Baelon’s face brightens at Clive’s inquiry into a suit of plate mail, his unprovoked spiteful mood lifts, “You seek a suit of metal plate mail! Hah! Father was wrong! He said no dwarf would ever buy a suit of plate mail from me! They all go to Graeson the Greasy he said, only fool humans who don’t know any better or who want to put on airs come to me he said. Hah! You’ll never sell that suit he said, best redo the legs and hope a barrel chested human places an order! Yes, I can fit you for a suit of plate mail.” Baelon eyes Clive as a butcher would eye a prized heffer, “Yes, you are close, it will only take a day to fit you. Come tomorrow, with payment (600 GP). I will have everything ready!” Long sword acceptable for 7.5 GP.
Baelon laughs in Fenn’s face, spittle flying as he slaps his knee, “That’s ridiculous! Quick-release armor? Who ever heard of such a thing. HA HA HA HA!” Baelon regains his composure, but then brusts out laughing again, prodding Fenn through his leatherette, “And what’s this! HO HO HO HO! You can come by any time, I need a good laugh every now and then! That’s hilarious! I’ve got a shield to sell you too! Here take this!” The dwarf hands Fenn a ceramic dinner plate, leftovers from lunch still clinging to it. “I’ll give you a good deal on it! Only 1 GP!” Furious, Fenn makes to leave, but then Baelon says, “No no no, don’t be so sensitive. I can make what you want. 150 GP, come back tomorrow and I’ll fit you for a breastplate. It will just take a few days after that.”