Put the Past Away

His Ivran was rusty, his Stalhúð accent thick and off-putting to those he tried to talk to. He'd known of the tension between Ivras and the wild clans, but seeing it first hand in the way people avoided him or moved their children away from him was disheartening. The new proclamation from the king had filled him initially with direction and hope, and he was well-received to serve in the Order, giving him a place to rest his head in the city barracks and a stipend for enlisting that made him nervous. He'd never carried so much gold in his pocket before, and they didn't tell him the worth of one of their coins before giving him ill-fitting standard Ivran armor and giving him orders to report to. He didn't like the way their armor felt, but his own was in dire need of repair, abused from the last Hunt he'd been on and the harsh travel over the mountains. So both were tucked away, his pack shrugged over his shoulder as he walked the unfamiliar streets of Faline, feeling more out of place here than he did at home.

He had to remind himself of why he was here. The Order was more familiar with turned mages than the Stalhúð were, and they could train him to not be a threat to those he loved. The looks of apprehension were difficult to deal with, but he'd rather see it in a stranger and find a way to alleviate that with a proper introduction than see it in someone who he trusted, in one who should know how little he wanted to hurt anyone. His grip tightened over his pack strap, letting that resolve carry him on. If people were wary of him, he'd just do his best to make friends, to become less alone. That was all he could do, really. The first place he was looking for was a good blacksmith who could fix his armor for him, and he could only hope the stipend given to him would be enough to cover it.

He had to step around a horse and cart, around a family who flinched when he came around its corner, and a cluster of men dressed in fine clothing, nodding his head and murmuring his Ivran apologies as best he could. With all his tiptoeing around the crowd, he still managed to run into someone - or rather, they ran into him, being much smaller than he. Málmr put a broad hand on their shoulder, apologizing first in his native tongue, then in Ivran, before saying, "Are you alright? I'm sorry, wasn't looking where I was going." 

Then he really peered down at them - at him, a flicker of a frown coming over him. "Are you well?" He asked again.