Adventure of Lo 3

Lo follows the hammer-song into the Iron-Ring District, where soot coats the stone and iron curls in every doorway. One cramped, open-fronted shop keeps his attention, blades gleaming on the wall beside plain helms and stout cuirasses.

Inside, a burly smith braces a blade in an oil trough, then lifts his head as Lo approaches. His scarred hands never stop moving, but his eyes are quick and practical.

Lo studies the wall, taking in spearheads, short swords, a mail shirt, and a row of buckles and straps made for hard wear. The shop smells of coal, oil, leather, and clean metal.

Rusk taps a plain dagger, a reinforced belt, and a broad-brimmed cap hanging near the counter, then jerks his chin toward a rack of light armor sized for travel.

Lo reaches for the nearest short sword and gives it a careful swing of his wrist. The blade turns heavier than he expects, and the point dips low with a dull scrape against the floorboards.

Rusk snorts, then pulls a chainmail shirt from the rack and lays it across his knuckles. The links flash in the forge light, but the hem hangs short and the shoulders sit awkwardly narrow for Lo's frame.

The smith slides the shirt back and hooks the testing blade away before Lo can try another. Metal settles with a final clink, and the counter now sits between Lo and the rack.

Lo sets the short sword down and lifts a paw toward the chainmail. The rings answer with a cold, dense spill across his fingers, heavier than it looks.

Rusk nods once and reaches for a measuring cord, but the shirt hangs open and short in the wrong places. His eyes flick from Lo’s shoulders to the links, already judging the fit.

He hooks the mail back on the iron peg, then pats the bench beside a pile of leather strips and buckles. The sword tests sit farther off now, neatly out of easy reach.

Rusk lets out a short breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. He lifts the shirt from the peg and turns it so the shoulders catch the forge light.

He steps around the counter with the measuring cord, the leather strips at his belt whispering as he moves.

The smith gives Lo a brief, appraising look, then taps the shirt once with two knuckles, as if already hearing where it will need to be taken in.

Lo keeps his paws still as he says it, and the answer lands plain between them. Weight matters less than surviving the road.

Rusk’s mouth quirks at one corner. He lowers the mail and begins circling Lo with the measuring cord, not touching the armor yet, only judging the body it must serve.

He stops at Lo’s side, draws the cord across chest and ribs, and gives a quiet grunt of approval when the span proves wider than he expected.

Rusk slips the cord away and nods toward the shirt, already turning the choice into a craft problem instead of a burden.

The words are short, but they land cleanly. Lo does not ask for polish, only for iron that can take a hit and keep its shape.

Rusk’s grin shows now, rough and approving. He sets the cord aside, reaches for scrap vellum, and sketches broad shoulders, reinforced seams, and overlap at the ribs.

He taps the drawing twice, then slides a thumb along the mock outline where the mail would sit over muscle and fur.

Rusk folds the sketch once and reaches for his chalk, already marking Lo’s measurements into a tighter plan. The answer is no longer a question of if, only how soon he can start cutting.

Lo asks it plain, and Rusk pauses with the chalk over his sketch.

He sets the chalk down and lifts two fingers, measuring an invisible blade in the air.

Rusk looks from the sketch to Lo, waiting on the answer as if the next cut depends on it.

Lo gives his answer with a small nod, and the smith’s shoulders loosen at once. Rusk drags the sketch closer and turns the charcoal point toward a narrow blade profile.

He marks the vellum with quick, exact strokes, then taps the measuring cord against Lo’s side, already thinking in leather, steel, and angle.

Rusk grins, sharp and approving, and lifts the chainmail shirt from its peg to check the line of Lo’s shoulder against it.

He sets the shirt aside and reaches for a finer cord, measuring where the scabbard will rest as if the finished gear is already in his hands.

Lo’s question hangs between the tools and the steel smell of the shop. Rusk looks up from the vellum, then sets the measuring cord down with a slow, thoughtful breath.

He taps the sketch with a thick finger, then flips the chainmail shirt a little so the rings catch the light. His tone stays easy, but exact.

Rusk gives Lo a brief, approving look, the kind that comes from speaking plainly with someone who listens. The shop stays quiet around them, full of iron, cord, and the promise of work made real.

Lo answers with a quiet nod, and Rusk’s brows lift at the plain choice. The smith reaches for the sketch, turning it under the lamp as if weighing the words against the steel to come.

He scratches a new line beside the sword profile, then slides the parchment closer to Lo. The chainmail on his arm clinks once as he shifts his stance behind the counter.

Rusk gives a short, approving grunt and reaches for the coin with workman's certainty. He counts it out, then tucks the payment away before laying the measuring cord flat again.

He taps the sword sketch once, final and sure, then looks back to Lo with an expectant pause. "If that suits you, I can start on the fittings now, or you can stand for one last check while I mark the sheath line."

Lo eases forward and lets the smith work. Rusk sets the measuring cord across his shoulders, then around his chest, taking the shape of him with brisk, practiced hands.

The cord slips down Lo’s ribs, then back up under one arm as Rusk checks the span for a sheath line. The chainmail still hangs over his forearm, but his other hand moves fast, marking points in chalk.

Rusk crouches to eye Lo’s hip, then lifts the chalk and draws a low line on the sketch, nodding once as if the answer has been confirmed by steel itself.

He finishes the last marks, sets the cord aside, and gives Lo a satisfied look over the counter. The fitting is done, and the smith already has the armor and sword measured to the same frame.