purple ribbons - { dream x raz }

[Osheaga]

• • 
    
    The forgery of armor was not an occupation, rather, it was an art. The woman's elder brother - a monstrous man with the strength of a full grown mountain bear - served as her inspiration from the first day she touched an anvil. He taught her as a sibling should, how to protect herself and how to hone nonchalance and observance. It was when she was the age of nine that her interest in forging came to fruition. Her brother at the time - seventeen and already well over six and a half feet tall - would travel from city to city, kingdom to kingdom in search of a blacksmith skilled enough to commission armor that would fit his girth. With little to no currency to call his own and fatigued from the traveling, she began learning how to create basic breastplates and pauldrons. It did not take long for her passion to blossom into a fully-developed skill.
    
    Now, at the skillful age of twenty-three, the female blacksmith was an infamous plover with an equally as infamous temper. While she carried about a very stoic, casual facade, when provoked, she was an extremely violent hurricane, breaking bones, fracturing skulls and ultimately crushing many mens' spirits. With her brother off to war, she took it upon herself to relocate to a more obscure location - in the heart of a relentless bayou which she had called home. The balmy temperature and occasional snowfall was in most cases, soothing. While living alone, amongst the silent whisper of the marsh's wild-life and dim light cast through the tightly woven canopy, she was able to conjure up an idea. She believed that if she were to remain undisturbed in the bayou and continue commissioning high quality armor and weapons for those who were brazen enough to brave the swamp's hungry maws, she could compile enough money to retire and buy a home in a more extravagant location. Alas, at this rate, she wondered if her dream would ever come genuinely to fruition.
    
    That particular day had been long and tiring; she was working around the clock, purging the armor she was currently commissioning of any impurities before it was delivered. She raised her hand to her exotic, tanned cheeks, swiping away grimy blotches of oil and grease. Through the layers of dirt and matted hair, she was a stunning female, with eyes forged of malachite and a starless, glossy mane. Her brother and she had been desert people whom had dwelt within the mesa for years, and because of this, they had adopted healthy, coffee-colored skin and rather extravagant brands and tattoos. The heat within the smithy was if anything overwhelming, and she craved for the whisper of fresh air against her tainted flesh. But, the time had come. The armor - it was finished. Forged from the purest mithril, carved from a deposit found in the mountains and garnished with only the most top-quality material.
    
    She took three healthy steps back and admired the art-work, crossing her arms over her plump breasts which were bound with a tight , coal-colored bandeau. She glanced towards the smoggy window, left dismayed by the smoke, then collected a silk cloth laying disdained on the oak table to her side. The remaining time she spent in her smithy removing grease smudges and preparing the satchel in which the armor was to be toted in - raw, unadulterated silk and cotton, bound with bright purple ribbons to announce its high quality. She was told that the patron was coming to retrieve the armor (as she had already been given half of her pay) and now it seemed now, all she would have to do would be to wait.
    
    [/list:u][/list:u]

 

[Raziel99]

T'was the price of becoming a knight, and Raphael was cursing the unbearable heat of the Bayou, with such infernal creatures that were more than willing to rip him from limb to limp. But this was his second trip so far out into the wilderness to see this blacksmith, sent out by the king for this 'important mission.' Yes, the Prince needed a new set of armor that was worthy of him. Yes, he needed the best of protection for being the last in the long line in the kingdom that would take the throne when the king died. But sending out a knight-errant out to a bayou to a woman blacksmith - no matter how renowned she was - was taxing and torture.

The first time he was sent to the isolated Blacksmith's cottage, he had nearly been eaten by a crocodile that lunged at him from the waters. Mosquitoes bit him, and even in the cottage he had little respite. The woman was intimidating, older and far stronger than he was, he could see that easily. She had that feminine allure, mixed in with physical strength from metal crafting for many years, but he knew that he could not afford to try anything with her. There were too many tales about how she had popped the heads off some men that had tried to get her fancy. He was quick even with stuttering, giving her the measurements and half of the payment before quickly leaving.

But now, as he stood outside of the cottage, Raphael felt stronger already, even if his new steel plate mail was stifling hotter than when he was here the last time. Mosquitoes were caught in his helm, so he took it off, airing it out before walking inside.

"I am here for the armor." He called out as he walked inside, seeing her cleaning up. "Good, you are finished. I do not have the second half of your payment with me, it is at the castle. But you requested to bring the armor yourself, so that will work well. I am here to escort you, so whenever you are ready."

 

[Osheaga]

• • 
    
    The blacksmith, known as Ammon to the locals, did not understand how visitors were so vexed by the bayou. She deemed it an ostentatious location; warm and balmy. It was not sludgy and unstable like most swamps nor was it home to any particularly foul odors. It was natural, alluring, save for the copse of mosquitoes that picked at unsuspecting victims that brazenly trudged about like guileless fools. This knight-errant, a callow young man, was certainly no exception. She noted his uneasy tone and apparent nervous trembling and stuttering.
    
    Just as the man stepped inside, Ammon plucked a ripe, rouge apple from a wicker bowl on a nearby table and taking a large, resounding bite. She savored the tart flavor, munching while regarding the messenger with drab eyes. She was uninterested in him, in his reason for being here, in his mannerisms and even aesthetics. She only found it convenient she had to personally deliver the commission to the prince because the nearby city had relatively low-priced wares, and the bazaar was quite renown. Before stepping outside, she disdained the apple core on the table.
    
    Outside, she hollered; it was an alluring tone, like a hum or whistle; a song. An over-sized, muddy horse galloped from beyond the nearby tries where he had been grazing. He was a beautiful creature with a glossy coat left healthy by the mud, but certainly could use a bit of a touch up. She soothed him by caressing his snout, gently tapped his hind leg then returned to the smithy where she tightly bound the armor together so it would fit over her steed's back. It took all but two minutes for her to secure it, along with a few other things, and without further adieu she motioned for the messenger to proceed. [/list:u][/list:u]

 

[Raziel99]

Raphael was silently terrified of this woman. She had such raw power to her, not in her physical form, but how she was able to handle the beasts and burdens of the bayou so easily. He looked at her, a bead of sweat dropping down his lash across his nose, before she went outside. He followed, and he was soon amazed by her renewed lure to nature, her call bringing forth a horse, galloping at high speeds to them.

He watched as she went back and forth from the house to the horse, bringing forth the sack that had the armor, and several other bags, before telling him that it was ok to head out. He nodded, jumping onto his horse before taking off into the swamp. The soggy ground made it hard to move at a fast pace, but the moment the ground dried up to pure planes, he took off at a fast trot, then a gallop, heading northwest.

The village that was around the castle was close to being called a full city, but it wasn't protected enough yet. The king was working on a outer wall on the eastern side, and with him, the two on horseback got through the guards and workers rather fast. The castle proper was walled off perfectly, and he led her to the stables, not giving her too much time to peruse the streets or castle gardens. He jumped off, giving the horse to the stableboy, then helping the blacksmith down, feeling much stronger here, in home. "The king is rather temperamental, and I cannot say rather fair. Do be good, I do not want you losing your pretty little head." He couldn't help a laugh as she untied the armor. "Follow me."

He led her down a hallway, one that wound and twisted incoherently, until they were in the Great Hall. It was large, and at the far end sat the king in his throne, and the prince. Raphael walked halfway across the room before kneeling down. "My lord, I have come with the blacksmith with the armor you have ordered." The king turned to the prince, who nodded, and the king gestured for him to go. The prince stood slowly, looking clean and proper, and walked down the steps to stand in front of the two. The blacksmith was alluring, a carnal sort of power and beauty that sparked his interests instantly. He spread his arms out, knowing the king wouldn't have it any other way. "Place your armor on me."

(I know the picture isn't in the time for clothes. But that is how he looks physically)