It is, honestly, the play he'd expected. Contrary to what most might assume- he's a fair hand at negotiation when he needs to be. But he's had Pepper, had other things to handle, therefore didn't often need to be. But here in this village it's just him, its just this pocket of safety he needs to defend to keep himself sane- and thus, he's pulled out the skills honed over years in the boardroom, in front of the media. Tony might not be a literal king-
But he's a Prince of the Industry. And that counts for something. Diplomacy means different things for different people. Brows lifted, lips curled in a faint (feigned) grimace, he sets teh wine aside.
"There are weapons in the Inn's storage room. Not a lot and they can be a little-" He wiggles a hand laterally, pivoting on the axis. Seesawing. "That's what you want though, isn't it? Something quality."
Something he has, more or less, sworn off producing for the bulk of the village without due cause. But this? Fighting fire with a super nova? He'd pretty well consider this due cause. The Connor walking around all cold, glinting contempt is a danger you can't just hammer into submission. It needs delicacy. A smile up front and a knife in the back.
If it means he has to supply the knife for that hand?
"I don't make weapons in this forge. Not without a good reason. But-" He sits back, chewing on his bottom lip, eyes darkened in consideration. Is this reason enough? Is this the devil he wants to handle, the deal he wants to broker? He's worked with worse people for less reason and, honestly? The Devil You Know is far, far better than one you don't know how to work with. He visibly mulls it over for a few seconds, eyes focused in the middle distance as though weighing the pros and cons.
Honestly? He'd figured it'd go this way. Bargaining is a thing in myths and he might've done a little homework after New York. Still he counts, five, six, ten seconds- not long for most but men like them? More than time enough. He rubs a hand over his jaw, shaking his head. Sighing, as though giving in to the inevitable. "It still has to be smaller than a breadbox."
no subject
But he's a Prince of the Industry. And that counts for something. Diplomacy means different things for different people. Brows lifted, lips curled in a faint (feigned) grimace, he sets teh wine aside.
"There are weapons in the Inn's storage room. Not a lot and they can be a little-" He wiggles a hand laterally, pivoting on the axis. Seesawing. "That's what you want though, isn't it? Something quality."
Something he has, more or less, sworn off producing for the bulk of the village without due cause. But this? Fighting fire with a super nova? He'd pretty well consider this due cause. The Connor walking around all cold, glinting contempt is a danger you can't just hammer into submission. It needs delicacy. A smile up front and a knife in the back.
If it means he has to supply the knife for that hand?
"I don't make weapons in this forge. Not without a good reason. But-" He sits back, chewing on his bottom lip, eyes darkened in consideration. Is this reason enough? Is this the devil he wants to handle, the deal he wants to broker? He's worked with worse people for less reason and, honestly? The Devil You Know is far, far better than one you don't know how to work with. He visibly mulls it over for a few seconds, eyes focused in the middle distance as though weighing the pros and cons.
Honestly? He'd figured it'd go this way. Bargaining is a thing in myths and he might've done a little homework after New York. Still he counts, five, six, ten seconds- not long for most but men like them? More than time enough. He rubs a hand over his jaw, shaking his head. Sighing, as though giving in to the inevitable. "It still has to be smaller than a breadbox."