Aye, the forge in Minoc’s mine still stinks of sulfur and old sweat, same as it did ten years back. I stood there tonight, pickaxe in hand, the weight of nearly fifty ingots tugging at my shoulders, and listened to the clink of ore breaking free from stone like old bones snapping. Thirteen swings, maybe fourteen—hard to count when your arms go numb—and each strike sent a jolt up my spine. The rock gave grudgingly, like it knew I’d be back tomorrow, same as every day. I hauled the ore to the smelter, fed the flames like a hungry beast, and watched it bloom into ingots. Ten good ones, warm as bread from the oven, glinting in the dim orange glow. One batch wouldn’t smelt—the server, or the gods, or whatever’s laughing at us these days—blocked it cold. Felt like a kick in the gut.
But it was at the blacksmith’s anvil in town where the real shame hit. I’d counted eight ingots, counted them, laid them out neat on the soot-stained bench. Cutlass was next—clean blade, good balance, the kind that sells quick to adventurers passing through Minoc. I reached for the tongs, heated the metal, and then—nothing. “Insufficient metal,” it says. As if the world itself forgot I’d just hauled all that weight through the tunnels. I nearly cursed loud enough to wake the dead in the cemetery. Checked again. Eight. Exactly eight. But the anvil wouldn’t answer. Maybe it was fate, or a glitch in the old system, but either way, I was empty-handed where it counted.
So I walked—back to the mine forge, back to the rhythm of strike and fire. Smelted more, banked what I could, sold two cutlasses off a different batch to Betha the vendor. She gave me a nod and a copper extra, “for the trouble,” she said. Small kindness, but it warmed me more than the forge ever could.
Tomorrow? I’ll bring twelve ingots. Twelve, and I’ll make two blades. And this time, I won’t trust the count—I’ll bring an extra, just to spite the machine.
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