Of Guns, Maintenance, and Weather

"-and she normally would, yes, but the sass-mouth was too much yesterday." Remethaer crouches beneath the cover of a simple tarp windbreak tethered at a slant from tree branch and staked into the ground. A loose formation of similar structures dot a section of the park where pathfinders, scouts, and airshipmen practice several skills in the day's harsh weather. Equipment is broken down and reassembled, fires are made and smothered, armor is patched or donned in haste-- the sort of thing spurred on by occasional shouting and shoving from senior military men.

In the Xian's case, he's simply visiting and a rail-thin Aesir-- skin dark as walnut with shock white hair-- is seeing to a longrifle. The weapon is all but completely taken to pieces and the long, calloused fingers of the experienced soldier dance over the assorted parts to inspect, clean, polish, and align. The Aesir's works from behind a blindfold. He's probably just showing off. Remy doesn't bother to hide his fascination with the process.

Craft and the dog are out for a walk, the large figure having all but completely covered himself in a water-tight tarp, making it difficult at first to recognize the Golem for what he is. The dog, however, has no such covering, subjecting those with noses to the scent of wet dog as he plays in the rain, staying remarkably clear of anyone currently involved in some assembly/donning process. He's more distracting than actively disruptive. Craft stops near the Aesir, watching curiously with luminescent eyes.

"You should see if they have a medal. A badge, perhaps. At least a plaque." Remethaer jokes, doing his best not to sound impressed. A low fire-- little more than embers, really-- burns near the soldier and he occasionally stops to warm a piece or his hands before returning to work. "Mum would be impressed and then wonder why her son couldn't manage such a feat," he adds with a sniff. At Craft's arrival the Xian trails off and gives a little sniff and a nod.

"Hunter's steps," Remethaer greets with a lopsided grin. "Wonderful weather, yes?"

Craft doesn't visibly respond to the blessing, staying quiet and still for a moment. "Poor weather for steel," he says, voice having a metallic ring to it. "Require extensive cleaning and oiling to stave off rust." He looks again to the weapon, torn between watching someone properly care for their weapon and them choosing to do it in weather like this, rather than indoors, or at least in a properly waterproofed area.

Remethaer bobs his head once and pulls the hood of his duffel coat up and over his head before standing up and out from under the tarp. "'We do it in the rain, snow, and sleet-- Rada doesn't whisper summer's breeze just because your gear's gone to shite.'" The Aesir grunts when Remy finishes the recital. "See. I still remember a thing or two," he adds with a wave while the other continues to work uninterrupted.

Considering Craft a moment longer than might be considered polite, Remy gives a shrug with his hands shoved deep down into the coat pockets. "Lasota here is the best in his unit at this sort of thing. If he had twine he'd tie his fingers together to try and make it even harder, forgeman. A sort of artist, you might say." He gives a 'heh' and stubs his toe lightly against the half-frozen earth. "Once I get a spell into the thing I hope to have fewer bloody problems, anyway."

"Magic can help," Craft agrees, considering the gear. "He should do it quickly and get his weapon out of the wet, it will thank him for it," he says, and turns his head to check for the dog, revealing a squared jaw made of dark metal beneath his hood. "I do not understand the desire to 'show off.'"

"The rifle is mine," Remethaer corrects evenly, offering another half-laugh and a shrug. "It siezed up on me during a job and I needed it looked at. Lasota is doing me a proper favor-- but he can't leave his post. Once the work is done it'll be back in its sock. All warm and safe. The concern is appreciated," he nods again beneath his hood, smiling.

Craft considers this, giving a nod. "A proper smith could have taken a look at it for you as well," he says, a glimpse of an apron visible beneath the tarp of a cloak. "But, in the end, it is your weapon."

"S'truth." Remethaer agrees once or twice, pushing his hands a little deeper into his pockets against the cold. "But it's not often I have a chance to catch up with friends." The Aesir gives a muffled snort. "I enjoy it even if it's warmer inside a smithy's." And this way is likely cheaper (if not free). "Remethaer," he offers after a pause, adding "Zhao."

"Craft," the golem responds, offering a tridactyl metal hand, covered in a dark metal that can only be adamantine.

"Aah," Remethaer catches on, taking the hand and giving it a shake. All five of his fingers are in a furlined glove thanks to the weather. "You're the forgeman with the shop-- I thought I recognized you. My father runs Zhao Textile Imports," he cants his head to the north. "We're practically neighbors if I remember right."

Craft considers the label for a moment, and nods. "Yes. Craft's Crafts. I'm aware of your father's shop." Considering his idea of casual wear appears to be fullplate and a tarp, he's probably not a customer, though. The golem looks around, and, with the sound of metal on metal, calls the dog over to him with a tap on his thigh.