Chachan seemed to shrink into himself a bit as the Osvald rose to his full height - greater widening the size difference between them - the palpable tension in the air not unlike a hare about to be pounced upon by a fox. This stifling feeling abated somewhat, however, when the elderly Elezen spoke up in the Highlander's stead. The first words stirred a flicker of hope into the Lalafell - it was something he could do, in fact, and V'aleera's suggestion was something he hadn't even considered offering - but that flame quickly wavered and threatened to go out completely as he continued. Not merely because the alternative was being shot down, but it all made perfect sense to the young smith when he thought about it from their angle. They needed to rebuild, recover; not rely on some unknown from a foreign land to craft weapons of questionable make for them by proxy. His father wouldn't have allowed such a thing, so it was no surprise that similar feelings were expressed here.
Chachanji's gaze fell to the floor, though he jerked a bit in alarm as Osvald's much more sonorous tone appended Dunois' statement. His first statement caused a flush of shame to burn through the Doman's freckled cheeks - the man was obviously upset that he had questioned their skill and even made anything close to an allusion that they would seek to steal his family's secrets. This wash of crimson was tinted further with embarrassment at the second, revealing that Chachan himself had managed to imply that he couldn't make simple nails in that stammering statement of his. He was making a fool of himself, after Ms. V'aleera had pulled the strings to find him a place to work on a piece of Doman weapon-smithing history. He fidgeted about, feeling as small as he'd ever been as he fiddled with his leather gloves.
Almost at once, his grip tightened - the small creak of leather on leather likely lost in the noise of the auto-bellows. His gaze lifted to the very same device, the protective film of his violet Lalafellan eyes allowing him to stare unblinkingly into the sparks and flames. Allowing him to stoke his courage, his pride as a blacksmith, like the bellows roused the heat within its chambers. He turned his attentions back to the massive Highlander, and his expression was much different - the tightened, focused look of an experienced smith rather than the tentative skitterishness of a fumbling apprentice.
"I can make nails," he stated firmly, a reservoir of confidence filling his words as he stared up at the larger man. "I can make nails strong'n sturdy 'nuff that even Mr. Osvald 'ere couldn't kick down a door usin' 'em." His gaze flit to Dunois. "'n I'd be an embarrassment ta me Papa as well as ya if'n I couldn't make weapons 'n armor up ta whatever code ya needed. But I get ya, ya ain't seen me work, so ya can't jus' give me th' akay ta do that."
The confidence wavered for a moment as he continued, but quietly rebuilt itself as the words spilled from his lips. "'s jus' that I'd need help ta make th' other stuff - whatever other thin's ya need ta rebuild. I dun want ta repay yer kindness by makin' stuff that won't do what it's 'sposta - 'specially if'n yer usin' it fer yer home. That ain't right."
He dropped to his knees then, doing something that Virara had done many times before - a low Doman bow of supplication to both the Master and his apprentice. His forehead rested against the floor - still holding a bit of the Ishgardian chill even with the blustering heat of the bellows - betwixt his hands. Without lifting his head, his continued onward - his words still addressed to them both despite his gaze being again affixed to the floor, albeit for a different reason.
"Me apologies fer bein' troublesome, 'n lookin' like I'm tryin' ta weasel me way inta somethin' more comfort'ble fer me. If'n ya want me ta make nails, I'll make nails. 'n if'n yer willin' ta teach me, I'll do me best at makin' whatev'r else ya need'a me to."
He remained that way, prostrated on the smithy floor, as he awaited their answer.
Chachanji's gaze fell to the floor, though he jerked a bit in alarm as Osvald's much more sonorous tone appended Dunois' statement. His first statement caused a flush of shame to burn through the Doman's freckled cheeks - the man was obviously upset that he had questioned their skill and even made anything close to an allusion that they would seek to steal his family's secrets. This wash of crimson was tinted further with embarrassment at the second, revealing that Chachan himself had managed to imply that he couldn't make simple nails in that stammering statement of his. He was making a fool of himself, after Ms. V'aleera had pulled the strings to find him a place to work on a piece of Doman weapon-smithing history. He fidgeted about, feeling as small as he'd ever been as he fiddled with his leather gloves.
Almost at once, his grip tightened - the small creak of leather on leather likely lost in the noise of the auto-bellows. His gaze lifted to the very same device, the protective film of his violet Lalafellan eyes allowing him to stare unblinkingly into the sparks and flames. Allowing him to stoke his courage, his pride as a blacksmith, like the bellows roused the heat within its chambers. He turned his attentions back to the massive Highlander, and his expression was much different - the tightened, focused look of an experienced smith rather than the tentative skitterishness of a fumbling apprentice.
"I can make nails," he stated firmly, a reservoir of confidence filling his words as he stared up at the larger man. "I can make nails strong'n sturdy 'nuff that even Mr. Osvald 'ere couldn't kick down a door usin' 'em." His gaze flit to Dunois. "'n I'd be an embarrassment ta me Papa as well as ya if'n I couldn't make weapons 'n armor up ta whatever code ya needed. But I get ya, ya ain't seen me work, so ya can't jus' give me th' akay ta do that."
The confidence wavered for a moment as he continued, but quietly rebuilt itself as the words spilled from his lips. "'s jus' that I'd need help ta make th' other stuff - whatever other thin's ya need ta rebuild. I dun want ta repay yer kindness by makin' stuff that won't do what it's 'sposta - 'specially if'n yer usin' it fer yer home. That ain't right."
He dropped to his knees then, doing something that Virara had done many times before - a low Doman bow of supplication to both the Master and his apprentice. His forehead rested against the floor - still holding a bit of the Ishgardian chill even with the blustering heat of the bellows - betwixt his hands. Without lifting his head, his continued onward - his words still addressed to them both despite his gaze being again affixed to the floor, albeit for a different reason.
"Me apologies fer bein' troublesome, 'n lookin' like I'm tryin' ta weasel me way inta somethin' more comfort'ble fer me. If'n ya want me ta make nails, I'll make nails. 'n if'n yer willin' ta teach me, I'll do me best at makin' whatev'r else ya need'a me to."
He remained that way, prostrated on the smithy floor, as he awaited their answer.
~