Put the Past Away

Málmr's eyes widened when the lad fell away from him, and he took a step forward, trying to catch him again, only to watch him fall to the ground and crawl away from him. His heart clenched in his chest to see it, to see the lad so torn and desperate to get away. For a long, panic-filled moment, Málmr thought it was his own war-scarred visage at fault, but  in hearing the boy's broken explanation (in yet another language, this one he had no hope of understanding), sorrow replaced his panic. Here was someone in far worse straits than he was, and his thoughts of finding a blacksmith were banished in favor of trying to help him.

People moved around the two of them with scowls and frowns of selfish concern, but Málmr ignored them, slowly kneeling down in front of him. "Won't touch," He said gently, his palms up in a posture of peace. All he did was untie the brown sash around his broad waist, its edges tattered but the cloth clean, and offered it to him, gesturing to wipe his hands and his face of the gutter grime. "I'm Málmr. Mage. I make shields. Protect." He gave a soft, empathetic grin, bringing his hand-clenched forearm across his chest in the way you held a shield, patting the scarred skin there with his other hand. He knew sign language well enough, taught by one of his storytellers from home, but he didn't think it well-traveled outside of clan borders, so instead he said in simple Ivran, "Won't hurt you."

Whether or not the lad took the cloth, he looked to the gutter, to the busy street, and gestured for him to rise, still not daring to come close enough to scare him again, his tone soft, as you might speak to a skittish deer. "Come away, mm? Hungry? I am. Eat tomorr - <No, that's not the word.> - together. <That's it.>"

He put an elbow over his knee, glancing over the various signs hanging from open doorways that held symbols he couldn't read and sighed. Where he'd be able to find somewhere that made something to eat was another story entirely. The Order barracks had their mess hall, but if the lad was scared of a mage, he doubted he could take him there. He'd heard of passers-by headed to the market, but he had no idea where it was in this maze of a city. His best bet was either to wander until he could pick up on the telltale signs of eating and revelry of a shared meal or ask a stranger for directions.

But in the meantime, he looked back to the lad, his eyes crinkling warmly. "Name?"