Home Is In The Highlands [Closed]

[Aya]

Deep within the stone foundation of the Tower City, the roar of forge-fire burned hot sweating away the chill of winter winds that wreaked their havoc upon the blasted Highlands of Coerthas since the Catacylsm. Industrious hands that allowed the city above to prosper were busy with their soot-heavy work.

 

The Miqo'te, so out-of-place in the full dignity of her Ishgardian military regalia, stood outside a squat-stone structure built of roughly hewn stone carved out of the base itself. A metal roof seemed worse for wear: it had taken a beating during the Dravanian assault, protecting the shop itself from the heaves of falling debris that had assaulted these carved-out-avenues.

 

The loud peel of hammer striking metal echoed again-and-again from within the shop. The heavy breathing-sound of the auto-bellows forceful driving air in its repetitive inhale-exhale pattern accompanied the roar of fire that gave the full impression of a metal shop operating at full capacity.

 

The front door hung carelessly open, allowing a steady flow of fresh air into the office in which sat the Master of the shop: the Duskwight, Dunois. The view from the outside, exposed him in profile. His long white hair, slender strands that settled upon his shoulders, lent him the dignified look of experience. With his right-arm still in a sling, and spectacles perched perilously upon his slender but prominent nose, he sat engrossed in a pile of papers from the under-sized chair of his desk. Neither the sound of hammer-strikes, nor the presence of loiters out front seemed to penetrate his steady focus.

[V'aleera]

A pair of mismatched eyes snapped to peer askance as V'aleera canted her head only slightly to peer at the young man making quick way toward her. She regarded him with pursed lips and a stoic expression, content to silently await his approach. Hands held behind her back, spine stiff and straight, she turned on her heels to face him fully as he made the last steps of his approach.

 

"I am glad to see you found your way here, smith Gegenji." Her head tilted at a slight degree as she sized the boy up, "Little worse for wear, at that. No small blessing. The Brume is an oft confusing place to wander, even for those who call it home." She gestured around with an upturned palm, "Places such as this one, held tight to the bosom of Foundation, are not oft afforded the distinct and distinguished landmarks I am sure you have witnessed above. The grand cathedrals, the sprawling forums..." She frowned, "The heinous attack by dragon kind only worsened this state of being, I fear. Shoppes of note, famous, or infamous, houses of entertainment, elder boroughs and avenues distinguished by age and history; all look the same in the form of rubble."

 

Sighing, her shoulders shrugged in a small motion, "In any case, we are awaited within." Her gaze turned to the open door of the smithy, resting upon the sitting figure visible within, before returning to the lalafell at her side, "Please remain respectful of Master Dunois; speak only once I have introduced myself and you." She offered a small smile in a bald attempt at reassurance for the young man before entering a quick, efficient stride toward the entryway of the damaged shop.

 

Nose wrinkling at the fresh smell of metalwork, she came to a quick halt as she lead her companion to the edge of the blacksmith's threshold. Raising a hand in greeting, the young knight hailed the seated Elezen, "Master Dunois, we would beg your permission for entry!"

[Aya]

The seated figure was that of an elder Duskwight.  Though he possessed the expected tall figure, his frame was not as lanky as one usually associates with the Elezen.  His torso possessed some width, and the look of his shoulders was one of formidable strength.  He had every sign of having once been an imposing figure, though the suffering of his dotage had long ago worn away the veneer.

 

Still, he smiled pleasantly, and extended his left hand, long fingers beckoning the visitors into his office.  His right arm was still supported by a sling hung around his neck, though otherwise he did not appear immediately the worse for wear.

 

"Oh yes, yes!" he greeted them with his deep, sonorous voice in energetic Ishgardian.  "You must be the Dragoon of whom Osvald spoke?" There was a hint of hope in his voice: none of the alternatives appeared quite as comfortable.  The pile of letters regarding missed deadlines only seemed to grow higher upon his desk each day, and a general apprehension hung over the arrival of a representative of the military.

[V'aleera]

Offering a warm smile and polite inclination of her head, the young knight acknowledged the elder man's words in quick reply, "I am she, sir, and I would like to offer personal regards to your quick recovery." Her smile dampened slightly, "Though many suffered fates far worse, it is no less a dark thing to see one of the most industrious hands in the Holy See put out of his chosen labors for need of healing from vile assault." Inclining her head once more, her lips set downward as she spoke solemnly, "On behalf of the Knights Dragoon I would offer sincere apology for failing to protect yourself, your home, and your neighbors as well they should have been."

 

Her eyes fell to the folded square of paper held in her own hand, and after a moment of deliberation she elected to slip the parchment into the breast of her coat. "I was asked to convey the salutations of the office of the quartermaster of the Order of the Knights Dragoon; he offers his... sincere concern for your well-being, and awaits your return to form and shipment schedule with the patience of a saint."

 

Offering an awkward smile, she turned to her side, gesturing toward the young man standing at height with her knee, "My companion today is the blacksmith Chachanji Gegenji, hailing from lands far east, and whom is the keystone of our present arrangement, of which I am certain mister Osvald has already informed you of the details."

 

She offered a brief nod at the young smith, taking a half step back so that he might better present and introduce himself.

[Gegenji]

Chachanji had done as he was told when they entered the smithy, keeping to the lady Dragoon's flank as they entered the building and remaining quiet. Yet he was far from idle, those violet orbs taking in the establishment. Where her nose wrinkled at the smell, the Lalafell's took in with ease and familiarity. Even the sudden change from the frigid cold of the Brume to the stifling heat of the forge was taken with practiced stride, seeming at home even despite the heavy clothing he wore.

 

Hands clasped behind his back, he rocked back and forth a bit on the balls of his booted feet, his childish posture belied just how much he was taking in. The quality of the hammers by the anvil, the auto-bellows that kept the forge alight, even the size of the quenching bin was assessed through those reflective Dunesfolk eyes of his. So much so that he paid little attention to the discussion between the owner of the establishment and the Miqo'te that brought him here.

 

As such, he started a bit when his name reached his ears, turning about to gaze up at V'aleera in time to see her nod and move aside. He scratched at the side of his hooded head with a gloved hand, before the other joined the first to pull the hood down and expose his fluffy mass of unkempt green hair to the soft glow of the forge fires. His gaze moved to the elderly Duskwight, then away briefly in a not uncommon burst of timidness. However, it didn't last too long - the boy seeming to draw strength from such a familiar locale.

 

"Chachanji Gegenji," he affirmed with a small nod, thumping lightly at his chest with a gloved hand. "Nice ta meetcha, Mr..." He paused a beat, quickly trying to recall the name the Dragoon had given him moments before they entered before following with a timid and inquisitive guess. "... Dunewas?"

 

Another short pause as he flushed in mild embarrassment, what strength he had garnered flickering away like a dying flame, his freckles brought to the fore upon his cheeks reddened by weather and by word as his hand again busying itself with scratching at the side of his head. As if to make amends for an improper guess, his introduction was quickly followed by a soft: "Um... thankya fer agreein' ta let me use yer forge. 's greatly 'ppreciated."

[Aya]

The Master's hopeful smile shifted seamlessly to one of relief.  He nodded to V'aleera, "It is a pleasure to meet you at last.  My apprentice tells me that you have met his sister?  I hope that you have found her well.  She used to be a common sight around here, its been rather quiet without her."

 

As the woman stepped back, Dunois' gaze shifted to the other smith.  His white eyebrows furrowed with an expression of confusion and surprise.

 

"Ah..." he interjected in Ishgardian with a sudden smile, "Not a child!" he laughed with a quiet heartiness.  Extending his hand to Chachanji he turned to heavily accented common, "A pleasure, Monsieur.  It has been long since I have known many of your people.  Welcome to our humble shop."

He turned back to his papers, tapping the stack straight before raising himself from the stool with some effort.  

 

"If I understand correctly, it is not just a favor, but an exchange of favors.  But you are welcome nonetheless!"

 

The master of the shop stood  heads above the other two and politely ushered them from the small office, up a few of wooden stairs to the shop floor itself.  The shop was of moderate size, with a heavy and worn planked floor, tiled over near the forge itself.  Huge wooden beams of considerable age held up the heavy slate and metal roof over their heads, the trusses supported by two sets of paired heavy poles along the center-line of the shop.  Work stations lined the wall, each a workbench several feet long with its own set of tools.  One large wooden table dominated the left-hand side of the room as they entered, covered with completed and in-progress works.  In other times these may have been rows of bladed weapons, but at this time they consisted mostly of building materials.  Bucket after bucket of nails, a crate of heavy steel door hinges, and all variety of iron work for construction.  

 

On the right half was the large forge, fired by coal and fed by an auto-bellows that clicked and ground between the steady "whooshes" of blown air.  In front of the forges sat a set of anvils, and a variety of tools.  It appeared enough for at least two smiths to be working simultaneously on the same project.  Osvald, the smith's apprentice, approaching master status himself, had his back turned to the group as  they entered.  He and a young boy of twelve or thirteen busied themselves shoveling coal from the exterior hopper into the forge.  

 

Osvald could be described as a mountain of a Highlander.  Chachanji, viewing him from behind, may well have mistook him for a Roegadyn.  His broad chest supported massive shoulders that bore the weight of his trade, and the massive arms that would have terrified opponents in either the Blood Sands or the Grind Stone were they not put to more productive use at the Forge.  

 

His head was covered by a hooded cap, a pair of goggles apparently lifted to rest on top of the cap.  He emptied a shovelful of coal that must have weighed more than twice that of the Lalafel himself into the forge, while the boy's contribution of small shovelfuls seemed entirely an afterthought by comparison.

"Osvald, our guest smith has arrived!" The Master hollered over the din of the working shop.  The highlander began to turn, his square-jawed and chiseled face turning toward them with a stoic emotionless belied by the sharpness of blue eyes that shone out of the dark grime that covered tho portion of his face not normally protected by the goggles.  Despite their glaring differences, the family resemblance to his sister could not be missed by the observant Lalafel.

[V'aleera]

Standing attentively as introductions were made, the young woman smiled gently and nodded in acknowledgement of the master smith's words, "Indeed I have. Our paths crossed in the streets of Ul'dah. She remains a radiant woman and in good health. I have sought to make contact via letter..." Her lips purse quizzically, "But have yet to hear reply. Nonetheless, I would be pleased to pass along your regards in my next correspondence!"

 

V'aleera followed Dunois through the shop, walking in long, efficient strides. Her movements were comparatively quick, her steps naturally shorter than the powerfully built elezen. Her head swiveled in short, quick turns, her glance bouncing about the smithy in a practiced motion meant to express polite interest in a profession well beyond her element and experience. Reaching up, she tugged several times at the snug collar around her neck, the heat of the forge beginning to reach her through the effective insulation of her coat.

 

Smiling as the trio approached the hulking highlander deeper in the bowels of the smithy, V'aleera inclined her head politely and uttered a greeting to the man, "Mister Osvald, it is good to see you again. And this time I am allowed the pleasure of introducing my companion and a peer within your honorable profession." Gesturing toward the lalafell by her side she continues, "This young man is the smith Chachanji Gegenji, of the lands of Doma to the far east. I shall not deign to speak overlong on his behalf, but only to say that I am certain you shall find his enthusiasm for the task at hand endearing and his skill at the work far from wanting."

[Aya]

Osvald stood back at his full height - hardened eyes offering a curious look downward toward the Lalafel the Dragoon had introduced. They offered more than a hint of disbelief, of doubt, if not a suspicion of mischief. He glanced to his master, whose self-possessed and friendly countenance seemed a stark contrast to his own.

 

Hesitation was writ across Osvald's usually emotionless features, and reticence through his body language. A moment passed before he took a step forward, taking a polite knee upon the tiled forge-floor of the Smithy to offer his large hand - one easily capable of grasping the fullness of one Gegenji skull within its breadth. There was no smile upon the man's stoic visage, but he did not seem one who would offer many.

 

"Osvald Tharintreu. At your service." His voice was more quiet than the breadth of his body would suggest, just audible above the steady pitch of the auto-bellows and simmering furnace. It was obvious that he did not have much use for the common speech, but the accent upon his tongue was that Ishgardian lilt with enough Highland burr to be recognizable. Chachanji had heard its like before: upon that of the man's sister, spinning her cheerful notes throughout the Quick Sand on a near nightly basis.

[Gegenji]

Chachanji's violet eyes glimmered in the glow of the forges as he was brought before the gentleman who he'd apparently be working under, matching the sharpness of the Highlander's piercing azures. They were familiar enough on their own, even though his own gaze often drifted away from their kindred pair. To have it paired with that unmistakable mix of Ala Mhigan and Ishardian tone only cemented the strange familiarity with the towering form that knelt before him. The mention of a sister in Ul'dah by V'aleera just moments prior all but confirmed his suspicions.

 

And yet, the name that was presented to the little Dunesfolk was enough to bring a bit of hesitation to his movements. He was aware, somewhat, that his own people often had differing last names - his family's being unique in order to honor his ancestry. However, he was fairly certain that Hyurs oft shared last names on the regular - even across genders!

 

So, wouldn't he be Osvald Foxheart? Or perhaps she was supposed to be Aya Tharintreu? Maybe she was using a false last name - or an entirely fabricated name, which was a not uncommon practice amongst adventurers according to Ms. Momodi - but why would someone as friendly and cheerful as the Quicksand's most famous barmaid need to do that? Maybe he was just wrong and this mountain of a man wasn't related to her at all...

 

Hm.

 

"Mr. Osvald... Tharintrue, huh?" he repeated, emphasizing the last name even as he mispronounced it a bit, as if to ensure he had heard Osvald correctly. It was definitely something to ask about, perhaps later after having gotten settled. Still, Chachanji put his own gloved hand in the man's much larger one despite his mild confusion on the whole name situation, in stalwart greeting of one smith to another. They obviously were not acquainted enough to clasp forearms as he'd seen his father do - a task likely much more difficult anyway due to the size difference betwixt them - but at the very least the boy ensured his grip was firm, showing some of the artisan's strength within the deceptively small Lalafellan frame. "Nice ta meetcha."

[V'aleera]

Standing quietly as introductions were made between the contrasting blacksmiths, V'aleera cleared her throat as they reached their conclusion, "Excellent; now that all parties have been introduced I believe it is time to begin the discussion of our present state of affairs and how we shall proceed from this point, yes?"

 

Reaching into the breast of her coat, she quickly withdrew a small but bulky envelope which bore a fresh wax seal, the crest of a house of minor nobility. Addressing Dunois she said, "Perhaps you are familiar with the Escalieu family? They are recent nobility, sponsored and vassaled by Haillenarte for their considerable success as a merchant family; they were and remain the head proprietors of Escalieu, Montois, Orleans and Sons Acquisitions and Transportation Services."

 

Continuing to speak, she idly tapped the closed package of parcels in her hand, "In our prior meeting, mister Osvald spoke of the efforts of this smithy to rebuild the otherwise neglected areas damaged in the Dravanian attack, and expressed his want of more materials. The Escalieu are one of many bodies the Holy See has contracted into salvaging materials of worth and value from the newly reclaimed frontier in the Western Highlands. I have negotiated with Escalieu through the High House of our shared loyalty that, in exchange for my own services in the field, they will avail to you free of charge any stone, lumber, or masonry in their possession which has not been claimed by the Haillenarte or the military branches of the Holy See."

 

She holds the envelope out toward Dunois, "These documents shall grant you the necessary authority to lay claim to any materials you see fit."

 

She turns with a grin toward the young lalafell at her side, "In exchange you shall allow my foreign accomplice the use of your tools and materials in the pursuit of restoring a weathered weapon of masterful construction that has come into my possession." She glances quizzically at Dunois and Osvald, "It is my understanding that mister Chachanji shall be availing his services to you as well; the specifics of that matter I shall leave between you. Of course, if there is any way I may be of further assistance I am more than happy to attend your call."

[Aya]

The letter arrived in a fresh outer envelope, mailed from within Ishgard.  The parchment within is weather-beaten and has clearly passed through at least several hands upon its long trek.  The original wax seal is broken.  It may have been moons since it were initially mailed.

 

The character of the letter itself was wholly unlike Aya's usual correspondance: heavy duty parchment, deep black ink, and a complete lack of frivolity or decoration.  But the flowing hand could not be mistaken by one who knew it.  The entire letter was written in eloquent Ishgardian that struggled somewhat as it meandered between the formal and the familiar.

 

Dearest V'aleera,

 

I pray this letter reaches you well. I apologize for my lack of correspondence--it is only concern for the well-being of my family that so encourages my discretion.  I fear that a single letter cannot suffice to bear the depth of my appreciation and gratitude.  For all that you have done for me - and for us.  For fitful moons all I heard of home was that of rumor and hearsay: which I tried with all of my might to dispel with calm.  But the fear of the unknown gnaws at the very fabric of peace.  A thousand perils befell my family in my imagination and nightly dreams.  How I have longed for news and word: how I have asked, as best I could, those who had themselves traveled to the city.  The long end of this suffering was at last delivered to me in your hand: to hear that everyone was safekept throughout the attack brings a solace to my heart, and peace to restless nights.  Still, there are friends I fear I may never learn about, but at least your first letter let me know that one of those I was most worried for had made it through the storm.  I know that you are as capable as any, but the duty of Dragoons is the most dangerous known to any of us.  I had feared the worst, as I think any friend must.  Please stay safe.  

 

Of father: what can I say?  You know how my heart aches.  What passed between us; would he care to see me again?  I do not know, and I do not pretend that you could answer.  What must a daughter do for the man who gave her life? Who warded her along the dangerous path we've tread?  I am so thankful for the dear hand of Enna - and to know that he is cared for even now. My heart breaks doubly for my brother who faces the loss of both fathers, and for his own children.  I can only imagine how beautiful they are, and how beloved by parents and grand parents.  

 

There is so much more I wish to ask, and even more I wish to convey.  If you find yourself anywhere our paths may cross, please send word so that I may hasten to your company. I am gladdened that your family, too, has been well. Your father has always been the most interesting sort of gentleman. What I would do for the pleasure of making his acquaintance once more, now that I feel I could fully enjoy his love for discussion. I hope that you have not suffered in the struggle, and offer my thoughts and prayers for your family, friends, and colleagues.

 

I know the strength of the Fury runs deep in you.  That the city will remain safe in hands such as yours.  I know that you can only watch over my family with a distant eye, but how much better they are even for that! And how much relieved am I.  I cannot be grateful enough.

 

With Hope,

A Forever Grateful Friend

[Aya]

Master Dunois accepted the envelope, his fingers carefully opening it to examine the contents as the others discussed the arrangement.  The receipt of anything official had become so unwelcome that these documents struck him with no small amount of satisfaction.  A satisfaction worn obviously on his features.

 

Osvald offered a subtle nod, his eyes focused on the Dragoon.  "I remember our arrangement.  I will ensure that our terms are met and not exceeded."

 

He glanced down to Chachanji, before returning to address V'Aleera.  "The materials will be a significant help in rebuilding.  There are still many families without a stable roof over their head, and the winter chill gains bite each week.  Your prompt timing is appreciated." He added a curt nod, and then looked back to Chachanji, drawing a broad hand along his chin.

 

He continued in his deep, but surprisingly soft voice.  "Master Smith.  Did Madame Dragoon discuss our arrangement with you?  There are just two details of importance.  First, that you only work under supervision.  Our shop is our livelihood, and beyond that, it is essential for the well being of many beyond us."

 

"Secondly you are to offer us your skill and labor in exchange for access to our resources.  For each hour you work, you will work one hour more on building materials for our efforts.  There is nothing more valuable that we can offer in this moment of crisis, than the effort of skilled and industrious hands."

 

He paused, waiting in anticipation of the diminutive smith's agreement.

[Gegenji]

Chachanji blinked, roused from his thoughts about his friend back in Ul'dah and the smithy around him general as Osvald's words were turned to him. When he made mention of V'aleera, the Lalafell turned his violet gaze upon her almost on reflex before returning it to the mountain of a Highlander as he continued to speak. Both the points that were raised were conditions that the Dragoon had made known to him up on the second floor of the Congregation even before this meeting was planned. And his agreement with them were just as tentative now as they were then, both for differing reasons.

 

First and foremost was the supervision: he understood the reasoning, but there was a cultural aspect to the whole thing that had stayed his hand initially when it was brought up and did so again now. In Doma, and especially for generational smith families like his own, certain smithing techniques were considered family secrets. They were not to be known by those not of the family's bloodline or joined to it through recognized marriage. He was already committing a bit of a cultural faux pas already by delving into the ancient weapon V'aleera discovered, seeking to decipher a lost technique of this kind while not being of its maker's bloodline. To go beyond that and wantonly spill such secrets to someone - even someone who may or may not be related to a close friend of his - who did not understand the weight of the situation worried him immensely.

 

Comparatively, the second point was the simpler of the two and hopefully easier to rectify. He was more than willing to aid in their efforts, to provide what skill and energy he could on the matter of rebuilding. However, his training and expertise consisted almost exclusively of his family's trade - the creation of weapons and armor. He could make the preliminary equipment related to such things easily enough - hammers, anvils, studs, straps, buckles, that sort of thing - but he had little practical experience in the kinds of materials that Osvald was likely expecting of him. And that wasn't even touching on his complete and utter lack of knowledge on masonry and woodwork with regards to the reconstruction.

 

As such, the answer he truly wanted to provide was not the simple, resounding yes that the other smith likely expected of him. In fact, there was a bit of timid shuffling and fidgeting in a desperate attempt to shore up his courage before he gave any answer at all. And once he finally did speak up, it was of a far more verbose - and shaky - nature.

 

"A-ah, w-well," he started, already leading with a tenuous first step that was likely to raise brows. "I'm all fer halpin' out where I can, I can say that fer sure. Th-though, um... I might need some halp in return in order ta do that. Me smithin' knowledge is kinda... 'specialized,' y'know? Me family focused more on... weapons 'n armor than anythin' else... so I'm not too sure how good I'd be wit stuff unrelated ta that."

 

He could feel his cheeks burning in embarrassment just admitting that, considering the situation at hand. He couldn't say that he hadn't made any attempt at creating more mundane objects - the spade he sloppily re-purposed out of a dagger for Ms. Jancis was one example of such an attempt, and the kitchen knife that he had made for the Still Shore's kitchen another. However, both were tools that he had managed to adapt some of his own training toward, and were of questionable quality at best. He could only hope that there were similar links between what he knew and what was needed, and that they would be good enough to repay their kindness.

 

"U-um." He paused again here, almost afraid to speak further since this was delving in to the far more sensitive topic of the two. "A-as fer th' supervision, I-I 'spose that's akay. Jus'... um... I'd like it if'n not too many questions were asked 'bout what I'll be doin'. N-not that I'm makin' anythin' bad or anythin' like that... it's jus'... it involves family trade secrets, y'know?"

 

His gloved hand had made its way to that unkempt mass of jade-hued fluff that he called hair at some point, scratching nervously at it. He had somehow managed to lay it all out on the table, in a matter of speaking, though nervous stuttering and pauses and a colorful retinue of fidgets and other timid gestures. All that was left was to see if such things were agreeable to the Highlander and his master... or if they would turn him down.

[V'aleera]

Standing quietly aside and witnessing the exchange with arms crossed over her chest, V'aleera raises a hand to her chin, idly tapping it for several moments. Brow furrowing in contemplative thought, she awaited a break in the discussion to interject with her own solution to the issue raised by the most diminutive of the smiths present, "Mister Gegenji raises an important point about his own capabilities and limitations, but having given some thought to it I do not think it should pose any meaningful obstacle."

 

She turned toward Dunois, gesturing with any open palm, "Master Dunois, though your work to repair the damage done by the attack on the city is laudable there is the matter of the weapon construction orders that you have yet to fill and deliver. Perhaps mister Gegenji can be the solution to this problem? He shall be working well within his element, your obligations to the order of the Knights Dragoon shall be fulfilled, and you and mister Osvald shall be free to continue your good works for the community." She cocked her head, awaiting reply to her proposition, tail lazily drifting back and forth behind her heels.

[Aya]

The massive Highlander stood at his full height.  An imposing form that stood in contrast to the serene expression he typically wore.  He listened fist to the half-agreement of the strange Lalafel smith, and then to the Dragoon's suggestion.  The military, indeed the Dragoons themselves, were the most important base of customers for the Dunois smithy.  For weeks they had deflected missive, after official missive, inquiring about the readiness of their armament orders.  

 

The mere mention of them raised the quiet indignation of the Highland Apprentice. Stubbornness and defiance were the very essence of the ancient inheritance that was his lineage.  Distrust of a military that seemed the foundation of all of Ishgard's woes, seethed just beneath the surface of the man who longed for peace before all else.  But, it was the Master Smith who's pride alone could answer the offer: "Truly Madame Dragoon," he replied with the best bow he could offer.  "Your suggestion is replete with wisdom and sense, from the perspective of a soldier.  But, with all due respect, lances and spears are not nails.  They are not interchangeable.  Your brethren know what to expect from one of our arms."

 

He gestured toward Osvald with the pride of an adoptive father, "I have taken years to ensure that my apprentice's craftsmanship is up to the same rigorous standards that our clients expect.  I have no doubt that your friend's craft is well honed,"  he stated with a tone of deep respect, adding a bow of his head toward Chachanji, "but I cannot take such word as proof when my reputation and commerce are on the line."  

 

Osvald nodded after the Master's statement, adding his own in more curt fashion.  "Whatever your trade secrets, they are safe.  We know our craft and have no need of theft.  But you use our space, our tools, our forge.  We shall watch that they are well-used."

 

He lowered his goggles to cover his eyes as the slowly turning auto-bellows began to bring the forge fire to renewed life.  Each mechanical hiss brought a fresh rush of heat and light from within its depths.

 

His voice rose above the din of the fire, "If the Master Foreign Smith does not wish to learn how to make nails, then he can feed the fire.  I have no doubt that young Claude would gladly trade the shovel for the hammer and tongs."

 

"The sooner we finish.  The sooner the Dragoons get their arms."

 

He turned his attention back to the forge, while Master Dunois smiled with a warm expression to their guests, as if to excuse Osvald's outburst.

[Gegenji]

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.