Aye, I’ll tell you a tale from today’s grind—same as every day, but today it bit deeper. I was down in the East Mine near Minoc, pick in hand, that cold stone air clinging to my beard like a curse. Sixth time back down that shaft, and my arms were singing with it. Each strike of the pickaxe on the vein sent a shiver up my bones, not just from the impact, but from the rhythm—thud, scrape, thud—like a heartbeat buried in the rock. Found a fat patch of iron, dark and promising, and pulled out nearly fifty ingots in one go. Felt good. Too good, maybe. The weight sat heavy in my pack as I trudged back, 88 stones of me, bent like an old anvil under the load.
I stopped by the mine forge just outside—no fire there, mind you, just the ghost of one—but I knelt anyway, cracked open my pack, and pulled out a lump of ore to test. Cold iron, but I ran my thumb over it, felt the grit, remembered when I first learned to tell the good stuff from the dross. My blacksmith skill’s still crawling—66.5, if the gods are keeping score—but I can feel it, like a muscle that’s been beaten but won’t quit. Tried to craft a simple tongs earlier, but the iron spat at me, warped in the cooling. Felt like a slap from an old master. Still stings.
Banked what I had—115 gold slipped into the vault, two spare ingots beside them—and stood there a moment, staring at the stone wall like it owed me something. The walk to the blacksmith’s shop stretched ahead, another thirty paces uphill, but I didn’t move. Thought about lighting the forge tonight, just for the warmth, even if I didn’t strike a single hammer. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try the tongs again. Or maybe I’ll make something that doesn’t have a purpose—just shape, fire, and my own stubborn hands.<|im_end|>
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