Closed [The Ironworks] Little Blue Boy Lost (Baelin)

[Aren]

Syliras, Bittern District, Winthrop Alley, Ironworks: 33rd of Winter, 514 AV - Eleventh Bell Aren had aimlessly wondered through the city before, as boredom often overtook any fatigue he may have possessed. Still, he had not explored, let alone familiarized himself with, even a tenth of it. It was... an interesting place, to say the least, even if the knights insisted in making it duller every day. The Akalak was still sour over that damn decree that had been announced earlier in the season. One would soon need a license to legally practice magic, and what was the punishment for disobeying? Fines. The one thing Aren couldn't afford... besides everything else he couldn't afford. The knights were never particularly friendly towards magic users before, but at least they didn't used to take your money for practicing it without a special piece of paper that said you could. "Why not just take the very blood from my veins while they're at it?" Aren protested, with more than a hint of disdainful sarcasm. Instantly regretting his outburst, though, he instinctively ducked and looked around, hoping nobody who cared had heard his little brush with civil disobedience. Thankfully, nobody had, as those knights and the little squires who always followed them around often took their jobs very seriously. Sometimes too seriously, those who were feeling bold might say. "There are probably places where they actually do that to people they even suspect of being mages." Seros offered, knowing the world was too grim a place for that to be anything but uncertain. His dour voice (for lack of a better term) resonated through Aren's skull like a bitter chord, almost as if to emphasize the bleak truth of his assertion. "Oh, glorious day, marred by darkening cloud..." The more optimistic of the two personalities dwelling inside the giant, azure-hued body offered in reply. "This nutsack-freezing cold is glorious?" The darker Other immediately rebutted, prompting his brother to reflexively pull the thin cloak that covered his shoulders in a little tighter. There was no come back that could be produced, no logical assertion that could be made in protestation. In truth, it very nearly felt that sometimes two of Aren's three most precious possessions in this world were just about ready to pack their bags, drop off his body, and roll their way to warmer climes. Just as the now, somehow bluer Akalak, was beginning to embrace the notion that joy had abandoned him, he began to feel the out-of-place sensation of warmth. Along with it he also started to notice the unmistakable sounds of metal pounding against metal, prompting him to realize where his feet must have wisely wondered to absent direction from his head. "Oh, sweet Wysar, thank you!" Aren mumbled, unconsciously slipping into his native Tukant as his thoughts suddenly found themselves less preoccupied with more southerly concerns. Forges manned by blacksmiths of likely every persuasion assaulted his golden eyes as his feet shuffled him forward towards the soul-relieving heat. Weapons, armor, and everyday tools whose uses looked as varied as the men making them seemed no less at home here than on any market stall. "Maybe you should think about upgrading our defenses, if you can call that dead dog's hide you're wearing a defense against anything more dangerous than a flea." Seros volunteered his advice freely and unbidden, as he accustomed to do when concerned for the safety of the body which he considered to be just as much his as Aren's. Unfortunately for his easily aggravated brother, he also felt the need to voice his opinion on almost every other subject, as well. "Hey, fleas are dan- Fine..." The Akalak relented, knowing that however annoying Seros often was, he was seldom mistaken in his analysis of any particular situation. As he browsed through the items readily displayed for potential buyers to inspect, the prices displayed on some of them looked outlandish to Aren's miserly eyes. One hundred gold? Two hundred? Five!? Unable to believe his eyes, the flabbergasted window shopper was forced address the nearest of the blacksmiths working there. Although the perusing warrior was not particularly good at determining the age of other species, the individual in question appeared to be a young man with a build somewhat resembling a tree trunk. "You there. Where might I find the armors not made of whatever luxurious material this is?" Aren innocently pointed at a dull grey breastplate that sat on a bench before him, thinking his question a perfectly reasonable one.

[Baelin Holt]

He was working near the entryway again. In all honesty, Baelin preferred to work closer to the back where he was tucked away from others and could work without distraction. But Ros evidently thought he made a good doorman. Not the meet and greet sort, no one could ever mistake Baelin as the kind of person good with introductions. He has, however, spotted a few would-be thieves.

Stealing in Syliras was beyond foolish and Baelin would never understand what drives them. But he suspects it must be for the rush or something of the sort. They don’t look like what Baelin would picture when he thinks of “thief.” They’ve been normal people, who likely have their own jobs that get them by just fine. But then they come in here, study the wall of things available for sale, and ever so deftly slip them into a pocket or in their belt or in a bag or anything they can think of. It depended on the person.

It wasn’t really that Baelin was good at spotting thieves, as he had tried to explain to Ros. He just always tended to expect the worst out of people. The Ironworks felt more like his home than his own apartment, and he hated strangers in his home. He couldn’t help that he watched them all warily, waiting for the moment they would prove false.

Baelin tried to impress this on Ros and Fredrick as a reason to keep him at the back, where his glares would go unnoticed. Surely he was scaring off some honest buyers. But Ros only quirked an eyebrow and confirmed that he wanted him in the front. And Fredrick laughed at him and hinted that he should try glaring at himself in a mirror at some point. Evidently, even when glaring at strangers, Baelin kept his eyes hidden behind his thick hair. If you weren’t looking for the glare, you weren’t going to notice it.

But it was so very distracting. And every time someone opened the blasted door a rush of cold air would swell into the Ironworks. It abated quickly after the door was shut again, but Baelin’s temper would linger.

He was even less inclined to be in the cold than usual after his brush with it not too long ago. His two leftmost fingers on his left hand still throbbed. They had been numb while he was outside, but once he warmed up again the blasted things never stopped throbbing. Pain came and went as an additional grievance to the throbbing, but invariably they would sting unpleasantly when a cold wind brushed against them.

This, to his displeasure, was happening right now. Baelin paused in his work and glared at the newcomer. Surprise halted that glare just as quickly as it had come. The newcomer was undoubtedly an Akalak, and tall. Baelin was accustomed to being taller than most people, but that absolutely wasn’t the case here. Recovering from his initial shock, Baelin slipped easily back into his unintentionally subtle glare. Resuming where he had left off on his work was a bit more difficult, and keeping his attention on it even more so. The Akalak was hard to take his eyes off of.

He didn’t seem to have a plan on what he was going to buy, instead just perusing the items. This put Baelin even more on edge. Something was surprising the man and Baelin couldn’t help a defensive pride that rose in him. Did the Akalak think the work was subpar? He was a fool if he thought so. They may not be Sultros, but the Ironworks prided itself on the quality of its pieces.

With a start, Baelin realized the Akalak was talking to him. The smith swung his gaze around quickly, trying to make sure he wasn’t mistaken. But no one else was giving the newcomer any heed. Despite himself, Baelin nervously scratched a recently surfaced scale on the back of his hand.

The half-Dhani raised his gaze through his hair to meet the scrutiny of the potential customer. His brows rose even further behind his hair as he registered what the Akalak was asking. A piece made in something other than steel? Didn’t he realize that this was the Ironworks?

Baelin turned the question over in his head, trying to find whatever trick the Akalak was pulling on him. Calling plain steel luxurious implied that the Akalak was looking for a lower quality metal...but nearly everything produced at the Ironworks was done in steel. Ros had his own iron ore mining operation. And, as iron was easy to work with while still being quite strong, it really was a no-brainer to specialize and focus in the metal. Hesitantly, Baelin replied, “Mosst work here iss done with iron.” He internally cringed at the sibilance, hoping he spoke just softly enough for it to be missed, but loudly enough for his voice to carry in the din of the Ironworks.

But...if the Akalak was being serious, Baelin should try to appease him. Ros had spent a good bit of time trying to instruct him on how to handle customers. The goal was to try to get the customer what they’re looking for. And if the Ironworks didn’t have it, evaluate if it’s possible to get or make it.

He had seen people work on bronze before. It wasn’t common, but Baelin was pretty sure it was possible. A small thrill of excitement raced through him as the idea of working on a new metal. The potential challenge was intoxicating. It wasn’t as profitable as steel since you had to pay an overhead for the metal and the prices fetched were lower. But securing a new customer may very well be worth it.

Licking his lips, Baelin came to a decision. “But we could make a piece out of bronze for you. A weaker metal.”

[Aren]

Aren knew what steel and iron were of course, but what he didn't know is what else might have been added to the forging of these weapons and armors to make them so blighted expensive. The individual he questioned didn't seem readily able to provide an answer, however. In fact, the young man stared at the Akalak with a look the warrior couldn't quite place. Was it contempt, or disdain, or dislike, or suspicion or a combination of two or more? Was it none of them? Did he just think Aren was an idiot for asking the question at all? If he did, he would have been right, but probably not for the right reasons. "How much was that chest-guard we saw in Riverfall that time? Was it supposed to be expensive, or was it cheap?" The still browsing shopper silently queried. "Why are you asking me as if I should know?" Seros questioned, freely admitting that he had absolutely no clue how to judge the monetary value of items. Moreover, the very nature of Akalak in general meant his Other was similarly afflicted with the same condition. Aren had been traveling for most of his life. As such, it was common for him to see wild variations in the prices of similar goods, especially after having to account for differences between merchants and local imports and exports. Practically speaking, it was pointless for him to memorize what a fruit was worth in one market stall in Sunberth, because that's not what that same exact type of fruit would be worth in another, much less in a shop in Riverfall or Syliras. Beyond that, the quality of goods along with a host of other factors (such as the savviness of the buyer or the seller) could oftentimes influence the prices of the same item from the same merchant. A man in a good mood might be inclined to give you a discount on a blade, for example, whilst the same man might charge twice as much for the same object because he simply doesn't like the look of your face. Some decades earlier, Aren had realized that he tended not to stay in one place long enough to figure out the ebb and flow of the local economy. Therefore, there was absolutely no benefit in even bothering to think about how much gold he'd have to pay for a cloak or a new pair of boots, because he'd still have to pay what he'd have to pay. All he knew was that if he didn't like the price of something he wanted in one store, perhaps he could get it from another store because the girl behind the counter liked his smile, or simply because that item happened to be cheaper there at the time, for whatever reason. Things like quality weapons and armor gave the Akalak quite a bit of trouble, however. There could be such a difference in the metal and fitting and workmanship and the overall value of such products, that Aren was always at a loss as to what something could or should be worth. All he really knew was when something looked much too expensive for him to be able to afford, or much too cheap to be trustworthy. He also found tipping difficult, but that had one of two very simple solutions. The first was tipping along the lines of other patrons, which was usually a pretty safe bet. The other was tipping and waiting to see your server's reaction. If they looked too happy, you had tipped more than sufficient; too angry, and you had hadn't given enough. Here, you were shooting for apathy. Aren unwrapped himself from the now unnecessary cloak, still conscious that the black locks obscuring the young smith's gaze were still preventing him from identifying just what exactly about the towering blue giant the boy found so fascinating. Too much more of that, the Akalak thought, and he might find himself becoming self-conscious. Finally, the odd young man got around to kind of answering the question posed to him, but the reply probably wasn't very polite, "Isss it?" Seros mockingly queried, having picked up on his slight pronounciation issues. The bastard had briefly slipped the very long leash that Aren had been giving him of late. Yet, this was exactly the reason why the collar was still on; the darker Other thought shit like this was hilarious, and it was always his brother who got stuck clearing up the "misunderstandings" afterwards. "I mean yesss- No! Uh-uhhh, of course, it is..?" The Akalak's correction swiftly turned into a slip of the tongue which then proceeded straight into a tumble, but at this point he was just hoping the young man wasn't the kind to easily take offense. Meanwhile, Seros' smug cackling resonated in Aren's skull like a drum, pleased as he was with having made his brother trip all over himself in such a fashion. "Oh, bronze you say? It's weaker, but more importantly... is it cheaper?" Often times having placed his own foot in his mouth without any help whatsoever, the warrior knew that quickly shifting the conversation away from the unfortunate faux pas was generally a good idea. "And if it is, how much cheaper?" Thinking along those same lines, Aren figured that a rapid fire barrage of questions might prevent too much attention from falling on his brother's mischief. "How much would a bronze breastplate cost me, for example? Or a helmet? Or a pair of gauntlets? Or some grieves?" The Akalak finished rattling off, unable to think of any other pertinent questions that seemed even slightly reasonable for a man in the market for some armor. Unfortunately, at no point did he stop to think that perhaps his assault of queries might have been more annoying than any insult Seros might have intentionally, or he himself accidentally, given.

[Baelin Holt]

The giant of a man was turning some thought over in his head, and Baelin tried to wait patiently while he figured out what he wanted to say. He really did try. But Baelin started to fidget nervously: he ran his thumb over the edge of his anvil, bowing his head to watch as he teased a small chip with his nail.

Lifting one side of his nose in a self-deprecrating grimace, Baelin realized he was behaving like a scared child. There’s nothing to be nervous about, he told himself, angrily lifting his head and dropping his hand. He shook his head a little to knock some of his thick hair out of his eyes so he could meet the Akalak’s eyes.

He took the opportunity to study his customer. While the man was tall and seemed to pack enough muscle to make most humans jealous, he seemed a bit slighter than the usual Akalak physique that came into the Ironworks. Baelin was pretty sure he never talked to one before, but it wasn’t a blue moon event for one to walk into the largest smithy of Syliras.

Examining one of the Akalak’s biceps, Baelin was tempted to ask him how he stayed fit. Baelin didn’t really know how the Akalak physique worked and wasn’t sure if it was just natural for the race, but if it wasn’t he wondered if the strong stranger enjoyed the same workout exercises he did. It would be useful to have a climbing partner.

Not likely, he reminded himself. Like so many others in the city of peace, the stranger probably enjoyed working out with a weapon. Baelin would be hard pressed to keep up, knowing next to nil on how to actually use the weapons he made.

Baelin slipped out of his musing as he realized just how startlingly bright the golden shade of the Akalak’s eyes was, contrasting oddly with his blue skin. But it was softened, from Baelin’s perspective at least, but a scar that trailed down his cheek. Baelin both liked and hated seeing scars on people. For one, it means they likely weren’t some homebody, and as a general rule of thumb Baelin respected that. But it also meant they might know skills that would get Baelin’s hide handed to him if he were to lose his temper.

And then the customer spoke. And any idea of a climbing partner dropped out of the equation. Did he hear that right? Did the Akalak just mock him? He wanted to roar at the man. Dira help him, he wanted to lunge over his anvil and wrap his fingers around much larger man’s neck and squeeze. He wanted to demand that the Akalak repeat himself; see if it’s so funny the second time.

Baelin, being the exact sort that takes offense easily, Baelin ground his teeth in frustration. He wasn’t so foolish as to not recognize when someone was poking fun at that blasted hiss. Leave it, he ground to himself, Don’t scare off customers. Stay bloody calm.

The half-Dhani was faintly aware that a massive scowl had overwhelmed him, teeth bared and everything. He tried to school his scowl into a more manageable expression and failed spectacularly, intead only adding odd twitching of his facial muscles to the already ugly grimace.

If the Akalak seemed flustered after his jab, Baelin largely missed it. The half-Dhani would be hard pressed to notice anything beyond his own slowly controlled exhale and grinding teeth. Baelin slipped his hands behind his back and dug his thumbnail behind the scale on his other hand. Eyes fixed somewhere beyond the customer, he began to methodically pick at the barely surfaced scale. He took in a more regular breath as the sharp prick of pain steadied him.

Feeling more centered, Baelin brought his focus back to the taller man in time to hear him ask how much cheaper. Baelin breathed out a sigh of relief as the customer continued into another question immediately after, which was blessedly smithing related. His expression started to smooth over while he recovered his best attempt at a professional demeanor, the rapid fire questions giving him something to distract himself with.

The smith cast his eyes to a corner of the room as he tried to remember all of the prices. He was pretty sure bronze pieces were supposed to be around a third of whatever the steel would sell for. Baelin pulled out from behind his anvil and slipped past the Akalak, looking over his shoulder once to check that he’d follow.

He stepped over to the wall of armor and checked the prices. A full breastplate was 200GM, but the apparently cheap Akalak might be satisfied with just a back and breast at 50GM. Helmets ranged from 50 to 10GM, depending on how much he’d want covered, and gauntlets between 2 to 10GM depending on what features were added. What was the last thing he asked for? Greaves? He didn’t think they sold them by themselves, usually as a part of something else or with a piecemail suit. Baelin moved over to the piecemail section and spotted them at 60GM. With a start, he realized belatedly that you could also buy the breastplate from a piecemail suit at 160GM by itself. He had forgotten. But Baelin supposed just buying the straight breastplate would be a better way for him to spend his mizas if he was planning to also buy a helmet and greaves, since they came with the 200GM breastplate package.

Baelin scrunched his face in concentration, jab to his bastard blood forgotten as he focused on armor prices. A third of that...a third of a hundred was a little over 30GM, so twice that would be a bit over 60GM. “Breasstplate with helmet and....greavess would run a bit over 60 gold mizass if you wanted bronze,” he said aloud, wincing when he realized he couldn’t avoid sibilance.

He looked at the wall of armor again, studying the steel prices and working to convert them. While he may be beyond awful at reading, Baelin was pretty happy with his ability to work with numbers. They made a lot more sense to him than letters. “Breasst and backplate for...a bit over 15 gold miza. Helmet alone givess you optionss.” He pointed to the helmet section, “Range from...around 3 gold miza to a bit over 15 gold miza in bronze.” He was dropping the plural from miza, hoping it’d sound a bit smoother. “By themselvess, breasstplate for...a bit over 50 gold miza, greavess at 20 gold miza.”

He checked the gauntlet section again before finishing, “And gauntletss between a bit over 3 gold miza and...about 6 silver miza.” Baelin was feeling rather pleased with himself. He rarely ever said so much to a customer, and he felt like he did a pretty good job. Baelin cocked his head to the side and looked at the customer again...perhaps he had said a bit too much at once. Maybe not such a good job...his customer service skills might need some more work.

The smith cast a look back at the wall, hoping that he had found the right prices. What if he was wrong about the one third price reduction for bronze? He really should find Ros and clarify. He searched the Ironworks for his superior and spotted him. The Isur was watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. Baelin figeted nervously and amended for the Akalak, “I’d have to run that by Ross if you want anything.”

[Aren]

The Akalak suddenly discovered that the young man in question might not have even been human, if his eyes were any indication. Kelvic were supposed to have decidedly bestial features, didn't they? Is that what the boy was? Could have been magic too, Aren absentmindedly thought, the revelation briefly distracting him from the moment at hand. Uh, oh. Aren could tell from the young blacksmith's now clearly hostile expression that he had not at all appreciated Seros' jab. His brother certainly had a knack for picking up on a person's sore points, but worse still he also possessed an inclination towards poking them. In general, Aren tended to find responses to any offense he may have given to be tempered simply because people were often intimidated by his size and appearance. Most folk did not take kindly to insult, but they realized that sometimes it was best to pretend none had been given than risk an altercation with what looked to be a dangerous individual. Yet, noticing how the black haired smith struggled to measure his response at Seros' mocking endeared him to the blue-skinned warrior. That said, while the young man certainly did not lack size, a blacksmith was generally not a warrior. Their trade was making weapons, not wielding them, although those adept at both were not unheard of. As such, it was wise of him to restrain himself, for whilst Aren had not given the insult, that didn't mean he'd take kindly to being assaulted over a minor verbal slight. Fortunately, it seemed the Akalak's stratagem had paid off. The procession of questions he had spit out to distract from his brother's comment appeared to have done their job. The strange-eyed smith looked to busy himself attempting to calculate prices for the bevy of items that Aren had alluded to purchasing. Eventually, he managed to resolve all the necessary math, and proceeded to return his prospective customer's barrage of questions with an equally dizzying array of numbers... and they were all so damn high. Still, they were certainly more manageable figures than the prices the azure-hued giant had seen listed. "How much was that breassstplate, again?" Seros had managed to assert his will once more, and in so doing was attempting to subvert his brother's diplomacy. This time, he went further still and even managed to provide a mischievous looking smirk that seemed to suggest he was just looking for trouble. "Why would you do that?" Aren silently cried, already knowing the answer to his question, yet unable to do anything about it but bemoan his Other's twisted rationale. Not only was a second insult harder to ignore, but the Akalak now felt that anyone would be justified in retaliating when confronted with a persistent offender. The fact that he had allowed his darker nature to do this twice now just meant that he deserved whatever fate befell him. Even so, that didn't stop the beleaguered shopper from attempting to smooth the situation over, yet again. "Listen, friend..." This time, though, his mind appeared to blank as he tried to conjure up some kind of explanation that would be more satisfactory than what amounted to "It's really not my fault 'cause I have a second soul living inside of me, and he is a huge asshole".

[Baelin Holt]

Baelin picked nervously at the scale on the back of his hand, hands tucked behind his back. He shot a few anxious glances over to Ros to see if the much more experienced man of business was finding fault in his work. The smith was confident that there was plenty to find fault with, he just hoped whatever he was doing wrong wasn’t anything too disastrous.

But the gray armed smith had apparently returned his attention back to his own work, leaving Baelin to sort out the blue skinned customer by himself. Baelin watched the Isur as he worked, mesmerized by the glowing metal. It looked like he was making a knife...and a damned good one too, Baelin was sure. It was hard to tell from this far away, but Baelin would put mizas on Ros folding the metal over and over onto itself. Baelin had never done it himself, his work has all been the obvious quality of an apprentice, but he has seen the well-practiced smiths do it. At the end the knives were a thing of beauty, with rather beautiful waves formed in the finished knife. And, perhaps more importantly, they were stronger than anything he had made.

Baelin was confident that one day he too would make knives like that. Maybe he shouldn’t have transitioned from blacksmithing to armoring, he was more experienced in the everyday smithing needs. But no, Baelin liked armoring. He liked knowing that the things he made were meant to protect people from harm.

The half-Dhani, however, promptly forgot about any desire to protect as his would-be customer spoke again. Baelin snapped his head back to stare at the Akalak slack-jawed as he dragged out a particularly long hiss, throwing in a pecking cocky smirk to top it off. Baelin knew what that smirk meant.

On a normal day, Baelin would force the rage that coursed through him down. He’d push his feelings to the side and demand a level-headed focus from himself. He was not the pawn of his hatred. He was not.

But...this was not a normal day.

He could still feel his fingers throb, the sensation merciless and unfailing. A reminder of the mistakes he had made and the things he had royally screwed up. Days later and he was still on edge, unsure of what his next move was and how he should internalize his choices.

And then this cocky bastard shows up.

Baelin didn’t see the Akalak’s quick regret. He didn’t hear his plea to be listened to. The half-Dhani only saw a wave of red, and he could only hear the thunderous pounding of blood and the uneven rattle of his barely controlled breathing

He lunged at the taller man, fist raised in the air with the sole purpose of landing heavily under the other man’s chin. He would rattle the man’s brain, break his chin, make him see that his shyke was not funny. That trying his luck a second time was one of the worst mistakes he could have made today.

But Baelin’s fighting experience was limited to a few sloppy scuffles with other equally inexperienced boys when he was younger. His punch was wide and high, his arm moved far from his body, and his anger propelled him to throw his entire body into the punch, thoroughly setting him off balance. But rage carried him forward though with the sole focus of hurting this man, and he would not be deterred.

[Aren]

"Woah!" Aren leaned back, his nose just barely escaping the range of the smith's meaty fist. Fortunately, he could see the build up of fury on the boy prior to the explosion that followed it, although he hadn't been entirely certain if it would be unleashed. Taking a step back, the Akalak brought his hands to the fore. Palms down and open, he was trying to convey that he had no desire to fight. As the mercenary saw the young man floundering from the force he had placed behind his swing, however, he realized that might not be an option. "Damn it, Seros. You wanted this. YOU handle it." The dominant personality barked, annoyed that his brother had caused this mess and fully expected that, just like always, Aren would have to clean it up. "That's fine by me. I'll put this whelp in his place with two-" The darker Other began, cocksure in his ability to subdue the young blacksmith, but his brother swiftly interrupted. "You can't fight back." Aren stated, matter of factly. "Like hell I can't." Seros protested, not understanding just exactly what his brother meant. "Let me be clear. I won't LET you fight back." "Are you out of your mind!?" Aren's brother shouted, his voice suddenly not actually vocalizing in his own head, as per usual. The body was his now. "This guy could beat us to a bloody pulp! He doesn't exactly hold back, or did that escape your lofty notice?" The dark personality now behind the reins of a hobbled frame did not exactly like the way his mischief had turned out. "What didn't escape my lofty notice was how you baited him. Now, reap what you've sown, or don't you think you can keep him from breaking your face?" Aren did not seem inclined to back off, apparently eager to see his brother squirm, even at the cost of his own body. "...Fine." Seros finally accepted his fate, more than a tinge of pride preventing him from protesting too strongly over having provoked the ire of a blacksmith that was probably young enough to be his grandson. Taking another few steps back, Seros eyed the other occupants of the smithy, wondering if perhaps they were going to intervene on behalf of their aggrieved customer. If not, he needed to be prepared to make an expedient exit. This wasn't his first option, as it galled him to run, but if he couldn't deter any continued aggression, he might be forced to flee. "Listen, snake boy..." Seros said, in reference to the way the young smith rolled certain words when he spoke, "...lets not get carried away here." Aren could only mentally face palm in response to his brother's attempt at what he considered "diplomacy".

[Baelin Holt]

The Akalak, whose reactions were frustratingly quick, leaned back out of Baelin’s reach. Stupid, he groused, He’s an Akalak, of course he knows how to fight. But shyke was Baelin enraged. Air hissing out of his nose, Baelin lunged at the man with every intention of ramming into him. He thought he saw his target lift his hands, perhaps to hold him back, but Baelin had every confidence in himself that he could break through his hold. He was not some frail girl.

Fortunately for Baelin’s clavicle, his bull like attack was halted. Someone, damn whoever they were, grabbed hold of his shoulder and wrenched him back. The half-Dhani stumbled awkwardly as his center was pulled behind his legs and he fell gracelessly onto his back. The wind was knocked out of him and his eyes flew open at the alarming sensation of suffocating. He gasped deeply and, blessedly, the air returned.

Recovering from the shock of falling, Baelin glared nastily from his spot on the ground at the smith who pulled him back. It was a weaponsmith, Baelin knew that much. He didn’t know him personally, but if his appalled scowl was anything to go by, Baelin had made a poor first impression.

“Are you out of your mind?” the stranger shouted. Baelin switched his glare back to the instigator (and damn anyone who asked, the Akalak was the instigator). His position from the ground made the taller man seem more like a tower, and oh how Baelin resented towers now. Li Mauta ruined them for him. He pushed himself up off the ground and winced at both a spike of pain from his lower back and how awfully dirty he had gotten. Despite the anger that was still simmering within him, Baelin itched to leave and clean his clothes.

The filth was starting to distract him from the Akalak and from his anger in general. He twisted around to check the back of his shirt and cringed. It was going to take forever to get all the soot and dirt out. Honestly, he knew it was a smithy, but they should really invest in a cleaning staff. This was absurd.

Perhaps a bit later than he should have, Baelin noticed that the weaponsmith was still glaring at him. The half-Dhani ground his teeth. He had been in enough scuffles as a boy to know exactly where this was going. Get in a fight, apologize to the people you fought with. And, just as galling, thank the people who got in your way. He sucked in a breath, steeling himself for the diplomacy. His face twitching oddly, Baelin inclined his head to the weaponsmith and gritted out, “Thank you...”

The weaponsmith frown deepened if anything. Baelin was tempted to spit back at him, demand to know what else he wanted from him. Did he want groveling? The half-Dhani glared at the rest of the Ironworks staff, daring anyone else to demand reparations from him. He was getting so fed up with it all.

But the rest of the staff seemed to have not noticed his slip of composure, with most immersed in their own smithing. He caught the eyes of a few nearby smiths who had noticed the sudden movement, but Ros and Fredrick both had their backs turned. Despite himself, Baelin relaxed. He couldn’t imagine them being angry with him. Or, rather, he could imagine it only too well, and it made his stomach drop unpleasantly.

Baelin knew the weaponsmith was waiting for the petching apology now. He rolled his eyes, quite happy that his thick hair hid the gesture. The grime-covered smith glared at his customer and felt the anger stir in him again. Baelin forced slow breaths. He supposed he was overreacting. He wasn’t a child, he should be able to take a little verbal abuse.

The Akalak seemed to be deep in thought. Or perhaps Akalaks usually just looked all contemplative and superior. Baelin wouldn’t know. He found he didn’t particularly care.

He was delaying, he knew it. It was hard to apologize, especially when he still hadn’t even gotten a blow in yet. Just landed on his own ass. Baelin chewed on his lip and prepared himself to speak.

But the Akalak beat him to it. Baelin sucked a breath quickly in through his nose, pulling back sharply at the insult. It was one thing to mock his sibilance. His speech impediment was obvious and easy fodder for jesting.

It was an entirely different thing to call him out on his bastard blood. Baelin was hard pressed to tell if he was more angry or shaken. It had been a long time. Perhaps Syliras had made him soft. No one here knew his mother and father. There was no gossip to circulate. He knew he was different, and was painfully aware that he wasn’t really fooling anyone. But he hadn’t been called out on it. Not to his face.

Not in a very long time.

Baelin felt it building in him again. Different this time. Not the blind need to defend himself like some mad dog. No, this was something deeper than that. He thought of how his mother would rock him softly and sing a sweet song while she wrenched out scales, one by one. His father’s glares, schoolyard taunts, all of it. It shouldn’t sting so much to be reminded, not when it was an invariable part of his life.

But it did.

His anger solidified, wrapping him in an iron grip and steeling his spine. A small part of him was alarmed with how cold and calculating he felt, but the much larger part wanted the Akalak to suffer for his insolence.

The weaponsmith was still behind him though, and Baelin could practically feel him hovering like a threat. He would have to be careful. He wanted to get his chance, not be yanked back onto his ass again. Insulted vanity over the state of his clothes nipped at his mind again and he brushed it aside. Priorities had to be considered.

Baelin’s voice dropped to a low and dangerous pitch as he demanded, “Want to run that by me again?”

OOCSorry for the delay.

[Aren]

For a moment, it seemed as if the boy would come at the Akalak like an enraged bull, but luckily, it appeared as if some help would intercede on his behalf. The strange man seemed to know the young smith, so he was probably an older, fellow worker, given the obvious deference he was paid by the temperamental youth. This second individual, from what Aren could observe, seemed inclined to force an attempt at contrition out of his junior colleague. It was completely unnecessary, of course, especially with the Akalak himself having been the catalyst for the conflict. Before the matter could settle down, however, the black haired young man had heard Seros supposed diplomacy and was asking for the statement to be repeated. From his expression, it was obvious to all but one involved that this was a distinctly bad idea. Yet Seros, for his part, was more than happy to oblige. "I said: Let's not get carried away here..." He started, completely oblivious that what he considered nothing more than a convenient nickname for a person whose actual name he didn't know. How was he supposed to know it might actually be taken as an insult? "Seros, don-!" Aren tried to intercede, to warn his somewhat socially clueless brother that this was not going to help matters in the slightest. "...snake boy." The lighter Other was too late, however. As the words slipped out of his mouth, Seros instinctively took a step back. His brother's outburst told him he had clearly done something wrong, and he would know, after all he was the one who had spent a century interacting with these miscreants he called people. "Uhh, slither guy?" The darker Other tried to correct himself, realizing he had messed up in his diplomatic endeavors, but because his own personal interactions with individuals other than his brother were severely limited, he couldn't comprehend what he had done wrong. Seros knew everything that Aren did, but information did not inherently grant understanding. He'd seen his brother "insult" others and coax a smile out of them at the same time, but the intricacies of good natured teasing and certain other social concepts escaped him. Hatred, rage, frustration... these were the things he understood, and this new arena of interaction proved to be well beyond the scope of his experience. "You'd better get ready to run. I don't think anyone is going to hold him back a second time." Aren suggested, both worried at the price his body might pay for this little experiment, yet also somehow hopeful that it would allow his brother some room for personal growth.

[Baelin Holt]

The half-Dhani studied the situation, trying to assess how best to take out his compressed anger on the infuriating Akalak. The stranger was taller and, from his quick reflexes, likely much more attuned to the ebb and flow of a fight. It was hard to ignore the mismatch between the pair.

The smart thing to do would be to back down and apologize. Give the weaponsmith what he wanted. Be the good employee. Save his own hide from a likely pommeling.

But Baelin never had been known for being smart.

The Ironworks still carried on with its daily grind. The ring of metal on metal was almost calming to Baelin’s incensed thoughts. Almost. He looked over his shoulder again to check that Ros and Fredrick weren’t paying attention. Fredrick was still engrossed in his piece, but Ros had looked up from his work and was studying the scene with a frown.

The half-Dhani flinched. He didn’t want nor need either of them to see this. It was enough to make him reconsider his decision to make the Akalak suffer.

But then the Akalak spoke again. Baelin’s eyebrows flew far behind his hair and his eyes blew open in enraged disbelief. His breath hissed quickly through stretched nostrils, and he couldn’t help but involuntarily growl. He didn’t think the taller man would actually have the gall to repeat himself.

Covert anger be damned, Baelin was going to make this man suffer. Rage fueling him, Baelin lunged faster than the weaponsmith could process. A clumsy fist swung in the air and missed. The Akalak had taken a step back from him, leaving Baelin nothing but air to swing through.

How could his aim be so horrid? He was fine with a hammer in his hand, why on Mizahar couldn’t he do the same thing with one of his fists?

A sudden idea dawned on him. Why not fight with a hammer? They certainly made enough weapons; there must be some sort of great advantage to using them. Baelin was about to turn around and grab one when he heard a mocking ‘slither boy.’

Baelin howled in his fury. Potential weapon forgotten, Baelin swung back around and lunged at the Akalak. Fist, shoulder, head, he didn’t particularly care what, but something was going to connect with the hateful stranger this time.