An election - he'd read about such things - had kept most of the town out late, celebrating or soothing wounded egos. Even the blacksmiths. But, luckily for Tig, Destarin's sprawling smithies seemed to be one of the first workshops clanking and sparking back to life the morning after all the votes were counted. Now, to find the most sober among them. Doing his gangly best to stay well out of their way, Tig checked with a bleary-eyed apprentice or two, then gave up on that. No better off than most of their masters.
There, though - a steady-striking hammer, close by. He could hear it. The way he could hear such things, these days. Strangely. Uncomfortably. Just another reminder of how tight a hold his curse had on him, talons sunk deep in his day to day doings.
For now.
Clearing his throat, quietly, Tig came to a stop at the far end of this smith's anvil, squinting against the glare from the red-hot steel the craftsman was working. And well, very well. Too well, really, for what might be an... insultingly meager sort of order. But. The sooner he had what he needed, the better. For everyone. "Master Smith," he began, neatly. "If I might intrude? Just a moment?"
@kanaloasteele