There's no one in Orlais who'd be writing Myr letters, but he's got other reasons for making his way down to the blacksmith. Namely, a knife, of the easily concealed sort favored by traveling mages as one extra surprise in a moment of extremity. His needs sharpening and there's a nick in it besides he hasn't had the chance to get addressed--so, off to the blacksmith for repairs. Easy.
A problem presents itself when he gets to the smithy: He's never dealt with a blacksmith who wasn't Tranquil. There's surely etiquette for making these requests that's different when you're dealing with a whole person, and on top of that he's only got the sketchiest grasp of whether the Inquisition funded these kinds of repairs themselves or if he's expected to pay out of his meager wages or--
Well. No use worrying overmuch about it. Someone will explain it, or they won't; he'll make it through this interaction either way and take what he can from the failures. Myr appends himself to whatever queue there might be with a minimum of fuss, sheathed knife hanging loose in the fingers of his offhand. He can't quite quiet his own need to fidget with it, twisting the hilt absently as he waits his turn.
ThE MEETING OF THE MUSCLE ELVES
A problem presents itself when he gets to the smithy: He's never dealt with a blacksmith who wasn't Tranquil. There's surely etiquette for making these requests that's different when you're dealing with a whole person, and on top of that he's only got the sketchiest grasp of whether the Inquisition funded these kinds of repairs themselves or if he's expected to pay out of his meager wages or--
Well. No use worrying overmuch about it. Someone will explain it, or they won't; he'll make it through this interaction either way and take what he can from the failures. Myr appends himself to whatever queue there might be with a minimum of fuss, sheathed knife hanging loose in the fingers of his offhand. He can't quite quiet his own need to fidget with it, twisting the hilt absently as he waits his turn.