Ruingate: Ironfist's Weapons
This shop is about fifteen by twenty feet. The walls are made of smooth and clean oak planks. Next to the left wall is a large rack of polearms, spears, lances, and javelins. The back wall has a wooden door in the middle of it. On the right of the door is a table, with a red silken covering on it, and it is scattered with smaller blades, daggers, knives, and dirks. The right wall still has weapons spread over it, hung by pegs. Just by a quick glance you see swords, sabers, cutlasses, scimitars, rapiers, and many others. Everything is well forged with good quality metals. In the center of the room is a big oak work table. On it is some unfinished and damaged blades Ironfist is working on, as well as the tools and whetstones he needs. On the front of the desk is a sign (Please read!). On the door to Ironfist's forge in the back of the room is a small sign that reads "Feel free to look in, but don't touch anything!"
Exits: [O]ut to the [S]treet, [F]orge
Contents:
Important sign!
The right (Wall), covered with weapons.
A (Table) with smaller weapons on it.
A large (Rack) of polearms

Ironfist stands near the back of the shop, fiddling with the various knives and daggers on the table; checking points and edges, polishing those looking a bit dusty, and trying different arrangements. He hums a little ditty to himself.

A beast garbed in red and black steps in: a tall thin weasel. He carries a roll of parchment in his paw, as well as a coal pencil. The beast pauses as he sees the ferret blacksmith and clears his throat loudly, and importantly.

Ironfist stops humming, and glances over his shoulder sharply. Grimacing a bit, he returns his attention to flipping a knife around a half turn. He then quickly flips it back. "What d'y' want, if'n I may ask?" He taps his paw as he considers the knife.

The weasel regards Ironfist for a moment, before bowing, "His majesty, Lord Regent Merdez Soulslash is offering you a commision, citizen Ironfist. He wishes to attain a suit of armour, the finest that can be made."

Ironfist spins around, the knife forgotten. He winces a bit because his maimed paw, but he sounds surprisingly excited. " 'Tis true? Th' Regent's heard o' my skill with a hammer, then?" The ferret manages a yellow-fanged grin. "What's th' offer?"

The weasel nods, "Indeed, news of your skill has reached the ears of his Lordship, and he is offering to pay you handsomely, should a suitable set of battle gear be prepared." he lifts the scroll, "This is the writ of commission, to be signed by you should you take him up on his offer. The Lord Regent will pay for all materials used in the making of the armour, as well as an additional bounty of no less than two-hundred gold coins, or a comparable amount of silver. He will, of course, expect nothing less than the finest craftsmanship."

Ironfist draws in a deep breath and slowly lets it out, his eyes wide. He gnaws on a claw nervously. "Great...think o' th' business...the fame..." He mumbles to himself. Limping towards the worktable, the ferret motions the weasel to it. "Sure, I'll sign it righ' away!"

The weasel smiles and walks over, thin legs scissoring. He places the parchment upon the table and rolls it open. A paw offers the pencil to Ironfist. A blank line awaits his paw, just above Merdez's decadent signature.

Ironfist paw shakes a bit when the ferret takes the pencil, but the ferret's signature is surprisingly flowing and elegant. A smile on his scarred muzzle, he holds the pencil out to be taken.

The weasel takes the pencil. Gesturing to the writ he says, "This is yours, as proof of your employment, and as concrete evidence of the sum promised to you. It is law in material form. Keep it well." he recites this from memory.

Ironfist nods and hardly waits for the pencil to leave his paw before he says "Thanks, 'ave a goodnight, sire!" He runs (as well as he can) towards the forge, swears, turns and runs to the door to hang up a closed sign. He then dashes off to the forge.