In the morning, the strange man sleeping on the floor of the Greenbriar tavern awoke. However, he neither rose nor opened his eyes, nor would he until he finished counting and listening. Nothing but the sound of his breath in the cool air. Satisfied, he rose and stretched, smiling softly at the dream he had last night. Despair almost took him at the memories it had brought back, but he refused to let them dampen his spirits- he had little enough reason to be happy, why let this one fade?
Mattin went back to the ever on going task of perfecting his sword. Coming along nicely, the iron formed together without seam. Mattin piled coal into the furnace and began to reminisce over the recent dream. It had seemed very real, then.
He settled beneath the tree next to her, their gazes on the Troll's Vein river. Mattin took a bottle of wine he had brought along and poured a cup, offering it to his companion. She took it with a quiet thank-you. Sipping from a cup of his own, they sat their for hours, talking about their pasts, how old they were, how and why they ended up in the hodgepodge of Trollsbane.
Striking fire to the coal, the man pumped the bellows, bringing the small fire to life. From there, he began reheating the sword to a bright glowing yellow.
From there, they went on to speak of their families, her story of arrival being tied in with her brother attempting to make life a better place for them both. Nearing the end of their journey, misfortune had befallen them and taken her brother's life. The expresion she had now pained him, and almost without thought, he put an arm around the fragile girl in an effort to comfort her. They kept talking, more softly and subdued now, sipping at the wine as the night progressed. When the sky above began to lighten in the grey dawn, he turned his head, looking into her eyes for a moment, and softly pressed his lips to hers.
The noise of the hammer beating on the heated steel of the sword covered his soft sigh. Just a dream, he reminded himself. Nothing to cause bother. Thus the day wore on, him bent over the sword, smashing the iron into place, heating the blade, quenching it, and remembering the dream.