"You fiend!"
"What's all this bloody shouting?" Came the voice of an even louder man, as the nobleman worked himself into a state. A young man was what the smith had been looked at, half his age, or even less. More concerned with the appearance of his weapon than the war to come. The soldier that arrived upon hearing the noise was a very different sort of figure.
In age, they might have been the same, but the look in their eyes was entirely different.
Anger, the colour of red – that was what the nobleman's gaze had been reduced to. Sweat on his forehead, dirt on the ruffled sleeves of his shirt, as they extended out beyond his coat, then a ringed finger that he was pointing with. But no danger there, not truly, not past the rank of him.
