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[haletriskele-blog]

@prince-notso-charming

Derek watched as the younger man danced around his question for what seemed like a longer moment than it probably was before he botched his way through asking for a horse. Ordinarily, Derek wasn’t allowed to give horses to those that didn’t own them but the boy before him was very clearly high-born and he /was/ wearing the royal quest so he must have had some connection to the king - turning him down would probably prove to be a very stupid move. Technicalities aside, the tan blacksmith wasn't entirely sure giving him a horse was the smartest approach either.

"You can take one of the white ones, in the back. I'll get her saddled for you, my lord" he said and turned on his heels to grab a saddle from the station and place it over the horses back. "She doesn't much like turning right but she'll do," he added, experienced fingers slipping leather through buckles and pulling it taut.

Once he was completely satisfied with his work, he walked the horse over to the waiting noble and settled her in front of him. "She needs to be back in the stables before dark, there's a ride out tonight, in case you didn't know, my lord," he explained, holding the reigns out for the man to take.

[haletriskele-blog]

@prince-notso-charming

Born into poverty, Derek had never really known any different despite his family’s insistence that this land was once theirs, that the wolves roamed free, so, it’s reasonable to expect that he’d never would have seen anything more than back alleys and dirty cobbled streets. He remembered when he and Laura and their younger siblings had traveled into the city in hopes of learning new information that could raise their people out of poverty, how the common folk had spat Triskelion's as if it was a curse. To some it was - history twisted over years he supposed - to those who remembered the great war, however, knew it as a betrayal.

Derek had managed to apprentice under the crown’s blacksmith and when there was a shortfall, he worked the stables too. It was dirty, relentless work but the coin and food on the table kept him returning.  Unlike the tightly built stone of the castle, the stables look more like something Derek is familiar with; they’re made of rough-hewn wooden beams, expertly joined into a handful of structures that must hold enough horses for the entire army. He’s in charge of the ‘high-born’ horses, though he often makes an effort to feed the majority. He tries to imagine this place as his home, sometimes. Mostly, he fails.

It’s a stable day, warm, stuffy and generally unpleasant when he notes the approach of a younger male. Not younger by much, he supposes but with the way he carries himself and the clean clothes, he’s no doubt high born. A bow would probably be appropriate but Derek can’t stop looking curiously at the boy, where Derek is tan from hours of working outside, this male was pale, save for a littering of beauty marks and he pulls his eyes away, back to the horse he’s supposed to be shoeing for the king’s mistress - a small, invisible stone had ruined her ride, she’d said, promising it had nothing to do with that ridiculous dress.

Distracted as he was, he nearly hit his thumb on a miss-stroke and set the hammer down before he ruined his work and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, for all the good it did him and stepped out into the blazing sun. “Can I help you, my lord?” he hedged, unsure, cloth wiping the excess dirt from his fingers and brow.

[haletriskele-blog]