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The Blacksmith


Title: The Blacksmith
Author: chaos_eternus
Word Count: 409
Date: 08/11/04
Rating: T
Category: Challenge response: Supernatural, Tyrol, Crossover
Warnings: none...
Summary: Tyrol is Deaths Blacksmith
Spoilers/Disclaimers: miniseries

For the record: I do not own, nor do I claim ownership of characters or concepts from Battlestar Galactica or Terry Pratchetts Discworld series

Tyrol grimaced as another fighter was led across the deck of the Galactica to the repair bay he had set up so long ago as his own.

            Frak, it was beaten up as hell.

            This was going to be a fun one, not because he couldn't repair it but because he would have to make it look like it took a lot of hard work and effort.

            Tyrol knew he could repair it, knew it would in reality take him three days at most but a repair like that would take anyone else at least a month, assuming they bothered and didn't just write it off.

            Not that they had a choice, if it had Viper written on it anywhere it got repaired, regardless of its condition. And if you couldn't read Viper on it anywhere… well, that's what the paint and brushes were for.

            Well, he could spin it out, he had gotten good at that.

            It was a good thing Adama had never seen fit to watch him work, Tyrol knew he would never fool the Commander but everyone else; well he had managed it so far.

            Still, how could he tell them of his abilities?

            Or how he had gained them?

            How could he tell them that he could repair anything, or shoe any creature brought to him?

            How could he tell of the ancient bargain he family had followed for thousands of generations, before the colonies had been founded?

            How could he tell them that the price for that was that he had to repair everything brought to him, shoe any creature brought to him?

            How could he tell them he had the mini forge installed not to create spare parts if they ever had the need, which they did often nowadays but because every few month a strangely cooperative horse would come to be shoed?      

            How could he tell them that the horse just appeared aboard ship as and when and that its master spoke in capitals that seemed to shoot right past the ears and arrive straight at the mind?

            And how could he tell them that the horses master had been so busy that the horse had had to be shoed three times, three times in the week following the fall?

            And that his mysterious scythe, so sharp it seemed it cut the very air in two had needed two new blades?

            How could he tell them?