Delicacy & Tact 23.07.19 Baine & Varis

Baine left the Crimson Fist compound some 7 days ago, quietly, not telling anyone where he was going. He returns late in the evening, attempting to return as quietly as he left.

He gets down from a distinctly grumpy looking dapple horse and gets it settled into the stables, after which he spends a good five minutes just speaking to it with a quiet, reassuring voice. The horse seems skeptical.

He makes his way to Varis' chambers. Stares at the door for a minute. Lifts his hand a knocks.
There’s no response.
Just as Baine is raising his fist to knock again, he hears a deep voice from behind him.

“He’s not in there, lad. Try the forge.”
Turning, the young half orc sees the voice belongs to a tall, weathered human man in his middle years. His long dark hair is held away from his face by a braided leather thong, and his eyes twinkle with warm intelligence from beneath thick eyebrows.

“You’d be Baine then, the new man? A pleasure, lad.”
The newcomer extends a large hand, his grip firm and dry.
“I’m Conrad, though folks around here mostly call me Ghost.”

There's a glimmer of recognition in Baine's eyes as the man introduces himself. He shakes the outstretched hand, relieved to be greeted with slightly less hostility than Red had offered him.
"Conrad? Sure have heard about you. Pleased to finally meet you."

He gives a wolfish grin, his eyes flicking over Baine, taking in the road dust that coats him, riding boots and the slight stiffness in the legs that comes from several days in the saddle.
“Long ride was it? More than the day it takes to reach the coast, ‘less you took a hell of detour. No point taking a horse that far west either – mountains are no place for that mare of yours. That leaves north or south. I’d put my money on south, since that burr-weed on your cloak doesn’t grow in the Angelbark. Vorsthold was it then?”

His eyes turn grim for a moment.
“Damn serious place that. Damn serious folk. What took you beneath the Sunfast then, lad?”

Baine looks a little taken aback to be read so plainly and quickly from just a glance and gives an impressed nod at Conrad's correct guess.
"Uh, yeah. That's right, actually. I see I've met the brains of the operation."
He grins for a moment before turning more serious again.

"Vorsthold. Yeah. In all honesty I, well... I had a bit of an argument with the man himself. May have gotten put in my place a bit. May have deserved it as well." He doesn't look overly bothered by the admission.
"He was of the opinion that I needed to see more of the bigger picture, so to speak, and that Vorsthold might be a good place to start. So. I went. There was a job posting at the Ettin; I joined a party and popped down there."

His eyes go a little bit distant as if he's thinking back over the last few days. He snaps back to the present after a moment and holds up a side satchel almost as an offering.
"I brought back the head of a Ghast?"

Conrad frowns at the slightly greasy looking bag, wrinkling his nose.

“So I see. Or smell, I should say.”
He looks up at Baine, the grin back on his lean face.

“So, the boss gave you a little talking to, did he? He must really like you. It was months before I earned a good bollocking.”
He claps Baine warmly on the shoulder as he starts to walk in the direction of the stables.

“Good to finally put a face to the name, lad. Get along to the boss now - he’ll be wanting to hear how you got on with the Vorstborn.”

Bewildered but happy, Baine waves at Conrad's retreating back.
"Cheers, mate, see you around!"

He turns his gaze to the forge. "I'll take it as a good sign then, shall I?" he mutters to himself before taking a deep, steadying breath and crossing the training yard.
He carefully opens the door to the forge, knowing better than to barrel his way in with his usual style.

"Ben? You in here? Lookin' for the boss man, have you seen him?"

A voice emerges from the dim depths of the smithy.

“Baine. Get a pair of gloves and come and hold this, would you?”

Walking cautiously towards the full red glow of the forge, Baine’s eyes can make out the figure of the man he seeks silhouetted by the scarlet coals.
The Grandmaster of the Order is shirtless, a thick leather apron covering his chest and long gloves protecting his arms up to the elbow. His back and forehead shine with sweat, and his sandy blonde hair is slicked back against his skull.

Nestled in the forgefire is a crucible, the molten metal within glowing white. Beside the half elf sits a shallow clay mould of a horseshoe, though far too large for any horse Baine has ever seen. On a nearby bench sits a small iron tray covered in fine black powder, and beside it, a flat head hammer and the shattered remains of an enormous ebony fang.

“Here, take the tongs and hold the crucible steady”

Varis gestures to a pair of long handled iron tongs, and Baine picks them up, clamping them securely around the base of the ceramic crucible. Carefully he pulls it from the glowing coals and holds it still as Varis scrapes the powdered dragon tooth in, one hand clasped around the Crimson Fist pendant at his neck. As he folds the black powder through the molten steel, he incants in a strange tongue - the meaning seeming to hover just at the edge of comprehension.
The white metal turns ice blue, sparks leaping from it to burn into the half elf’s thick gloves. Varis motions for Baine to hand the tongs to him, and with immense care, pours the liquid steel into the clay mould.

Baine follows the instructions silently, watching Varis' every move, careful to not get in the way. He may know his way around a forge but this is something more - this is magic and faith and Gods and power that he's never had a chance to see up close before. It's beyond his understanding - for now - but he drinks it in, wide-eyed and attentive.

Setting the crucible aside to cool, Varis pulls the gloves from his hands and begins to walk toward the door to the training yard, signalling the younger man to follow. When they’re out beneath the stars he exhales, closing his eyes for a moment before turning to look at his half Orc companion.

“So, you’ve returned. How did you find the Vorstborn?”

Baine wipes the sweat from his brow that gathered there despite only being in the smithy for a few minutes. He piles his long hair into a large bun on the top of his head, tying it off as he too looks up at the stars. He takes a deep breath but before the usual torrent of words can spill forth he seems to take an uncharacteristic moment to gather his thoughts before speaking.

"It was. Big." He cocks his head a little, staring out beyond the stars and avoiding Varis' direct gaze.

"A big place. Full of big deeds. Put a lot of big thoughts in my head." He huffs out a little laugh. "Don't usually do too well with those."

He looks towards the stables, sweeps his gaze around the yard, looking anywhere but Varis.
"That's why I took the long way back. Had to try and sort out all the things rolling around in 'ere." He taps a knuckle to his temple.

"I think. Maybe. You were right."

Varis lips quirk in a wry smile.
“It does happen occasionally.”
He runs a hand through his slick hair as he breathes in the cool night air, exhaustion plain on his face.

“It’s a shame you didn’t tell me you were going. I was due a visit – to check that Danton and Kamar haven’t gotten themselves killed if nothing else. Still, perhaps it’s better you went alone.”
He turns fully to face Baine, his body language brisk and martial. Only the twinkle in his eyes betrays the playfulness behind his demeanour.
“So then. Report, soldier.”

The command seems to reassure Baine somehow, bringing him back to familiar grounds. He finally meets Varis' eyes, an eyebrow raised in recognition and challenge. His posture changes to be suitably respectful - a slight straightening of the back, arms loosely crossed behind.
"Sir." It's equal measures genuine and sarcastic.

"There was a job posting at the Ettin. The mayor of Vorsthold needed outside help. A party of us went; me, Ghesh, Heret, a half-drow named Igrainne. Mystigon. Aurelia teleported us there and we were to before the mayor."
His eyes light up and he can't quite keep the enthusiasm out of his voice. "It was.. impressive. All of it. The Thunder Gates. The soldiers. A city under constant seige for 2000 years?!"
He shakes his head to himself a little before continuing.

"We were hired as extra security for transporting catapults to Deepfast. But that was a cover actually, Grimblefoot wanted us to keep an eye out for... something. She didn't want to tell us what it was. But we was supposed to look out for it anyway." The standard look of resigned confusion is back on his face briefly before he shrugs it off.

"The dwarves weren't too keen on outside help but we tagged along. I got to pet some really cool lizard-toad-things. In the tunnels we got attacked, like you do. A whole bunch of these Ghouls and Ghasts, and a Duergar as well!" He grins happily.
"Great fight. Ghesh got a little bit paralyzed 'cos a Ghast got its tongue all over him but it was alright in the end." He holds the rather smelly, stained side satchel up as a sad, little offering. "I brought you its head back in case you wanted to like.. do something with its tongue?"

Varis takes the bag, opening the top and peering inside. His nose wrinkles slightly and he closes the bag more sharply than is perhaps required.

“Corpse Eaters. I know of no use for their remains myself. Perhaps one of the alchemists in town might be able to put it to some nobler purpose than polluting my training yard. Do you think that is what Mayor Grimblefoot wanted you to protect against? It doesn’t seem beyond her forces to defeat a few undead and a grey dwarf.”
He shakes his head, handing the sack back to Baine.
“Regardless, it is good you went. Good you saw what dwells below this land, and what we must protect against. Come, you must be weary from the road. Let us see what Grits has left in the kitchen.”

Baine takes the bag back, looking a little dismayed. "I'll just.. uh. I'll leave that here. Toss it on a fire before bed." Sets it down next to the door to the smithy.

"But no, that wasn't the whole job. It was a cover. She wanted us to like... be on the lookout for stuff and then report back to her, to like, see if we saw the same things she thought she had? I think?? To be honest I was less concerned with the looking than with the fighting, I left that to Heret. Most of my time was spent trying to keep Mystigon from getting us fucking killed by the people who hired us." He rolls his eyes, frustration clear in his voice.

He follows Varis to the kitchen, letting out his usual flood of words as they go.
"What were you making in the forge by the way? Were those the dragon parts I brought back? What kind of magic was that? Was it from your God?"

Varis smiles bemusedly at the deluge of questions as he pushes through the door into the kitchen. Finding it abandoned, he moves around the central table to a small trapdoor in the corner, pulling it open by the iron ring set into one side and descending into the cellar beneath. He emerges a moment later with a wedge of hard cheese, some dried sausage and a small clay pot lidded with wax cloth. Placing his findings on the table, he pulls a knife from his belt and begins carving up the sausage, motioning Baine to help himself.

“So she didn’t tell you what it was she thought she’d seen? Strange, to ask you to look for something without telling you what it was. Still, the Vorstborn have every reason to be paranoid.”

Baine joins Varis at the table and, suddenly ravenous, doesn't hesitate to dig in. He shakes his head and makes a vague "no" sound around a mouthful of cheese.
He swallows before agreeing, "Yeah, it seemed pretty damn strange to me too. But I don't get paid to ask questions so." He shrugs with one shoulder as he helps himself to some bread.

Varis tears a chunk of bread from a loaf sitting on the side, smearing it with thick mustard from the jar and props himself up against the wall.
“I am making a gift for Tuevel. It’s not magic I am familiar with, but I understand the principles and Tyr guides my hand. The tooth was indeed from the dragon you found – difficult to work with, but the great wyrms are infused with magic, and their essence can act as an anchor for enchantment.”

He looks at Baine, his eyes sharpening.
“This companion of yours – Mystigon? – he clashed with the Vorstborn?”

"It'd be a stretch to call Mystigon a companion." His face goes unusually sour. "We've been on jobs together though, before this. He's a bit up his own arse about his magic and wants to show it off all the bloody time. Had to stop him from trying to carve words into the stone and raise the ceiling in the mayors office. Like, I'm not the sharpest tool in the box yeah, but I know that there's a time and a place. He managed to piss off the priests down in the tunnel as well, when we made camp after the fight. I punched him for that. He started throwing spells at me and Ghesh had to calm us down. He gets on my bloody nerves, he does. Never thinks about the good of the party."

As Baine speaks, Varis’s posture changes, tension creeping into his frame. It is a long moment before he speaks again.
“How upset did the Vorstborn seem with this Mystigon’s behaviour? Enough to sour them toward the rest of you?”
He pushes away from the wall, fixing Baine with eyes like green millstones.

“You have seen the horrors they hold back from the surface. Losing their friendship would be a significant blow to the people of Daring. If someone within these walls threatens our alliance, I must know.”

Baine's eyes widen slightly as he grasps Varis' meaning. He raises a placating hand and shakes his head.
"No, no, nothing like that. The opposite I reckon. I made it pretty clear what I thought about what he was doing and I think she appreciated that. She paid us well when the job was done and seemed happy enough."

"No, the real problem was down in the tunnels,” he explains. “After the fight we made camp for the evenin' and the priests set up a healing tent. We were told that under no circumstances were we as surfacers to enter the tent because of like, disease and stuff. Made perfect sense. Mystigon decided he knew better so he sent a bunch of mice in there to.. I dunno, spy on the priests? He tried to hide behind me and Ghesh when got found out as well." He scoffs. "Idiot."

He tries to look as reassuring as he can when he meets Varis' intense eyes. "They were happy with me and Ghesh, and Igrainne and Heret as well. We proved ourselves."

Varis relaxes slightly, leaning back against the wall.

“Very well. I trust your judgement on this. If you chance to cross paths with this person again, keep a careful watch on them. One of the great strengths of Daring is the people who live here, those who join us from elsewhere on the continent and from Faerun by ship or portal. But new arrivals have little awareness of how precariously our safety is maintained, and power, as you and I both know, can make men fools.”

He finishes the hunk of bread in his hand and rubs his face, pressing his palms into his eyes for a long moment.
“I should return to my work. You did well, Baine.”
He claps a hand to the younger mans shoulder in passing and walks out the door.

Baine nods once and accepts the praise, looks over his shoulder and watches Varis walk out into the dark yard. Before the door can close behind him a small, furry creature sticks his small face in and gives a soft, happy whine.
Baine smiles, tired but wide. “Did you hear that buddy? I did good.”

Baine keeps up a steady stream of nonsense at Frankie as he cleans up after the meal. He picks up his sleepy boy, stops in the yard and gives the door to the smithy a long look.
“Come on,” he mutters into Frankie’s fur, “off to bed with us.”