rupertsreality-blog

[rupertsreality-blog]

The Blacksmith

Rupert had been at the forge since the early morning hours, arranging his materials and setting out a good portion of the forge strictly for himself, as if the rest of the blacksmiths were quarantined and he needed his own isolated space. In a brief moment, he thought to himself that he truly did just need his own forge- maybe somewhere up in the hills or in the mountains. With the chromium-steel delivered and an ample supply of twine, boar leather, and pre-shaped oak wood, he began his process.

The bar of chromium-steel slowly began to glow a red hot once placed in the intense heat of the forge, glowing a brilliant orange-white hue once he pulled it out and began smacking it repeatedly against the hardened metal anvil. His smacks were hard and forceful, but few in number before heating it once again. This part of the process was entirely mindless to him- a repetitive motion of heating the metal, smacking it until cool and flat, then heating it again. His thoughts wandered to the helpless nature of it all. Eventually this blade would break, though hopefully... Hopefully it wouldn't be until the woman assigned to it died of old age.

With the raw metal blade simmered to a seductive dark red, he brought a gas-powered grinder to the metal, shaping it and curving it into a wicked and cruel looking hook. This would function as more than a simple killing utility; it would be a tool. An extension of the woman's will and fierceness in combat, capable of hooking between the plates of even the most heavily armored warrior and digging into flesh. If she used it properly, that is.

His process continued just like this, a series of steps from heating the metal, cooling it, beating it out, shaping it, all to create the perfect structure. The perfect weapon. Scassira spotted the smith, her chocolate hues trained on him as she canted her head to the side to study his work. The way his arms flexed and the concentration on his face proved that this was a normal, everyday task for him. She narrowed her eyes as she leaned along a post, taking in each movement as she considered the art that was blacksmithing. She never thought of getting in to such a craft, she was able to keep up with her blade fairly well and decided that was really all she needed. Her own leather crafting was a chore within itself, but she was damn good at it, the armor she wore that day clear for anyone to see. With the black-tanned leather stitched perfectly for her body, the woman looked like the assassin that she was. The only bit of flesh peeking out was that of her scarred hands and her pristine, moonlight complexion of her face. She stood there for some time, losing track of time and simply studying and watching with intrigue. Rupert was used to eyes watching him, studying his every move. His time spent as a Royal Protector to some Lady of some House several months back had ingrained that sensation into his mind. Now, however, eyes were watching him with a different sort of curiosity. He did his best to ignore such a feeling, focusing his mind instead on the heat of the forge and the noise of blunt metal colliding with more blunt metal. The dagger had taken its shape, but now it needed work. He set the raw blade in a trough of lukewarm water where it was left to sizzle and steam within. Now onto the handle. Taking a chunk of the pre-shaped wood, he sat himself against his anvil, back to the metal, and pulled out a fletching knife- a small blade about the same length as a butter knife, sharpened and shaped specifically for shaping wood. He worked carefully yet tirelessly to match the design of the handle to its metal counterpart. No reference, it was clear he was going entirely off-the-cuff, perhaps to flaunt to the eyes watching him that he was as good as he said he was. The handle became short and stubby, just big enough to be held tightly by one hand, not big enough to be griped by another or easily deflected. A handle of pure function and class. With a simple bore drill, he cut out two small holes in the wood, just big enough to fit a pair of metal pegs to hold the other half of the handle together with the blade itself. Standard practice. With the pegs in place, Rupert pressed the rough handle into the equally rough metal, securing one part of the handle to the blade. He repeated the same motion for the other half of the handle. By all means purely functional, the dagger only needed sharpening at this point. It was clear that the Blacksmith was far from finished. Scassira felt her lips quirk upward as she watched the male, her head canting further to the side with that scrutinizing gaze. Every so often she’d flick her chocolates hues from the man’s work to his face, to his arms, to the forge, and back again. The fact of the matter was she certainly had an admiration for smiths. The tedious work of slamming metal against metal and the sweat and blood their poured into each of their master pieces always called for one to be appreciative. Watching this new employee work was something else. She had the idea that he knew she was there, assessing each movement and taking them in as she tried to focus on the crafting of her new blade. He held precision with his rigidity, his fluid motions like a peculiar dance of which she’s done a dozen times.A slow smile spread along her face as she considered handing over Danirel’s axe. The snicker he emitted when her blade was shattered cause her to want to offer him the same sort of pain in the chest. But the satisfaction of holding new, well made blades trumped any sort of idea to come to fruition. All that remained now was the finer details. The etchings of design upon the blades, a beautiful symphony all of its own that spoke not just of the craftsmanship of the smith, but of the deadly precision evoked with revealed. Setting the blade aside now, he took a smaller bar of steel and worked it just as he had the blade proper an hour or so before. This small bar, held so carefully by the smith, was destined to be a handguard. A metal cover surrounding part of the hilt to prevent disarmament, and to tighten the grip of the wielder. He beat the bar carefully and precisely, sweat dripping from his forehead and down onto the metal itself, now literally pouring himself into his work. The bar would come to take on a gentle curve, once beaten to nearly a third of an inch of thickness. With another metal peg he placed the handguard onto the hilt and connected it to the base of the handle. A small smile formed as he held the blade in his hand. He tested the grip, swung at the air a couple of times, and nodded. Finally, over the dull roar of the forge and of other blacksmith's working, he spoke. "Beautiful." His only word, the only thing he'd said at all so far today. That one word. He sat himself against his forge once again, now with an even smaller blade, tipped with sharpened diamond. He began cutting slowly along the length of the blade, etching out a pattern of curves and minute patterns. Only the most detail-oriented of wielders would notice such a design, and even fewer would know how to make it. At his single word, Scassira tilted her head back slightly, letting her eyes take in the shape of her new blade greedily. To think, she’d have two of them soon. Pale lips were formed into something of a permanent, pleased smile as she pushed off the post she leaned along and made her way toward him. Her hands had slipped into her pockets as she made her way over, her chocolate hues steady on his visage. “They are coming along quite nicely. I will admit, I am pleased to see you are honorable in your word. I will be even more pleased to see the finished product and boast about you if what you said was true.” Her eyes twinkled toward him in jest as she inclined her head, a soft smile cresting her face as she chuckled dryly. “Good afternoon to you, Rupert.” Rupert paused briefly at her sudden words, as if he'd forgotten that other people were around entirely. Truth is, he didn't forget people were around, but the sudden introduction had startled him. He instinctively pulled the diamond-tipped knife away, rather than risk making any erroneous cuts. His expression remained focused as he slowly lowered the knife back onto the blade, cutting very delicately along its length in gentle but firm motions. "Hello, Scassira. Are you well?" His tone was calm and content, sounding utterly at peace in his work. Another drip of sweat fell from his forehead onto the blade, which Rupert seemed to simply use as lubricant to keep the small etching knife from going dry. Crazily enough, perhaps by the man simply being too confident in his ability, he held the unfinished blade by the hilt, firm in one hand, while the other worked against the grain of the metal to etch patterns into it. One slip, one jolted movement, and he'd risk not only cutting his hand, but - if at the wrong angle - slicing farther downwards and cutting into his own manhood. What a fool. A brow was lofted as she eyed his work, seeing it up close and personal, she was pleased at what she saw. Her eyes darted about the blade and voraciously took in the sight. Her eyes were wide and excited, her lips quirked upward in pleasure at the crafted piece. “As well as one can be expected, I presume. What of you?” She lifted her gaze to settle on his, her head canted to the side some as she calculated him for his reaction. Stoic and emotionally unresponsive, Rupert remained quiet for a second or so as he carefully worked out a circular etching. Only when the etching was complete did he speak, "I'm happy." He confessed to her, a simple statement that was clearly rarely said by the man. His own chocolate orbs never left the blade, mindful that indeed it would only take one slip of his wrist to not only risk ruining the weapon, but himself as well. Scassira felt her self lean forward to eye his work even further, likely getting into his bubble some without really noticing. She was enthralled with his work and the metal that was becoming her new weapon. She flicked her gaze upward at his reply, a small nod ensuing as she eyed his visage. Standing up straighter, she inhaled the scent of the forges before reaching around to a water skin and held it out for him. "I am glad to heard that." Rupert remained silent as she stared both at him and at the blade in wonder. He didn't mind her being so near, though it was hard to tell his expression at all. He didn't smile, didn't frown, had a starkly calm and flat expression even when she came so close to him. As she held out a water skin for him, he reached up to take it and poured a small amount onto the blade, and an equally small amount onto his head, drenching his thick brown locks in water. He held the water skin back up to her, "Thank you. What brings you to the forge?" He stared up at her for only a brief moment as he waited for her to take the skin, and once taken, his gaze returned back to the blade where he made small and repeated diagonal lines down the back of the blade, giving it a rough backing, similar to that of a nail filer. She let a light laugh escape her as she took the water skin back and clasped it once more to her side. Her arms came up to cross under her bust, the leathers creaking with the movements. The woman slowly walked a few steps to the side, offering him a bit more room to work as she assessed the tool and other items scattered about. She knew nothing of smithing, totally ignorant, as a matter of fact. "Well one, making sure you did not take my money and run. And two, the intrigue of seeing my blades in process of being crafted." She lofted a brow toward him as she leaned her hip along the table he worked on. "I am a man of my word, Scassira." He stared over at her for a brief moment once more, making sure she knew precisely what he meant by that. Whether his words were good or bad, he always followed through with his words. Rupert looked back to the now etched blade and set the diamond-tipped knife back into its capsulated sheath, and the sheath back in line with his array of tools. The tools, as a whole, were aligned and displayed in a formal, provocative, and professional manner. Sorted by function and then by size, he had a wide array of small etching knives, some odd-shaped metal tubes, and hammers varying from tiny chisels to a hulking sledgehammer. There were even a few small canisters of paint and small paintbrushes. He was definitely a man of his word. The Blacksmith now took the sheet of boar leather and wrapped it carefully and tightly around the wooden handle, adding a protective layer for the wielder so that they wouldn't have to worry about splinters or damaging the wood. He wrapped the leather tight, then cut it cleanly down to give it a nice, finished look. Once pressed and aligned, Rupert took a small gas-powered blowtorch and shrunk the leather to fit the shape and curve of the wood, molding it took as though it were all one unified piece. He still didn't look finished, and now looked to the paint cans to determine how he should color it. He spoke again as he scrutinized each color. "I am creating for you the weapon of an assassin. There will be two of these once I'm finally finished, and with it you will use it with true perfection. A perfection unknown to the world- until the world is too late to do anything about it." His eyes flicked over to meet hers, locked onto her with a sudden moment of intensity. "The tools don't make the woman. The woman makes the tools." She would nod slowly, eyeing him over then his work again. "I can see that now. You have my apology for my doubt at first. You and I are alike in  that sense. It is an amiable trait to have." Her eyes went back to lingering along the arranged tools, ever so often finding her gaze pull back to the paint and brushes. Those intrigued her as to why they were there, though she remained silent on the subject. Her gaze flicked upward to study him once more, watching each muscle tick in his face as he worked. But when he spoke, she blinked slowly, her gaze flitting down once more to the weapon within his palm. Feeling his gaze locked to hers, she would meet it just as earnestly, clearly intrigued by his words. She felt a thrill shoot through her at the idea of what he said, her eyes closing briefly as she inclined her head in a respectful gesture. "I am glad we can agree on that." He stared back to the paints and grabbed a small canister of gold. With a gentle swirl of the can, then met by a small paintbrush, Rupert began making slow hill-like designs on the handle of her new dagger. "Did you get a moment to think on what I'd said last night?" For once, his tone held some curiosity to it. He wanted to know her thoughts. His movements with the brush were slow and practical, a delicate move of the hand along heated leather. The paint dried mere seconds after it touched the warm leather; it's clear Rupert was moving quicker to combat the dried paint, but he didn't look at all panicked or flustered. He still knew what he was doing. Scassira seemed transfixed by the movements of the brush and the golden color, "Mm, Not entirely. I left shortly after to head home with Danirel. We had some things to take care of before we found rest, but even that seemed short lived." She canted her head to the side as she once more leaned forward to get a closer look at his work. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes closed. "That little girl distracted me some as well. My attention was sort of all over the place. I would... I would like to delve deeper into that conversation with you." The woman huffed a breath as she leaned back again, her hand coming up to move a wayward lock of raven hair from her brow. "Eira is her name. Sweet thing.. she's taken a bit of an attachment to me." She shook her head as she placed her hands back in her pockets. "I am really not the best sort for her." He moved then from the golden color to a dark red burgundy, the color barely visible against the leather. He used it to highlight the genuine wrinkles in the leather, highlighting its natural imperfections. Magically it did nothing but enhance the handle's beauty. With the pits and divets of the leather highlighted by a dark burgundy, they became just slightly more visible and contrasted with beautiful grace to the gold color. Rupert didn't speak further on her statement, instead focusing on the handle painting. When she spoke of Eira and of her desire to delve further with him, he spoke very briefly but his tone was still calm and even. "Be careful, Scassira. Delving too deep with a man you've only recently met is a very dangerous prospect." His tone wasn't scolding, in fact it sounded to be an almost friendly warning. "Still, if that doesn't dissuade you - and I doubt it does - then you are welcome to do so." He finally sat upright to stare at the blade as a whole. His hands went flat on either side of it, signifying its completion. Beauty couldn't begin to describe the blade he had made, nor could great effort describe the work he put into it.

[rupertsreality-blog]

[rupertsreality-blog]

“Get Outta Here, Dumbo”

~Rupert: Age 14~

Rupert looked at Kal’maga with an incredulous look. Kral’maga, a young Orc girl who particularly fancied Rupert, threw another rock at his head. He caught it swiftly and tossed it back at her while shouting, “Get outta here, Dumbo!”

[rupertsreality-blog]

The Sins of the Father

Nobility. That’s what Rupert could have been; a proud and diplomatic man, ripe with knowledge and born into a life of guile and charisma. He could have had it all: Wealth, power, fame… Women. Anything he wanted, to a given extent, if his father hadn’t gone back on a deal that would have secured his family’s place in Alliance nobility. Now, as he stared up at the ceiling of the single bedroom he’d been squatting in (with the courtesy of the homeowner) he found himself questioning the legitimacy of his entire childhood; of his father, and his mother.

One question remained on the forefront of his mind throughout the night:

“Why?”

[rupertsreality-blog]

When Luck Runs Out, Truth Takes The Reigns

Rupert stepped inside the door of his family’s home. His face locked onto his father’s, with Ana Preston in tow beside him, and he abruptly threw the crest of Lordaeron to the ground, pointing at it. He held now what could be seen as true anger, frustration, and disappointment, all in their most raw and carnal forms. “You lied to me.” He said coldly, anger welling up within him.

Matthew Boone’s eyes went wide at the sight of the crest, then to Ana. “L-Lady Connor?! What in the devil are you doing here?! How did-” His eyes fell back down to the crest.

Ana Preston eyed him slowly and shook her head. “Lady Connor was my mother. She’s dead.” Her tone was flat, but she held little anger towards the man. She looked towards the shield, then back to Matthew. “It’s good to see you again, Baron Boone.”

Rupert snapped a finger at his father. “Who am I?!” He shouted angrily, a sudden outburst of unbridled wrath directed at his father. Perhaps the mention of ‘Baron Boone’ reminded him why they were here. His face, unlike when she first met him, was gone of any shyness. He was truly, undeniably angry and demanded answers.

Matthew looked to his son with sorrow, “Rupert, I- I’m so sorry, your mother and I- we had to.”

Rupert interjected, “Had to what?! Lie to me for my entire life?! Tear me away from a life where I could have learned to count past ten without needing to write it out?!” He practically snarled, only to abruptly face a backhand from his father across his face.

Matthew, despite his smaller stature, seemed to look down on Rupert. “Silence. You listen, and you listen well, boy.” His tone was now just as angry as Rupert’s. “Your mother and I did what we had to do to keep you safe, so that you could live to make it past twenty without an array of assassins after you every step of the way. The fact that you brought /her/ here tells me how little you value that. How little you value your own family.” He narrowed his gaze at Rupert.

Rupert looked back at his father, practically devastated at his response. He didn’t say anything, just stared in silence with the red marks of knuckles across his cheek.

Ana drew in a breath and flinched backwards as the Baron’s hand made contact with Rupert’s pallid. Her brow knitted together in a fury and her eyes narrowed. If she held any respect for the man at all, it had vanished. She limped forward, between Rupert and his father, ignoring the searing pain her muscles sent up her spine in protest.

“Hey!” Her voice rose as she stared up at him from her short height. “Strike him again and it will be the last time you use your hand, am I clear?” She shook her head and sneered at him. “You coward. Can you not see past your own arrogance? Look at him! Forget about the hole you ripped through my family, look at what you’ve done to your own son!”

Rupert took a slow breath, his fists clenching then unclenching out of anger. He wanted so bad to punch his father for every year he’d spent lying to him. For every year he spent avoiding the truth and treating it as though everything would always be in Booty Bay. When he finally spoke, his tone was cold and dry. “I understand now why you didn’t want me to leave. Why you told me to not come back. You knew the truth would come back to you somehow.”

Matthew looked between Ana and Rupert, his arrogance simmering to a boil. Just as Rupert did, Matthew spoke just as cold. “No, son, I knew that you would find her eventually. You were always drawn to each other as kids, so it only makes sense that adulthood would see you two reunited again.” He offered a bittersweet smile to the pair, “Just as inseparable now as you were when you were kids.” He stepped back against the wall of the small home. “I’m sorry, Son. I-”

Rupert interrupted, “I don’t want any excuses, Dad. I want answers. I want to know what caused this all to happen.”

Matthew sighed and looked down. “I had sent grain shipments out to Stratholme to help with their food crisis. Diverted away from Stormwind and Lordaeron. The two cities would suffer slightly, but Stratholme would be fed.” He looked to Ana, then to Rupert. “The grain turned out to be toxic. It plagued the city. We were disgraced. If it had gone to Stormwind and Lordaeron first, it would have been inspected, but Stratholme was a backwater city, unable to afford inspections.”

Ana Preston fumed at the new information. She breathed heavily through her nose, her lips in a puckered line. She shook her head and lunged towards him, adrenaline shielding her from the pain in her leg.

“You son of a bitch!” Her hand came forward to strike his face. Rupert tried to hold her back, but she was too quick in her rage. “It was your fault! An entire kingdom fell! My family is dead because of /you/!”

Rupert watched as Ana struck former Baron Boone’s face, the man taking a hit from the angry, petite woman. “I did what I thought was right!” He barked back, “Don’t come in here calling me a son of a bitch when you’ve-”

Rupert interjected promptly, “Dad! Shut up!” He snarled. “You fucked up; accept that.” He tugged Ana back closer to him, trying to keep her at his side. “It’s your fault, Dad.” He said, calmer this time. “I may be of noble blood because of you, but I refuse to carry your name.”

He looked to Ana for a brief moment, then to his father again. “On this day, you lost the last chance of having a lineage.” He stepped back to the door after picking his shield up. “I refuse to be the son of a man who caused a genocide.”

Matthew looked to his son with shocked, sorrowful eyes. “Rupert…” The arrogance and fight in his voice had left him entirely. “What are you saying? You- you’re abandoning the family?”

Rupert shook his head. “No Dad, I’m abandoning you. I’ll come to visit, but only to visit Mother… And I’m going to use her maiden name instead.” He paused for a moment, letting the gravity of the situation sink in. “At least her family name isn’t tainted by the death of innocents.”

Ana growled at Matthew as Rupert pulled her back, but bit her tongue so they could speak to each other. She’d gotten her slap in, but it didn’t bring the ghosts back to life. “My father would have helped you, Matthew. You know he would have. King Terenas could have been warned and it could have been contained. Rupert would have taken my name as planned and you could have kept your position in Stormwind.” She shook her head at him again. “Selfish.”  she muttered, her body beginning to relax a bit, though it still remained rigid.

Rupert brought his arm around Ana’s back and gave her arm a gentle rub to hopefully comfort her further. He never broke his gaze from his father. “We’re leaving now, Dad. This is the last time you’ll see me except for when I visit Mom.” Matthew spoke up after a brief silence. “I’m proud of you, son. You two look so happy together."

Rupert held a hand up in calm protest. "We’re not together.” He spoke with no emotion in his voice, just a statement of fact.

Matthew simply looked down to the ground, sounding a lot like his son. “Oh.” Rupert left with Ana in tow.