I’ll tell ye, the pickaxe biting into that stone in the Minoc East Mine—there’s a sound to it, a dull thunk that travels up your arms and settles in your teeth. Eighty-two times I swung it today, maybe more, losing count in the dim flicker of my lantern, sweat stinging my eyes and the damp chill of the tunnels seeping into my boots. The ore wasn’t easy—veins tucked deep, stubborn as mules—but when the rock cracked and the raw iron tumbled free, there was a satisfaction in it, like pulling teeth from the world’s oldest skull. I stacked the chunks in my pack, each one adding weight, until I was hunched like a troll under the load. Nearly fifty ingots by the time I smelted them at the mine forge, the flames roaring in my face, the heat so thick it made my beard curl.
But it wasn’t the labor that wore me down—it was the tongs. Aye, that cheap pair I bought off the tinker last week. Bent on the third use, the jaws warped, and when I tried to pull a fresh billet from the coals in the Minoc blacksmith’s shop, it slipped—clatter—right into the soot. I near cursed my mother’s name. There I stood, sweat on my brow, the forge still breathing like a sleeping beast, and all I could do was stare at that ruined bar, cooling fast. I had to reheat it twice, wasting time, wasting fuel. Felt like the world was pressing down, just to watch me kneel and pick up the pieces.
Still, I dragged on. Sold ten lots to the vendor near the bank—good man, never haggles much—and even with the gold gone by day’s end, I left my weight lighter. Something about depositing those last tools, locking the柜, and stepping into the cool Minoc evening… it settles the soul. I’ll find better tongs tomorrow. Maybe from a smith who remembers how metal should feel in the hand. Till then, I’ve got blisters, soot in my nails, and the memory of fire in my bones. And that’ll do.
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