The short trip is uneventful.

As soon as she opened the door, Naomi was met with a blast of hot air that instantly brought a light sweat to her pale skin. Looking around the murky interior she was surprised to see it better stocked than she had feared, and even more surprised when she saw the man working on the anvil.

Rail thin, almost skeletal, with a shock of white hair exploding from his head, he couldn't have been less than 70 years old. The idea of such a fragile old stick even lifting a hammer was laughable, but there he was, pounding away at some intricate farming tool. She thought back to Cal's warning and chuckled - there's no way this lanky, wrinkled beansprout could get the upper hand on anyone.

"Greetings, my fine fellow! I take it you are Garron, blacksmith of this fine town?" As she spoke, the old man's hammering ceased and his head whipped around, his oddly large eyes staring wildly. He took a moment to inspect her from top to bottom before responding in a rasping voice, "Ain't you ever heard of knocking, girlie? If I aimed even one of them hammer blows off then harvest will be up the shitter!" Lady Naomi stayed her desire to explain why bad language was a linguistical crutch, as she found that people often reacted poorly to that information and she needed his favour.

"I assure you, sir, if I have caused any problems whatsoever my family can take care of them. You see, I am from the noble lineage of - " Before she could continue, Garron grunted disinterestedly and went back to his work.

"Uh yes, well, to the point. Myself and my associates find ourselves in need of weaponry. We lost all of ours in an illfated game of cards, which escalated to the three of us having to..." Naomi's eyes drifted, unfocused, and her face became warmer than the forge as she returned to the memory. "Well it was a sort of dance I suppose, which our audience certainly enjoyed but uhhh... well yes." She shook her head. "More importantly, we require a warhammer for myself, a bo staff for my dear monk, and a crossbow for the other one. We have very little in the way of funds, but I assume we can quickly come to an agreement!" she breezed.

The old man paused, then shook his head sadly. "You barge in here. You put my work in jeopardy. You tell me a story about you and your whore friends giving some dirty cardsharks a lapdance. And then you ask for some of my finest work, for a measly few gilt? Tsk. Rich folk... typical." The knight's face fell as she realised the extent of her crimes against this poor innocent septuagenarian.

Hanging her head, she started to apologise meekly, before he cut her off: "However. Lucky for you, you are the spitting image of my late wife... uh... Midge. She was a vision of beauty like yourself; long red hair, massive fucking tits, plump lips just made for sucking." Seeing Naomi's hesitation he assured her, "No, no, girlie. All I'm asking for is a little kiss. Just a quick peck, to remind me of my Madge's warmth... I mean, Midge. Give me this small comfort in my old age, and I will gladly give you whatever you beg me for afterward..."