Outside of a forge in a remote Grigori farming village hangs a timeworn sign: "Boris and Sons Daughter." Inside, a man slowly reads a flier, mouthing the words, while his young daughter aimlessly scribbles little ideas and notes on a spare piece of paper.
"Oy, Alice, ya hear 'bout that contest what Cassiel be throwin'?" "Yes, pa, I have. I'm kinda doubtin' we'd be what he be lookin' for, though." "Don' be daft. Our equipment be the finest in all the lands! Ay, between yer ideas, an my skill with the ol' hammer, ain't we made this the finest lil' farmin' village in all the lands?"
And indeed they had. While studying a farmer at work, Alice had drawn up an idea for a plow that easily outperformed the traditional design, while simultaneously using less metal, making it cheaper and lighter. Only the relative isolation of their hamlet had kept it from spreading.
"I s'pose it's worth a try." Alice said, as she started gathering her notes. "I mean, we ain't a proper guild, but who knows? If we don' win, the attention we get might still get us some business." Boris nodded.
After some inquiry, they found a carriage was heading to Midgar for the very contest they sought to join, and that its owner was presently in the local bar.
Boris entered and asked, "who's the guy headin' to Midgar? Got room fer passengers? We can pay." A fat fellow in bright clothes looked up and said, "what for?" "To join the contest," said Alice. The fat man laughed. "Oh, a backwater blacksmith and his daughter... at least, I hope that's your daughter... planning to compete with the finest guilds in the Grigori nation? Consider the ride free! This I have got to see!" Boris said, "fair enough, fat man. Though I'll have you know we intend to win. So, what's yer story?" "Me? If I'm lucky, this is gonna be a circus! And I never miss a circus!"
Three days later, they arrived. The fat man, apparently some sort of scholar, had promptly disappeared to find the nearest inn, "preferably one of ill repute," happily giving Boris and Alice enough money to obtain their own lodgings. They'd proven more expensive then Boris had anticipated, but they'd found one in a part of town that was as cheap as possible without being genuinely shady, an area inhabited by various honest and sort-of-honest types, and went to show their offerings to the Grigori government.
"A plow? Really? Is that all you have to offer? A plow..." Alice placed a notebook in front of the judge. "The yields fer our town, which, by the way, has rocky soil what some insisted should nay be able to grow anythin', and several others." The judge looked over the numbers, and muttered something to a young scribe, who ran off, coming back with an official looking book, the "Grigori Agricultural Report." The judge compared the numbers. "They're accurate. So, you're telling me that this plow can make those numbers?" Boris grinned. "Yessir." The judge examined the device. "No magic. The work is of good quality. I've seen better metal-working. You'll pardon me if I don't have much experience with farming equipment... but from the looks of things, consider yourself in the contest." "Good to hear, guv'ner. Uh, just one question. We're kinda having lodgings problems. Could you, uh, help us out with that?" The judge said, "I'm afraid not." "Blast. Well, you happen to see a fat half-bald Balseraph around? He might be willing to help us" "Um... did you catch his name?" "Ozzy Eel." The judges looked at each other. "Well, so much for this going smoothly."
