• Closed • Irony

[Vakhanor]

Taken aback by the exchange Vakhanor met Malcolm's eyes with piqued confusion as he tucked his purse back into his pocket. "Right," the smith muttered and caught up with Malcolm to yet another paddock of horses, just black ones this time. Leant forward against the wooden fence Vakh watched the animals, he was about as good with appraising horses as a blunt axe was at chopping wood. How much did a horse usually cost?

“You and Violet,” Malcolm made mention, “are you serious about her?”

"Yes. I don't believe in being loose with women Malcolm," the smith answered, releasing a long drawn out sigh "I intend to be there for her, but more than anything I want her to be happy." A pang of old pain surfaced along his features and his fell toward the grass, he wanted her in his life; that much he knew. Whether a young woman like that would even consider a man ten years her elder was another matter entirely. For her to live a life with him meant that by the time she was a few years above his age, he would be dead and she would inevitably be alone.

"You're more her type anyway," he said, turning his face to address the approaching merchant. Silent, Vakhanor watched the warden work the magic of his words. 'Negotiation, try not to seem to eager' he replayed the words in his head, mildly impressed.

Returning Malcolm's smile he nodded, looking carefully over to the horses to get an idea of the size horseshoe her could craft for the creatures.

"Beautiful aren't they?" the salesman pitched up, attempting to capture Vakhanor's attention "that one over there. Pure breed and a jumper, beautiful colour too. A pride and joy to work with these two!"

"Cool," Vakh replied, hoping that he sounded disinterested enough to go along with whatever Malcolm had been planning to achieve.

"Do you like horses?" he pushed, with a lively cunning smile.

"Nope," Vakh answered, turning to meet the man's exasperated gaze with a bored expression "you like talking though."

Lost for what to do Vakh shot Malcolm a glance 'Help?'

[Malcolm]

“Cool?” The merchant gave him a puzzled look, “no they are warm blooded.”
Malcolm too looked perplexed, but for different reasons. Last night at the dinner table he had been concerned the pair were going to strip off and get busy in front of everyone, which seemed pretty loose to him. But what was it Vakhanor had said, she would suit him better? It were almost as if the smith knew something he didn't, was Elyna not that into him?
“Purebred just means that a grand-sire probably covered his own progeny one too many times,” Malcolm turned his thoughts to the topic at hand once more. “I wouldn't pay anymore than fifty for anything here unless it's stunning and rideable, then and only then, might I go as high as one hundred.”
“No, no, worth much more, one fifty,” the merchant told them.
“Then you won't be selling anything to us today.” Malcolm waved him off and followed the man with a look, making sure he let them be.
One of the usual salesmen he had dealt with in the past waved them over, a man who just so happened to own the ship that had brought the animals to the shores of Rynmere. “Those three,” Malcolm told him, “and I think my friend wants the grey.”
“Irony?”
Malcolm nodded.
“Very well.” He took Malcolm’s gold coins and turned to Vakhanor with open palm.

[Vakhanor]

Settled back against the fence Vakhanor quietly followed the conversation between Malcolm with yet another salesman, one that Malcolm appeared to be more familiar with. The stranger took Mal’s money and held out his hand for Vakh. Confused by the ease of the exchange in comparison to the other two sellers, did they just work for the stables as rookies? Slow to get the picture the smith his hand back into his pouch and gave the man the coin for the horse. The grey one? Irony, he'd called her. Vakhanor could only wonder why.

“Thank you for your business sirs,” the man said with a wide smile “Come, have some tea. I will see to it the stable hands ready the horses for you.”

Sounded better than standing around, granted Vakhanor wasn't used to waiting. He liked to move. Anxious, Vakhanor smiled and loosly swung his fists into his hands to try and rid of the awkward agitation. “Sure thing,” he replied, casually following the stranger.

“So… what exactly is mud fever?” The smith asked casually in an attempt to actually talk. They had been talking about his relationship for Violet, however it seemed the warden left it to bed; which was easy enough for him. “Does it hurt the horses?” he asked casually as they walked, burying his hands in his pockets. A part of him wished Elyna were there, their friendship had not been easy over the past few weeks; but it was easier to talk to her.

[Malcolm]

Vakhanor seemed keen on the tea, and so Malcolm followed, taking a seat in the shade where the tea was being served. He shook his head when offered a cup and looked out over the docks and beyond to the quiet ocean.
“Mud Fever?” Malcolm looked at his hands as he spoke, pulling a piece of grass apart. “Skin irritation on a horse’s feet that can lead to infection. Horses that stand around in the muck a lot of the time or on waterlogged ships usually have trouble with it. It's not difficult to get rid of, but when it's bad, it can be terrible. They get big red sores and all their hair starts falling out around the affected area.”
After a bit of persuading, Malcolm eventually accepted a cup of tea and sat in relative silence, just enjoying being outdoors and away from the city. “Have you done much work with helms and such?” Malcolm inquired, interested in the smith’s skill and line of work. “I'd like to design something, perhaps a shield?”

[Vakhanor]

Malcolm kindly explained the meaning behind the disease and left Vakhanor considering the knowledge with piqued amusement. Knowing that horses didn't like ships almost as much as he did was ironic to him, at least he had something in common with the animals. Finally the warm aroma of honey and chamomile tea filled his nostrils, offered to help them both against the Ashan chill, not that he needed it.

Welcoming the silence, Vakhanor's cool crystal eyes steadily focused onto the knight that stood before him, his memories drifting back to the arcs when he cared about the gazette. 'The Return of The Golden Knights,' the headline had said and the people held a celebration in honour for the men returned from battling a great threat against the city. Malcolm Krome had been favoured by many, and many children had wanted to be like Malcolm that day, everybody - including him. Side by side with the one man that he once admired, yet the one man he could never be he studied the man head to toe. Nobility had not been kind to him from where he lived, and they often pissed on the poor for the misfortunes whether they intended to or not. Malcolm was one of those men, a man of 'the light', of honour. As for Vakhanor, he clung to the shadows as a tool of darkness.

"Some," he answered, breaking his gaze. Smithing had been his profession since before Sirothelle and long after, and after the several arcs he had learned a thing or two "What are you looking to be done?"