He rolled the ancient dagger in his hands, calloused fingers exploring every single nick, every single point of contact it had through its long life. “This here,” He said softly to the rapt shop-keeper, “Is a stress fracture. A mistake or imperfection during forging and smelting.”
The shop-keep smiled as the witcher looked up. “You’re asking too much for this. Only those who know blades will pay what you’re asking, and those who know blades will know that this dagger is not worth three hundred florens.”
The shop-keep looked slightly alarmed, but mostly angry. He opened his mouth to speak but the aged witcher cut him off.
“Fifty at most. Maybe seventy-five. One hundred if you find some fool who’s especially generous.”
Sir, that is a Skellige forged blade, forged for the King him...
”No it’s not,” the witcher cut him off again. “This blade’s steel has been folded, resulting in a sharper and harder, but much more brittle edge. Skelligers don’t do that. Their blades aren’t as sharp, but they’re much more flexible and less prone to breaking. It also doesn’t have enough carbon in the blade, and hasn’t been smelted correctly.” He pointed to the fracture he found earlier, “That’s what caused this.”
He placed the blade down onto the shop-keep's table. “A skelliger wouldn’t allow that to leave his workshop, let alone give it to a king. Now please show me something worth my time.”
The shop-keep grimaced, grabbing the shoddy dagger and stowing it back in its display case before storming off towards the back. Vesemir wasn’t sure whether he had left to be rid of the witcher, or to fulfill his request of something worth his time. After the shop-keep had attempted to pawn off not just one, but two shitty daggers to him, the old witcher really didn’t care.
His eyes shifted as he turned to leave, catching a glimpse of the woman who had been there the whole time. He had felt her eyes burning a hole through his head as he had spoken to the shop-keep, with both the “ancient blade,” that the shop-keep had claimed was forged by Elves (it was forged by a dimwit a few months ago, who most certainly was not an elf), and the second blade that Vesemir had just explained had never even been near the Skellige isles.
Mettina certainly wasn’t kind to witchers, but as long as he didn’t try to “ply his trade,” within its walls, he was legally allowed to be there. He wasn’t sure whether the young woman’s gaze was curiosity, ignorance, or distaste, but he didn’t like being stared at so intently - especially by one who clearly looked like she knew what she was staring at.
He caught her eye and crossed his arms, striking feline eyes looking into her own. He let the discomfort of him noticing her gaze sit for a moment.
“Can I help you, young lady?”