God of War - Brok/Kratos
The dwarf appraised the two of them, father and son. His weathered face split into an ugly grin.
"Well now," he said, "Need another favor from your old pal Brok, do ya? Nidavellir. Now that's quite a journey."
Kratos scowled. He did not ask how the dwarf already knew of their destination. "Name your price," he only said.
The smith mulled. He scratched at an armpit, then put away the tongs he'd been forging with. "Alright," he said after another moment. "To start, send the boy away."
"Huh?" said Atreus. "Why?"
"Boy."
"But father—"
"Go."
Pouting, Atreus went. He took the head of Mimir with him, and the heavy temple doors boomed shut behind them.
Kratos faced the blacksmith. They'd never been friends, but they had aided each other in the past. That relationship had, however, always been strictly on a transactional basis. It was how both men preferred things. They always knew where the other stood.
"Name your price," he repeated. "Whichever of your enemies need slaying, whichever items need recovering, or tasks accomplished. Simply say, so we can go and get on with it."
For Kratos, that was an exceptionally long statement.
But Brok simply rubbed his chin. "Too bad," he drawled, "This week I don't have any tasks that need doin', or enemies that need slayin'.
Kratos rolled his eyes. "Money then. How much?"
"To be honest fella, business with you has already made me richer than I've been in some time. Nah, I don't need money either." Brok just kept rubbing his chin, kept grinning.
"Then what DO you want!" Kratos exploded. His knuckles cracked as he clenched them. It was a hint at the rage that had once defined him, which he now had to work to keep so tightly controlled. But even he had limits.
Brok wasn't taken aback though. He just kept his head tilted back, appraising.
"Alright," he finally said. "I've thought of somethin'." He spat in his palms, twice, then rubbed them together. "Turn around, drop the loincloth, and bend over the forge."
"Eh? But—What do you—" If there was anything that could dispel Kratos's rage, it was shock. The spartan spluttered. But his face quickly grew heated once more as he turned the command over in his mind and considered it from all angles.
"Hah! Oh don't worry, I'm not gonna do anything indecent to ya," Brok said, reading his thoughts, "Though I hear you Greeks go in for that sort of thing. No, what I have in mind is something you're more likely to actually agree to."
The dwarf returned to his work bench and rooted around underneath. When his hand emerged, it held the handle of a flat wooden object, all inlaid with silver-blue runes. He tapped it against his palm. "Catchin' my drift?"
Kratos stared at him. "You cannot be serious," he said. "You wish to... punish me."
"Well didn't you get formal all of a sudden! I wanna beat your ass," Brok said flatly. "Same way your daddy did when you were a boy. Though, in your case, maybe he didn't. That might explain a few things about ya." He waved the paddle around in front of him. The air seemed to shimmer and crackle at its passage. "Just finished forgin' it, and I need somebody to test it out on. Bad timing you walked in when you did."
Kratos frowned, somehow doubting such a coincidence. "Then, if I submit myself... you will give us the passage rune to Nidavellir?"
Brok's face split again. "Sure. Hell, you can move in for all I care. I hardly ever spend any time there. But if you really want it... you gotta drop that cute lil loincloth first."
The spartan seethed. The very idea of what the dwarf proposed was repugnant. He had personally killed men for lesser insults. But as he worked his jaw, contemplating whether to wreak destruction on Brok's forge in retaliation for the suggestion, another thought occurred to him:
Mimir.
Even the God of Knowledge himself did not know the passage rune to the dwarven homeland. Only the dwarves did. And on Midgard, dwarves were rare indeed. If he didn't conscript Brok's help they might never reach their destination in time. And that would spell disaster, not only for the Nine Realms, but for Atreus as well.
"...My loincloth," he finally said, darkly. "I am not wearing anything... beneath."
"Well gosh," Brok said in mock-concern. "I was gonna let you preserve yer modesty, all dainty-like. But now I guess I got no choice but to take the flat of my hand to your bare, white, naked ass first."
Scowling, Kratos slowly undid his belt. His loincloth hit the temple floor.