Aye, this back’s been singing me a sour tune all evening. Came up from the dig near Minoc just past sundown, pack heavy with nearly fifty ingots—mostly iron, a few dull gray lumps of copper mixed in. The air down in those tunnels always tastes the same: damp stone, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of ore still breathing deep in the rock. I’d been swinging that pick since dawn, wrist loose, finding the rhythm between breath and strike. There’s a moment, you know, when the pick bites just right—clink-clink-CLANG—and the stone gives way like brittle bread. Felt it three times today at (2582,511), that sweet shiver up the haft, the shower of sparks in the torchlight.
But it’s not the mining that wears on a man. It’s what comes after. I limped back to the mine forge—cold anvil, rusted bellows—and set to work shaping tools. Tried to make Tinker’s Tools, of all things. Fool notion. Hammered once, twice, and the third strike sent the tongs snapping clean in two. Cheap things. I stared at the broken ends, red-hot iron cooling fast, and laughed like a madman. My Blacksmithy’s stalled at 63.5—stiff as an old boot—can’t crack it no matter how many shillings I pour into practice. Felt the heat on my face, the sting of sweat in my eyes, and for a heartbeat I wanted to kick the damn forge into the sea.
Still, I made five decent mining picks. Hauled them, still warm, over to Minoc’s blacksmith vendor this morning. Old Hilda—bless her—didn’t haggle. Took them with a nod and a copper ring in my palm. That weight in my pouch, jingling soft, almost made up for the broken tongs. Almost.
Come first light, I’ll be back in the tunnels. Maybe swing east toward (2584,504)—less crowded, softer stone. There’s iron in them hills yet, and a man’s got to eat. And if I can’t make tinkering tools today, maybe tomorrow I’ll be one skill point closer. Or not. Either way, the pick’s still in my hand.<|im_end|>
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