you must be sure that the doubts and questions are your own

[serjeant]

Who: Seoraj and YOU.
What: The smithy is open for business, which means taking orders and working up basics for sale.
Where: Seoraj's Forge in Stoneshell.
When: Weekdays, business hours. Specify if it matters.
Notes: This is generally here for anyone to whom blacksmiths are relevant!
Warnings: Archaic sexism.

Business may not be booming, but nevertheless it is well underway within a short time of Seoraj's acquisition. Most of his work to start with comes in through the farming communities, and the occupation is familiar in a way that lays out most starkly how familiar so much of this place is not. Steel works under his hands as it ever has, and the world outside the smithy marches on in its own, new way. Immersing himself in that is his way, though he's never had an opportunity like this before; he insinuates himself into life here as if it were an old cloak and not so crisply new as it is.

People begin to talk to him. That will be good, he thinks, though he doesn't yet know what for.

Comments

[suninhades]

Barbecues, giant ants, visions - even at home, Integra would find only one of those things unnerving. It's just another week at work in Baedal, to her, and until the day that something as compelling as a Nazi war front invasion happens, she will carry on reacting to everything as she always does. With dry reservation.

Whether or not Seoraj expected a tall pale-haired woman riding a destrier to show up in his forge that day - surprise, he gets one. Integra is dressed for warmer weather, but only slightly; it would take more than the fires of hell to get her out in short sleeves, but at least she's not wearing a wool greatcoat.

Knock knock?

[serjeant]

Kilts aren't exactly summertime wear, but that has yet to stop Seoraj - in any climate - so he can't exactly throw stones here. In the warm weather and the heat of his forge, his shirt is tacky to his skin and his face positively gleams as he answers her, wiping his hands with a cloth in anticipation of offering her one.

Seoraj assesses her for a moment, then offers said hand, respectful without deferring, "Sir Hellsing," he greets, pleasantly. "That's a fine animal. What can I do for you?" Does the horse need shoes? Can he touch the pony?

[suninhades]

It may be warm out, but she's not near sweated through - it's just a stubbornness, really - and she notes the blacksmith's condition with a critical look that is devoid of self-consciousness, but not particularly emotional. (She can deal with the scenery just fine, yeah.)

"Master Stoneshell." That's what they called the last one, anyway, and her expression remains passive as she grips his hand, firm. "You shoe your own products, then?"

A number of things to note, at that; she doesn't seem surprised in the least that he recognizes her on sight, and she doesn't actually answer his question. Reconnaissance mission? Professional curiosity, more like, though in that case one would think she'd just say hello.

[serjeant]

Habit and instinct straightens his back in response to her manner, which he himself finds briefly interesting in that it's the first time a woman's voice has ever found that reaction. It's the only thing that gives him pause; the manner of address is becoming common enough locally not to make him blink.

"I do my own work," he says, simply, and when she takes his hand, he clasps hers at the wrist briefly before letting go. "Best way to see it done right, so my sergeant always said."

[suninhades]

Her hands are gloved - which is her default, he'll come to notice if he sees her again; the state of her hands only tends to be worth noting if she's not wearing them - but even if they weren't, she doesn't seem the type to bat an eye at sweat and dirt, much less cringe over it. At his response, she does a sort of mental shrug and turns back outside, gesturing for him to go ahead and have a look at her horse's hooves. They're not in bad condition, but nearing needing replaced - another month, maybe, if she goes easy. Whomever put them on last did an inoffensive job.

[serjeant]

He does get to touch the pony, which almost makes up for the fact he's resisting the impulse to return her once-over; she holds herself like she's accustomed to command, but she looks to him like a lady approximately a thousand miles out of his league, and those tend to come with lords willing to cut a man down for looking. The thought she could probably do it herself doesn't make it any easier not to look, which is why he's not thinking it. Right now.

Maybe later.

None of which shows on his very professional expression as he inclines his head and moves past her to inspect the shoes that are there, murmuring a stream of inoffensive banter to the animal as he lifts the hooves up for a look. "You could make these last," he says, critically, "maybe a week, maybe two." A month if she goes easy, yes, but he's assessing her likelihood of doing so in the same breath. He is, he likes to think, a pretty good judge of people. "I'd reckon you shouldn't try it, though. New shoes'd be better for him." Yes they would, look at you, you gorgeous animal. Aren't you beautiful. Yes you are.

(He doesn't ride much, but he likes horses.)

"I can do it for you."

[suninhades]

('Lords', sure. We'll go with that.)

"Are you busy right now?" It's a snap judgment, but clearly one she was willing to make, else she'd not have ridden all the way over here. Her horse is well cared for, and obviously much-used, and poorly shod hooves would be a major problem. Gonna pony up, Seoraj? (Silence.)

[serjeant]

In light of both her reputation and the impression he gets from her now, Seoraj does not return to that with 'can you pay me right now?' which, admittedly, some of the citizens of Baedal would probably have got in response.

He doesn't say he isn't busy, either, because - well, he is. But not so busy he can't fit this in, and he rolls his shoulders in a shrug as he straightens, tilting his head to smile briefly at her horse before he meets her eyes again, wiping his hands and obliging her with seriousness. "I've time enough. What's his name?" ...that's irrelevant to their business transaction, he's just a social creature.

[suninhades]

That gets a bit of a pause. Integra looks at him for a moment like she's not sure why he asked, but then it's gone, and she's stepping forward to undo her horse's girdle and untack him so the whole affair doesn't end up making the animal anxious from discomfort. "My horse," she says, a shrug in her voice.

Professional as she may be, there's not exactly a vibrant sense of whimsical fun emanating from Integra. She hauls the leather saddle and bags off The Horse's back with ease, apparently unbothered by the weight, and plunks it down over the railing. "He might balk a bit but it's just bluster." Her tone is conversational; she doesn't genuinely believe this man would be afraid of a horse even if it was aggressive, but it would be rude not to mention it.

[serjeant]

Tellingly, Seoraj grins at The Horse as she makes the note, as if to say, is that so, we are going to be friends, you and I. "I'll knock the price down if you let me name him," he says, in the flippant way that implies he is (as it happens) a pretty whimsically fun kind of guy.

(He'd also keep his word if she were of a mind to take him up on it, but he doesn't give the impression he thinks she will.)

Instead of drawing out the joke with awkwardly waggling eyebrows or an expectation that she find him as amusing as he finds himself, he sets to work. He'll direct his chatter to the horse as he does, when he's not too occupied for it.

[suninhades]

"Depends on the name." It's not quite quick enough to qualify as comedic-timing-immediacy, but she doesn't seem riled (or bothered) by the cheer. Rather, she seems comfortable with it, and for a while she observes him as he gets the old ones off. "What's yours?"

She suspects he'll have to hammer out new ones after taking measurements, which is not a quick process, but Stoneshell's got at least one pub she doesn't hate, if memory serves, and it's not all bad to get out in the daylight here and there.

[serjeant]

"Seoraj, sir," he provides without looking up, and if he can't help but find addressing her that way intrinsically a bit odd, it doesn't sound anything less than respectful. Integra is not a ma'am, somehow, and he prefers to follow new things to see where they lead than balk at the strangeness of them. The world is a strange place. Things that aren't as he expects them to be are interesting.

[suninhades]

"Seoraj." A nod; well met, apparently. Her own polished accent miraculously doesn't trip up the pronunciation of his name. There's silence after that, but it's easy, and after she's watched long enough to assure herself he's not going to murder her horse's hooves, she just... wanders off.

Well okay.

She's not gone for a terribly long time (just long enough to make a man wonder, not long enough to actually be annoying), and when she returns, she's got a brown paper box with gyros and fried potatoes, and two glass bottles of lemonade. She sets one bottle on the patio railing nearest to Seoraj's workspace, and then sits right down on the wooden area's edge to eat lunch. It's not a peace offering or a bribe (as by now it's obvious she needn't employ anything of the sort), but she'd feel rude without the gesture.

[serjeant]

It may not be beer (which he's agreed to accept payment in for someone else, being one of the businesses in the area that accepts payment in trade), but he's not going to turn his nose up at a cold drink on a hot day and he gives her a grin as he takes a short break in measuring to taste it. Where 'taste it' means 'swig heartily', because even if it isn't good, it'll be cool still and he's put stranger things in his mouth.

He'd wondered, but he hadn't worried; she's not going to leave a pretty animal like this behind. (Shame.)

He's half-finished the lemonade when he goes to hammer out the new shoes.

[suninhades]

It's either trust or arrogance that lets her feel comfortable enough to leave her horse in the care of a veritable stranger; perhaps she's naive, or perhaps she's just confident in her ability to decapitate anyone who'd do something as idiotic as turn that moment into a crime. (Spoilers: it's the latter.)

Integra is privately quite pleased to get out for a bit, even if it's just to eat food that isn't Hellsing kitchen sandwiches and sit on the wooden porch of a wild-west looking smithy and watch a man who looks like a bloody Hun shoe her horse. She catches herself thinking that the sun is irritating, for a moment, and promptly squashes the thought with prejudice. Once she's done eating, she pulls her CiD and a notebook out of a saddlebag, and is content to work quietly while Seoraj works probably rather loudly.

[serjeant]

The fall of his hammer isn't a delicate affair, and it'll be hard for anyone passing to fail to note the familiar sound of strenuous work, the ring of steel and grunts of effort making a surely pleasant backdrop to Integra's nice day out. His sturdy leather apron offers some measure of protection, and he falls into the rhythm of what he's doing with ease that's every day getting, well, more easy.

In Arum, he had no illusions about leaving soldiering behind for good. In Baedal, he wonders, sometimes.

[suninhades]

Perhaps impressively, her horse doesn't react more than throwing his head back once at the start of the hammering. He looks over at Integra a few times, as if assessing her for a cue on how to proceed, and then settles in like he can't even hear it. Integra finishes up correspondences, goes over schedules, sends a few emails - at one point one of her employees calls her, and she speaks evenly through the background noise. The cadence of her voice is strong and calm, and it's clear that while she is a stoic woman, she is not an unkind leader.

It is a thing that transcends species, that restlessness, and Integra is no stranger to it. When one is limited, one always wishes to do more. (She wants to burn down the whole city, some days, with how confined she feels.) Working oneself to the edges of capacity means you think about it less - or that you sharpen your edges to razors.

[serjeant]

Shoeing a horse hot is a time consuming business, and there's a bit of back and forth before he's satisfied enough to dowse the steel and set to the work of hammering in the new shoes. A proper farrier might do this in another place, but in his village it was the blacksmith's business and he sees no reason not to offer it among his services here, too. It's good work, tangible work, like settling into this city and like learning the way to be the person his fellows feel comfortable talking to.

(That's a little less straightforwardly honest, but for now all he's doing is listening, and there's nothing nefarious about staying abreast of recent events. This city is not a safe place.)

"Easy, now," he says, and, "Be still," as he takes hammer and nails to the horse's new shoes. Thoughtfully, to Integra, "What d'you think of 'Althalus'?"

[suninhades]

It'd be more suspicious if he wasn't trying to keep himself informed, in context. That kind of stupidity is concerning, and if it were it be present in Seoraj, Integra wouldn't be here.

She's smoking a cigarette by the time the blacksmith addresses her, and she doesn't respond right away. "What does it mean?"

[serjeant]

Seoraj is not unaware that his willingness to embrace Baedal in the first place might mark him a fool to his fellow cohort; those it suits so well aren't the sort he's entirely sure he wishes to impress, beyond well enough that they leave him be. (The Militia, for instance, seems to like a great deal the notion of going along to get along. With them.)

"He was the greatest thief in history." This is not all, but she can anticipate pauses as he works, taking care with her horse. "A man by his name led my people to war a few years ago- all the warriors of Arum amassed behind one Arya's banner, that's no mean feat." No, it isn't ... he's not going to babytalk her horse. "Althalus was the first to hire every clan in Arum, for his Arya of Osthos. We went to war for the world, so they say. I'm a plain man, sir; I can't explain what we saw and I wouldn't try. Rumour told he was the same Althalus from the legends, and around this place, I don't know. Maybe rumour knew something I didn't."

He tests the weight of the hammer in his hand, thoughtfully. "There'll be other wars. It's the nature of men. But not like that one, and not soon. He bought and paid for that peace. Good man."

[suninhades]

"Bought and paid for," she echoes. "Doesn't sound like a much proper thief." But her tone isn't belittling; in fact it's a bit distant. Talk of war puts her in that mood, and quite often, considering how frequently the subject manifests amongst the citizens of Baedal. It should be sad. Integra only feels something hollow.

"No war is like another." She rises then, and goes over to let her horse keen its neck out against her shoulder. She palms his nose and then pats over his neck. "Althalus, then."

She peers over to look at his work, after.

And maybe a bit of his kilt.

[serjeant]

The already-developed reputation that Seoraj is building with his forge barely open is a good argument for his competence, which is now self-evident for her examination. He knows what he's doing.

(And he's got cute knees.)

"It was a clever trick." He doesn't know what the trick was, but even only comparing how long he knows he was gone to how long his aunt knows they were gone - there was a trick. One day, maybe he'll find out. Probably not, though. That sort of thing is miles above his pay grade, just like Sir Hellsing.

[suninhades]

Althalus is fine, she decides; it's aesthetically functional and mysterious enough that she won't have to give any particular reason to anyone who asks beyond 'the blacksmith named him'. She suspects, considering how much of her employee base is American, that it'll shortly become 'Atlas', but that is also fine.

"How long were you a soldier?"

[serjeant]

True to his word, Seoraj will knock the price down some when she pays him for the work. Now, though, he glances to her to answer that question, looking for all the world as though he's never been asked. (He hasn't; he suspects some of the lowlanders think Arum warriors spring from the mountain rock, fully formed.) "Always," he says, with a shrug, but in more detail, "Trained since I was a boy. First campaign would've been something like thirteen years ago, give or take a summer." He'd have been seventeen when he started marching.

[suninhades]

She tilts her head, typically expressionless, but all the same seeming like she's never heard that sort of answer before. (It's not that she doesn't think these sorts of people exist - people more like her - but they always seem to come from other dimensions. She's not sure how to feel about that, so she doesn't feel anything.)

"Good."