So there I was, deep in the Serpent's Spine, my pickaxe singing its usual tune against the stone. Clink. Clink. Clink-clink-thud. That last one, the dull thud, that’s the sound a miner dreads. I’d been working a rich vein for a good while, my pack growing heavy with nearly fifty rough stones, feeling like I could work it all day. Then, nothing. Just ten swings in a row hitting dead, worthless rock. The vein was tapped out, and the silence that followed was heavier than my pack. It’s a particular kind of frustration, that is. Your muscles are primed for the rhythm, your mind is set on the task, and suddenly it’s all just… empty.
I stood there in the gloom, the dust settling around my boots, and I just sighed. The mine forge back at the Minoc camp felt a thousand miles away. But a miner’s work isn’t just swinging the pick; it’s the haul, too. So I hefted that burden, every step a reminder of the work done and the work yet to do, and started the long trudge back east. The weight of all that raw ore is a promise, see. It’s not just stone; it’s potential. It’s the sword a guardsman will rely on, the plow that'll break a field. You feel that weight and you know you’ve earned your keep for the day.
Back at the Mining Camp, the familiar blast of heat from the forge was a welcome embrace. I fed the fire and started smelting, watching the rough stones sigh and melt into those smooth, heavy iron ingots. That’s the real payoff. Sold most of ‘em to old Garek, who always has a kind word and fair coin, which now jingles pleasantly in my purse. But I kept a few good bars back. Tomorrow, I’ll fire up my own forge. This calloused hand needs to remember the feel of a hammer shaping the metal, not just breaking the stone. A good dagger, I think. Something with a keen edge.
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