SAUNDER'S FORGE | EARLY AFTERNOON
The beautiful Rose had a sea breeze and lovely weather almost all year round, even in the dry season. But Vienda?
Oh, by the Lady herself, how he hated it here.
The blond galdor sighed, straightening his coat and letting a palm brush over the firearm tucked comfortably against his ribs on his right side under the fashionable violet-dyed linen of his jacket and against the floral brocade of his vest, hidden from view by a holster of his own crafty design.
He'd left his ol' wick pirate bodyguard and friend Wavorly behind for this trip with only a few reservations, and Corwynn hoped he wouldn't regret that decision despite the wary glances the older galdor received as he made his way down another cross street toward Saunder's Forge. He didn't bother to suppress his field or disguise what he was, shorter than any of the lower races that purposefully moved to avoid him at the brush of his aura.
The name Saunder's was familiar to the Bad Brother, but he couldn't place how or why. Rumors had drifted all the way to the Harbor about a gunsmith on the lips of smugglers who often rubbed shoulders with Resistance folks while making a living moving anything illegal for a bird or two in their pockets or a favor tucked away in their hat for later. He knew not the name of who he was hoping to meet, and he had no intention of faking it as a member of that clocking sorry-assed excuse of a revolutionary movement, considering his reputation as Hawke's left-hand man (literally and figuratively, so to speak) far preceded him in the shadowy underworld of the Soot District, he only had the name "Gunner" to go with.
Quaint, Corwynn had mused to himself, deciding this individual certainly had no interest in keeping their skillset hidden from their peers with their codename.
He would simply feel out what he could, not at all considering another gunsmith in Vienda competition, especially since their clientele was almost on opposite sides of the unspoken conflict (for Hawke had no desire for a rebellion, after all). Curiosity piqued, he ran a hand through his fading blond curls before entering the customer door of Saunder's Forge with his typical air of breezy importance,
"Good afternoon!" The older galdor's smile always seemed to border on the predatory, and his well-tailored clothes were uncomfortably out of place here in the Soot District. Still, it was undeniable that the gunman carried himself without a hint of fear, his field taut and proper, heavy with a gravity of confidence all its own.