There they were. Borik, arms crossed, red-faced and scowling, stood facing a taller man with soot on his sleeves.
Both had aprons on, both looked seconds from swinging hammers at each other.
"Look, Rhian," Borik shouted over his shoulder when he noticed him, "tell this grease-handed clown that his so-called tempered edge couldn't cut warm butter!"
The other smith scoffed. "And you tell your master here to stop selling doorstops to students and calling them weapons."
Rhian stood there awkwardly, watching the two grown men hurl blacksmith insults like schoolboys arguing over who had the better toy.
"Uh…" Rhian raised a hand, "Borik… I came to clean."
Borik turned immediately, as if the shouting match hadn't even happened. "Finally. Someone reliable."
The other man rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath before disappearing back into his shop.
Borik grunted. "Don't mind him. Old bastard's been jealous of my forge since before you were born."
