A/N: In response to a challenge created by the…Seventh Sanctum Writing Challenge Generator. Yes. I know that's lame. If you, a Real Live Person, would like to give me a challenge, I will forever gift you with vitual cookies. The sort that look like winking iguanas.

Babbling aside, on to the story.

Title: Nope, Wrong Equation

Summary: No it is. Yes it isn't! Honestly, some people can't get their head out of moralizing faerie stories…just because jewelry is magic does NOT mean that it's evil.

Rating: T (for language and liberal use of implied, vaguely humorous violence/death)

Warning: Vaguely implied slash, liberal and unnecessary swearing

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Nope, Wrong Equation

You just don't understand how hard it is for an honest craftsman to make a living these days. Between those moronic Grimm Brothers and that damn moralizing JRR Tolkien, the magical accessories business has nearly gone under. Nobody requests a simple protective bracelet anymore because they're so righteously certain that it was made with the blood of a virgin or some other such nonsense. Well, here's a clue for the lot of you: I make my jewelry with metal and an anvil. A freaking ANVIL. Sure, there's the enchantment bit, but I do it all myself, unlike some people I could name (Jordan).

"Thank you for that, Normald."

"I wasn't talking to you, Jordan."

"You were talking around me, that's bloody well close enough."

"You don't understand the intricacies of my craft."

"Yes I do."

"Couldn't possibly."

"Go get yourself eaten by a chimera."

"Go destratify your air conditioner."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Exactly, Jordan. Exactly."

Jordan personifies one of the apathetic of the craft. He spends all day admiring his dazzling blue eyes and noble features in the mirror above his anvil. Combing his dirty blonde hair back, then mussing it again. Trying to achieve the weathered prince look when he knows damn well he already has it. Keeping his tunic just so and washing it every day, even though it means that he has to cart the water from the well himself because he isn't good enough to have an apprentice.

"I do not have the weathered prince look. Nor am I trying to achieve it. Honestly Norm, you should consider doing your own work instead of watching me."

"Bollocks. I do not watch you."

"Then how in the seven hells do you know what I do every day?"

"Because I've been your godsdamned neighbor for how many years now? And you haven't changed your agenda, I'm sure."

"Nonsense. Go stick your head in the dragon's arse."

"A suggestion that shouldn't be coming out of the mouth of someone who very nearly did."

"I was looking for scales, nimrod."

"So you claim."

"So I do claim."

Besides having disgustingly good looks and no apprentice, Jordan could have his pick of all the women in the town, despite the fact that he peddles magical jewelry. But then again, most of the women in town wouldn't have to worry about being used in spells requiring virgin blood. Not only because there aren't any spells requiring virgin blood, but because they have, I am sure, been -ahem- deflowered long ago by our resident pretty boy. Because he has the morals (and the grace) of a cat. No, not even. My cat is more picky than he is.

"I will maintain that I have not deflowered any women in this town."

"Note the 'in this town', I am sure."

"Fine, I have not deflowered any women."

"Right. I believe you. Sure."

"Dammit, Normald! Look at me!"

"Make me—Gods damn, I didn't mean literally, get your hands off my fa—"

Well. Anyway. As I was, uh, saying. Jewelry. Yes. Nobody takes us seriously anymore! What with all the curses and virgins and…er, yes. That lot. Anyway. I'm one of the best in my craft. Amber earrings with protections slathered on as profusely as you'd want, bracelets with glamour charms, rings with trackers…anything you want, I can get it to you. I don't even charge shipping and handling! I'll deliver it to you in person, guaranteed quality.

"Really, Normald? I think I'll take you up on that."

"You don't godsdamned count, Jordan. You live less than five minute's walk away. And you don't buy from me. Get out."

"Oh, so that's all I need to do? Buy…something…from you?"

"That's not what I meant, Jordan."

"Do stop blushing. I'll take that lovely bracelet, what's it got on it? Protections or glamour."

"Glamour. I don't sell to you. Policy."

"Dragon's arse it is. Now, about that delivery…."

"Does not apply."

"Want to bet?"

"Ye—"

"What was that?"

"Well…"

"That's what I thought."