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The Song of the Forge [Brief story, feel free to comment.]

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A little music for those who enjoy a tune while reading.





   The hammer dropped with a monotone rhythm, a cacophony of echoing percussion bouncing against the sturdy brick walls of the forge. The red hot rods now gaining a white tone, shrieked out at the punishment from the blacksmith, with deaf thuds of complaint as they bled out a penetrating heat that made the coal skin glisten with a layer of sweat. Fire was the only light as the sun retired in search of slumber: fire in the heart and fire in the forge, illuminating and shadowing the Roegadyn's body in strange, dancing patterns, slouched forward in the stool in concentration. 


   Thick, dense air enveloped the instance, where only the lonely anvil would aid the long working hours. Some assistant skittered about carrying back the tools others had left in a rush for a cheap mug of ale, picking up tongs, hammers and chisels. One dropped to the ground, then another as a crate almost tipped over with a clumsy step of the dilligent Lalafell that wished to challenge the impositions of verticality by learning a trade fit for more robust figures. The elder Roegadyn blinked in surprised, mouth shaped into an 'oh' as he looked at the tiny figure trotting around the ground to pick up the goods. His expression turned into a heartwarming smile, and then a slow, rumbling chuckle. He stood up with a grunt and wiped his gloved hands on his apron, walking over to aid the distressed, diminutive apprentice.


   "I'm so so so sorry sir! Don't tell the chief, please?!" the copper-skinned Dunesfolk Lalafell chirped in dismay. The red hue on his cheeks was a mix of embarassment and the heat, as his eyes, accustomed to sunlight and heat, glistened brightly, reflecting the flame. Meanwhile, the kneeling blacksmith smiled out a soft chuckle through his teeth, shaking his head as he picked up the remaining tools of the trade, before patting his head with an enormous, soot-ridden hand. The tiny apprentince tried to suppress his smile with a pouting frown, granting his expression an almost mischievous display as he looked away shyly, before skipping away with a quick "Good night Master Grey!", with the sound of tiny feet tapping against the stone floors.


   The enthralling song of the forge had broken its spell with this interruption, but it did not bother the gentle giant, whose working hours were already done. The blade would wait, for iron waits forever. Like a cold lover waiting for a spark to ignite the flame within to awaken her, iron loves forever.


   He stepped out of the workshop with a relieved sigh as the seabreeze touched his glistening skin, and the touch of wind against sweat brought a delicious shiver down his spine as he stood there, admiring the sea, taking in its scent with a deep breath. Below, a ship's lights illuminated the waters enough to paint a scene of gold and copper and blue, as the distant sound of song and the barking of orders reached his ears. It was life at its purest, and it brought a happiness to his heart that one can rarely put into words. It was reward for a night's effort, and it was solace for his aging heart.


   The Roegadyn walked alone back to the small room he called home: nothing but four scarcely decorated walls with enough space for his few belongings, a desk with a chair, and a bed. He had no one to share it with, and no need for more. Amidst the chaos of the harbor, these four walls signified enough: a place to belong and claim as his own. Few could wish for a simpler life, but few would be as pleased as him to have so little. Happiness was, after all, to be proud of oneself. And as his father before him had said: "Son, whatever you may be, be the best you can be".


And with that thought, the world darkened around him with only a satisfied sigh to lull himself to sleep.

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