Aye, it’s been one of those days where the ore fights back. I was down in the tunnels near Minoc, pickaxe in hand, sweat stinging my eyes from the torchlight’s flicker. Twenty-six swings that dug iron from stone, but half the time I’d swing true only to find another miner already crowding the vein—like vultures on a carcass. I’d step back, knuckles white on the haft, breathing dust. The sixth time I got blocked trying to reach that rich patch near (2517,506), I nearly cursed loud enough to wake the dead. But I held it in. Just spat on the rock instead and moved deeper, where the air’s thick and the walls hum with old magic.
Then came the forge—the real heart of it. Back at the mine forge, I fed that raw ore into hungry flames, seven batches under my belt before the tongs snapped. Just cracked clean through on the eighth, red-hot iron slag dripping onto the stone. Felt like a kick to the gut. I stood there, sweat cooling on my neck, staring at the broken iron jaws. Forty-nine ingots in my pack, heavy as a promise, and suddenly it all felt pointless. But I wiped my hands, cursed properly this time, and borrowed a pair from old Borin’s abandoned setup. The flame roared back. Each hiss of smelting, each ring of hammer on anvil at the Minoc blacksmith—it wasn’t just work. It was proof. Proof I could bend the world a little, even when it resists.
I forged a cutlass later, one good piece out of the heat and strain. Balanced it in my hand—cold steel, sharp edge catching the lamplight. Felt right. Not just useful, but earned. I carried it through Minoc’s cobbled lanes, past the Provisioner’s South, headed for the Arms trader. Twenty paces from the shop, the weight in my pack reminded me: gold’s scarce, but skill isn’t. Tomorrow, I’ll mend those tongs. Forge my own. And maybe, just maybe, swing back to that blocked vein with a pick harder than the stone.
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