"Is that wise, Illene?" Crispin rumbled, his hooves clacking loud in the empty chamber.

Illene withheld the desire to roll her eyes. It would not be becoming of her, to ask as such with the leader of the guild, and her family would disapprove if word got back to them that she was being anything close to mouthy with someone so important.

So, she merely tossed her head gently, the silver beads on her braid tingling softly against one another. "I was not going to touch it yet, Crispin," she laughed delicately. "I was merely looking."

He inclined his head toward her, perhaps granting her the statement. Even if it wasn't entirely true. Crispin couldn't know that.

The older Courser stopped beside her, the flames making the pinks of his eyes richer for the moment. At their feet, Marshal squeezed his way past them, having to sit essentially on Illene's hooves in order to put himself between the two Coursers. Illene bent her head gently to nibble affectionately at the greying scruffs of hair on the top of his head. A reward for his service.

"And what do you see?" Crispin asked her, expectant.

Not a rhetorical question then, although Illene was certain that a brazier was not the answer he was seeking.

Looking closer, more intently, keeping the braids of her mane carefully away from the flames, Illene assessed the brazier, considering carefully before speaking. It wasn’t quite a struggle. But had this been less important, had Crispin been less important, Illene likely would have rattled off everything just so that she could prove she was seeing something.

Quelling her habits had been well-ingrained into her.

“It is old,” she said eventually. “Evidenced from the rust, mostly obviously, but the design too. It is not one of current blacksmiths, but holds the pattern of… some hundred or so years past?” Illene turned her head towards Crispin, for him to confirm her statement. He did not.

Belatedly, as she met his stare, she realised that it could have been taken as a comment on his age, not his experience. Tilting her head down a little in embarrassment, Illene turned her gaze back to the brazier.

“It’s cold!” She said quickly, less measured. “It isn’t giving off heat at all. And the coals aren’t even being burned by it. The furnace wouldn’t even be working.”

Crispin clacked his teeth together, raising his chin toward her. “Shall we test it?”

 Between the two Coursers, they pumped the bellows, sending soot and steam billowing around the room, the furnace long disused. When the ash cleared, a fine layer sticking uncomfortably to both of their pale hides, the furnace glowed white. In silent communication, Illene snagged a rusty metal sword from one corner, returning with it held between her teeth to place it into the crucible. Years of age meant the metal tasted like blood on her tongue.

Although the furnace gave off no heat, the coals grew no lower, when Illene carefully extracted the sword, she watched it melt in front of her eyes.

Quickly dropping it so it did not burn her, Illene stared wide-eyed as the twisted metal, as it cooled on the floor, now removed from the false-heat of the furnace.

“That’s incredible!” Illene said, turning up starry eyes towards the mercenary leader. “We should bring it back with us!”

Crispin huffed a laugh, shaking his great head of soot so it pooled around him in a cloud for a moment, before drifting down to the floor. “As you wish, Illene.”