The young lad was clothed in what barely passed as clothing in this thread-bare winter age. The forge-fire was a blessing, searing the entire shop with an overbearing heat that made one soon long for the exterior chill. He stammered for a moment at the strange sight of a full-fledged Dragoon, hesitantly drawing scraggly arms up to gesture toward the shop itself.
The young Highlander woman V'aleera had seen enter, watched motionless just a few feet away. The small office was crammed with a pair of chairs and a table. Poorly sorted paperwork was strewn about an opened desk. The woman grasped a ladle, stopped mid-motion as she was filling a bowl with meager porridge. Her long brown hair was covered by a scarf, and she wore a colorless dress of undistinguished quality. Nonetheless, her features bore the quiet, staid pride that seemed the hallmark of her countrymen.
Through the office door was the workshop itself, filled with the searing, hot-orange of forge-light. A massive Highlander stood within, at work upon an anvil. He stood more than a head taller than most men, with a wide barrel-chest and powerful arms that were the hard-earned hallmark of his trade. He dropped the hammer with a loud peel that rung near-deafeningly through the office. A second, a third, then a fourth time. Tongs lifted the result of his work, a perfectly shaped rosehead upon an angled shaft a few ilms in length: a nail. With the sizzle of steam it joined a host of brothers within a cooling bath.
Sweat dripped from his brow. Tinted goggles covered tired eyes. His arms were dark, seared and soot-covered. He turned his upper body and reached with tongs to grasp the next prepared nail-rod. He laid it against the flat of the anvil, and raised his hammer once more.
The young Highlander woman V'aleera had seen enter, watched motionless just a few feet away. The small office was crammed with a pair of chairs and a table. Poorly sorted paperwork was strewn about an opened desk. The woman grasped a ladle, stopped mid-motion as she was filling a bowl with meager porridge. Her long brown hair was covered by a scarf, and she wore a colorless dress of undistinguished quality. Nonetheless, her features bore the quiet, staid pride that seemed the hallmark of her countrymen.
Through the office door was the workshop itself, filled with the searing, hot-orange of forge-light. A massive Highlander stood within, at work upon an anvil. He stood more than a head taller than most men, with a wide barrel-chest and powerful arms that were the hard-earned hallmark of his trade. He dropped the hammer with a loud peel that rung near-deafeningly through the office. A second, a third, then a fourth time. Tongs lifted the result of his work, a perfectly shaped rosehead upon an angled shaft a few ilms in length: a nail. With the sizzle of steam it joined a host of brothers within a cooling bath.
Sweat dripped from his brow. Tinted goggles covered tired eyes. His arms were dark, seared and soot-covered. He turned his upper body and reached with tongs to grasp the next prepared nail-rod. He laid it against the flat of the anvil, and raised his hammer once more.
![[Image: 21282370099_a814a08664_o.png]](https://farm1.staticflickr.com/590/21282370099_a814a08664_o.png)
