Minoc’s mine forge was still warm when I stumbled in, shoulders aching like I’d been hauling boulders uphill all day. The air smelled of old coal and scorched iron—honest stink, the kind that clings to your beard and won’t let go. I’d just come up from the south tunnel, pickaxe slung over my back, nearly fifty ingots in my pack dragging me down like guilt. Two trips down, two trips up. Each swing of the pick echoing in my arms, each chunk of stone giving way with that gritty crack that sets your teeth on edge. I don’t mind the noise. It’s the waiting I hate—the moment between strikes when you wonder if the vein’s played out, if you’re just wasting time on dead rock.
But today wasn’t a waste. Found a solid pocket near (2582, 511), just past the broken timber support where the ceiling sags like a tired back. First strike, the pick bounced—too hard, wrong angle. Second, I felt it: a clean break, deep and resonant. Pulled out a hunk of iron so clean it gleamed in the torchlight, like moonlight on still water. I remember crouching there, brushing dust from its face, thinking how strange it is that something so cold and heavy can feel like a gift. My hands were raw, one fingernail split near the cuticle, but I didn’t care. That first good strike—it’s like the mountain finally answering.
Back at the forge, I leaned against the anvil, just breathing for a minute. The weight in my pack was real, tangible. Not much gold in my pocket now—none, truth be told—but I’ll see the vendor at the blacksmith tomorrow. He knows me. Nods when I walk in, doesn’t ask where I’ve been. I’ll trade most of it for tools, maybe keep a few ingots for myself. Practice shaping them freehand. There’s a rhythm to it, a kind of quiet talk between metal and hammer.
Aye, tomorrow’s another dig. But tonight, I’ll drink something bitter and sit by the hearth, and let my hands forget the weight—just for a while.
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