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The slow grating rasp of the steel blade against the whetstone was a soothing balm on Bellar’s shot nerves, despite the annoyed looks he was getting from the rest of the crew. He had always hated waiting around between jobs, sitting on their bloody hands till the shipment papers were in order or dropoff was approved. He was a man of action more than anything else and boredom was not kind to him. The restlessness would slowly creep in, making him jumpy and his fingers would twitch at the slightest sounds. So of course Zarys and Karad were taking their sweet time to come back.
At least it gave him some time to show his favorite tools some love, they had long been neglected. By his standards at least, his vast collection of knives were free of any rust, cleaned of blood or any other fluids immediately, and packed away with care every night. But some of them had started to lose their razor honed edge. But tonight he’d get them all back in top condition, they deserved only his best after all.
Running his calloused finger over the burr he’d created he smiled to himself, the feeling of the slick steel under his fingers making heat bloom down his neck and across chest. His new caping knife was coming along nicely, the fuller well placed and beautiful against the girth of the blade. He took a moment to admire the craftsmanship of the firm bone handle, pierced through with lovely brass before flipping it over, and making deliberate slow strokes over the oil soaked whetstone wedged between his thighs.
It was a nice whetstone, the man he’d taken it from said it had bits of diamond in it before he’d choked on his own blood. He smiled at the memory, his face growing hot and his trousers felt a little tighter than before.The results were undeniable, the stone had served him well and the little sparkly bits embedded within certainly looked lovely in the firelight as he worked, firmly pressing the blade into the glistening stone with his strong and practiced hands. He mentally went over his collection, inventorying what he had left. Only three hours in and he was about halfway done. He was making good time.
“For the love of- you’re not going to do ALL of ‘em today, are you lad?” Rugan asked, irritation painted on his face.
“‘Course I am? Nothin else to do.” He snapped, irritated at the interruption. With the intimacy of his work, he’d forgotten the rest of the crew was there.
It was true that there was nothing really to do. All the remaining inventory had been checked twice over, the meals cooked and the sun was low in the sky. Rugan sighed dejectedly murmuring to himself about pubs, pints, and agreeable company, while Bellar turned his attention back to his task. His labor of love.
The sharpened knives lay neatly organized to his left, both his arms and one leg covered in little bare patches where he had tested the sharpness against his skin. The metal slid against his bare flesh he smiled to himself with pride when it cleanly removed hair.
“There are better ways to test if a knife’s sharp.” Salazon had said, his eyebrows pinched in the middle with an exhausted look on his face.
He pointedly ignored the wizard, dismissing him with a quiet glare. The other man shrugged and went back to pacing idly around the fire, occasionally throwing a twig into it. Bellar sighed to himself. The only thing he’d seen that man sharpen was a quill, he wouldn't understand the connection a real fighter has with his tools. He returned his focus on the feeling of the blade against his skin, scraping slowly against the surface of his body, dangerous and intoxicating.
Besides he’d only nicked himself eleven times, the shallow wounds scabbed over in the cool air.
He lovingly wiped away the oil, admiring the shine and shape of the blade as he tucked it away in the protective leather barrier. He bit his lip and swallowed thickly, a lump in his throat at the sight of the blade finding its place deep inside, the way it fit together perfectly making him sigh softly to himself. There was nothing like a well fitted sheath, cradling the blade perfectly within. Not too tightly as to dull the blade, but tightly enough that the friction kept it in place. If he had looked up from his work, he would have seen the rest of his companions exchanging weary glances, or shaking their heads with mild judgment.
Unaware of this, he chose the next blade carefully, selecting another newer piece. This one had a folding design, a hinge penetrated one side with the thick, curved blade tucked away inside of the sleek hardwood handle. A safer option to keep on his person at all times, tucked safely away against his own hardware. A small moan parted his lips at the thought of being armed at all times, ready for battle even when stripped down to his smallclothes- when he was pulled from his reverie once again by Rugan.
“By the Black Hand lad, when was the last time you've touched a woman! Or anyone!” Rugan groaned, running his hand down his face in exasperation.
Bellar didn’t have a good answer to that. Nor did he have an answer for the throbbing erection pressing against the seams of his trousers.
“No that’s it, we’ve been in the bloody woods too long.” the older man declared, “You, me and Olly are headed to the town over and you,” He gestured broadly at Bellar’s situation, “are getting bedded before the night is through.”
Bellar’s face felt hot with both embarrassment and lingering arousal, but maybe the older man did have a point. The last woman he’d tried to take to bed hadn’t stuck around after he’d started the pub brawl, and that was nearly a month ago. He tilted his head as he thought it over, while it wasn’t like him to leave a job unfinished his remaining blades would always be there for him tomorrow. He nodded in agreement.
“Zarys said we can’t-” Olly had started to argue, but Ruan swiftly cut him off with a shake of his head.
“Stay if you like lad, but I'm getting outta here. Not likely Zarys is going to be back before daylight, and I need a change in scenery. A little distraction is good for you.” He looked pointedly at Bellar, who had begun packing away his collection, and sorting his tools into their designated spaces.
Olly looked torn for a moment before simply shrugging and getting dressed in his city clothes, free of any Zhentarim colors or symbols.
“And you,” Rugan had turned on his heel to face Bellar, who was in the middle of placing the folding knife in the waistband of his small clothes. “Leave that at camp.”