A/N—this is DIRECTLY inspired by Evil Old Woman's "How Legolas and Gimli
first got to be friends". Some of it is ripped off from that fic
wholesale, thought I prefer to think of it as "keeping continuity". Thanks
so very much to EOW, and of course to Tolkien for getting me into this mess
in the first place. BTW, yes this is EXACTLY how a harried shop worker
having that kind of day would react. I know, I've worked retail in various
forms my entire working life. So be nice to service personnel.
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The bell chimed as the shop door opened. Margaretta Stronginthearm frowned without turning around. Her display was not coming along the way she wanted. She needed time to adjust it properly, but the doorbell kept ringing. Each customer meant another interruption. She found herself resenting them, especially as not one of them had actually bought anything. No one had even brought their weapons in for repair or maintenance . Not a soul to walk through her door had parted with a so much as a penny before walking out again. They just demanded her time, attention and more patience than she could muster at the moment.
She wondered, as she often did, just how her father had managed to talk her into taking over the shop. Wasn't the eldest son supposed to go into the weapons business once Father retired? Margaretta had not one, but two older brothers, either of whom should have been saddled with this place. But no….one ran off in search of adventure and came home in a sack, and the other was a drunk suitable for nothing beyond propping up doorjams. But Margaretta had helped in the store since she could walk, and shown a talent for weapons design at an early age besides, so Father dumped the business on her when he and Mother moved south to retire. Some inheritance.
The shopwoman could hear two voices as her customers entered. She groaned, knowing this would most likely mean an hour spent playing mediator between arguing mates. Honestly, Margaretta sometimes felt she spent more time counseling then swordsmithing or shopkeeping. And the same-sex "war buddy" pairs were worse than the couples! Each one always knew everything about what kind of weapon their pal needed, which was more often than not only what they themselves would buy if any of these deadbeats ever had money to spend. And the pal NEVER wanted to take their comrade's advice, as they seemed to think it indicated weakness or some other inscrutable, warrior- feared flaw. Why one should fear appearing weak while choosing a weapon in front of someone who'd most likely seen them bleed all over the place was beyond Margaretta. Such were the ways of the Sword Buying Public, she supposed.
Though she's really rather finish her display, Margaretta knew that without her clientele, she'd have no business at all, artistic arrangements or not. So, sighing with reluctance, she climbed down off her ladder, adjusted her How May I Help You Face, and turned to greet her customers.
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The bell chimed as the shop door opened. Margaretta Stronginthearm frowned without turning around. Her display was not coming along the way she wanted. She needed time to adjust it properly, but the doorbell kept ringing. Each customer meant another interruption. She found herself resenting them, especially as not one of them had actually bought anything. No one had even brought their weapons in for repair or maintenance . Not a soul to walk through her door had parted with a so much as a penny before walking out again. They just demanded her time, attention and more patience than she could muster at the moment.
She wondered, as she often did, just how her father had managed to talk her into taking over the shop. Wasn't the eldest son supposed to go into the weapons business once Father retired? Margaretta had not one, but two older brothers, either of whom should have been saddled with this place. But no….one ran off in search of adventure and came home in a sack, and the other was a drunk suitable for nothing beyond propping up doorjams. But Margaretta had helped in the store since she could walk, and shown a talent for weapons design at an early age besides, so Father dumped the business on her when he and Mother moved south to retire. Some inheritance.
The shopwoman could hear two voices as her customers entered. She groaned, knowing this would most likely mean an hour spent playing mediator between arguing mates. Honestly, Margaretta sometimes felt she spent more time counseling then swordsmithing or shopkeeping. And the same-sex "war buddy" pairs were worse than the couples! Each one always knew everything about what kind of weapon their pal needed, which was more often than not only what they themselves would buy if any of these deadbeats ever had money to spend. And the pal NEVER wanted to take their comrade's advice, as they seemed to think it indicated weakness or some other inscrutable, warrior- feared flaw. Why one should fear appearing weak while choosing a weapon in front of someone who'd most likely seen them bleed all over the place was beyond Margaretta. Such were the ways of the Sword Buying Public, she supposed.
Though she's really rather finish her display, Margaretta knew that without her clientele, she'd have no business at all, artistic arrangements or not. So, sighing with reluctance, she climbed down off her ladder, adjusted her How May I Help You Face, and turned to greet her customers.