Today Constans' world showed signs of becoming right again. Finally this strange place had yielded satisfying occupation, and most importantly someone to tell him what else to do when he finished it. Until this morning Constans had often found himself trailing in the shadow of his brother around the keep, uncertainly accepting the advice of others to 'relax' and 'enjoy some downtime.' He did not understand why no one seemed to want him to work, and try as he might to explain this, few of these helpful people appeared to be able to grasp his appeals to reason.
Then Constans found the Quartermaster. There is always work to be found around here, the man had assured him. When Constans explained that he was of the Formori, he promptly sent Constans to Sandal's workshop. When he returned, the Quartermaster said that there would be an order; that Constans would be enchanting soon. It had been most reassuring.
After that the Quartermaster sent Constans to the blacksmith, who claimed to be glad of the help. He set Constans to hauling coal and stoking the fire, complimenting him on how evenly he kept the coke burning. Perhaps tomorrow, he hinted, he would let Constans try his hand forging an order of arrowheads if he continued on being so useful. He laughed often and deeply, and talked about how clever it was that the mages taught their dress-wearing nancy boys to run a forge. He talked about a lot of things, and it did not seem to matter to him whether his new assistant replied.
They worked well into the afternoon before the blacksmith noticed the time. Slapping Constans on the back as he finished hanging his tongs, the man grinned at him. "Day goes a lot faster when you're working hard, don't it!"
Constans nodded. That was not true in a literal sense, of course, but he understood.
"I'm about starving to death, so why don't we have a break, eh? Go on then, get yourself something to eat and drink. Just don't be too long gone, lots more work to be done!." He laughed again at Constans' strange stare, taking for granted the younger man's response and striding off to disappear inside the keep.
Constans emerged from the smithy into the daylight moments later, still deciding what he would do now. Although it mattered not at all to Constans, at the moment he looked an absolute mess. His arms were black nearly to the elbows, and a fine layer of sweat mixed with soot coated his bare chest, here and there speckled by a smudge of darker grey or a clean streak where water or sweat had dripped. His simple trousers had not escaped the grime either, bearing distinctly hand-shaped black smears along the thighs. He did not feel hungry, but the man had told him to eat and drink; a well situated between the smithy and the stables promised relief from his thirst, so that seemed the natural place to begin. He wandered over toward it and began to lower the bucket, experimentally stretching his arms as he did so to relieve some of the tension that had built up in them after hours of work.