Thorgilja left the market and wandered up and down side-streets. She'd lied when she'd said she had other affairs to attend to; she could have stayed at the table, but it had seemed best to leave, and it never hurt to take a long, aimless walk now and again. Away from the frantic ruckus of the market, Riften's streets were quiet and somewhat mushy; snow melting in the street made shallow, scummy puddles everywhere, occasionally churned by the passing of a cart or barrow. Thorgilja could hear a few children's voices playing from an apartment above, but then a window shutter slammed and the street was quiet again. A cat slunk furtively from one doorway to another.
Now a steep, slippery wooden stairway led down below the level of the street, to a series of boardwalks above the dark waters of the canal. Thorgilja descended them carefully, her boots creaking on the wood; there was a bridge in front of her. A feeble torch illuminated a small, grubby sign: an alchemist's shop. Further around the bend, there was a half-sunk boat tied to a piling, and an archway lit by a sputtering oil lamp, with a single small door in the center. She eyed the muddy slush around the door, with only five or six sets of prints in it – not trampled enough for a regular tavern's comings and goings. A strange symbol was carved next to the door. Thorgilja reached to trace it with her fingers. This must be it. She'd come back tomorrow.
Up the stairs again, this time to find the smith Balimund. This was part of Thorgilja's routine every time she visited a city or stronghold; there was often honest coin and easy gossip to be had around a smith's forge, and she genuinely liked to be around the heat and noise, swinging the heavy tools of the trade which were so familiar that she sometimes felt as though she must have been born with hammer and tongs in her fists. Her daggers could use honing, too, and she had ore to trade.
Passersby directed Thorgilja to a massive open forge, with an equally massive blond Nord, who she took to be Balimund, hammering away at what looked like a gorget on an anvil. He had a short beard that was flecked with grey, which he scratched occasionally. He stopped his work every so often to stir the coals in the forge, muttering darkly to himself. His grey eyes kept flicking to a pile of iron rods. Thorgilja watched him for a moment – this was definitely the man who had made the repairs to Brynjolf's helmet, judging from his ease with hammering the metal into shape. The door to the smith's shop banged open and an assistant came hurrying out, slipping on the slick cobblestones near the door. "Balimund, I'm going to run to the shop and buy some more needles–"
"Eight curse it, boy, you've broken another set? The whole set?" Balimund sounded almost absent-mindedly annoyed, as though this were a conversation the two had often. "What do you do with those needles?"
"I'm sorry, it's just this cuirass I'm repairing – dwemer-treated leather..."
"Fine, fine, of course, I didn't mean to shout. Of course. Go get a few extra sets so we don't lose so much time next time you break the whole set, eh? Hurry! We need that cuirass repaired by tomorrow sundown, don't forget! And this sword needs- oh, just go!"
The assistant rushed off, but Balimund had already returned to his work, still muttering. Thorgilja stepped forward and put a hand on the large bellows standing to one side of the forge. "Balimund," she said.
He turned his great head, looking rather like a bear that has been interrupted eating. He glanced at her suspiciously, then noticed her hand on the bellows. "Yes?" he asked gruffly. "I'm Balimund," he added, as though suddenly remembering his manners.
"You look like you could use a hand," said Thorgilja.
"You a strongholder?" he asked. He turned his great frame to the side to grab a damp, soot-streaked cloth from a small table strewn with tools. He wiped his forehead with it. "As it happens, I could. My assistant's busy with some leatherwork today, and to be honest, we're a little busier than normal. I'd thank you for your help, miss. I really need to begin the core of this sword tonight. We're gettin' behind. Think you can bring this up to full blast?"
Thorgilja took the bellows in hand and began working the forge. It had been some time since she'd worked bellows, and she went at it with a grim pleasure. The clanging of Balimund's hammer and the hiss of quenched metal blended with the puffing of the bellows; working the forge for only one smith was no great task for her, and Thorgilja found herself slipping into a familiar sort of trance. It happened sometimes when she was doing repetitive work, especially around the heat of the forge. The next thing she knew, the assistant was back from the shop with several sets of needles clutched in his hands, wide-eyed, staring at her. Then she realized that the smith had stepped away from the anvil and was standing a little to her side and behind her, evidently about to attempt to stop her working. The light in the sky had dimmed to dusk.
Thorgilja immediately stepped back from the forge and put the bellows down. "Your pardons," she murmured, a little embarrassed.
The assistant muttered something under his breath. Balimund's head snapped around and he barked, "Dammit, boy, she's just a strongholder. Everyone knows they're practically born at the forge. Don't you go spouting such nonsense. Get inside and keep at that cuirass."
The young man didn't move for a moment, and looked about to say something.
"How many times do I have to say it?" Balimund thundered. He pointed at the shop door. The assistant fled, slamming the door.
"My apologies for the boy," the smith said, turning back to Thorgilja. "I think you uneased him a little."
"I- I didn't even hear what he said," she replied. "It probably wasn't the worst thing anyone has ever said to me. Nor even today." She shrugged and hoped she looked casual.
There was a small silence. The smith regarded her for a moment, then gestured at the workbench where he'd laid the long blade. "Anyway, it's been a help. I was able to get more done than I thought, for certain. You sure know your way around a bellows."
Thorgilja didn't reply. There was no way to explain. "I grew up mining and smithing," she replied finally, then, "Will you buy ore?"
"I may do. Come in. There's stew and ale. You must be in need of a meal same as me." He didn't wait for an answer, but strode to the door and banged it open. The cracked stones in the wall behind the door suggested that this was his normal way to enter the room. The shop wasn't actually a shop, but looked to simply be the smith's home.
The assistant sat in the corner by the fire, stirring a pot. He didn't look up as Balimund came in, evidently used to the door slamming open. "Balimund, where did you find that-" He looked up, sneering, noticed Thorgilja behind Balimund, and sputtered, turning violently pink.
"Yes?" Balimund asked. "Where did I find...what?"
"Nothing."
"Damn right, nothing. This is our guest..." Balimund got an odd look on his face, and turned back to Thorgilja.
"Thorgilja," she supplied, staring at the assistant. His eyes met hers for an instant, then turned sullenly to the floor at her feet.
"Right. Thorkilly." He nodded at this and turned back. "And if you can't quit pissing on the coals and start acting like an adult, you can take your meal out by the forge tonight."
The assistant turned even deeper red, then white. His mouth twisted. He turned jerkily and slopped some brown stew into a wooden bowl, tore a chunk of bread from the loaf on the table and shoved it into the stew; he then snatched a battered tankard from the table, and started quickly for the door. Thorgilja hoped against hope that he would go quietly; after long weeks on the road with little to no company, she had forgotten how tiring she found it to be around multitudes of people, and her temper was beginning to fray.
The entryway was narrow, and the assistant had to slide past them to reach the door. With ale in one hand and stew in the other, he frowned at the door as he approached. Thorgilja turned to open it for him. He drew up sharply to avoid touching her, and sloshed ale on the front of his shirt.
"Watch it, grunter," he spat, which was the one word she'd hoped not to hear. Oh no, she had time to think. Not-
Heat burst and spilled across her palms, then seared up her arms and into her chest quicker than she could breathe, or even blink. She snapped up to her full height; her hand flashed up; she sensed rather than saw Balimund's hand go for the hammer at his hip, as everything around her seemed to slow. She slapped the bowl out of the assistant's hands, smashing it in pieces on the floor, then snatched the tankard from his other hand and flung its contents into his face. He spluttered and swore, backing away. Thorgilja's vision was blurring, going red at the edges, and she felt her mouth contorting viciously, her throat tightening; she gasped for breath and tore the heavy door open, expecting to feel Balimund's hammer strike her shoulder at any moment and praying that she wouldn't have to hurt him, and though the assistant was trying to escape into the yard, she seized his shirt and hauled him back towards her. She thought she heard shouting from somewhere.
Thorgilja wrenched the young man around to face her and shook him until his teeth chattered, then slammed him down into the muddy snow, handling him as she might have a snarling dog. He was trying to yelp something, and his fists waved weakly in the air. Thorgilja shoved a fistful of snow and gravel into his mouth to shut him up, then slammed him into the ground again, her fists driving into his chest. He jerked and went limp, choking wetly. Thorgilja lurched to her feet. "Grunter!" she roared, spit flying. The assistant stayed sprawled in the slush, whimpering and coughing. She screamed the word at him again and spun to get away from him before she did him worse injury. Her arms threw themselves out blindly to both sides to steady her as she staggered almost drunkenly. She fought frantically to keep her feet moving away from the assistant. She knew that if he got up to follow her, she wouldn't be able to stop herself from killing him. Luckily, he lay motionless in the snow.
She tried to look for the smith. The world had drained of color, except for the red tint over everything. He was standing in the doorway, huge hammer in hand, partly raised. He looked like he was about to shout something, or start towards the assistant, but he didn't. She wanted to warn him, but didn't trust herself to speak. She staggered away and around the corner of the house.
Balimund looked over at Asbjorn, who was still sprawled in the snow. He didn't look to be seriously injured, thankfully. There was snow, ale and stew all over him. Balimund could hear the Orc's boots squelching through the muck, and then they stopped. He ran to the side of the house, and looked carefully around the corner.
At first he thought she was trying to climb the large pine for some reason, perhaps to hide or to put further distance between herself and Asbjorn. But then the tree trembled, and again, and again, showering needles onto the snow. Balimund tightened his grip on his hammer and sucked in his breath, hardly believing his eyes – she was punching the tree, striking it over and over again with unbelievable force, one blow barely landing before the next struck. He cringed as he saw splinters flying. He looked up and down the street: luckily, it was normally quiet, and currently deserted.
Balimund looked down at his long, heavy striking hammer. The Orc was so intent on the tree that he could probably get close enough to hit her; she wore no helmet. But then, he'd seen her face inside, as she slapped the stew down. The politely awkward young woman was entirely gone, replaced by a furious Orc with eyes aflame and terrible speed and power – a berserker, he reminded himself, remembering the old stories. If he enraged her further, she could almost certainly kill him.
Balimund took a deep breath, then another one, and set his hammer down, leaning the handle against the wall. The Orc's punches were growing less savage, less wild; she blinked hard and shook her head sharply as if shaking water from her hair. He stepped cautiously towards her. She was delivering a few more kicks to the tree, which was badly mauled: she had gouged a deep, wide wound into its trunk. The air filled with the smell of sap. The Orc took a few huffing breaths, then punched the tree once more, and again, and one last time. She turned and slumped against the trunk. Balimund released a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and continued slowly towards the tree.