire city would admit that the best smith was Eligus. The only reason he wasn't a master of the guild or even grandmaster was first his age, and second he didn't ask to be. He was content being a journeymen for now, he wasn't sought out by the noble and spoiled to do the most menial tasks imaginable. Granted he shoe was still shoeing horses and making half a ton of nails for the local carpenter. But those that came to him always thanked him for his work and never felt that he should be honored to even speak to them.

Yes there was no question in his mind that the title of master was best left to those that could stand to be with those people. He brushed his hand through his long light brown hair, before pulling the sword from the fire. He slowly lowered it into a bath of water that had been just left out all day, he watched closely as the steam rose to meet his face, his keen eyes looking for any cracks or breaks that developed along the blade. Satisfied that none came he left it to fully cool in the water and turned to one of the other basic tasks that needed his attention.

The night was clear and the wind cool as it brushed through his shop on the edge of the craftsmen quarter. He loved working at this time of day, and with as far away from the residences of the other craftsmen he wasn't afraid of being yelled at for making too much noise. The loud clank of the hammer on his anvil as he worked a piece of scrap into a smaller circle, it rang through his shop as he worked just doing something loving his work and the night around him.

Genevieve was about to go and search for the local inn in the village when she realised she had no idea where to start. She blinked in surprise when she came to the realisation that she had only actually visited the village three or four times; and never had she had to stay in an inn. Usually, royals like her were permitted to stay with either one of the noble families like the lords or high priests. She had never even ventured into a place as common as an inn.
When she had left the castle that morning, she had only gone in one direction, and she had ended up in what looked to be the crafter's area of the village.

Night was falling quickly, and she needed to find somewhere safe to sleep. However, she doubted that she would be able to get to an inn in time, even if she was directed to one.
She sighed and made her way to the first building. "Byron's Blacksmithery." she read outloud, frowning at the name. She highly doubted that 'Blacksmithery' was a word, so she was off to a good start.
Pushing open the door, she made her way inside. "Hello?" She called into the gloomy darkness of the badly lit blacksmith store.

A bit of rumbling came from a room behind the dusty counter. "I'll be with ya in a minute." A gruff voice sounded. A few seconds later, a massive man emerged from the shadowy doorway.
Genevieve didn't know how to describe him without being insulting. He had a portly stomach with a shirt that was much too small attempting to cover the embarrassing protrusion of a stomach. His suspenders bulged as they tried to connect to the tan linens he was wearing. His apron was hilarious, due to the fact that it couldn't tie up at the back, so it fluttered uselessly at his sides.
And then there was his unfortunate face. He looked to have some Scottish decent, as he had a bushy red beard and an equally bushy tuft of hair on the top of a mostly bald head. His face was bright red, and looked like it had been stamped on by a herd of horses. It was flat and slightly uneven. His nose was massive, but since it was flat like the rest of his of his face, it took up most of it.
Genevieve smiled politely. "Could you please point me in the direction of the local inn?" She asked.
The man blinked a few times. "Ah . . . the inn?" The dull look on his face suggested he had no idea where an inn was, and had probably left his home only a few times.
Genevieve sighed. If this was what all the villagers were like, she was glad she had only visited a few times. "Never mind." She said dejectedly and left the blacksmith with a stupid look on his face.

Eligus had continued his work late into the night taking great care in the tempering of the dozen swords that had been ordered by one of the sergeants of the guard. They were meant for his men with a couple replacements. The main body of the guard used swords from the largest armourer in the town. They were made in mass by apprentices and journeymen working under probably one of the most oppressive men in town. The swords were good enough quality but lately there had been a fatal flaw working into their steal that none could spot. It left the swords too brittle and would shatter on a strong strike on stone.

There had been a few of the sergeants that had been trying to find a smith that could help with the swords. It was about a week ago that one had come to Eligus and asked him to fix the problem. It was the simplest mistake that should have been easily solved, if a master had just seen this it would have been dealt with. However when Eligus had approached the master armourer he was brushed off like a rough apprentice. That was when the sergeants had started come to Eligus to have the swords fixed out of their own pockets.

The swords were heated all through having removed their hilts to allow the full blade to heat. After the whole metal was glowing a bright red, Eligus reached in with a pair of tongs and pulled it from the coals. Then with movements born from years of experience he placed the whole sword to a trough of water and ice. With an explosion of steam and fire the sword entered the trough.

He watched the sword through the clear water and nodded slowly, glad to see no cracks forming, the tempering was going well with this batch. He stood back allowing the water to boil and cool down the metal. Turning he stepped out into the cool night air letting the sweat from the forge cool on his body draining the excess heat from him.

His eyes slowly took in the night enjoying the peace and quiet. He noticed the figure coming out of Byron's and raised an eyebrow. That old drunkard barely was awake most of the day let alone the night, he wondered who this could be. Brushing his hair back from his face he came slowly over to the cloaked figure clearing his throat to allow them time to react to his presence. "Excuse me, can I be of help of you this night?"