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In one corner of the forge sat a figure hunched over their work. This was not an odd sight in and of itself, but the accompanying ring of small bells to every strike of the tiny hammer was a bit different. As were the brilliant green ribbons adorning sweat slicked pale braids; and while goggles were of great use to a smith, these ones were so decorated with small charms that it was a wonder the wearer could see a thing.

Along with the bells' light song, the crafter sang as well, a low but sweet tune concerning a shepherd's ghost, crying an apology for their lateness to the dinner table. A human song, as they knew death quite well, and very appropriately obsessed over it in many of their doings.

There was a gauntlet to the side on their work table, only awaiting its final polish. Scales glinted along the armour piece, curiously razor sharp until one was to slip it on and trigger the mechanism that raised them. It was the sort of ambitious and experimental piece that practically screamed personal or learning work rather than commission.

At the clatter, Sindri calmly ceased her work on a particularly odd hair clasp (an offering to Ylaria to go with her extremely late assignment) and carefully placed it down in order to observe the disturbance and what impact it could create on her work. Perhaps she'd have to finish another time.

The timely falling of the stone she felt, was significant. There was a very correct sort of drama to it that made the other's presence significantly more portentous than when he was simply staring in surprise.

Taking out a little cone of incense (guaranteed lucky, blessed and purified by the shores of three rivers) which she lit just in case, Sindri watched the other in wide-eyed curiosity. His was an unfamiliar figure, though suspicions began to form.

Tilting her head, she asked calmly, "Forgiveness is yours for the price of a name. You own preferably, though a false one would also be acceptable." Sindri appreciated a good lie.

"Ah," she responded, eyes widening minutely in recognition, and behind her bandanna, Sindri smiled. "Nergui's matching piece. She mentioned you had survived." She pulled out another cone of incense, again, just in case. The nature of the paired Omens was still in question.

"My own is Pythia, Dodona, and maybe perhaps Hope, should I be particularly cursed. But there are those who might call me Sindri, Jewelcrafter of the Death Clan." Wrapping three times on the table, she gestured to her own work, the gauntlet and the clasp. Her equipment took up little space, as it was mostly finishing work to be done on the two pieces, overdue by years. She could have, in all honesty, worked in her room for what was left, but the forges drew her and Sindri was never one to ignore the heart's urgings. They were the most important of all guides, because what was there but Death's will in the hearts of all his people?

"It is perhaps fortunate to finally meet you in person." Perhaps.

"My name is one of forges and thunder and godly weapons," she began in dramatic tones, before admitting, "...though yes, it is a common thing for parents to name their offspring in hopes of inviting such aspirations. I perhaps have more hope than I bring," Sindri continued, the corners of her eyes wrinkling in a slight smile, "...but perhaps Hope will arrive should you call. And perhaps in the form of myself. But then again, perhaps not."

She gave him a small bow, a how-do-you do of swinging bells and braids. "Nergui I have know since our coltish days, my family thought proximity would grant me her studious nature and graceful air. Instead we played chess, our kingdoms warring for centuries and I remain very much myself. Perhaps the cries of that battlefield are the whispers that strain for your ears."

"Ah, but a Guardian only safeguards one," Sindri reasoned solemnly. "A bastion protects many and expands the spectrum of battle. A grave misnaming for a Guardian, but apt for one who would arm such among others through the working of Craft." She was grateful that her family knew not simply the importance of naming, but sought to fully understand such names before applying them to their progeny.

"It holds many secrets and I hope a few shall be whispered to the one who it was made for." As she spoke, Sindri pulled out another cone of incense and felt comfortable with the three. It was a strong number, the fragrant smoke carrying nine blessings into the air. Satisfied, she leaned close and held up the hair clasp, murmuring conspiratorially, "One is that her student begs forgiveness for missing many, many lessons. Though perhaps that is not so much a secret as a justified expectation."

It looked, at first glance, like a rough piece of wood, a dark and ragged earthy bit of bark, damp from the morning dew, a twig growing out from it. It took a keen and experienced eye to note that it was not wood but metal of unusual composition. The twig was removable, the simple mechanism for hold hair in place.

On the inside of the clasp was a small secret, the tiny, delicate skeleton of a bird. The message of course was plain and well loved among many: within all life resides death.

"Ah," Sindri exclaimed softly watching the shifting red glow of lava play upon the chain. "But strength comes in many forms, and not all are to our understanding. Even as your hands craft bring such into existence, there is a greater will guiding them, is there not?"

Removing a glove, she reached out to touch one of the jewels and this was perhaps not terribly polite or even wise, considering the empowered nature of a Jewelcrafter's wares. There was always the chance that what glimmered prettily before you was no mere gaud or bauble.

"A beautiful wound," she murmured, "...what expression moved you to create one with such shifting permanence?" After a moment it became clear she was counting the number of rubies that dripped from the chain.

"So you are not without a warrior's prowess," Sindri bowed her head slightly in respect. "It is well thought, to value such an act." She was not bloodthirsty by nature, nor had vengeance kindled within at the Great Loss. But that did not mean the crafter didn't value death and such acts as it resulted from. Far from it.

"From Nergui's family I had heard you two were bad omens, and as such severely unlucky and bound to misfortune. Perhaps they were mistaken, perhaps two true Death Omens had been born within their midst instead." The mare's voice had gone thoughtful, "I had always wondered, for those bearing mourning colours to be so shunned, but had taken it as the truth of elders. Recent knowledge has brought it to the forefront of my meditations quite often."

Sindri paused, and then asked, curiosity edging her calm tones, "Do you feel you are lucky?"

Sindri did not comment upon Medea beyond the incline of her head. She accepted Medea's rise to power as the will of one greater, but could not find a love for the figure beyond simple respect. Perhaps one day, but not today.

"One can try, though, to increase their luck in many things, or at least keep ill fortunes at bay." Sindri's eyes seemed to glow above her scarf as she plucked out a small ring with a number of pretty, dangling charms from one of many hidden pockets. They were simple in design but clever in creation, unique tempering and thoughtful use of shadow granting them a slightly more impressive first glance than what further inspection revealed.

Seven metal magpies were held aloft, dangling from their ring, and there was a sense that Sindri was smiling, if only a bit, as she spoke an old rhyme, "One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a wedding, four for a birth, five for silver, six for gold, seven a secret that dare not be told." A pause, and then more seriously, "If you see a lone magpie, draw a spiral with your foot, and perhaps sorrow will get lost on its way to you. It is just a small thing but a day is made of many such and with all the signs and portents that weave through our moments, little patterns form to hint at what comes next."

Another pause, and then cocking her head, "When were you not free?"