Saviour of Neither

1 - Chartreuse

My eyes follow the first and only customer of the morning, a middle-aged woman of pale blue eyes and dark yellow hair, out of my hut and into the streets of Hilsbury. I can shut up shop for lunch.

Even though I really should clear up before sitting down for something to eat, doubtless there'll be someone at the door as soon as the clock hits one, and I also count lunch as a time to engage in free time activities.

Like sewing. (If only the others knew.)

I am currently working on a new felt hat, as I've lost my last one in the river Ides a couple of weeks ago whilst out hunting. It was going well but at the minute I cannot get the right shape for a hat, and I'm much too embarrassed to ask help from a seamstress. It's a bit of a problem, since it kept my dark hair somewhat ruly and gave my face some shade.

Eventually I give up and reopen shop five minutes early - surprisingly there is not a singular customer waiting impatiently outside. There's always somebody; Hilsbury's instructors who would like yet another replacement training sword (usually lost; if it was broken it would've been a snapped handle); an adolescent who's fast outgrowing his old blade; people buying them as coming-of-age presents; idiots who can't look after a sword properly (even without magic, look after a sword properly and it should last a lot longer than five months. People these days).

At first I assume that it's because I've opened up shop early, but as time passes and the clock approaches two there still isn't a customer in sight. That's something new; Hilsbury is not only a fairly large town of about sixty thousand, but also value their weapons very much, since it's traditionally the warrior settlement.

The afternoon continues to pass without anyone even wondering in to ask a question. Is there something I've missed? Has Chief Solomon made a visit that I've not heard of? Not that I can care very much for him, but this does happen. Or have the travelling performers arrived? (That wouldn't be very plausible, as even a recluse like me would've heard of it three weeks before they're even sighted.)

I relax enough to pull the hat back out and continue experimenting with stitching methods to get the hat to stand up properly. It is still impossible, and I bang the table in frustration. Even though I've now started charming them with enhanced fire resistance, the left glove has dissolved into dust.

Well, better the glove than the hat, or worse still, the table. I get up to fetch new gloves, when suddenly I hear not one, not two, or even a group of voices: an entire hubbub, not on the doorstep judging by the volume, but somewhere nearby.

Why on earth is half the town outside my workshop?

I can't care enough to find out. At any rate, the hubbub fades away. There is nothing to worry about. Just as well, since it's been rather empty and I can now shut up shop early.

Well, I would have, but all of a sudden there is the quiet, but increasing in volume, and unmistakeable slow clopping of horsefeet.

I return to my stool. Only knights and couriers have horses, as well as anyone related to the town's Paladin. Messengers never take this route - just as well, as the constant clopping would drive me insane - so anyone along this route must be here to come into the shop, as I live on the town outskirts.

I hastily put the hat away and adjust my shades.

"HELLO Mr Swordsmith I'm OUCH!"

And the first thing he does is crash over the coat-stand. What in tarnation...

"Are you the swordsmith that puts life into-"

"Would you mind putting the stand back up?" I snap. Simply because you're someone of importance doesn't mean you're immune from clearing up after yourself.