[ Oh, this was a mistake, but one he can't make himself regret: a swordsmith, and an experienced one, at that, standing in front of him. Flynn swallows, watching the sun glint off the very tiny facet at the tip of the rod. ]

At the very least if you find yourself beset by any particularly vicious snakes, you'll be alright?

[ He steps closer against his better judgement, though well out of swinging range. The longing on his face is hard to hide. ]

How hot would it need to get in order to be properly shaped? I suppose a campfire is out of the question?