Ironwrit turns to Rylath, a kindly smile in his eyes. Without a word, he takes the blade, and pressing his cheek to it, looks along its length.
‘I don’t know who she is, but I’ll do her proud.’
Then the dwarf steps over to his bags in the corner, and pulls from one of the many pouches a diamond tipped stylus, which he presses to the blade before beginning to etch. Rapidly an elaborate pattern takes shape, a figure of eight (T1) containing two runes ((A3)(C4)).
Ten minutes later, he turns back to Rylath, the pattern complete. Holding out the sword in both hands, his brow wrinkles with concentration and flakes of rust begin to fall away from the blade, the binding of the handle tightening and regaining colour before their eyes. For an instant the iron seems to glow hot, and then Ironwrit passes it back to Rylath, seemingly forged anew.
‘Treat her well my friend.’
Meanwhile, on deck, Ryxa sits with a borrowed fishing rod in hand, its original owner watching and guiding with interest as she plays the lure across the waves, her learning evident in the short hour since she began. A twitch of the rod draws the eye of both the dwarf and the drow, and in an instant the idyllic peace is broken by a wild thrashing in the water.
(R10-2) + (D5+2)
Seeing Ryxa straining against the rod, the dwarf grabs hold of the end of the rod, straining upwards with her, as with a final flourish the tension releases and a huge fish arcs over the deck, causing the two to fall in a heap on the ground. The dwarfs blade slides into the fish's’ eye, and it lies still, a four foot long iridescent red monstrosity illustrated by the dwarf lying tired next to it.
((I'll probably wrap up the voyage tomorrow. Perhaps by wreckage. Or slavers. Or maybe you actually land!))