Ser Gendry Waters (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bullhorned) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
eachdraidh2014-04-09 11:22 am
bullhorned) wrote in eachdraidh2014-04-09 11:22 am
Forge One - (Audio)
[The forge had echoed loudly from the sound of hammer on steel. Such had been the case for a week now, ever since Gendry had discovered the forge and learned he had the freedom to use it and its materials. He had fallen in love immediately. At the Crossroads, he had suffered a shambling forge that he'd had to largely put back together himself. The forge in Harrenhal had been better, but he was one of many who worked it. Tohbo Mott's own forge came close, but it lacked the size of this one. It was expertly crafted and spoke of a skill he could only imagine. His old master had talked of the forgs in Qohor and Volantis and how great they were. He could only imagine them being like this one.
And so Gendry had set to work. His half finished sword was completed. The blade was made sharp and glimmering. He did not bother himself with anything but the most basic of hilt and crossguard. Why should he? The sword had been forged from the only steel he could acquire. Now he had superior metal to work with and he imagined how he might forge himself a sword of the finest steel as could be found. And then, armor. A new helmet. Greaves, gauntlets, breastplate, pauldrons, and gorget. And why not? They were generous in their provisions and Gendry though to himself that when he had finished, he would look more a knight than even Ser Loras Tyrell. And then he would be more than just King Robert's bastard son born in Fleabottom. He would be a self made knight, secure and confident in his own armor.
A week in the forge. Drenched in sweat and smoke, with nothing but a damning heat as company. It suited him fine. He was hard at work creating a new helmet, after all. Indeed, he was so utterly devoted to his craft that he had not even returned to his bedchambers. He found the hard ground of more comfort than the feather soft bed provided to him and the distant heat of a cooling forge like a friendly reminder of home. And though he could not claim to have friends among his fellow arrivals, there were at least people of note that concerned him. Even if some, like Arya Stark, thought him as little more than a stranger.
And so he tried the locket.]
[Audio]
I found a forge. A good one. Better than any I've ever seen, at least. These fairy folk might be a queer sort, but they make for fine things. So I've been doing the same.
[He paused and wondered at his own message. Did he want to offer to craft armor and swords for others? No. And certainly not for charity. He only wanted to arm himself and make himself a knight. Once he had, he'd only need the forge to maintain what he already had or replace what might be damaged. So he keeps himself from offering something foolish.]
If there's other smiths about, you might find the place of use. [And then he lingers after that, unsure if more should be said. And so stupidly he can be heard lingering. Breathing.
And then it cuts out.]
[Afterwards, Gendry resumes his work at the forge, where he has discarded his shirt and set himself to the first steps of his new helmet.]
(ooc: prose and brackets are both welcome.)
And so Gendry had set to work. His half finished sword was completed. The blade was made sharp and glimmering. He did not bother himself with anything but the most basic of hilt and crossguard. Why should he? The sword had been forged from the only steel he could acquire. Now he had superior metal to work with and he imagined how he might forge himself a sword of the finest steel as could be found. And then, armor. A new helmet. Greaves, gauntlets, breastplate, pauldrons, and gorget. And why not? They were generous in their provisions and Gendry though to himself that when he had finished, he would look more a knight than even Ser Loras Tyrell. And then he would be more than just King Robert's bastard son born in Fleabottom. He would be a self made knight, secure and confident in his own armor.
A week in the forge. Drenched in sweat and smoke, with nothing but a damning heat as company. It suited him fine. He was hard at work creating a new helmet, after all. Indeed, he was so utterly devoted to his craft that he had not even returned to his bedchambers. He found the hard ground of more comfort than the feather soft bed provided to him and the distant heat of a cooling forge like a friendly reminder of home. And though he could not claim to have friends among his fellow arrivals, there were at least people of note that concerned him. Even if some, like Arya Stark, thought him as little more than a stranger.
And so he tried the locket.]
[Audio]
I found a forge. A good one. Better than any I've ever seen, at least. These fairy folk might be a queer sort, but they make for fine things. So I've been doing the same.
[He paused and wondered at his own message. Did he want to offer to craft armor and swords for others? No. And certainly not for charity. He only wanted to arm himself and make himself a knight. Once he had, he'd only need the forge to maintain what he already had or replace what might be damaged. So he keeps himself from offering something foolish.]
If there's other smiths about, you might find the place of use. [And then he lingers after that, unsure if more should be said. And so stupidly he can be heard lingering. Breathing.
And then it cuts out.]
[Afterwards, Gendry resumes his work at the forge, where he has discarded his shirt and set himself to the first steps of his new helmet.]
(ooc: prose and brackets are both welcome.)
audio.
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You are right there. Luckily, I have been trained better.
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They say no one could match the king-- my father in his prime. Are you as good as he was?
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[ Robert who is now dead. It's hard for him to swallow, but -- it's true, and he tries his best to hide his fury. ]
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[Which is... a sort of concession at his own shortcomings. Renly was trained to be a lord, Gendry to be a smith. And it seemed they were both clumsily short at being a Baratheon warrior.]
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[Curtly. Because he's dead and the whole kingdom went to hell because of one fat man dying.]
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Yes, too dead.
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He hesitates before asking.]
Were you close?
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[ A pause, and a sigh. ]
I was the Lord of Storm's End to him, the master of his Justice and nothing more.
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[If they were like brothers, then perhaps Eddard Stark would have been a more familial presence than Renly or Stannis. But Renly told me who I was. Eddard Stark didn't bother to.]
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[ He pauses, thinking, before he shifts, awkward. ]
Was the death of him, I should say.
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[Perhaps it's impertinent to ask. But Sansa seems to be one of the few to actually know what's going on.]
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Must be hard for her, talking about her father.
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... there's something you ought to know, m'lord. Only not over these lockets.
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Will you come to my rooms, then?
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Yes, m'lord. I'll be there when I can.
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I will await you. Perhaps we might dine together?
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Aye, dinner sounds fine. Only, I ain't got no decent sort of clothes for anything at your table.
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