RP:The Man with the Iron Hand

From HollowWiki

Part of the Thy Kingdom Come Arc


Summary: Defeated and humiliated, Balgruuf and Balder look to the future. The father touts optimism, but the hateful son cannot see beyond his own misfortune and hurls bitter, bleak insults. All the while, Gikal, the master armorer of Frostmaw, is hard at work on a very specific request.


Smithing Supplies

The march back to Frostmaw has been very long indeed. There will be much to answer and many explanations to be made, but for now, Balder cradles his stump in a bundle of rags and grits his teeth, staring up in strained determination at the high ceilings of the fort smithy. He's avoided addressing the reality of the situation. Nevermind that he's a mess of blood; that's a badge of honor among his people. But what of his hands? His wound had been field dressed, and he's in no danger of dying, but he dares not look down, for Balder doubts he has the heart to bear the sight of his injuries. Setting his jaw like stone, he waits as instructed for further aid to come. If only someone would wipe the cold sweat from his brow. Someone, anyone but him. Balder can't bring himself to use his hands, his hand, for anything.


It seemed as though Balgruuf only ever laid his hands upon his son to thrash him or to discipline him, but now was different. Now, he settled both hands on the shoulders of Balder and squeezed gently for reassurance. He was worried for his son. Worried for himself, but for his son more so. Would he be reduced to the state of cripple like his wretched brother? Would he be able to fight on? “It’ll be alright, son,” he says, his voice no more than a whisper for fear that if he talks any louder then things will definitely not be alright. Master Gikal, the master armourer of Frostmaw, is at work in the forge. Unlike any natural forge, however, it is cold and icy. There’s no heat coming from this forge because Gikal is cold-forging blue iron. The secret of Frostmaw, the metal that cannot be forged in the heat. “It’ll be alright,” Balgruuf says again quietly.


"No, it won't." Balder rebuts, swallowing thereafter. He won't look at his father. "We were beaten in disgrace." The fight is still vivid in his recollection. His voice doesn't raise even a little, but it bears the bleak, direct force of despair, the words of a man who is doomed. "I froze on the battlefield, and I had to be carried away like a babe after I let myself get... maimed." He pauses for breath, a sigh begun in ice that ends in fire. "And you're a damned blasphemer. We're forsaken now." In his kindling hatred, he finds the courage at last to look down at his arms. Balder raises them before his eyes. A stump in rags and a three-fingered claw. A shout trembles up in his throat, at first a raw cry, but Balder find words to form around his anguish. "Everything is ruined!"


Balgruuf is horribly stung by the words of his son. He knows there is some truth in them, he knows it. It’s that guilty conscious. He had no real love of Aramoth. Certainly, he praised the God of War in his youth but it was the God of Coin that soon replaced Aramoth in Balgruuf’s eyes. “You did not allow yourself to be maimed,” he replied in a fierce growl. Not an angry growl at Balder, but the protective growl of a parent. “It is not our fault that Hildegarde had the advantage,” he said, refusing to acknowledge Balder’s bad temper of the night. Clang, clang, goes Gikal’s hammer. He was a loyalist. Loyal to Hildegarde. But a savage beating and nights of isolation had broken his spirit; along with threats to his loved ones. He’s working on something for Balgruuf and Balder. “No!” Balgruuf counters, his voice terse yet still collected. Authoritative but calm. “No, it is not ruined! It’s a setback. It happens. But now… now Hildegarde will march on Frostmaw. And we will have the upper-hand. She cannot breach the mountain pass without an army or without terms. We can ambush her or repel her easily in a fight. We can win.”


Balder lowers his arms and stares ahead, still refusing to give Balgruuf the slightest glance. For a moment he considers shaking the paternal touch off his shoulders, but it almost feels more penitent to suffer under the unwelcome grasp. The elder giant's words feel pithy to Balder now. Reflexively, he clenches his fist, and the warrior is promptly rewarded with pain for his temper. "Haa! Ahh, no. No, no, no." Pressing his stump back into his palm, Balder looks aside. "Don't preach your cheery outlook to me."


Balgruuf is willing to overlook such cheek from his son. He was angry because he was hurt, that’s all. That was the only issue. “War is coming,” he says, just as Gikal brings forth the piece of work he had been slaving over. “And we must be ready,” he said, tightening his grasp on Balder’s shoulders as Gikal unravels the rags on Balder’s stump and harshly brings the limb forward before guiding the stump into the slot of the blue iron hand. It’s cold enough to freeze the flesh of Balder’s skin, hissing as if it were burning it was just that cold. It would be painful, that was of no doubt. But Balder would have a hand again.


Balder has been handled by healers and attendants, and so he sees no reason to resist when they begin moving his arm again. He's busy trying to accept his fate, after all. The hiss of freezing flesh startles him out of that bleak endeavor, and he looks over in shock, gasping for more reason that one. Naturally, he tries to pull away, but Balgruuf and Gikal have already thought of that. Balder is left no choice but to accept the implementation, and, perhaps even against his sense of self-pity, to marvel at the metal hand. "I won't," won't what? Won't let them? Won't keep it? His spirit cries in stubborn rejection, but there is nowhere for Balder to turn his ego. Eventually, eyes still on the blue iron prosthetic, he fishes up a chance to get one last dig in. "You think you'll fix everything this easily."


Balgruuf, once again, will accept the sting. Many people say stupid things when they are in pain. “We’ll destroy them together, my son,” he promises, seemingly ignoring or at least overlooking Balder’s dig against him. He could only pray to overcome Hildegarde and her allies. He could not lose his son. Not now. The blue iron hand glistens in the light: it a deep metallic blue and appears to be very details. Fingers feature little wrinkles, even short fingernails are featured as if to heighten the realism.


Balder studies the hand, trying to feign disinterest and, of course, failing. Though he is much to pretentous to voice any kind of gratitude or forgiveness, Balgruuf knows his son, and he can be confident that the boy will come around once he's had a chance to put his temper and pride behind himself. When Gikal has finished affixing the prosthesis, Balder lifts it with a grunt, turning it over in the light and judging it harshly. It's easy to imagine the metal hand plunging through bones like a club or, in the case of a puny southerner, smashing an enemy flat without effort. "It's heavy." He comments. It can hardly be called a complaint. Everyone in the room knows the weight will be put to good use. "We'll destroy them," he resignedly echoes.