Crossing the gorge turned out to be far from the hassle-free journey Baldur had anticipated. As they approached the bridge, a chaotic scene unfolded before their eyes. A fierce battle raged between the Free Folk and the southern Crows, with the former clearly on the losing end. Arson tensed, watching the clash from his vantage point on Bob's sturdy shoulder.
Baldur surveyed the scene, his gaze shifting between the struggling northerners on the bridge and Arson. "You do bear a striking resemblance to them," he remarked, his eyes focusing on Arson's worn hides and furs. "It's possible they might mistake you for an enemy and attack on sight."
A nervous whimper escaped Arson's lips at the thought, and he turned his gaze downward to meet Baldur's eyes. "Do you have any spare clothing or armor I could wear?" he asked, his voice laced with desperation.
Baldur nodded in response, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. "In one of the bags that Bob is carrying, you'll find my old armor. Hurry and put it on. We'll attempt to cross the gorge discreetly," he instructed, urging Arson to quickly don the protective gear.
With gentle care, the towering bronze figure set Arson down on the ground and offered a comforting pat on the head—an unexpected display of tenderness that left both Baldur and Arson puzzled.
Arson, now rummaging through the bags, mustered the courage to voice an alternative suggestion. "Maybe we should head farther south and seek your information in a sizable settlement. The warriors here are unlikely to have any knowledge about your unique blade," he proposed, his tone tinged with pleading as he continued his search for the armor Baldur had mentioned.
Baldur took a moment to consider Arson's words. The logic was sound; border patrols would likely have no knowledge of a random blade. If the region was as antiquated as Baldur suspected, scholars would be a rarity. His best chance lay in encountering fellow craftsmen or individuals who appeared scholarly, much like those dwelling in the Athena cabin.
After brief contemplation, Baldur made up his mind. Going farther south seemed like a reasonable course of action. While he wasn't one to shy away from confrontation, the prospect of losing Arson, his translator, weighed heavily on his mind.
"Very well," Baldur conceded, his voice firm beneath the helmet he wore. "We shall travel south, navigating through those mountains in the distance. We'll stick to the eastern side and search for any substantial settlements. Just be prepared for sleeping on the mountainside," he added, chuckling at the thought as he observed Arson momentarily pause in his attempts to don the armor.
Arson's voice wavered with uncertainty as he responded, "Sleeping on the side of a mountain? Are you serious? How do people even manage that?" He contemplated their options, momentarily swayed by the daunting prospect. "Perhaps we should reconsider crossing the gorge instead," he suggested, his nerves evident.
Baldur's smirk widened beneath his helmet, his confidence unshaken. "Trust me," he assured Arson, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Sleeping on the side of a mountain can be quite an adventure. You'll see."
---
"Now remember, your sole responsibility is to translate for me. And I mean exactly what I say. Understood?" Baldur's gaze fell upon Arson, who now walked alongside Bob. They found themselves on the outskirts of a town situated not too far from a massive castle, the imposing structure casting a shadow over the landscape.
Arson nodded enthusiastically, trying to exude confidence. "Don't worry, I've got it covered. You may have forgotten, but we Thenn are renowned on the northern side of the damn wall. We're the best at speaking both the old tongue and the common tongue. I've picked up plenty during my travels outside the clan," he boasted, a hint of smugness in his voice.
A small group of guards began approaching from the town, their hands resting on their weapons, ready to draw if necessary. Baldur couldn't fault them for their caution. If he were in their shoes and confronted with multiple metallic figures, armed to the teeth, he would likely be on edge as well.
"Stay right where you are! Identify yourselves," the lead guard demanded, his words in an unexpected English. Baldur turned his head toward Arson, who sheepishly scratched the back of his helmet and confessed, "Boss... I regret to inform you that I can't... uh... understand them."
"You idiot. What made you think the gibberish you were spouting to me before was the southern language? Never mind. Don't answer that," Baldur scolded Arson in the old tongue, turning his attention back to the guards, some of whom had drawn their blades in response to his stern tone. Baldur removed his helmet, prompting Arson to do the same.
"We apologize for intruding. We have traveled a long and arduous journey in search of shelter, and this place was the first of significance we stumbled upon. I am Sir Baldur, a hedge knight, and this is my squire, Arson. Please forgive him, as he is unfamiliar with our language," Baldur addressed the guards, his voice carrying an air of sincerity.
"I thought all of you hedge knights headed south in search of opportunities during the war," he jokingly remarked, a smile dancing on his lips for a brief moment before his expression turned more serious. The question hung in the air as he asked, "Where do you hail from, Ser Baldur?" The front guard, though displaying a slight ease in his demeanor, still retained a trace of tension, as if harboring an unspoken suspicion.
Suspecting that his mention of the war in the south had prompted their caution, Baldur took a moment to devise a believable yet arbitrary location. "I hail from... the Stone Shores," he confidently replied.
"Stony Shore, huh? Must be from one of those quaint fishing villages," a guard from the rear interjected, evoking a touch of familiarity among his comrades, causing their guarded stances to relax somewhat.
However, the front guard narrowed his gaze, his eyes piercing. "You've neglected to introduce the two accompanying you," he pointed out, his suspicion no longer veiled.
"My apologies," Baldur swiftly acknowledged, gesturing towards the silent duo of Blue and Bob. "Allow me to rectify that. This is Bernard the Blue and Bob, friends from my homeland who willingly chose to accompany me upon my knighthood."
The guards took a moment to ponder the explanation, exchanging glances as they deliberated. Eventually, the head guard nodded with reluctant acceptance. "Very well then. You may proceed, but your armored beast will have to remain outside the confines of the town. Your armored shadowcat might scare the smallfolk, and I don't wanna deal with the complaints."
Baldur offered a nod of appreciation and slipped on his helmet as they moved away, his keen hearing catching snippets of conversation drifting from the guards. "My bloody face would freeze solid wearing a helmet like that in the heart of winter."
Disregarding their comments, Baldur turned to face Arson, locking eyes with him. "You have a choice, Arson. Stick close to me in the town or remain outside with the others. However, if you decide to accompany me—no trouble will be tolerated," he warned.
---
As he traversed the streets of the town known as Winter Town, Baldur couldn't help but appreciate the genius of his improvised backstory, the "Stony Shores." The town's peculiar naming conventions seemed to align perfectly with his fabricated origin. The concept of "fake it till you make it" resonated strongly within him, and the success of his ruse reinforced that belief. However, he couldn't shake off his concern about Arson's decision to remain behind. Nevertheless, he resolved that the presence of Trini and Blue would suffice to keep any potential trouble in check.
After a while, Baldur's ears detected the familiar echoes of a hammer striking metal. Intrigued, he followed the sound until he stumbled upon a modest smithy. Inside, an elderly craftsman was instructing a younger apprentice, who was attempting to fashion a horseshoe. "You blundering fool! I explicitly told you to be firm but gentle! Apply precise force!" scolded the aged man.
The apprentice retorted, his gaze still fixed on the piece of metal before him, "How in the hell am I supposed to—" He abruptly turned his head, freezing in place as he locked eyes with Baldur, who stood at the entrance, a friendly smile adorning his face.
The elder smith followed his apprentice's gaze and hurriedly made his way towards the entrance upon spotting Baldur. "Greetings, Ser. How may I be of service to you?" he respectfully inquired.
Baldur rested his hand on his Damascus steel blade and noticed the old smith's flinch. "Relax. I have no intention of striking you," he reassured, drawing the blade partially to let the elderly man's eyes trace the intricate patterns of the waves on the steel.
"I seek information about the origins of this blade. I understand that you may not have specific knowledge, but any assistance you can provide would be greatly appreciated," Baldur inquired, his tone conveying seriousness.
The smith extended his hands, seeking permission to examine the weapon. Baldur placed it gently into the worn palms of his fellow craftsman, noting the surprise that flickered across the man's face. "It's remarkably light," the smith commented. However, his brow furrowed, and he returned the blade to Baldur. "Forgive me, Ser, but I have no knowledge of the origins of such a magnificent weapon. Perhaps the castle's own blacksmith might possess more information."
Sheathing his blade, Baldur continued his inquiry, "Could you kindly direct me to the whereabouts of the castle blacksmith?"
"He lives in the walls of Winterfell, but he likes to spend his nights at the Smoking Log in town," the man told Baldur.
"I cannot offer coin, but I think I can spare some time to show you and your apprentice a thing or two." Baldur moved forward into the smithy and past the older man. He faced the apprentice and motioned for his hammer. "Give it here; I'll show you how a real smith works metal."
---
Ryden POV
Ryden had been serving as the apprentice to the town's blacksmith, Old Man Toren, for several months. Finally, the time had come for him to work with the metal, but his initial assignments of crafting nails and horseshoes proved to be dreadfully dull, much to his disappointment.
Toren, unfortunately, proved to be a less than satisfactory teacher. He constantly emphasized the importance of using "exact force" and being "firm but gentle," leaving Ryden perplexed. How was he supposed to decipher such ambiguous instructions? Every time Toren struck the metal, it appeared as though he was exerting all his strength without any finesse in his strikes.
Perhaps Toren was merely toying with him, Ryden contemplated. Being that old, the blacksmith likely derived amusement from teasing people in a similar manner. On the other hand, the mysterious knight demonstrated a remarkable proficiency in working with metal. The knight's craftsmanship was akin to an artistic masterpiece.
Observing the knight skillfully shaping the molten metal, Ryden gradually grasped the essence of what the old blacksmith meant by "exact force." Each strike executed by the knight was purposeful, carefully coaxing the metal into the desired form. Unlike Toren, who appeared to be forcefully taming a wild beast, the knight guided the metal with gentle precision.
For the first time, Ryden felt a genuine passion for the art of smithing. Previously, it had been nothing more than a means to an end—a trade that would enable him to support a family. However, now a flame of inspiration had been ignited within him, and Ryden found himself getting lost in the intricacies of working with metal. He daydreamed of becoming a master blacksmith capable of taming metal and forging magnificent works of art.
As the knight quenched the freshly forged blade, Ryden snapped out of his reverie and surveyed his surroundings. He noticed that Toren had been equally captivated by the knight's skills.
"Here, a gift," the enigmatic knight declared, extending the blade towards Toren. Though the dagger lacked a grip, Ryden couldn't help but be mesmerized by its majestic presence. The blade was adorned with complex engravings that appeared more valuable than a knight's armor. Intricately woven into the metal was a depiction of a roaring fire at the base of the blade, with a figure holding a hammer within the flames.
Toren was taken aback, gripping the blade with such force that he inadvertently drew blood, despite its dull edge. "S-ser—" Toren stammered, struggling to find words, "how can I accept such a masterpiece? I witnessed your every move, and yet I cannot fathom how you achieved such artistry."
The knight smiled, having long discarded his helmet and placed it aside so he could properly work. "It's quite simple, really. You just need to be firm but gentle," he chuckled, earning a smirk from Ryden in response. It served Toren right.
"Just take it, whether to sell it, study it, or pass it down as a family heirloom. It matters not to me," the knight suggested, picking up his helmet and placing it back on. As he departed from the smithy, passing by the astonished Toren, he patted Ryden on the shoulder and whispered, "Praise Hephaestus."
Frowning at the knight's strange words, Ryden found himself unable to grasp their meaning. Before he could inquire further, the knight had already departed, leaving Ryden to ponder the encounter with a mix of fascination and curiosity.
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PS: This is also the last OG chapter from LokiOdinson. Had to revise his work and tweak it a bit to suit my future needs but overall left it as it is.
From here on out…it's all me.