Aamu
Is that reluctance? It sounds like reluctance, and it looks like reluctance, and Aamu's head tilts to the side (and stays on that one side, compared to Henry grudgingly working up to agreeing). Aamu's lips purse in a thoughtful expression, one slender, scarred finger tapping against his arm. He'd agreed with himself to drop the subject of his past, not necessarily the subject of Torchline, and he feels like there's something here—
"That's the intention," he agrees softly, knowing that he is on dangerous ground here: he is the impostor, the interloper, the stranger, privy to the plans and part of them by virtue of his worship, and nothing he personally has ever done. He's not the one born from this arid soil from which only the tenuous and hardy spring. "Does it make you feel like you're—running away? Forced out of a fight you feel you should be part of?" The question is equally mellow, hesitant, musing, but to him, it seems the logical conclusion. This is the battle for Henry's homeland, after all, and he's told to go sit it out somewhere safe on a beach, sippin' drinks. He has every right to be frustrated, no matter how foolishly dangerous it would be to stay when they're about to invite hell.
And at least the not-so-very-swordy Henry has a sensible head on his shoulders. Aamu's pleased about this, but not surprised; any farmer's lad (and what else could you have been, living in the trapped Grounds? Aamu's very judgmental today, or maybe just goes off of what he knows of Mabel) knows a good blacksmith takes their time. "I'll get it done before LongNight," he says anyway, leaving it to Henry to figure out why for himself. Shouldn't be too hard.
As for the sword and trade itself... Aamu desperately wishes he had some swords on hand to show, for nothing's quite as effective as testing them out yourself and feeling how they balance, but he considers Henry's build (a bit difficult to tell with the thick winter clothing) and likely past, the memory of his handshake. Does the mental math and calculations. Average one-handed sword, he decides, maybe on the shorter side per the request. Henry should have enough strength to wield it without too much of a fuss. "If you have any leather that would be good for the sheath that would help," he says, before patting his rather worn and threadbare clothing. While it's all mostly whole he does have the look of someone who spent quite some time in a cold and dry grave. "Clothing would be good for myself, though. This'll probably fall apart on me before the season's through."
"That's the intention," he agrees softly, knowing that he is on dangerous ground here: he is the impostor, the interloper, the stranger, privy to the plans and part of them by virtue of his worship, and nothing he personally has ever done. He's not the one born from this arid soil from which only the tenuous and hardy spring. "Does it make you feel like you're—running away? Forced out of a fight you feel you should be part of?" The question is equally mellow, hesitant, musing, but to him, it seems the logical conclusion. This is the battle for Henry's homeland, after all, and he's told to go sit it out somewhere safe on a beach, sippin' drinks. He has every right to be frustrated, no matter how foolishly dangerous it would be to stay when they're about to invite hell.
And at least the not-so-very-swordy Henry has a sensible head on his shoulders. Aamu's pleased about this, but not surprised; any farmer's lad (and what else could you have been, living in the trapped Grounds? Aamu's very judgmental today, or maybe just goes off of what he knows of Mabel) knows a good blacksmith takes their time. "I'll get it done before LongNight," he says anyway, leaving it to Henry to figure out why for himself. Shouldn't be too hard.
As for the sword and trade itself... Aamu desperately wishes he had some swords on hand to show, for nothing's quite as effective as testing them out yourself and feeling how they balance, but he considers Henry's build (a bit difficult to tell with the thick winter clothing) and likely past, the memory of his handshake. Does the mental math and calculations. Average one-handed sword, he decides, maybe on the shorter side per the request. Henry should have enough strength to wield it without too much of a fuss. "If you have any leather that would be good for the sheath that would help," he says, before patting his rather worn and threadbare clothing. While it's all mostly whole he does have the look of someone who spent quite some time in a cold and dry grave. "Clothing would be good for myself, though. This'll probably fall apart on me before the season's through."
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
You are the morning when it's clear
