So there I was, deep in the western tunnels of the Minoc mine, the air thick with dust and the steady tap-tap-tap of picks on stone. My own rhythm had been solid for a good while, filling my pack with a decent haul of dull, grey ore. But then the mountain decided it’d had enough. My next swing hit a patch of rock so stubborn it sent a jolt right up my arms, rattling my teeth. The clang wasn't the good, clean ring of iron on stone; it was a flat, dull thud of pure defiance. The pickaxe held, but the stone didn't give an inch. Tried again, same thing. Ten times, maybe more. Just that same jarring shock. The mountain was telling me "no," and it wasn't worth arguing.
That’s the mining life, though, isn’t it? You can’t fight the rock. You just have to nod, wipe the grit from your eyes, and move to a new vein. So I hauled my near-fifty ingots’ worth of raw ore back to the surface and fired up the forge. There’s a peace to that, you know? The blast of heat after the mine’s chill, the roar of the bellows, the slow, satisfying drip of molten metal into the molds. Turning that stubborn rock into something clean and useful… it mends the frustration.
But the day wasn’t done testing me. My old tongs, the ones I’ve had since my first day at the anvil, finally gave out. The heat and strain got to ‘em, I suppose. Snapped clean through trying to pull a fresh ingot from the coals. A dozen good smelts blocked right there. You learn to respect your tools. You forget, and they remind you. Still, I got most of it done, sold the lot to old Gundar at the smithy. Felt good to finally lighten the pack and hear the gold clink into my hand. Tomorrow, my first task isn’t mining. It’s forging myself a new, stronger pair of tongs. Can’t have the tools failing when the mountain’s already against you.
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