I’ll tell you, the walk back from the Minoc mining camp had my shoulders screaming—nearly fifty ingots in my pack, each one cold and unforgiving against my spine. I’d struck a decent vein near the northern ridge, just past the old collapsed shaft they say claimed a Dwarven crew back in the Third Age. The pickaxe bit deep that time, not like earlier when the rock just laughed at me, chipping my blade and my pride. But then, one solid strike—clink—and the dull grey of iron glistened in the torchlight. I remember the sound, how it changed from hollow thud to that sharp, singing crack when you finally break through. That’s when you know. That’s when the sweat on your brow feels earned.
I spent the rest of the hour at the mine forge, the little anvil tucked under the overhang where the rain can’t reach but the smoke still stings your eyes. Made two picks that held true—good weight, balanced right. The second one, though, the tongs slipped just as I was folding the tang, and the metal twisted like a drunkard’s laugh. Felt that frustration rise hot in my chest, same heat as the coals. I almost tossed it into the scree pile, but something made me quench it anyway, let it cool in the trough. Maybe I’ll rework it tomorrow. There’s a rhythm to failure out here—sometimes it’s just part of the song.
Selling to Halden at the Minoc blacksmith was the relief. He didn’t haggle, just grunted, weighed the ingots, and handed over coin. Not much, but enough to eat and buy charcoal for the week. I watched him toss a lump onto his main forge—hiss, then flame—and for a moment I envied the fire more than the gold. It knew its purpose. Me? I’m still digging. Still listening for that crack beneath the pick. Come dawn, I’ll be back at (2582,511)—same spot, blocked or not. The stone’s got more to give. I can feel it in my arms, in the ache behind my ribs. And if it doesn’t… well, there’s always tomorrow’s swing.
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