Let's go for a stroll.

Outside of a few delusions of grandeur from the Welsh, shoemaking has traditionally been the realm of elves. Honest to goodness elves, proud and undiluted since that first Master Cobbler with Hammers-for-Fingers, with the Pincushion Mouth. No sprite mixed in for humor, nor fairy for whimsy. No dwarvish conscientiousness, or gnomish sense of fair. Which means, of course, that poured into your wingtips is pure Elf--unmitigated by equity or charm. Bad attidudes tap-tapped into your leather, small magicks pooling in your soles. Waiting for your first misstep. And, wrapping themselves around your digits, they will take you where they will.