#does a warrior nun emelan au have an audience beside me? no clue

[appleciders]

fuck it wip wednesday enjoy some smith beatrice <3

The smithy’s front side is cold and dark, so they go around the back. There, a dedicate in a dark red habit labors with her back to them; her sleeves have been carefully hemmed off, her muscled arms moving freely in the sweltering heat. Her dark hair twists in a neat bun at the back of her neck. She steps easily around a meticulously organized workshop, rows of tools arranged on the tables and hung just so on the walls. With a pair of tongs in her left hand and some type of hammer in her right, she draws glowing metal from the searing orange forge.

From the entryway, Lilith clears her throat. Personally, Mary wouldn’t have minded another moment to ready herself, but, well. Lilith.

The dedicate’s keen ear picks up the noise, and she turns. Her eyes widen, lips parting. Only her disciplined control over her own body allows her to slowly lower the molten piece instead of losing her hold. When it’s safely on the anvil, tools set beside it, she draws in a hitched breath.

“Mary?” she asks.

“Hey, baby girl.” She opens her arms.

Beatrice takes two tentative steps and then she’s in Mary’s grip, fire-warm, smelling like metal and soot and sweat. The metaphorical iron rod that typically holds up her posture goes soft as with heat. She speaks into Mary’s shoulder. “You’re all wet.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Mary doesn’t break the contact, keeps feeling their hearts pressed together. Her magic knows Beatrice, and it presses into her too, finding the edges of her own magic, feeling the powerful burn of it. It’s such a relief to feel it back at full strength, back from the embers that it had been for months after– Well, before Mary left. It maybe even feels stronger than Mary remembers it, because while Beatrice has always been an exceptionally powerful smithmage, there had been a layer over her power, a careful banking of her flaming core. Now it burns more freely, as if it had been given a few good blows with bellows. “It’s raining.”