I’ll tell ye, nothing wears a man down like walking dead through Minoc with nearly fifty ingots in his pack and not a copper to show for it. I was a ghost among the living, trudging past the Provisioner’s cart and the Warriors’ sparring yard, feeling heavier with every step—not from the weight, but from the hollowness in my coin purse. I’d spent the morning swinging that pick in the deep tunnels near the Miners Guild North, the stone singing back each time steel met ore. You learn the sound—some strikes ring true, promising iron; others go dull and dead, wasting your breath. That rhythm gets in your bones. By noon, I’d filled my pack, shoulders burning, hands raw where the pick handle chewed through leather gloves.
Then the walk to the forge. I remember the heat first—the way it hit like a wall when I pushed through the smithy doors, sweat already stinging my eyes. My tongs snapped just as I pulled the second bar from the coals, cursed iron twisting loose and clattering into the ash. I near howled—wasted half a day’s haul on a broken tool. But I knelt, fished out the ingot with a pair of pliers I keep in my apron, and started over. The metal glowed orange, then yellow, and I beat it straight, feeling the hammer’s truth in my arms. There’s peace in that sound—the ring of iron on iron, steady as a heartbeat.
Sold the lot to old Brenna at the blacksmith’s counter. She didn’t haggle, just nodded and slid over a small pouch. Not enough, but enough to eat and buy new tongs. Funny, how a man can carry all that weight, lose his gold, lose his breath, break his tools—yet still walk straighter after shaping something true from raw earth. Tomorrow, I’m heading back to the deep shaft. And this time, I’m bringing a second pair of tongs.
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