i think we could be friends - Printable Version

Madhukar was mostly here for the weather. It was exceptionally verdant this season — although she didn't have much understanding of what seasons were — and the water of the bay was warm and nice on her toesies. I mean her toes. She had decided that her dress was perfect to lounge in, and that clothes were nice because when they got dirty you could just put water on them and wait, and they kept her body hidden and that was kind of nice too. I mean, she was pretty much used to it by now — how it moved, how it took so much more energy for it to maintain balance, how tired it got but how long it could run, how her hand-paw-thing was sort of less awkward to her now. Madhukar's body was just a vessel she inhabited, a vessel she took care of because taking care of it, she had found, helped with worse thoughts. It made her happy. It was funny — being clothed made her feel less like hiding. They were pretty, and comfy, and she was grateful. And she was curious.

Few others in these caves wore such things as clothing. Madhukar had never thought about it before, but the ones who did... there was one who lived here, wasn't there? She knew where. She had been here before. The Black City — the quest to rediscover it — she remembered, that had started here. Somewhere around... aha, there! The entrance to the volcano. The Forge! The guy! Who worked! The Forge! The enchanted items. Water breathing. Her goggles, she had remembered wanting to enchant them, and she hadn't. This guy, what did he do now? What were his clothes like?

She pitter-pattered in, soft as a drizzle, and wandered around the Workshop. Admiration for the many crafts on display developed in the film of her eyes. Metalwork came in many sizes, much of it too large for her. The designs felt impressive though, and she kind of wanted to try swinging a blade around. She wouldn't, though. Just walk. Look around. Call out: "Anybody?"

It was funny, really; about half of the Blacksmith's visitors were there about what they wore. The rest, about what they wielded, of course; but half, for their armor.

It wasn't about the fashion, though of course he'd always put care into his creations. But things like dresses, trousers, fancy ruffles and polka-dots? He'd never have considered those. The elements of Chaos did not tend toward the elaborate, but rather the brutal and intimidating. The effective.

It was a breastplate he was working on now, in fact: broad and black, its iron pitted and worn. He was reinforcing this with great, clanging blows of his hammer.

The robes he wore--those were somewhat different, of course. In a sense, they helped define who he was, for few would think "the Blacksmith" without picturing his iconic cloak and mask. But again, it wasn't something he often thought about.

The voice slid neatly in, distant, between two strikes of the hammer: and he looked up, peering toward the sound, wondering for a moment if he'd imagined it. But he set the weapon down and headed for the tunnel mouth--and there he spotted Madhukar. "Hello," he responded softly, peering at her silhouetted there.

She probably should have guessed from the clanging that somebody was here, no less a Blacksmith, but you know, it was kind of just part of the ambience. The ambience was part of the environment, and the environment wasn't really a person, or part of Anyone?, so Madhukar was still left to anticipate a presence. Aha, and there it was!

Madhukar gave a little wave in response to the greeting, having none prepared in her throat. She wandered up to the Blacksmith, close enough to need to crane her neck up to look at him while still keeping comfortable distance. She wore, today, her dress (with pockets!) and her hooded cloak — although the hood was down. In some manner, she had donned something similar to his outfit, but she had abandoned her mask. Which — actually, that made her wonder: "Why wear the mask?" And she would point at her own face for added clarity. It felt like kind of a childish question, but Madhukar knew her reasons for wearing hers. She had never seen the Blacksmith without it (although she had never seen the Blacksmith much at all anyways).

A gentle blink from behind said mask accompanied the movement of one hand, the trail of fingers across its surface.

"It is-... tradition," he answered quietly. "Family." A gentle waving away, but for a moment, he looked troubled. One of them had rejected that tradition--all their traditions, to his consternation--but it was what it was. Nothing could be done about that, now.

"I am the Blacksmith. Have... we met?" he rasped, uncertain. So many of them came and went that, at times, it almost seemed like they passed through his dreams.