Aye, the forge in Minoc’s mine has a way of getting into your bones. Not just the heat—though it does, even at this hour, with the sun long down and only the flicker of coals painting the stone walls orange—but the rhythm of it. The clink of tongs, the hiss of quenching steel, that deep thud when the hammer bites true. I was down there most of the day, working what little mithril I’d pulled from the western seam. Not much—three good veins all told, and a few scattered shards—but enough to keep the bellows wheezing and my shirt stuck to my back with sweat. I’d just set a fresh bar to cool when the tongs snapped clean in half, right at the hinge. Bronze, cheap things, worn thin from weeks of grinding use. I cursed loud enough to scare the bats. There I was, holding half a tool, staring at a glowing piece of metal I couldn’t move without burning my hands to cinders.
I ended up using a scrap of chainmail, wrapped tight round the shank. Risky, but it held. Pulled the bar free and slid it into the slack tub with a roar and a plume of steam that stung my eyes. Sat there on the soot-stained stool, breathing hard, watching the ripples in the water. Funny how one broken tool can make you feel like the whole world’s against you. I thought of Alethea, up at her smithy near the stables, how she never lets her tools get that far gone. She’s got order to her work, precision. Me? I’m more like the stone—rough, stubborn, chipped in places. But I get shaped eventually.
I should’ve gone straight to sell, but I took the long way through the town square. Nearly fifty ingots in my pack, heavy on my shoulders, and another five bars cooling in a sack at my belt. The weight felt honest. Passed the Provisioner, but the door was barred—again. Third time this week. Makes you wonder who’s running that shop. Ended up at Alethea after all. She gave me a nod, no words, and handed over the coin like we do this every day, which, well… maybe we do.
Tomorrow, I’m buying new tongs. Good ones. Iron-jointed, long-handled. And maybe a flask of something to keep the night chill off. For now, I’ll sit. This ale’s warm, but it’s wet, and the fire’s still bright.
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