3, Summer of 514 AV
I should have done this years ago, Baelin thought irritably to himself. Stubborn to a fault, when Baelin had first come to Syliras he resolved that he could find employment on his own. The brawny young man managed to scrape work here and there as a striker for various blacksmiths, but eventually even he had to realize that he was getting nowhere. His frustration had been mounting with the stagnant pace of his life; it was time for a change.
Which is what brought him to stand in front of the Welcome Center. He had passed the building countless times before in his frequent trips in and out of the walls and had always scoffed at the nervous foreigners who would hesitate outside of its door. But here he was, doing that very same thing.
Stop being a fool, he visibly sneered in his agitation, it doesn’t have to be good, just better than the mess you have going. He pushed the door open, perhaps a little harsher than he should have. Realizing that coming across as an angry brute likely wouldn’t help, Baelin schooled his features into a calm...which disintegrated with a sharp stab of panic as he saw people scribbling away at papers. Forms. They were filling out forms. He would have to fill out a form. Baelin could recognize a few words after having seen them countless times, but certainly not enough to string together thoughts out on paper.
Stubborn determination taking root, he snatched a sheet and glared at it. He wedged himself into a corner; a spot as far away from the secretary as he could manage. Sucking in a large breath, he held the sheet close to his face and tried to see what he could make of it. With a ridiculous surge of pride, which he immediately batted down as foolishly misplaced, Baelin recognized a word: Syliras. He scanned the rest of the page frantically trying to see if any of the rest made sense. Activity tumbled around him, people vying for the secretary’s attention and advice. Baelin sunk deeper into his corner, doubting his place here. He shouldn’t be here...
Sod that, you’re a decent blacksmith, tell her. Rolling his shoulders back, he resolved to wait for an opening and make his stand.
And then he saw it: a lull in the madness of people around the secretary. The able-bodied man pushed out of his spot in the corner and advanced to the secretary. As if each word taxed him, he gritted out, “I can’t read this.” He was about to rush into answers for what the sheet might have asked when the woman held up a hand to still him. She said, not unkindly, “May I have your blank form then? I can fill it out for you.” Baelin sheepishly handed the sheet over, noting with a bit of added shame that he had somewhat crinkled it in his panic.
The sheet in her possession, she returned to business and said quickly, almost mechanically, “Name?”
“Baelin Holt.”
Baelin peered over as she scribbled out his name. He remembered how the words looked vaguely from his childhood, back when his uncle had still insisted he be educated, but the memory was far removed and he couldn’t say whether it was spelled correctly or not. As she finishing spelling his name, ending with a quick line through the ending slant, she spoke again without looking up from her sheet. “Race?”
“Human,” Baelin said quickly. Too quickly. The secretary peered up from her writing and gave him a quick once over. An eyebrow quirked disbelievingly and Baelin grimaced and reluctantly amended, “...maybe mixed.”
The woman scrawled away on the sheet, pausing after a long slanted slash to peer more closely at him. She caught his eyes and stared for one long, hard moment before scribbling something else after the slash. “Age?” she asked before she had quite finished.
Baelin drew through his memory, his eyes turned up sightlessly as he worked to recall it. “Twenty three,” he said after a moment.
“Relevant skills?” This time she had not looked up.
Here was his time to shine. He had experience in the field he wanted. Feeling confidence returning, he only felt slightly ashamed at the hiss he couldn’t quite cover, “Blackssmithing, armoring, weaponssmithing, and metalssmithing.”
She glanced up from her writing and asked for him to quantize those skills. He did, pointing out the stronger experience in blacksmithing. She returned to her writing. “And your preferred occupation?”
“Bla...” he stopped short, considering if he really did want to be a blacksmith. His uncle had been one, his cousin would be one, had he remained on Black Rock he undoubtedly would have been one until the day he died. But this wasn’t Black Rock. He had options. And the thrill of pride he had the one time he had tried his hand at chain mail was still fresh in his mind. Death came to us all, Baelin firmly believed that, but there was no use in rushing it. Life was a precious gift. He shifted his weight, his resolve coming firm. “Armorer. I’d like to be an apprentice armorer.”
The secretary continued without even batting an eye, either unaware or uncaring of Baelin’s sudden and revealing insight. “Expected stay in Syliras?”
“I live here,” he answered easily.
Nodding, she wrapped up what she was writing, ending on another line through a short slant. Baelin observed all of the shapes, trying to commit the shapes and order to memory. He had after all promised his uncle that he would eventually learn to read.
Name: Baelin Holt Race: Mixed – Human/Dhani Age: 23 Relevant Skills: Blacksmithing (20), Armorer (5), Weaponsmithing (5), Metalsmithing (5) Preferred Occupation: Armorer Expected Stay In Syliras: Resident |