I’ll tell ye, the pickaxe sang true this morning in the hills north of Minoc. Each swing into that stubborn rock face near the old mine shaft at (2517,506) sent a jolt up my arms—sharp, honest work. I could feel the granite give way grain by grain, the metallic glint of iron ore winking at me like secrets buried too long. Fifty good strikes, maybe more, and nearly fifty ingots in my pack before I even thought to wipe the sweat from my brow. The air down there’s thick with dust and silence, broken only by the clink-clink of steel on stone and the occasional groan of the earth settling. Felt good. Felt like I was earning every ounce.
Then came the forge. Back in Minoc, I stoked the fire at the miners’ forge till it roared like a caged beast. The heat on my face, the smell of coal and hot metal—it’s a kind of prayer, that moment when the ore softens and yields. But the tongs snapped clean in half on the seventh bar. I swear I heard them cry as the iron slipped, glowing orange, into the soot. I just stood there, hands empty, staring at that molten chunk like it had insulted my mother. Seventy-five pounds of ore smelted, and one broken tool later, I’m crouched, fishing it out with a warped scrap of iron I found near the carpenter’s yard. My fingers still smell like burnt leather.
Later, I hauled the ingots to the blacksmith near the Warriors Guild, hoping to craft something clean and useful—maybe a fine hatchet, something that wouldn’t fail when I needed it. But the anvil wouldn’t answer. Twice I tried, and twice the metal twisted wrong in my hands, like it remembered the tongs breaking and decided to spite me. I stood there, hammer in hand, wondering if the craft itself was tired of me. Maybe I’ve been chasing steel instead of skill.
Still, I’ll be back at first light. That ore ain’t going to mine itself, and my pack’s already light. There’s a rhythm to this life—swing, heat, shape, sell—and I’m still in step. Even if my tools aren’t.
No replies yet.