A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Eleven~

"And what exactly are you doing here?" said the smith, arms crossing instantly. He hadn't bothered to wipe away the thick streaks of soot and grime smeared in a thick coat over his face, instead choosing to focus on sending Caranthir the rudest glare imaginable. Well, he was certainly content on returning it.

Caranthir felt his eyes narrow, and turned them to cynically scan the rather unimpressive forge. Amateurs. "Originally, I came here to look for equipment, although I wouldn't have come if I've suddenly been exiled from every shop in Arda. Of course, I can forge my own weapons."

The smith's eyes became slits. "Why do you want weapons?"

"To kill things, obviously." Caranthir clenched his jaw, desperately avoiding a smirk.

The ellon's face slacked in horror.

Caranthir sighed, "to clarify, orcs, and other malicious beings. Truly, all in the name self-defense. It's rather sad I have to explain this to you." He paused and eyed the elf with an air of faint amusement. "Are you afraid of me?"

At once, the ellon spun on his heels, waving his hand back in an angry beckons to follow. He led him to the back, then out a small door, to what looked like an informal shop, although it seemed clearly for the use of storing things. Several finished swords (along with a numerous display of other tools) were strung together on a rack. "You can take something, anything, but for a price," he huffed. "And don't blame me if you're broke." This smith was clearly messing in the wrong territory.

Caranthir strode forward haughtily and began eyeing one of the blades. Neatly crafted, with its careful gleaming edge. No runes, however. The sword would doubtlessly be weak in battle, no better than a human's blade. He turned his gaze to one of the other weapons. "How much is this worth?" he asked, pretending to sound interested.

"In what currency?" he sighed.

Caranthir reached swiftly into his pockets and drew out the small money bag. "Well, it seems I have thirty silver pieces in here," he responded, although his answer was a lie. He had, in fact, nineteen, but saying this would give the seller ideas.

The smith frowned. "Then that would be worth . . . about fifteen. In Rivendell we don't use this currency, but sometimes the castar of Gondor."

"Are you sure it would be worth that much?" Caranthir laughed. "In Bree you can buy a pony for ten less, and this blade is hardly any masterpiece."

The ellon folded his arms. "You're arguing with me over a currency you've only seen once."

"Only once," said Caranthir, "but here it seems I know even more than you, who does not even use it. I'd bring the price down a bit, perhaps to ten -- or even seven. Yes, seven might work."

"That's insane," spat the ellon. "A sword of the elves, for seven pennies? I'd be better off selling rusty scissors."

"What are scissors?" Caranthir frowned.

The ellon let loose an exasperated scoff. "Are you actually that old?"

"Yes, and I will take that blade for seven," he answered.

"Ten. And no less."

"Eight." He folded his arms.

"Nine."

Caranthir smirked. "Eight."

"Whatever." In exasperation, he threw his hands in the air. "That blade is yours."

Caranthir gave him the money, at last exiting the forge triumphantly. For a belt and scabbard, he could perhaps speak to Elrond or Glorfindel. Just thinking about this, he laughed. This was a deal worthy of Curufin's standards, and twice as amusing. Now all he needed was someone to train with.