I’ll tell you, the pickaxe biting into that stone in the Minoc hills today wasn’t just work—it was conversation. Each strike at that stubborn seam near the old tunnel mouth sent a shiver up my arm, sharp and honest. Twelve times I pulled ore from the rock, the weight of the pack creeping higher, dust settling in my beard like powdered iron. It’s quiet down there, even with the clink and crack of mining. Just you, the mountain, and the echo of your own breath. I passed that crooked support beam the goblins once burned—still leaning like a drunk after a festival—and gave it the usual nod. Feels like a landmark now, part of the rhythm.
But it was at the mine forge, hunched over the coals with seven piles of raw stone, that the real moment took hold. The bellows wheezed, the fire roared back to life, and I fed the ore in one by one. When I pulled the fourth batch of ingots—glowing cherry-red, their surfaces still trembling with heat—I paused. Held the tongs just a breath too long. The metal whispered as it cooled, shrinking slightly in my grip, and I swear I felt something pass between us—like the ore gave up its secrets only when I stopped rushing. Nearly fifty ingots now in my pack, unevenly distributed, tugging at one shoulder as I walked. Worth it.
Smelting blocked once—some fool had left a half-melted crucible in the hearth. Had to chip it out with the tongs, and one snapped at the hinge. That stung more than pride. Three tries to craft later, and the anvil sang only once, but it was enough—a single iron pick, solid, balanced. I’ll need it tomorrow. Sold two stacks to Beth at the blacksmith’s stall near the stables. She didn’t haggle, just smiled and said, “You look like you’ve been wrestling mountains.” Might be back to the deep seam. Or maybe just sit by the forge a while, let the metal talk back.
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