His leg wasn't yet one-hundred percent, but it was getting there, and he could finally walk around with only a moderate limp--a huge improvement from the awkward shuffle-hobble he'd been doing not days ago. His wound was still tender but he'd kept it clean and free of infection, and it was healing nicely. Good thing, too, because Faolán was starting to go mad with boredom.
Just a few more days, though! A few more days and surely he'd be well enough to resume his soldiering.
But before he did, there were a few odds and ends that had to be dealt with first.
Limping through the village, dressed in a simple tunic, breeches, and boots with his sword sheathed in the baldric buckled to his back, Faolán headed toward the blacksmith. He'd noticed it before during his aimless wandering (for the church girl that had patched him up wouldn't let him sit idle, saying he needed to exercise if he wanted to heal proper) and had made a mental note to visit it before he left. He wasn't sure if he even had enough to pay for the services, but it didn't hurt to find out. Hell, maybe he could work off what he couldn't afford in some way.
Either way, it had to be done; a broken sword wasn't good for much.
Faolán saw the smoke rising from the bellows before he even saw the forge itself, and he quickened his pace. He came to a stop outside the place and looked about for signs of life and saw none--though would they leave the fire unattended? Most likely they were inside.
"Oi! Anyone home?"
