"Make that three days. Your lackadaisical attitude towards time makes your calculations unreliable, if only you're as good at other things as much as you're good with the ink," Faye responded to Feywin's time schedule.

"You know, you gotta stop acting like you're our mom," Feywin jests. With a sudden realization, he rummaged through one of his cabinets, pulls out a package and says "Oh, she told me to give you this. Meet you in 50 years in the protagonists' altar, she says."

"Mom. I wonder how she's doing."

"Same old. Same old," Feywin makes a sheepish grin.

"You know how she feels about being called old, cut it out."

"Are you, siblings perchance?" Ethan asks.

As if to prove their relationship, both Feywin and Faye nodded in unison and said, "Yep, very much so."

"Feywin's adopted," Faye muses.

"Hey! That was uncalled for!"

"Yeah, was wondering about that. Atleast it's clear now," said Ashley.

"Off you go now, leave and let me synthesize in peace!" Feywin cut them off, eager to get back to ink-making.

"I'll stay over with Peachy, once you passed the enchantments placed on the forest, you won't have to get worried about getting lost anymore," Faye instructed.

——————————————————

It took Ethan and Ashley the entire night trying to find their way out of the enchanted forest. Strangely, none of them felt tired at all and carried on their journey.

The sun awakens from it's slumber, casting a long shadow across the alley as Ethan and Ashley stood before the nondescript door of the dwarven forge. It's as if the owner doesn't no want just anyone to find to this place. If one is to neglect the oddities, this location has a quiet elegance. A normal person would hesitate to enter, but the two of them—knew that this is the location where the map is pointing at.

"Is it just me or do you also suddenly have the urge to act noir-like?" Ethan inquired.

"Can't blame you, this scene looked like a setting written by Arthur-Conan Doyle himself," Ashley replied in an as-a-matter-of-fact kinda way.

"Nah, I don't think so. He might've authored Sherlock Holmes but this is—wait, we're getting sidetracked. What was the password again?"

"One tap on the door handle four knocks on the door frame, and three knocks on the insignia," Ashley reminded him in a soft, almost conspiratorial tone.

Ethan nodded, adjusting the leather strap on his shoulder where a neatly folded map rested. He raised his fist and knocked. The method was slow, deliberate—a calculated rhythm that reverberated through the air like a secret code. Four knocks at the center, three to the right, and a quick tap on the handle. As soon as the final tap landed, the door creaked open, revealing a figure half-stepping into the dim glow of firelight that flickered from inside.

The door itself seemed to part as if it had been waiting for them, the gentle golden etchings reflecting the warmth of the forge's glow. The figure was a dwarf—broad-shouldered and wide, his beard braided with cleanly, in a fashion of irony, he dressed more gentlemanly than what one would expect from a name of Gawain Stonefist.

The dwarf grunted, looking between them with a scrutinizing gaze. "You look like you'll be needing more than just a simple pen" he muttered, more to himself than them. Then, with a grunt, Gawain waved them inside. "Come, then."

As they entered, they were met with the overwhelming heat of the forge. Massive anvils, glowing with molten metal, stood like monoliths in a sea of firelight. The walls were lined with weapons and armor, each piece masterfully crafted and imbued with magical runes that endowed with promising power. Everything in the room was precisely placed, it felt more like an exhibit than a forge. Each item perfectly curated as though they had a purpose, waiting to be chosen by someone who truly understood their worth.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Gawain led them past rows of gleaming swords and axes, finally stopping at a large, intricately carved wooden table that was covered in an array of strange, glittering materials.

"Wait, we were supposed to buy a pen, right?" Ashley inquired, a hint of worry in her voice.

"And what is a pen if not a tool for encoding scripts in the narrative? Look closely young lady, none of these are mere blades, I assure you they are a pen in their own right," the dwarf proudly replied. "Not all Quillmancers are casters like the two of you, others prefer a more direct approach to conbat."

Casters? So there are other classes for Quillmancers?

"So... armor first, or weapons?" the dwarf asked, his eyes glinting with a knowing smile.

Ethan turned toward Ashley, who tilted her head slightly. "Armor," she said, her voice light, as if the decision were already made.

"Armor it is," the dwarf grunted, walking to a nearby set of cabinets. He pulled out a piece of armor that seemed to shimmer like liquid silver—almost like scales, but far more delicate in design. "For you, the lightest. Precision is key, yes?"

Ethan's fingers hovered over a strange armor that looked like hardened mercury. The material warm to the touch, shifting under his fingertips as though it was alive.

"What's it made of?"

"Mithril."

Ethan nodded in approval. He recalled his past readings, he thought to himself, if Tolkien spoke highly of it, then it must be a material of excellent quality.

"It's light weight property and high durability doesn't hinder movement," the dwarf said, clearly pleased with his choice. "With this, you'll move with ease while not sacrificing defense. This material can be slid in the seams of clothing, all you need is a skilled tailor who's adept at defensive apparels. A peculiar pair like you doesn't strike me as someone who fancies tough armor. A more casual design would be best."

A set of silver-black bracers and leather boots followed, runes glowing faintly over the surface. "The bracers are enchanted with Samson's strength. Does not really grant you the strength of Samson but it allows you to temporarily double your strength stat for five minutes. The boots on the other hand, triggers its mighty leap enchantment when you activate its enchantment. You'd be able to leap twice your speed once per day for five minutes."

"Now, weapons," the dwarf continued, his eyes flicking toward the far side of the room. A rack of daggers, curved blades, and even a few staves stood ready. "Something for precision, yes?"

Ashley was already stepping toward a corner of the room, where a collection of shapeshifting tools lay in neat rows—darts, needles, and a variety of enchanted blades that seemed to pulse with their own quiet magic. She ran her fingers over the edges of a small, curved dagger, which seemed to hum in response to her touch.

"This one," Ashley said softly, picking up the blade. It flickered for a moment, then shifted in her hand, the a rather innocuous crimson pen. The moment she touches it, the pen elongated into a slender, serpentine shape as it playfully coils around guided by her will.

The dwarf raised an eyebrow. "Ah, a shifting pen. For the one who likes to move freely." He reached out and touched the dagger's hilt with a soft tap, and the blade shimmered before returning to its original shape. "The crimson one's are said to be the most temperamental, you think you can handle it?"

"Not a problem," Ashley states with utmost confidence.

"Now, for you," the dwarf said, turning back to Ethan.

Ethan didn't hesitate. He walked toward a smaller table where an ominous spear rested, long and meticulously balanced, its golden edge resembling the nib of a fountain pen. He could feel its weight in the air before he even touched them. He picked it up, he could feel the magic of the pen subtly aligning with his own energy, as if it was becoming an extension of himself.

"Precision," the dwarf muttered. "That will serve you well. Light as air, but just as lethal. I trust it'll meet your standards."

Ethan gave a slight nod, spun the spear around his body. Each movement was fluid, calculated, precise. It felt like this weapon was tailored for him.

Ashley's eyes twinkled as she surveyed him, her shifting pen now securely fastened around her waist like a belt. "You look ready," she said, her voice carrying a playful edge.

Ethan's lips curled into the faintest of smiles. "It feels edgy, I can feel my teenage angst reawakening."

As they turned to leave the forge, the dwarf called after them. "If trouble finds you, make sure to take care of my creations. They're not just weapons—they're investments."

Satisfied with the items bought, they paid the dwarf three large platinum coins just as Feywin instructed.

"You sure this is enough? You're services are excellent today. I'd feel bad under paying such high quality material," Ethan inquired.

"Dwarven coins don't lose their value, I assure you this is more than enough. If you insist on leaving a tip, just send my regards to the meddling elf," Gawain replied.

The door closed behind them, the soft click of the latch echoing in the stillness. The morning air was warm. Now they only need to find a seamstress skilled enough to include Mithril into their clothing, and, of course, to make them look fashionable.