Rule number one: ply them with compliments.
The man’s gaze lingers on Ronyn, as if deciding if he’s talking shit or knows what he’s doing.
Ronyn points loosely to a nearby forge. “That one’s been overheated for a while, my friend. You’ll warp the mold if you pour now,” he says, softening his words so they sound like observation, rather than accusation.
The man takes a step forward, closing the gap between them. “You telling me how to do my job, son?” he growls.
Ronyn waves a dismissive hand and looses a laugh. “Gods, no. I’m too careless for that—I’d fuck it up in a heartbeat.”
Rule number two: prove competency without threat.
The man narrows his eyes. “You a smith?”
“No. But I’ve spent enough time around weapons to know when metal’s being pushed past its patience,” Ronyn says, firmer this time.
The man doesn’t move. Only holds his gaze on Ronyn for a heartbeat longer than comfort allows.
“And enough time around stubborn men to know when to stop talking,” Ronyn adds with a smirk.
Ginger Beard lets out a soft snort.
Almost a laugh.
So Ronyn uses it for leverage.
“If you’ll permit it—just watching. No touching. I won’t slow you down,” he holds his hands up in mock surrender.
Rule number three: defer authority.
“And why would I do that, huh?” Ginger Beard grunts.
“Well, because I’ll be here to labor regardless, may as well let me watch and learn the trade,” Ronyn quips, trying again to loosen the man’s defenses.
The man offers a low hum—considering.
So Ronyn takes the opening he’s been waiting for.
“And because I’ll buy the first round at the tavern when the shift ends,” he says, wagging his eyebrows.
Rule number four: offer value, not submission.
Taverns are where men tell the truth—not because they want to, but because liquor makes honesty feel like bravery. And there’s nothing men love more than puffing out their chests and measuring their dicks.
But Ginger Beard shakes his head.
“Tavern’s full of loud mouths and bad dice. Not for strangers.”
Ronyn adjusts his stance without thinking—weight balanced, shoulders loose. The way men do when they’re ready to fight for what they want. But this isn’t the time for violence.
Ronyn snaps back into character, sucking his teeth, throwing his hands easily to his hips. “I’ve never been one for making noise or rolling dice, anyway. Just a man who loves a cold ale and a good feed,” he says, feigning nonchalance.
Rule number five: don’t be a liability or competition.
He’d learned the hard way that nothing made men turn faster than feeling threatened.
Ginger Beard grunts, huffing in irritation.
“Your shout?” he clarifies.
