She grumbles as she precipitates the magical construct from the abstract realm of forms and onto her workbench.
"... stupid way for a multiverse to work ... not like the portal division is getting anywhere ..."
Finally, she finishes double-checking her work, and gives the tightly coiled ball of magic a shove out of the universe and — hopefully — into the hands of someone who can use it well.
"I hope it works," she remarks quietly to the empty room.
Penþa says something about a visitor from through the woods. It feels like they're referencing something.
The blacksmith separates his latest rod, and lays it next to the others to cool. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.
He says something about inventory, and amounts. A question about knives, or maybe plows.
"I know to make those much better." Cynthia begins miming the motions to making the best steel she knows to make using the materials that she's seen. She gauges the response of the smith, to see if her method is new to him.
He scratches his head. He certainly doesn't seem to understand what she's trying to convey, although that may just be because it's hard to mime "and then let the crucible sit for 6-12 hours".
He has another brief conversation with Penþa — something about payment and fortune and maybe fairies? — and then goes into his stores and comes out with two rough bars of iron, which he sets down on the end of the forge nearest her.
He says something about kitchen knives and gestures at the iron.
A steel knife, sure. It can't really help with, like, the design of the handle or tang. But turning this iron into steel and then flattening and sharpening it is definitely within the auspices of an intuition for steelworking.
She's going to need finely powdered carbon, preferably pure, although a little bit of sulfur is expected. That, wet clay, and a sufficiently hot kiln will get her some steel to work with.
She trusts that it'll be made obvious if something she does isn't something she's supposed to do and starts. And what happens when these people find out what she's capable of, she thinks to herself.
Lhemur crosses his arms and leans against the wall to watch her work. But nobody stops her as she grinds some charcoal, carefully prepares the iron, gives it a makeshift clay crucible, and sets it to heat in the kiln.
Well, Lhemur does stop her before she lights the kiln, but only to put in some unfinished pottery around the edges, in order to not waste the heat.
Penþa comes back a bit after she gets the kiln started with salads and baked fish for all three of them.
They hand her a bowl and then ask something about learning language again.
Cynthia laughs for a moment. She tries saying a few simple sentences in the languages she knows Penþa understands, before nodding. "I should learn!"
Well, that sounds more like an invitation to provide her with vocabulary than earlier!
While they eat and watch the kiln, Penþa and Lhemur will point out various things around the forge, and act out basic grammar with each other. With her miraculous ability to guess what they're trying to demonstrate, it's not too hard to get basic grammar and vocabulary straightened out.
"So are you from where?" Penþa asks.
She tries getting as close to saying "different planet", or "different dimension", as possible.
Penþa perks up, and gives Lhemur an 'I told you so' look.
"Ah! Knew I you were an other people," they declare. "You lived in that body for how long?"
"Oskeli might have a say," Lhemur remarks.
"Sinþiah, you put the coal in why? Inside the clay, it burns not."
Cynthia nods, concentrating on her thoughts. "Coal is ingredient in better iron. Recipe is strange and unexpected."
Well, he had guessed that. If she just knows the recipe, though, it makes sense.
"How much coal for how much iron?" he asks instead.
"Single visitors sleep in my visitor bed usually," Penþa tells her, when it seems like Lhemur has exhausted his questions. "Other places can have you, though. Do you care?"
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