The robust man, known to few as Howe, steps inside the forge, dressed as he ever is in his tailored suit. The man looks amazingly at ease with the atmosphere as beady eyes roam the shadowy interior. The hour is late, yet this is where Howe had been directed, seeking the one known to him as "Jodiah Ayreg". A male whose lately been seen in the company of Manon. A man who holds a great interest for the lead attorneys of DCH. Rumor does not hold much sway with those who head up DCH, it is facts that bring Howe here tonight.

Ayreg has been spotted not only in the company of Manon, but a witness has testified to having seen them kissing openly on the porch of the Red Dragon Inn. If the man is still working this late at night, it can only mean good news for the lawyers, a potential way to gain the upper hand. Howe lets his gaze drink in the details of the forge, wondering just what to expect of the one he's here to tempt.

The interior of the Dragon's Breath was dark, having none of that fancy electrical hookups attached to anything about it (though the gnomes were working on it, Ayreg had heard). A few tallow candles burned steadily on shelves, and a single lantern cast light dutifully over the interior walls. What greeted the man when he first walked in was the counter before him, solid oak with a porcelain countertop. Rows of weapons and armor — medieval in make and design, though a few more modern implements had started to be developed (combat knives and the like) — lined the walls around the front counter. To the left was a door, solid wood, and a simple sign scrawled over the top of the frame. "Silver Shoppe." The primary source of light for the interior of the forge was not the burning of tallow candles or lantern, though — it was the great forge itself, back behind the counter and three anvils of various sizes. Silhouetted against the blaze from the forgefires could be seen the image of a man, tongs in hand to press something down into the anvil. A heavy hammer was lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped, pounding away to shape and mold. In the eventuality of all things, this would end up being another of those curved mithril knives that the drowess seemed to favor, only he had a mind to inlay some Rhilshen crimsor into the blade, adding to its already deadly effects with—

He looked up, frowning (though such an action was hidden against the blazing inferno of the forge's furnace behind him). "Smithy's closed," he said, harsh and raspy as ever; rotten bone crumbling to ash. "Come back in the morning."

Howe smirks at the dismissive words and tone, watching the male as he works. He doesn't turn to leave as he's been instructed, no, that is not the way he works. Instead he regards the male at the forge with a look somewhere between measuring and insolence. Yes, he can sense the darkness that eats away at the hardened man. Yes, the age and the race are apparent. But that only fuels Howe, for what he sees before him is "opportunity". Yet he is also aware that the man is less likely to be stupid or gullible. Howe realizes that he must choose his words carefully; insurance that he doesn't spook the mortal. Under every skin desires lurk, it is up to Howe to delve deep enough into this soul and find what is wanted, needed most. He steps up closer towards the counter, waving a hand that is unlikely to be seen and in a low, dry tone he speaks. He isn't worried if his words are heard over the noise of the forge, for the words aren't of import, it is gaining the man's attention.

"Ah, but I have not come for smithy business, Mr. Ayreg. This is strictly of a personal nature."

"The gnomes put you up to this, didn't they?"

His frowned deepened, and the heavy forging hammer was set onto the anvil. He turned, taking a few steps away from the weapon he was crafting and plucked up what looked to be a bar towel from the Red Dragon. Wiping his face, he stepped forward again now more away from the forge fires. Black soot stained the smith's face, and arms. A leather vest wrapped around his body, worn beneath a thick leather apron (also covered in pitchy soot). Gray hair was, as ever, drawn back by a leather cord.

"Forgive them, goodman, but I don't think you fit my personal tastes."

Howe's laugh is amused as beady eyes linger over the man. "Nice of you to be so blunt, Sir. However, as tasty a morsel as you appear, I am not here to take such a bite. Rather, I wish to discuss a potential deal. Let me introduce myself." A hand held out towards the disgustingly dirty male, yet not a hint of it is in that face or those eyes. An affable smile is offered as beady eyes fall to rest in Ayreg's own brilliant green gaze. "My name is Howe. Mr. Howe. I think I have an offer for you, Sir, that you won't soon forget." A slight cocking of his head, hand left extended with obvious expectation.

If the man's words of morsels and bites took an effect, he didn't seem to reveal any reactions. Wipe, wipe, wipe. Soot doesn't merely wipe off, though. That will require water, and a good soap. A bath would do him good at the moment, to be honest. There are times when the death knight had looked better, true, as well as smelled better. A bath would, certainly, not be so out of the question. Brilliantly green eyes peer at this robust little man in the forge with him, grunted once, and seized the hand for a shake. "Right. What sort of deal you have in mind" Not related to metal-working, I'm assuming."

As Howe's hand touches Ayreg's, there is a feeling akin to electricity racing over the mortals flesh. (A bit of sparkle and fireworks to get the show on the road.) Howe's smile broadens, fingers curling about the other man's hand, heating up with an intensity meant to incite a reaction. Beady dark eyes lock to the brilliant, nearly inhuman green depths, and there is no doubt that darkness of another kind peeks from the exterior of Howe's countenance. He allows Ayreg a glimpse of his power, wanting the other man to *see* what he is truly dealing with. It is all part of the game. Howe understands the manipulations like the pro he is, and to make an impression one must be willing to showcase. Howe is good at showcasing. Beady eyes flicker with a fire that hints of his origins as thin lips curl in to nearly a snarl, but could be seen as a loose smile....of sorts. The grip on Ayreg's hand increases marginally with each passing second.

"It has *nothing* whatsoever to do with," Howe's tone low and soft, the pause intentional as the tip of a thick tongue moistens the edges of Howe's mouth. "Metal working. It has everything to do with what you most desperately want, Mr. Ayreg."

Jodiah Ayreg was a man born and bred in Rhy'Din. The eternal phrase of "On any other day, that might seem strange" certainly defined his view of life here. Here there be monsters. Here there be lesbian vampire elves. Here there be clinging darkness. Evil darkness. Dark darkness. Dooming darkness. Gloomy darkness. Where villains married and spoke of scrapbooking, and wolf-eared demoniacs turned into dragonoids and blew fire and brimstone at smarmy little humans. About the only thing they didn't have was cheerful darkness. Not-so-dark darkness. Diet Evil. And virgins. Very few of those, too. The believable bad guys, those that didn't simply partake of maim-and-run attacks through whatever bar, tavern, or brothel they inhabited that particular night, were usually truly frightening to behold, and near-universally respected in every aspect of being and circumspect design. This little squat man in the tailored suit was one of those types. Jodiah's own eyes narrowed, slightly, staring as he felt the subtle burn against his hand, and felt the power arcing through his body. It was....nowhere near the same as Obsidian's — Manon's — lately, since she had returned from....wherever. But it was felt and noted, nonetheless. Similar, but different. About the same as apples and avocados.

"And what do I want....Mr. Howe?"

Howe doesn't release Ayreg's hand, oh, no, he keeps it captive, yet the hold is light, should the man wish to free himself, he'd find it easy enough. The smile brightens as he leans in towards Ayreg, and speaking in a conspiratorial level he whispers. "Why, don't you want Manon for your self" Wouldn't you like to see her free from her burdens" I think that you Sir are a man of honor, but also of compassion. Surely you have seen the hell she faces because of what has been unfairly done to her"! It is an outrage, *AN OUTRAGE*! That cannot be tolerated! And I am here to prove to you that I, me and my fellow companions, have the way to free Manon from her turmoil. And we ask so little in return. Now, tell me, Jodiah." His voice taking on an intimacy now, hinting at a deeper understanding, something best shared between friends. "Wouldn't you like to save her" Or perhaps you are duller than *we* thought and crave only power or immortality' Tell me Jodiah, what is it you want more than life itself?"

Not that Howe actually expects Ayreg to answer, indeed not. What he awaits is for the man's thoughts to move through his mind, and with the touch shared pass without hesitation to Howe.

Jodiah Ayreg thinks to himself : Obsidian was a lover unlike any he had before. She fed him, even as he fed her. For hours they went, changing paces, rutting like devils in heat one second and tender whispers and soft caresses the next. That would be ....pleasant. Yet as the man's words continued, his thoughts became more varied on the subject. The burgeoning man's final words, though, was what seemed to infuriate the death knight beyond the cause of any particular reason. No thought was passed, save only the image of a bolt of green hair, but that hand was ripped up at that point, thrusted forward to seize the somewhat shorter, squat gentleman by the lapel of his tailored suit. "If ....she ....wished to be free of these burdens herself, perhaps it is to her you should be speaking, man. Why do you trouble me" Am I her keeper?"

Howe doesn't even blanch at the rough handling. He'd seen the glimpse of green hair, but he has no idea to what it connects. Yet, it is enough. One small token of information, a chink in Ayreg's armor. If DCH can't seduce him with power or pleasure, then blackmail would do just fine. 'Green hair' and it has sent the aged male into a fury, hmmm"'. Howe is smart enough not to smile at the anger, rather he makes a soothing sound a hand falling to stroke Ayreg's shirt face gently. Again that soft, soothing tone, like one used to manipulate a child.

"You can choose to be her keeper if that is your greatest desire, Jodiah. Or you can choose to let others destroy her. What would you do to save the fair Manon?" Notice, he doesn't ask after the green haired lass, for he is most certain it is a 'she". Just a flicker of beady eyes to Ayreg's throat before the gaze shifts back to the twisted visage of his face. "You can't kill me, but you are welcome to try should you have need to prove to yourself just what I am."

Thin lips curl into a sneer, but the portly little man was released all the same. Jodiah lifted his forearm to wipe roughly over his mouth, as if trying to wash away the taste of soot. Oh, yes, a bath would most certainly not do him poorly at the moment.

"To be her keeper. Myself. She says she has a mate, somewhere....but..." he shook his head. "She cannot be destroyed, fool. She is a Celestine"—that said with a touch of awe—"and she could annihilate me with but a single thought. What could possibly bring harm to her?" He made a retreating step back away from the man, now, shaking his head and frowning. "To save her, though?" He trails off, mumbling to himself, thinking out loud.

Howe allows those beady eyes to widen, a look of pure horror moves over the heavy jowls. (If demons were to be nominated for Oscars, he would be top of the list.) "Oh, you don't yet know"!" His tone incredulous. "My own Master has declared that she is to be destroyed. The Seraph have been sending assassins for weeks now, Jodiah! They too seek to end her existence. What you fail to understand, Sir, is that Manon's life hangs precariously in a balance here. But..." His words trail away as his head turns to the side, beady gaze drifting to the floor briefly before flashing back to those brilliant green depths. "You, Jodiah, could save her. Save her from all of them." Seraph. He knew that word, from somewhere. He lingered upon that thought for only a moment, eying Howe sideways through narrowed eyes. "I am a mortal. A....simple blacksmith. What possible thing could I amount to when in the face of the Divine?"

Oh, how Howe wanted to smile, he could practically taste victory. But he keeps his expression grim and heavy. A slow shake of his head, looking away from Ayreg towards the great forge.

"What did David say when he faced Goliath' Have you heard that story, Jodiah' A story of a mere mortal who took down a rampaging giant' How with so little he still saved the day?" So he's taken a few liberties, the male wont notice, he named Sid as Celestine. Howe can't even recall which human tribe uses such terms. He turns to eye Ayreg. "What you don't understand, Jodiah, is how much you can do to save Manon from Corwyn, Morningstar, and Gabriel. Have you ever heard of any of these men" They are all evil, vile creatures that seek to destroy the glory that is Manon. But you, sir, you are close enough to save her. And no one ever need know you were involved."

"Giants aren't all they're cracked up to be..." he said, nearly absently, scratching the back of his neck. "A little bit of steel is all you need to run circles 'round them. A quick chop at ankles and hamstring if you can reach it, and...." Morningstar. Sightblinder. Leafblighter. That name was familiar, and made the other two, unknown ones more despicable to him. "What could I possibly do t help her?"

Howe steps closer in towards Ayreg, resting a hand to the big man's arm. A soothing pat as beady eyes lift to meet the brilliance of green. "All we require is a strand of her hair, Jodiah. And all the badness that has been done to her" It all goes away like that!" A snap of finger and thumb, the sound muted in the noise of the forge. "You could be her savior. You could be the one that keeps her from a fate far worse than a mortals death. Do you know what happens to the Celestine when they end their existence, Jodiah' It isn't pretty, it isn't sweet or nice. No Valhalla, no Heaven awaits them. They are turned to the Paths of the Dead to forever walk in solitude and emptiness. Would you have this happen to Manon, if you could have prevented it?"

To be her Keeper. Him and Obsidian. Obsidian and him. The mate" Ayreg's eyes narrowed deeper still, dangerous slits in the dangerous man. To keep her. Jodiah Ayreg....laughed. A mortal, yes. A human, yes. A very dark one. Evil in his own right, despite his lackadaisical view of sacrifices made to his own patrons. "I have walked the Paths of the Dead. The Iron City is a cruel matron, and it takes the hardiest of souls to endure there."

His arm jerked, ripping away from Howe's touch. Those dangerous slits turned toward the man, then, with a singular twitch of thin lips. "She is strong, and I am no fool. Never would I be able to become her savior. I'm not pretty. I'm not sweet. I'm not nice. You have approached a damned soul, Mr. Howe." He very nearly wanted to laugh in the man's face. For the briefest of seconds, Jodiah wishes he hadn't made delivery of that soulsword to Tara; it would be most useful right about now.

"Your words....are poison. What has happened to her defines her. It is conflict through which we grow; even ....Manon. Quibble as you like, rave as you will, that fact will forever remain true. If she succumbs to this conflict, then she succumbs. I will fight at her side, though, with drawn steel until the day I go to spit in the eye of Sulabik the Death Maker, and face Oblivion myself."

An all-too endearing smile, then. "Does that answer your question?"

Evil begets evil. That has always been the way of things from the dawn of time. The flash of such lurking in the depths of the aged soul only renews Howe's hope. Sooner or later, Ayreg will fall, and when he does, Howe will be there to catch him. A man whose walked the Paths and calls the Iron City birthplace would be a trophy worthy of any Demon. But now is not the time for harvesting, now is the time for bargaining. The Mate. The Crow. That is what Howe "saw" before Jodiah pulled so violently free. But that must be left open for another night, for it is obvious that Jodiah will take more nurturing to win over than merely this visit. Howe allows the smile to shine through, hard fought off it beams bright and arrogant as beady eyes drill brilliant green depths.

"So you distrust what I am telling you? Why not ask Manon herself if she *likes* what Corwyn has done to her" Or speak with Corwyn's bastard child, Tasha. Ask her what will happen when Manon dies. Ask her to tell you about the Paths of the dead. When you are ready, I shall come by again. For what you don't understand, Jodiah' This is only the beginning. All that comes forth now" Is no longer a game. The rules are changing, laddy, get on the bus with those you've already made your bed with, or you will lose everything." Leaning in closer still, knowing that the man doesn't like the proximity. In a soft voice nearly a hiss "I can be very generous when I get what I want, Jodiah. Wouldn't you prefer to stop dreaming of the green hair?"

Howe is fishing.

Ayreg trembles, nearly coming to the radiation of barely-constrained fury. Leather apron and vest, breeches and boots, soot-stained arms, face, corded, scarred shoulders....every part of him was as tense as a spring, wound tightly, ready to explode. His voice was lower than normal, perhaps, but lost none of its potency. Nor its tone, for that matter — dead leaves burning, crushed underfoot. It was through clinched teeth that Mr. Howe got his answer this time; he treaded tender ground. Dangeorus ground.

"Get. Out."

Howe'd struck quite a nerve. "Oh, yes, the green hair will indeed be investigated." He needs to know who it is that has gotten so tightly under Ayreg's skin. Howe's smile doesn't falter as he turns to make his way towards the door.

"Ah, Jodiah, such an attitude from one that could make a grand partner. It is a shame to see you?" An intentional pause. "*Used* so poorly. When you finally see that everything you hold dear, everything you want is in jeopardy, your tune will change. And I will be there to hear you sing."

Hand on the door, he turns back towards Ayreg. "You are a fool, Jodiah, if you don't take my offer. I can help you save Manon now. I can't make such a promise for much longer. In fact' Corwyn" Belial" There is *nothing* that can save either of them. We were being generous in our offer to remove Manon from harm. Too bad you are too blind to see the light.?

Tugging the door open, he steps out in to the night where shadows swallow him whole. It could have been a trick of light, but then again, this is Rhy'Din, people travel in strange ways in this realm.

Indeed, this was Rhy'Din. Rhaine traveled in such a way quite frequently. So, too, did Lucretia before he executed her for betrayal. The death knight was resoundingly without mercy when judgment was to be passed. He stood there, trembling, for several moments. Eventually, he turned on his heel and moved slowly over to his belt pack that had been slung over the back of a chair. Into the main pocket his hand went, a momentary search, and then....then his fingers withdrew, clutched around the triple-carat Elf Tear. He held it clutched tightly in his fist.

Jodiah Ayreg remained like that for some time.