March stood at his anvil whacking away at a piece of silver armour he was working on. The piece in question was detailed, pretty, he was forming little rouches in the metal with light dinks of his hammer.

But it was still metal he was trying to shape, and it was still a hammer. So it hurt like hell when he caught his finger with it.

“Ack! Ow—“ He hissed to, sucking on the injured finger.

He noticed the new farmer walk past and glared at them. “… What? It’s rude to stare. So get.”