<div class="floatleft">(http://i1180.photobucket.com/albums/x401/callmecapone/trev_portrait.png)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Trevoby Flintwood<br/><strong>Race and Occupation:</strong>Human, Blacksmith<br/><strong>Location &amp; Time:</strong>Flintwood Forge - Day<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Any<br/><hr/><br/><em>CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!</em><br/><br/>Trevoby wiped the sweat from his brow, licking his parched lips as the heat encompassed him like a smothering blanket. The shirt upon his back clung to his flesh, the white cloth dampened to reveal the details of his flesh beneath. The days of working over an anvil have made a true man out of Trevoby, at least in terms of physique. No, he was no savage barbarian or legendary demigod, but when he swung his hammer the rippling of his muscles could be seen flowing from shoulder down.<br/><br/><em>CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!</em><br/><br/>Once upon a time Trevoby had no last name. Just Little Trev, the adopted son of the bar maids of The Rambling Gnome in Cattlestock. A rather boring name for a boring village littered with boring people. The occasional adventurer would swoop in, certainly, and showcase their fine weapons and equipment, but nothing compared to Amberdale. Every day he was seeing new folks in town, some of which ventured out and never returned, some of which returned and never ventured out again. It was here that he became apprentice to Hansel Flintwood, master blacksmith, and here in which he gained a last name.<br/><br/><em>CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!</em><br/><br/>For months Trevoby has been toiling at his work, learning the craft of smithing, the art of shaping the blade of a warrior. A weapon wasn't merely a tool, it was a part of that adventurer. A man (or woman) doesn't simply choose their blade, no, the blade chooses them. When they fight, they fight as one. And the warrior that fails to respect their weapon? They fail themselves in the end, and fall as the sun sets behind the hill. It was Trevoby's duty to make the finest blades, unique blades, that could never fail their adventurer. Only be failed in turn.<br/><br/><em>CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! HSSSSSSS! ...</em><br/><br/>The steam burst into the air as if released from some confining prison. He panted heavily as he held his latest work beneath the water with a pair of tongs, the heavy leather gloves guarding him from any boiling hot water that might splash back from the sudden change in temperature. The hot air grew humid, droplets of water intermingling with the sweat that shined upon his body. Yet as he lifted the tongs free from the cascading water he grinned. He grinned, and then he laughed, a boisterous noise which woke his master from a delightfully sweet nap.<br/><br/>"It is complete!" Trevoby shouted, holding his handiwork upon high. With a heavy groan, either from the man or the rocking chair Trevoby couldn't say, Hansel lifted himself up and waddled his heavy frame forward. His walrus mustache seemed to flutter as he breathed heavily through his nose, appraising Trevoby's latest work as he held it aloft.<br/><br/>"By gum," Hansel commented, "is that the spoon you began working on this morning?" The glimmer within Trevoby's eyes extinguished immediately, his mouth drawn into a flat line.<br/><br/>"Don't ruin this for me, old man," he said in a monotone voice. He then lifted the object to his master's eyes.<br/><br/>"Look at the shape of the spoon, here," he noted, finger tracing the deep well of the bowl. "It is the ideal spoon for ladling soup into one's mouth. Less liquid will drip free from the sides of the spoon, meaning you'll get as much brother as you will chicken and carrot." Hansel's sausage fingers tugged at the thick whiskers of his mustache as he listened, nodding his head, eyes examining it closely. With a smile and a nod, the master smacked his apprentice hard on the back in approval.<br/><br/>"Very good, lad," he said, nodding. "Take it with you to Vine and Horn tonight, showcase it to them. They'll want to buy two dozen or more, I'm certain." With a heavy yawn he dropped back into his rocking chair, the sturdy wood objecting with loud creaks and subtle cracks. Before Trevoby could even open his mouth his boss was back to sleep, snoring soundly. The young man sighed, finding himself a seat upon the stool at their storefront window. His eyes gazed over the reflective surface of the spoon, fogging as he exhaled wistfully.<br/><br/>"That'll be weeks of work," he said softly. "Weeks of nothing but spoons..." Thus far every attempt at crafting a dagger or short sword was met with dismal failure. Whenever he had the chance he would toil at a new blade, but it was only partially completed. Perhaps if he spent the rest of the day on it he could finish it, but he was afraid of rushing the process. Yet if they got that order of spoons in...<br/><br/>Ah well. Still better than Cattlestock.