Shantania/Supports/ArgurTeah

Level 1

"So, you're new around here, yeah?" Teah slides closer on the bench, seemingly ignorant of the danger of sitting near such a hulk.

Argur shrugs his significant shoulders. "I am surprised that you haven't seen me before. I am difficult to miss, or so the Wagonmaster tells me." His basso voice causes the table to vibrate slightly.

"Well, most folks check in with me once in a while. You haven't visited me even once." It's hard to tell if the young blacksmith is more offended or surprised.

"I have simply had no need for your services." Argur returns the remnants of his haunch of meat to the wooden plate on the table in front of him. "It's my understanding that you are busy...what with the wagon repairs, weapon maintenance, and so on."

"You're not wrong, but..." Teah looks at her plate for a moment. "You can't stay away from me forever. Some time, you're going to need my help, even if you won't admit it."

Argur looks at his right palm, then clenches the hand into a tight fist. "I may not need any such thing." He takes the plate from the table and makes to leave.

Teah, however, wonders what Argur is really thinking. Nobody else misses their scheduled weapon maintenance days, except for him. The thought occurs to Teah that perhaps he is getting his services from a third-party smithy.

Level 2

Argur sits on the steps of the library cart, reading a book on the Tenets of Gozen. Just as he is beginning to understand the meaning of Strength in All Things, he feels a tap at his shoulder...but not a tap with a finger or hand. Something cold and metal. Argur quickly reaches an arm to his right and grabs something light and warm in the process. Only when he brings his arm back in front of him does he realize the identity of his catch.

"Um....hi?" Teah the blacksmith stands there, quivering, daintily balancing an extremely large flanged mace on its enormous head.

"What is this?" Argur asks, letting Teah out of his grasp.

"I made you a gift. I don't know your weapon of choice, Argur, so I thought you might like something blunt and heavy." She has not much difficulty carrying the giant mace - the mace being nearly as tall as she is - but lifting it to present to Argur proves much harder. Argur, not wishing to be rude, sets his book aside and holds the mace for a while.

"It is well-forged. I suspect a man of the cloth might find it useful, providing he might lift it." Argur carefully lays the weapon against the cart.

"But...I made it for you."

"Your efforts are exceptional, young blacksmith, but I fear I have not much use for this sort of weapon." He habitually cracks his knuckles.

Teah looks almost heartbroken. "Well...I didn't want the effort to go to waste...but you seemed the type that preferred blunt force over slashing with a blade. I suppose, then, that I was wrong."

"You are not wrong."

"Huh?"

"I indeed do not enjoy drawing blood. Yet, I do not prefer this sort of weapon. Rather, I do not prefer any sort of weapon. I fight with only the strength that I have been given."

The blacksmith initially looks confused, but then realizes what Argur means. "You fight bare-handed?"

"Indeed."

"I'd assume you were some crazed asylum escapee, yet you don't appear as if your style presents you much difficulty at all."

"Indeed it does not." Argur clenches one hand into a tight fist and looks it over. "Without heavy weaponry to be struck from my grip, I am sure you might find it's hard to disarm me."

"I'm impressed, but...I really wanted to make you something, in exchange for all your help in these last few skirmishes."

"Your thanks are all I desire." Argur returns to his seat and resumes reading.

Teah says her goodbyes and marches to her portable forge. "There must be something...what could I forge, for a man who needs no weapon?"

Level 3

It is past sundown. Most of the caravan has retired for the night, either sleeping in the wagons or near the various campfires. The weather is fair, the temperature only slightly chilly. Aside from the crackle of the fires and the occasional snore, the only noise is an occasional wince of pain, followed by a faint whisper.

"Don't grasp! You'll break the splint again," comes the voice of Teah, unaccustomed to being a nurse, let alone a covert one.

"Nggh! I can't move my fingers without breaking it."

"That's the point, Argur, you're not supposed to."

"These hands must move! I cannot claim my rightful place in the sagas if I can't so much as ready a fist."

"Alright, alright, calm down!" Teah hisses. "I can't believe of all the books you've read, you didn't read a single passage on caring for battle wounds."

"That subject does not interest me."

"It had damned well better in the future." The blacksmith wipes her brow on a sleeve. "Survivability seems like a weak point for you. No armor, no weapon, and what in the King's name were you doing trying to punch a steel breastplate?"

"I search armored foes for weak points and aim for them. For those moments when no weak point may be found...I must prepare myself for the consequences." Argur winces again as Teah sets his pinky bone and wraps it in a makeshift splint.

"Well, the consequence here is that you're not going to be able to punch anything for a while. At least, not until your bones fix themselves. Honestly, Argur, you give yourself way too much credit if you think you can just sock someone in the armor and not enter a world of pain."

"I have no such expectation, Teah. That is why I train the way I do."

"I don't think you're quite getting my meaning, Argur." She finishes applying the splint and looks the warrior in the eye. "It's because of your training that you broke your fingers. In battle, you're fine. We have yet to run into anybody wearing steel armor, thank goodness."

Argur lets out a sigh so deep that the camp fire flares up briefly. "If I can't be of use to this army..."

"I'll think of something, alright? Give me one week. Until then, you just keep reading about your heroes of old. And try not to bend your fingers. They'll heal better." Teah gives Argur an affectionate pat on the back, then retreats to her cart, while Argur picks up his copy of The Legend of Gregor Caynea and wonders how he'll turn the pages without breaking another splint.

Level 4

In the middle of camp, two people face off against each other. One flexes his fingers and clenches his fists. The other is made of straw and is clad in a spare breastplate. The air holds a tension so thick that it could tow a wagon. One would nearly expect a tumbleweed to roll by.

Just as the man not made of straw raises a fist, a voice from afar calls out.

“Argur! Don’t!” It is that of Teah, who is running towards them with a quickness reserved for preying lions.

Argur lets his hand drop to his side, irritated by the interruption. He gives the young blacksmith a look of dissatisfaction as he waits for her to arrive. “I’m all but certain I told you that I’d be training today.”

“And that’s the reason I’m here. I want you to stop for a moment and think about what you’re doing.”

“I am bettering myself.”

“What you’re doing is going to end with you breaking your fingers again. I’m surprised you haven’t had to cut them off by now.”

“Then you do not believe me.” He sits on a nearby log. “I’ve refused to carry a weapon for a very long time, Teah. I know this is at odds with your profession, but...”

“Let me show you something, then. Do you remember the last time you did this and broke your hand?”

“It is a pain I must get used to.”

“You don’t have to. You might remember I told you I’d think of something. Well…” Teah opens her satchel and draws an item that best resembles a rounded metal brick with a handle crossing underneath it. “I call it ‘Rustungtoter.’”

Argur looks it over. The thick leather-covered grip seems to have been borrowed from the oversized mace that Teah had forged before, while the main body of the object almost appears as if it would make it lopsided, yet the balance nearly favors the grip over the body. He grips it tightly and pivots his arm around a few times. His hand fits it perfectly; its weight is almost nothing to him. “I am impressed.”

“Come on, test it out.” Teah is beaming with excitement.

Argur assumes his fighting stance, then takes off running toward the training dummy. He thrusts his fist, Rustungtoter in hand, straight forward, shifting his weight towards the target. CLANG! The armor emerges from this scuffle with a significant dent in its chest, roughly the size of Argur’s hand, as deep as a dinner bowl. The only thing keeping the straw dummy standing is the wooden frame from which it hangs. A real opponent might not be standing at all. Argur lowers his weapon and glances back at Teah, who is now dancing giddily with the excitement of having made another fine weapon.

Argur’s attacks can now damage armor with no penalties.