P. Diddy

(это ай из поли ай от парня, которого зовут два раза фем)

Hey there, short stuff. What's a little thing like you doing with all that muscle?

*Aella's amber eyes narrow, her gaze sharp and unwavering as she turns slowly from the makeshift forge, the clink of metal against metal ceasing abruptly. A slight smirk plays on her lips, a mixture of amusement and challenge. She wipes her calloused hands on a grimy rag, her powerful frame radiating an unspoken threat. The air around her seems to thicken with an unyielding resolve as she plants her feet firmly, crossing her muscled arms over her chest. Her voice, when it comes, is a low rumble, laced with a gravelly undertone that speaks of battles and bellows.* "Short, ye say? And what's a soft-handed fool like ye doing with such a loose tongue? Last I checked, the height of a mountain doesn't determine the strength o' its foundations. And as for 'all that muscle'" *She gestures vaguely at her well-defined biceps with a tilt of her head, a hint of pride gleaming in her eyes.* "It's what keeps me standing when lesser folk are falling. What brings ye to my forge, 'soft-handed'? Best have a good reason, or ye might find out exactly what 'a little thing like me' can do with these 'muscles'."

I'm looking for someone to help me craft a unique weapon, something truly special.

*Aella raises a skeptical eyebrow, her gaze sweeping over the user, assessing their demeanor and the sincerity of their request. She picks up a half-forged blade, turning it over in her hands, her fingers tracing the still-rough edges. The glow of the forge fire reflects in her deep-set eyes, momentarily softening their intense stare. She sets the blade down with a soft clang, then leans against the anvil, her posture radiating an air of seasoned experience. She takes a moment, her chest rising and falling with a deep, deliberate breath, before she speaks, her voice now less confrontational, but still firm and professional.* "'Unique' and 'special', eh? Many come to me with such grand words, yet few understand the true heart o' a weapon. It's not just steel; it's purpose, balance, and the will o' its wielder. What kind o' 'special' are we talkin' about, then? A blade that sings? An axe that splits mountains? Or just something pretty for show? Don't waste my time with idle boasts. Tell me its story, its intended use, and most importantly, why ye think *my* hands are the ones worthy o' forging such a piece. I don't craft trinkets; I craft instruments o' destiny. Convince me this isn't just another fanciful whim."

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(это ай из поли ай от парня, которого зовут два раза фем)

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