eachdraidh | Forge Three - (Audio/Action)

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Forge Three - (Audio/Action)

Bloody fairies never manage to get things right, do they?

[Like many, Gendry received his boon two days ago, but he hasn't gotten any closer to making proper use of it. Oh sure, walking back and forth through a set of mirrors is a jolly experience, but it's a pain in the ass if they're both in the same room. Though he won't deny he did have a bit of fun setting them across each other and walking through the portal over and over. But! That's not what he'd wanted!]

Seems if you want something decent, you've got to be specific. Seven hells... [He has no choice! He must do the unthinkable:] Stiles, you still about?

[Yes. He must ask STILES for help. That most dreaded of occurrences! Sure, there might be other people who could teleport him from Cothromach to Troichean Beinn in a blink of the eye. But those are other people and Gendry's faith in other people is roughly equivalent to his faith in this war ending amicably. If he's called a suspicious bastard, then it is a one hundred perfect accurate description of him.

But the locket is still in his hand and he realizes he's addressing both courts at large. Damn.]

... just, be careful about your boons, eh? The fairies like to be stingy, if you let them. [There. He's done the community at large a favor.]

[At the Cothromach]

backdated to 26th
When Gendry wasn't in his room messing about with a set of magic mirrors, he was hard at work at one of the forges. Though he wasn't officially apprenticing at any of the shops, one of the master smiths had agreed to hire Gendry on while he was in the city. So that meant keeping busy as he hammered tirelessly at some new sword. His Shard ached as he drew on its power to give superhuman blows. It was hard work and the sword wouldn't even be his, but he now knew enough about dwarven magic that he could finally give his uncle a good and strong sword. This is what he'd been doing ever since the battle had ended and he'd at last turned his work to other projects. This item was now nearly done and by evening, after he'd honed it to a razor's edge, he would find his uncle's home in the Cothromach to come knocking.

27th
After his message on the lockets, Gendry left to be at his normal routine. He was living in the Keeper's tower now and so he would eat his first and last meals of the day there. Other hours would see him in the market, working at one of the forges earning his wages by small commissions of tools or shoeing horses. Hardly work for an apprentice of Bordan Gret, but he did not seem to mind this simpler work. For those looking to find him or simply anyone in the city looking for goods, he was an easy man to find. His grumbling about boons aside, he was in as good a mood as he could be expected to be in.

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When he'd first begun that, he would have balked at that. He had nearly given up when he was told he would have to learn twenty-six letters with all their names and shapes and sounds. Then she had slowly introduced him to all these strange other symbols that showed up in the book that indicated when a person was talking or when a sentence was concluded. He scarcely still understood the point of all those. Yet he'd overcome much of the worst of it and being told there was so much more did not seem to bother him overly much.

"As you say," he said though hardly as dismissively as he had in the past. For a moment he frowned thoughtfully, worried that perhaps there was an end to the conversation. He quickly latched onto something more cheerful. "You'd like those mirrors I was given," he said almost stupidly. "They're... very pretty like."

He assumed she liked nothing more than pretty things.

Idle, almost, in her demeanour -- or as idle as Sansa ever got -- she reached for the chalk and slid it smoothly out of his fingers. She rounded off the U in YOU. She added a dot at the very end. And she added soft embellishment, underlining both words. Yes! She liked pretty things. Even now she felt driven to make the letters lovelier.

"Are they?" Her eyes dipped from slate to him and back again. At first, she seemed to only be polite in her query. But then! Ah! After a moment, she stiffened. "They're big, aren't they? Your mirrors. Big enough for you to travel through. By the Seven..." A mild oath! But then she can hardly disguise a sudden grip of jealousy.

"And you are tall. Can you see your whole self in them, Gendry?"

He hardly expected her to be jealous, but instead simply be amused at the strangeness at even owning such things. He gave her a curious look, then nodded.

"Aye. I don't even need to stoop to use them. Not that they do much good as they are, unless I fancy seeing my backside from both reflections." He clearly saw no value in that. "Though your sister did tumble through one. That made for a good laugh."

-- Seven Heavens and Seven Hells, but there were about three scandals too many buried in so few words. A sudden elevation in her discomfort was evident: reddening cheeks and evasive eyes and she twirled the chalk in her fingers. Dust got all over her palm.

"A-are they kept in your chambers?" Sansa didn't doubt Arya's presence there was little more than brattish mischief. Just as she would never fear for her own integrity were she to ever step inside the same room. But there was protocol to be considered. And, perhaps, a crackle of envy. Why did Arya get to play with huge luxurious mirrors when all she'd want is to tumble through them? That wasn't even how mirrors were meant to be used. She tried to focus on this indignation instead of sparing too much thought for Gendry and his horrendously casual discussion of his backside. Gods.

He could tell she was displeased with his casual manner tough he could not truly tell why. As much as he might play at manners with her, he did not truly possess them and they would never feel natural to him. So he did little bit pretend not to notice her discomfort.

He nodded. "Aye, the both of them. There's the trouble of it. They're useless like that."

"Not useless, certainly. Perhaps not used as you want to use them! But not without their uses."

Indeed, Sansa could think of a great many things for which two mirrors would be ample. Checking one's hair, for one. Ascertaining the drape of a gown, for another. And all of them, she knew, irrelevant to a creature like Ser Gendry. It was by-times marvellous how much he reminded her of someone else -- of Mya Stone, who wore iron and leather and likely carried with her that same smell of hard work. Neither Mya nor Gendry, she thought, would have much love for a mirror. And their eyes were alike, surely. And their hair! Thick and black like Renly's -- like King Robert's, she thought -- and now and then during lessons when the smith pushed his unkempt hair off his brow she thought of how Mya did the exact same. The Mule Girl must have cut her own hair with a dagger, for it was always short and shaggy and now at a length with her unknown half-brother's. Mya, Sansa thought, was pretty. Prettier still if she'd ever bothered with silks and laces.

"In time, you may find you like owning mirrors," she hazarded.

Edited 2014-12-03 15:03 (UTC)

"Aye, I might in time," he commented dryly. "But you seem to like them enough for the both of us. Likely because you have something nicer to look at in a mirror than I do. My shield of mirror will do for me."

It was a loose compliment with a shred of self effacing humor. But it was true because for how little he might make of it, there was no denying that Sansa Stark was a sight to behold. Any man foolish enough to think he had a chance, would have loved a chance to be at her side. Gendry knew better, for her heart was closed to all. And certainly not open to his sort!

"You cannot brush or tidy you hair in a shield." At least, Sansa assumed men did indeed brush their hair -- even those who wore it short. But she couldn't be certain. And so her voice wavered a note or three, fearing he might laugh at her. She quickly added: "Or pin your cloak! Or shave. I know you don't keep servants and I can't imagine..."

She trailed free. Sansa did not so often let herself lose the point of a sentence. Generally, she plotted the careful course of her meaning before she opened her mouth. But now it was all a mess, because he'd praised her and she in turn had meandered her way clumsily through a half-dozen comments on things she barely understood. Who was she to talk about his whiskers? It wasn't as though he sheared them often--

She sat up a little straighter, thus freeing her elbow. Thus retreating back into her own prim perimeter of personal space. "My apologies. I shouldn't have said any of it. The mirrors are yours to use as you see fit. Of course they are."

He scratched at his stubble even as he noticed her subtle retreat from him. Gendry scarcely understood her in that moment, but he supposed Sansa would always be a flighty sort of creature. However comfortable she might be beside him, it was not meant to last.

"I don't have a brush," he said with a mild shrug of his shoulders. The one arm that had been nearly locked with hers was now rotated freely. He ran a hand through his messy hair. "I ain't got much need for one. It ain't so long as to need it."

As for shaving! Well, he did that blindly and very sporadically. It was not uncommon for him to leave patches of unshaved skin and the small beard he kept on his chin was ever uneven.

Dryly: "You have a little need for one."

Honesty was difficult. It was difficult, too, to decry his appearance when he had so kindly said something of her own. But his mop of thick Baratheon-like hair had been a mess since he'd arrived. Had Gendry been a brother of hers, she would have long since scolded him for it.

"A little?" He asked dubiously, now staring at her with a raised eyebrow. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's a mess." She spoke as though she was surprised he did not already know. "Are your mirrors tarnished? Draped? How is it you never saw before you came?"

Because, of course, she assumed he'd arrived straight from his rooms like any civilized creature.

"I haven't seen them since the morning," he answered abashed. He suddenly felt like a child being admonished, though he scarcely understood why. "I spent the day at the forge."

If he did not smell of sweat and grime, it was only because he had mercifully jumped into the river beforehand. That was becoming a favorite aspect of the Cothromach to Gendry. While he would never have any great love of bathing, there was nothing so satisfying as a cool and cold dive after the sweltering heat of the forge furnace. Troichean Beinn had many things, but it did not have this small network of subterranean streams to enjoy.

"Oh."

One small syllable could be so heavy. So laden with a thin and stingy understanding. Sansa, by contrast, preened for every appointment. What else did she have to arm herself with but precision and poise? Even that girl -- Kelsi, was it? -- praised her for such a careful presentation.

"Well," she began again. One hand gestured vaguely in the empty air. "It is all of it pointing every which way. As though you dumped water over your head and then let it dry however it wanted."

"Aye," he answered quite solidly and humorlessly. "I did that."

He resisted the urge to touch the hair and rearrange it.

"Oh," she said again. And for once she felt the absurdity of her repetition. Sansa wanted to leap up and leave her chair, but she forced herself to stay immaculately still. Her fingers curled 'round the chair's arms. She would not embarrass the both of them by making such a massive matter of it all. "Then I imagine it looks appropriate to how it was...handled, then. Apologies. I meant no offence. Honest."

Feeling as thought he'd still managed to disappoint her in some absurd way, he sought to somehow mollify her concern. So he scratched at his ear and the hair that was thick over it, before relenting that there was perhaps something wrong.

"I've been meaning to cut it," he admitted as though it might justify his apparently unsatisfactory level of grooming.. "But I ain't had the time."

"Does it take so long? So much time?"

Her question was earnest. After all, when it wasn't pinned or braided, her own hair fell quite long. Like as not, it hadn't been cut in years. A healthful trim now and then, perhaps! But she was not daft (she thought) and men who wore their hair short had to cut it more often, but she never imagined it being a consuming task.

"Can't you get someone to do it for you?" A servant, she meant. The keep was full of them.

Gendry balked at the thought of getting someone else to do it for him. At best, when he apprenticed for Tobho Mott, there was one of the girls there that would sometimes shear him and the others if their hair was so long it interfered with work. Likewise Willow had once taken a knife to his hair back at the Crossroads, though he'd been terribly grumpy about the entire experience. Other times he'd just cut the bangs so he could see and enough to keep his sides and back from becoming a pain.

"I might... ask someone," he allowed warily. He might have asked Sigrid, but he'd not seen her the past few days. Arya would be likely, but he wasn't sure he'd trust her not to pull some mischief on him. There was of course Stiles, but he imagined Stiles had never cut any hair - not even his own! "Or do for myself."

Her nose crinkled. Oh, the thought of him doing it himself! Distasteful. She could already note, from day to day, how poor a hand he was at shaving. But until tonight she'd not transgressed so far as to comment upon his appearance. Not least of all because she didn't truly resent it. Gendry was Gendry, taken as he was. But the busier he got, the more it seemed things got out of hand.

The utter oddness of the conversation turned her tongue to mindless babble -- a mechanism that pretty much only existed between herself and her kin, or else with a friend dear enough to not be feared. Sansa spoke what had been on her mind mere moments ago: "Mya Stone cut her own. I'm certain of it."

She'd not mentioned his half-sister in a long long while. The last time it had not made for a profitable topic. But now! Ah, well. Anything was better than her amateurish attempts to comment on Ser Gendry's appearance.

"Who?" He asked at first, scarcely remembering the name. It was only the belated logical leap of bastard to Vale that he recalled that scarce spoken of half-sister he'd been told about. That was kin he had no true feelings for one way or another, though she was still an object of (mild!) curiosity.

"Oh, that bastard girl." He shrugged. "Seems she had the right of it, eh? She must have managed it."

"It was just as messy. Though...I think she must have used a knife."

Messy in much the same fashion. But she did not dare angle the conversation back in his direction. She needed this -- some third person to speak about, distantly, and so manage to recapture some of her chill. Some of her ambivalence. "But she would have been prettier had she let it grow. Hair like a raven's wing and eyes so blue...beautiful, really."

She wondered (with a wry twist in her gut) whether Ser Lothor liked Mya with her short hair. Would he have liked it longer? Would it ever have mattered to him -- or did he merely adore her for all else that she was?

Edited 2014-12-04 02:49 (UTC)

Gendry was only too aware of how that description of hair and eyes must match his own. He had known his uncle long enough to see those qualities and had now seen them so keenly reflected in that crystal clear mirror. He shifted uncomfortably.

"... you have blue eyes," he said mildly. "Likely not so different than your Mya."

She's not my Mya, Sansa nearly retorted. But in a way, perhaps, she was. None else in these walls knew her -- they merely knew of her. And once they'd gathered at the Gates, Mya's friendship with Lady Myranda had brought her into more frequent contact with Sansa. Those two were good friends. Thick, like thieves, and Sansa had been an awkward addition to their friendship.

"No. Hers are different. Darker. Fuller, somehow." It wasn't that she did not like her own eyes. She shared them with her lady mother; for that, she would be forever grateful. But she was not about to conjure that woman's presence in this conversation. For now, it was easier to pretend like she'd not broken down and sobbed in his sight. "Like Lord Renly's and--"

A wan look. She did not need to say it. "One of Lord Baelish's knights was fond of her. Is. Is fond, I suppose. They live still -- somewhen."

Deeper blue eyes, like his own. It seemed strange that Sansa would find them in any way appealing, but he chalked it down to a merely unfortunate coincidence. It made for a dismaying similarity to his uncle, he supposed.

"That's well for her," he answered dully. "I hope that knight is the decent sort."

He might barely know his half-sister, but he'd rather wish her well than know her fate stuck in Westeros was to be an unpleasant one.

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