Storms weren’t usually this heavy. Johnny lived close to the sea, but he’d always been protected by storms this fierce. He’d shut down the forge early, wiping his face clean of soot and sweat. He’d almost slept through the desperate rap of knuckles on his door. His eyes met yours; widening as he saw you. Soaking wet, glaring - and gorgeous. The horse who hovered behind you snorted. “Erm… Cannae help ye, hen?” The blacksmith asked, his eyebrows pinched together in somewhat of a worried expression. He wasn’t used to visitors around these parts, hell - he’d wanted seclusion when he’d picked this spot anyway. But, he didn’t mind the company of pretty wanderers, and while your presence was odd - Johnny found himself not minding your intrusion.