Knight's Errand (February 3010) - [OPEN]

It was turning into a long and taxing day. It started with his first customer, a man by the name of Geren, wishing to buy the girl he was courting some lovely glass beads. This in itself wasn't a difficult undertaking, except for the fact that Geren was still drunk from the previous night. What a glazier does not want in his shop, lined with shelves of very breakable objects, is a man swaying dangerously back and forth, gesticulating wildly with his arms. Finlach darted around the shop, trying to grab objects before they could be knocked over, or at least pushing them further back on the shelves to protect them from harm, whilst simultaneously nodding and agreeing with the man's requests. Each time an errant arm was swung in the air, to the declaration of ardent love for this mystery woman, the young shopkeeper flinched or winced, expecting at any second to see one of his vases or plates to go crashing to the floor.

By the time Geren was ushered out the door, Fin had an armful of glassware, and only sighed a relief once the man was swaying halfway down the street. Only then could he replace the items back where they belonged. Perhaps it was past time that he asked a carpenter to fashion him a cabinet, glass panels in the front and side, in which he could place his creations safe from harm. The display cabinet might earn both the carpenter and him extra money, if the people of Gondor wished to purchase them. A discussion was going to be had there, he decided.

Fin was well into the production of these beads, when Old Lady Berringer walked in. As soon as she walked through the door, she was enthusing about the decorative plate he had sold her the week before. She had displayed it when her 'dear old friend, Siriel' had come to visit, and the lady was so envious.

"Oh, she wouldn't say as much, yet it was plain to see." Berringer continued. Fin stood there, watching her, his face perplexed. Was she praising him? Or was she wanting to place another order for a commissioned piece? The glazier dusted his hands off on the front of his leather apron, before rubbing them together, and moving over to the counter. She followed him, scarcely having taken a breath. He pulled out the ledger he and his grandfather used to take orders. Of all the days Beorhtmund had to have off, it would be today.

"So enchanted was she, that she said she would go directly hence to purchase one for herself." The woman was in a full monologue, that Fin didn't have a chance to get a word in, except to nod and smile. Nor was the woman mistaken, Siriel had indeed come in for a decorative plate, describing the one she had seen, not that she needed to. Anyway, her request had been that it needed to be bigger, hand painted, and if it was possible, could she have some precious stones incorporated into the piece. At the time he had scratched behind his ear, wondering just how he would accomplish what she was asking for. He refused to say no, as these women clearly had money to spend, and it was serious folly to turn them down. What he had suggested was a jewel encrusted jewellery box, after all, she didn't want the exact same as Lady Berringer.

"Now, that treasure box is impressive." She said, waving her hand dismissively.

"Thank you, ma'am." He managed to put in, which earned him an asinine smile, her eyes squeezed together.

"Never mind that, what I want to know is whether I can have something similar?" She asked, finally coming to the point. Now, Fin wasn't one that wanted to get stuck between two women determined to out-do each other, but it was business.

"Lady Berringer, someone as esteemed as yourself surely wouldn't want such a trinket box?" Fin said with a shrug, opening the ledger and flicking through a couple of pages. He was beginning to educate himself in how to talk to these two ladies by now.

"If you'll pardon my suggestion, I could craft you some candle stands."

"Candle stands?" Berringer shot back at him, incredulous. What followed next was a speech about how common such items were, what she wanted was something to capture peoples attention and fill them with awe. Fin explained at length, that he wasn't suggesting any old candle stands, but carefully crafted, perhaps stained glass, or bowel shaped with an apse underneath to place a posy, he could have them different colours, or perhaps encrust them with jewels or swirl in some precious metal.

"Gold filigree?" She had asked, her pudgy face lighting up, her eyes filled with greed. That wasn't a problem, he said, sketching out some designs for her to choose from. A little while later, satisfied she'd have the most unique candle holders in all the realm, she left the shop, with one final parting comment.

"You swear there'll be gold filigree?" Her avarice filled eyes boring in to his own.

"On my honour." He nodded graciously, and she left the shop. A wind storm couldn't have passed, leaving behind it such serenity. Scrubbing his face with his hands, he placed the ledger book under the counter and went back to the glass beads Geren wanted. For a short island of team, he was left to work in silence, except for the noise of his own humming as he worked.

Abruptly the door to his shop banged open against the wall, rattling the glass objects that tinkled together on the shelves. Fin started and swung around to see who would make such an entrance.

Geren. He was back, this time with a mug of ale. Fin's eyes widened, foreseeing ridiculous amounts of damage being done in his shop. The young man had specifically told the drunkard to come back tomorrow, with the vague hope that he might have sobered up slightly since then.

"I need beads!" He declared. Throwing his arms out to either side. Fin sucked in a breath between his teeth, scrabbling around his work bench to intercept the man before he could enter the shop proper.

"Geren, I am still fashioning them, I told you to return on the morrow!" Fin was practically pleading, as the drunk brushed him aside like a blue bottle fly buzzing around his head. He held the mug of ale before him, sloshing its contents upon the floor as he staggered forward. Finlach tried to grab at an arm to pull him back, but he was shaken off.

"She'n went an' slapped me." Geren became his lament, leaning on the work bench and sloshing more ale over it. "Said she'll be havin' none o' me until I get her some beads. An' here I am." He swung his arm out to indicate the shop, as the ale once more over-spilled the lip of the mug.

"No, Geren, tomorrow. To. Mor. Row." He darted around the other side of the bench to stop the fool getting too close to the furnace and doing himself an injury. Fin stood in front, his arms spread out wide to stop the drunk from passing him.

"Boy, please. I'm beggin' you. You don't un'erstand." Geren's expression was grief stricken, and Fin did actually see the red silhouette of a handprint upon the man's cheek. However, he couldn't begin to lament with Geren or even console him, because once more his arm was thrown out, clearly he'd forgotten he had a mug from the tavern in his hand. It clipped a shelf, Fin's heart leapt into his throat, but whilst the glasses rankled together, none fell. What did fall was Geren's mug, and there was a sudden commotion to retrieve the fallen vessel. At this point Fin didn't even care his floor was soaked with the dregs of the ale, or that his shop would smell of stale beer for the remainder of the day, he just wanted Geren out of his shop!

"No, no, allow me Geren." Fin said, bowing to pick up the mug, not wanting to risk the idiot falling over, or worse, into something. As it was, Fin managed to snag the mug, holding out to Geren who was still scanning the floor for it, and quite suddenly he bent over as Fin stepped forward. Two things happened at once, Geren fell face first on to the flagstone floor, whilst Fin rebounded off the drunk man's posterior and overbalanced backward. He pin wheeled his arms, dropping the mug for a second time. His hand came down next to the furnace, square atop the bellows, that puffed a great gust of air into the fire and causing an ember to be expelled and land upon Finlach's sleeve that immediately began smoking! A startled yelp escaped him, as with wide eyes he saw the flame take hold.

Meanwhile, out on the street, everything continued as normal, the drama within the shop contained and no one none the wiser. Until...

The glazier burst forth out of the shop, turning sharp left where, beneath the shop window was a horse trough full of water. It neither mattered that it was brown in colour, or that people were watching, the redhead hastily dunked his smouldering sleeve into the water, where it sizzled out.

The red haired young man let out a long, steady breath. He was closing early today, he decided, his arm still submerged to the elbow. Gradually, he became aware of the perplexed looks he was getting from those who had witnessed him erupting from the shop, and the sibilant noises of people whispering. Fin looked over his shoulder, an embarrassed smile creeping on to his face as he straightened off. Acting normal was hardly going to work, and yet, that was exactly what Fin tried to do. He was ever trying to subtly shake the water from his sleeve, behind his back, as if people wouldn't notice. Slowly, he began to edge toward the shop door, that was thrown open for the second time in as many minutes, this time it was Geren walking out.

"Thanks again, boy." Geren said pleasantly, as if nothing at all had happened, and he began to totter back toward the tavern. Fin watched him go, utterly incredulous, but inwardly relieved nonetheless.

Simply put, he was utterly astonished the man was happily plodding down the street, as if he hadn't nearly destroyed a shop full of glass, and set its proprietor on fire. Fin's jaw had gone slightly slack, and incredulity turned to bemusement. There were a great many strange people in Middle Earth, and the invention of alcohol did nothing to alleviate their natural eccentricities. The redhead was about ready to return to his shop, when a figure approached, the first thing he noticed was the cavalry helm. Involuntarily he swallowed hard, dragging his eyes from the helm, to the face of the man looking right at him.

“It seems as if perhaps you could use a drink,”

His eyes were drawn back to Geren, currently leaning against the building, before pushing himself upright and continuing his trek back to the tavern. Finlach held no animosity toward the man, everyone had a story, and he was determined to be kind to all. Besides, it would be unforgivable if he cursed at the old drunk, he was harmless in his way.

"And a new shirt, I shouldn't wonder." Fin's eyes dropped from the drunk weaving down the cobbled streets to the arm of his soaked sleeve. It wasn't like it was new, or fine, it was perfectly practical for working in. Still, it was going to be a few coins from his purse to replace it. An unforeseen expense.

“Though, if I may say. That tavern may not be best for you.”

"Yes." Fin blinked. "No. Quite." He said, still mightily distracted. He turned his attention back to what was evidently a military man. He had been young when his father had died, very young, leaving him with a respect for those of military bearing. He scratched behind his ear, quickly jerking his arm away when he realised it was the one he had dunked in the trough. It certainly smelled ripe, throwing it on the furnace and giving it a proper send off seemed fitting, though it might make his shop rather odoriferous.

“There is a good one by the smith, down on the next tier, I am heading that way myself. Allow me to treat you.”

"Indeed... That'd be most kind of you." Fin replied, humbled by the man's generosity. It seemed his notions of the military were correct, it strengthened his resolve that his father was a good man, if only he had more time to spend with him. Perhaps that sentiment is what made Finlach agree so readily to the soldier's offer. That and he had already decided he was going to call it a day in the shop. He could catch up with work tomorrow when his grandfather was available to see to the customers.

"Allow me to just... I should probably, extinguish the furnace. Wouldn't want a repeat..." He finished holding up his sodden sleeve to make his point, before hastily dropping it, and hurrying back into the shop. The first thing he did was check no other embers had landed on the floor, which there wasn't. He withdrew the bellows, placing them on the workbench, then he grabbed the wooden bucket from the floor, trotted outside to scoop up some water.

"Won't be a moment." He called to the soldier, before diving back through the door, placing the bucket of stale water on the floor. He grabbed the metal rake and pushed the coals inside the furnace around, instantly dispelling some heat. Then he threw in the bucket of water to douse the flames, before dropping the metal door that covered the hatch and starved the furnace of flames. Quite satisfied he would be coming back to a shop tomorrow, he made for the door, doubling back to grab his overcoat.

"My apologies, it's just me caring for the shop today." He said by way of explanation, throwing his coat on as he fell in step next to this soldier he knew nothing about. Rather kind of him to take pity on Fin, it seemed the world was getting short of such courteous and benevolent behaviour.

"My name is Finlach."

“Durion,”

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Durion." He replied, repeating the name so it would stick in his head. It improved the service in the shop if he remembered the name of customers when they came back for their items. It wasn't so much of a problem when he went out to deliver to customers, as their name and place of residence were written on the docket. However, due to the day to day business in the shop, he saw a lot of people, and it was difficult to recollect names if he didn't go through such procedures.

They began to make their way down the cobbled street toward the lower layer of the city. Finlach and his grandfather once took an excursion outside the city gates, too look back at Minas Tirith, the purpose of which was inspiration. Fin had made a few sketches, and they'd returned. With a bit of practice, the young man assured his grandfather, he was reasonably certain he could make a mug, with a façade of Minas Tirith to decorate it. The who architecture of the city was fascinating, and with more renderings and designs, he could make a stock of such items, mugs, ewers, jugs, jars and even bowls or pots that they could sell. It was certainly worth a few trial items to test their popularity.

“It is good to meet you, and not the shopkeeper. I am a customer of yours, myself. My mother is very fond of the bowl you made.”

At that, Fin took another look at the soldier's face, blinking as he glanced away. Clearly the cogs were turning behind his mind.

"Ah yes, I recall. Salt-glazed clay bowl, hand painted, inlaid with gold and amethysts." Fin reeled off as if he were consulting a catalogue. Interestingly, whilst he struggled with names and faces, he could recollect every item he had ever made. They were as well known to him as some men knew the contours of a woman's body. His attention to detail was comparable with the studies of scholars. This was not just a job or passing fancy, nor was it a hobby. This was a skilful art and a life's work, each item created as dear to him as a new born child. Some might accuse him of being excessively poetic, or even ridiculous, but not to his mind.

“I daresay I have seen your pieces all about the city. I hope business is well.”

"Passing fair, but in recent weeks, I have picked up some returning customers that are not afraid to spend a pretty penny for my work." He said. There was no smugness or pride in his words, he knew better than to take for granted business when it was going good. There was always a finite amount of decorative plates that people would want. It was why he was becoming more diverse, creating ceramic mugs for inns, not just locally, but even as far as Dol Amroth. This was custom he could rely on for two reasons. Firstly, drunken patrons had a tendency to drop or smash mugs, even accidents happened where a mug might be knocked over. Secondly, the earthenware he used to fashion these mugs was liable to break easily, and so, economically, he was always in work replacing the broken items.

That said, the making of mugs was fairly mundane, it was why he was keen to show off to the customers willing to pay more money for more unique pieces.

"Old Lady Berringer has become enamoured of my work, as has her good friend, Lady Siriel." Fin continued, without a sign he was bragging about his new customers. If anything, there was a hint of excitement that such esteemed women were taking note of his work. "I hope that if they're proud of the pieces enough to show them off, I may gain more patronage."

That was his hope anyway.

"And you sir. I take from the helm under your arm that you are a military man?" Fin phrased the question so as not to create any awkwardness of Durion could not talk about his work. No doubt keeping Minas Tirith safe in these times was a delicate matter, not conducive to wagging tongues.

The red-haired glazier offered a small gracious smile to the compliment given to his work. It pleased him that his customers loved his work, and would hopefully treasure it. As for those amethysts, they hadn't been easy to source, and the cost of that went into the overall price of the bowl, not that it had caused a problem. Not that Fin would dream of charging over the odds for his goods. There were, indeed, unscrupulous folk out there that would do that very thing, but it was not in Finlach's nature to swindle people out of their hard earned money. In some cases, for those short of currency, he'd even dropped the price of some of his products, leaving himself marginally out of pocket, but full of a sense of warmth for allowing everyone to share in the joy of glass. It was a most magical material, made from something as dull and uninspiring as sand, into something wholly beautiful.

It was reassuring to hear from Durion's mouth, that Lady Siriel was likely to pass on good word of him. All he good hope was that the war of one-upmanship going on between Siriel and Berringer didn't drag him in to the forefront, he didn't want these esteemed ladies starting a boycott of his shop. Truthfully, that seemed somewhat farfetched, especially when they needed him to show off their wealth and display it for all to know. Still, those ladies were rather intimidating, best not to upset them.

“Cavalry, As my father before me. It is a unique lifestyle. Did not even need fight this last ride, and my armor needs repairs.”

Fin glanced over at the helm, before his eyes darted away, the corner of his lips pulling down. It was a shame that the helm was broken. It seemed they were both in the precarious boat of broken possessions, Durion a helm, and him a shirt. Not that he was an expert, but the redhead didn't imagine the tanner would have much trouble either repairing the fastening or replacing it.

“I just need to drop this off, and we can head to the tavern, I mentioned. I can smell it, we are nearby,”

"It is rather a distinctive aroma." Fin agreed, pulling a face at the reek of putrefying animal hides. When the wind was blowing in the right direction, and due to the unique shape of the city, that smell could be blasted through the streets. Surely, the tanner must have lost his sense of smell by this point, or how else could he deal with the nauseating smell his vocation in life centred around? Fin would consider shoving shredded bandages up his nose, to block out some of that stench. Maybe even soak them in rose water beforehand.

“It is no great skill to wield blade and ride,”

"I'm sure you're being much to humble. There are a great many men who couldn't do what you fine folk do for this city." Fin said, his head turned in Durion's direction, but his eyes remained downcast. This was a trait of his, reluctant to hold eye contact for long, even with his own family. Beorhtmund put it down to the fact the boy was too fidgety, and not to a social awkwardness, especially being as gregarious as he was. The truth was that it was his mother who was responsible, as a young child, Fin had been inquisitive about everything, something that remained with him to this day. Whenever something intrigued or puzzled him, Fin would stare intently at it, whether it be a crippled spider crushed underfoot that was still twitching, or the process of blowing glass, or a young couple hugging and kissing, or a disfigured soldier, or an old woman with a hunchback, or another child with a large mole on the tip of their nose. In any case, it wasn't seemly to stare, and his mother had scolded him firmly for doing so, to the point that Fin did not let his eyes remain on any one thing for a protracted amount of time. Except his work.

"For my part, I can sit a horse well, but would no doubt be of no use with a sword in my hand." Fin added. It may have been that he was displaying too much humility, because he'd never tried to ride a horse and swing a sword at the same time. Just as he had not come face to face with an orc, though he imagined if that day ever came, he would be horrifically afraid. The mere thought sent a shiver down his spine, and he was silently willing himself not to have any nightmares about them tonight. Even orcs conjured in dreams were a terrifying thing.

“How long have you worked in glass and clay, Master Finlach? I cannot imagine taking such time to learn to make such beautiful things.”

"Thank you, I endeavour to make everything to the best of my ability." He replied to the compliment, having been lax in doing so earlier. "My grandfather was the master glazier before me. I have been interested since I was a boy, and started working in the shop full time at fifteen. Therefore it's been some, eight, yes, eight years." It felt strange to say that aloud, he hadn't actually considered the passage of time numerically before, mainly because he loved his work and days never seemed to drag when he was busy, so it appeared they had stacked up quickly.