Alan

The dim light of early morning barely filtered through the narrow, barred window of the armory, revealing rows of shelving and the thick smell of machine oil and cold steel. The silence of the room was filled only with the dull, rhythmic sound of metal scraping against metal.
Alan sat on a low wooden box, completely immersed in the process. He sharpened the blade of his sickle on a wide, old, and rather battered cleaver, clasped between his knees. His movements were smooth, precise, and unhurried. Steel slid across steel with a dull scraping sound, honing the edge to a perfect sharpness. The cool morning air was invigorating, and his thoughts flowed smoothly and clearly.
A few steps away, Sonnet stood leaning his back against the cold weapons rack. He silently unwound the dirty, frayed bandages from his palm. The cut that stretched across his arm reminded him of a patrol a couple of weeks ago. The stupidest thing was that the wound hadn't been received in a noble way—he'd simply grabbed the blade of his sword awkwardly while hastily trying to draw his weapon. Frowning with each movement, Sonnet immediately began tautly re-tying the clean gauze tape over the old cut until he'd finished the bandage.
Alan glanced sideways at his partner, pausing for a second in the movement of the sickle, and quietly, good-naturedly said:
"You're tugging that knot so hard, as if scarification before going out is a mandatory part of the preparation. Loosen it, Sonnet, or the blood will stop flowing to your fingers before we even step out the door."