The knife slices quickly through the grain, leaving smooth grooves along the lines he drew. The detail work is the hardest, one small slip, and you’re left with a blemished piece, but Blackwall takes his time. He marks the wood, and before he makes a cut, runs his knife against the stone and leather until its edge is razor sharp. Then all it takes is a deep breath, a steady hand, and a fast motion. With a proper chisel, he could do this faster, but he likes improvising with the knife. There are certain things that are familiar. They reach across time and lies and ground him in who he is and who he could be. Anchors. This is one of them.
Pull across the strop, breathe, focus, cut. Pull across the strop, breathe, focus--
“Oh, this is darling… just reeks of Southern authenticity. And speaking of reeking, I certainly understand where you get your ...distinct odor from now.”
Dorian’s voice shatters his concentration, and with it, the peace he had found. He sets down his knife with a heavy sigh and looks up to see the mage leaning on the barn door, trademark smirk on his face. “What are you doing here?”
“Admiring your home, of course. Pity about the lack of decent hospitality But please don’t stop...” Dorian gestures wildly “...whatever it was you were doing. It’s like watching a Fereldan folk tale in real time. I had no idea you were so crafty.”
“Woodworking is a trade, Dorian. A way for honest people to make a living.”
“Ah, of course. Honest people like you.”
“Oh you’re implying I’m otherwise?” Blackwall gives Dorian a haughty, challenging stare, but the cold fear that lives in his stomach twitches. “I’m not interested in the opinions of spoiled nobles who’ve never had to work a day in their life. You probably never had to wipe your own ass before you came here.”
“It has been a rough transition.” Dorian nods. “But unlike some, for me hygiene is a high priority and I’m a quick learner.” He walks towards Blackwall, picking up the ends of his silk robe in one hand as he tiptoes across the floor like it is covered in manure, not straw and dust, and then with his other hand, holds out a small scroll. “Oddly enough, I didn’t come for the stimulating conversation, just to bring a message from your Lady Cadash.”
He takes the paper in his hands, not opening it. “Why would you deliver this?”
“Well, I was leaving her quarters--oh just a little game of chess, don’t look at me like that, big guy, she’s not exactly my type-- and she asked me to deliver it, and of course, my first thought was “use blood magic on one of the castle workers”but then I thought ‘ No, Dorian, Expand your horizons. Do something new. Try doing an honest job of it and so--”
“Wait, Hella was playing chess?”
Dorian laughs. “Poorly. She hasn’t the patience for it.” There’s a fondness in Dorian’s voice when he talks about her and Blackwall still doesn’t know what to do with that. He thought at first that Dorian was sweet talking up to her, and that Hella didn’t realize it was manipulation, but over time, he’s come to see that the man does have genuine affection for her, and vice versa.
Chess. He pictures Hella, her face squished in angry concentration, glaring at Dorian as he beat her. She’d be angry, so angry she’d consider flipping the table in his face and that thought would make her burst out laughing.
When she smiles at him, he can almost forget everything. Her easy acceptance, her hands on his….It’s an anchor, but not one he deserves. Of course Dorian cares for her. Who wouldn’t?
“Well. Thank you.”
“I live to serve.” Dorian hesitates a moment, looking at the slab of wood, as if he’s considering asking about it, but then he turns and slides out, still holding up his robe as he leaves.
Blackwall waits until he is past the arches, then breaks the seal and unfolds the note.
“My Dear Warden Blackwall,
Terrible news! I believe there is a Blight happening in my quarters. No, scratch that, I can confirm it. A Blight. Truly awful. Archdemon and all that. I’m definitely going to need a Warden’s assistance tonight.
Yours,
Hella
(P.S. come in an hour? I need to freshen up. I mean, prepare for battle)”
He sets the note down, a mixture of happiness and guilt stirring in his gut, and picks the knife back up. Perhaps he can finish this section before he goes to her.
Keep a steady hand. Don’t slip. Shallow cuts. Go slow. Once you cut a piece of wood, it can never be undone. Pull across the strop, breathe, focus, cut.