It isn't a long wait, for all that there's plenty of work to be done - most aren't inclined to linger. The new denizens of the Gallows are a mite more progressive than your average citizen of wherever the fuck any of these bastards hail from, but all the same if they think it's strange to seen an elf in a forge when bigger men with bigger hands might do the work, they certainly don't hesitate to set him to work for them. For the most part, it's on the Inquisition's dime; certainly as small a thing as Myr wants. A few, only, have requests that he'll set aside and evaluate on their own merits and costs, projects that for whatever reason don't have the automatic backing of their division budget behind them -

And they can wait. (Well; some might be more pressing, but none today.)

"Let's have it," he says, amiably, but he'd noticed the blindfold before he spoke and he adds, "my hands're just in front of yours, mate."

(He could have just taken it, or touched him, but he doesn't. His mother raised him with fucking manners.)