|
Post by aefaradien on Nov 24, 2010 14:20:29 GMT -5
2,000 years ago: Another World Away
Fear attracts the fearful, the strong, the weak, the innocent and the guilty. Fear is my ally and brother. May it forever unite us all.
The words on my brothers tombstone have almost vanished. I can imagine the ferocity at which others should attempt to wipe them from, but there is no cleansing stone. That is why we mark death with it. To show those who live that an evil looms on the horizon. It has long been used as an excuse to abandon faith. For what good if faith is it will not deliver us from evil, from death?
I had not lost my faith. Even if his sickness my brother had held true to his religion. And by flames shall I do the same or heavens strike me down where I stand! But time was running out. It was approaching the end.
Drawing myself from his graveside I stand, and brush away the dirt that has settled its self on my knees. I don't know why I take care to remove the soil. I will soon be in its arm, and then unable to clean myself of it. I may as well leave the dirt on my flesh. "Heavens bless you brother." I whisper uncertainly to the stone face on which the last message was told. To turn away from life is to happen across another life, to turn away from death, that it to truly die.
And so today I died.
I evacuate the graveyard with its endless labyrinth of corpses and stands, each one striving for the loved ones it once new, and exit onto the meadow where once I played with a delighted smile of innocence as I encountered the wonders of my species. Blood angels and dark fairies. Not that we were labeled as evil at the time, not yet. Come our adulthood we would be, as we matured the darkness would be drawn from the depths it buried itself and re awoken. But until then we were invited to participate in the merry upbringing of a free creature.
Until the war began.
Now I make the long journey through my memories with the knowledge that with every step I take I am dying. The pulse of my heart begins to fret, to concern its self with silly things. Have I said goodbye? Have I had something to drink? Do I wear the right shoes? Do I have the mirror? Petty things that would not worry me on any other day. Any other day but today. Ahead, past the fields and the cluster of trees, there is the sound of drumming. I dare not speed up, for fear of falling over, but I do not look back, regret the choice I never made, linger on the edge of existence. Because it will only grow the claws of fear which already grip my belly in terribly painfully waves.
So I keep going, plodding along at my own pace, and hoping in a fearfull manner, that I might be spared from the execuation of war. But knowing I wont I put one foot infront of the other. And it carries me forwards. Soon I reach the end of the meadow. Its long golden grass leans with the wind, to haul be backwards, as if desperate to keep some memoir of its history. To keep ahold of one of the children who played insides its walls. And I stop. Quite by accident, unprovoked. Stoped by my own fear. I need not see beyond the trees, I know what lay there. My species, a mixed race, being seperated by age. The older kin collect armour and weapons. The youngsters, the ones like me, are told that they will fight with what ever they can find or reach. We will run in the lead. We will run into a sour end.
Goosebumps prickle my skin, destorying the once smooth surface with pours of hairs. I am afriad. A tiny hand fits into my open, sweaty palm. I look down. The girl is smaller than me -a hard feat- and her brown hair shines truipmhantly in the risen sun. She looks straight ahead. "Today is a good day to die. Today is a sunny day." She tells me quietly. I squeeze her hand gently. I smile. "But I am still scared." She's only ten. A decade old. And here I stand, nowhere near adulthood and yet, so much older than her. Why is it that she must still fight? What good is a ten year old in war?! Just another shield for someone else. That is all we are. "It's okay Nyah, to be afriad is to be alive. May it be our last act of life, to fear death." She nods. Her little mind set on going forwards. Going to war.
And here I am. Holding her back.
Not for my sake, it would not protect me to save her. But because she is my sister. And I cannot see her die and then be tossed fro hand to hand, a pillow to deaden the blows of on coming spears. I will not let her be used so...
Today
"I sense much fear in you. Fear is the power of the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering." Their little eyes stare at me, fearfull. They nod their heads because they do not know what else to do. "Do you fear death?" I whisper to them. They nod again. I shake my head. "Then you are stupid." It has changed, one-thousand years leaves alot of gaps in the mind, makes room for new scars. New scratches on the looking glass. They are puzzled. After a year of teaching it has come to this. One knife and a slab of stone. I draw back, standing in the shadows of the forge. They sit up, unsure if I am attacking them or teaching them. Slowly they get to their feet, reach for their belts. I shake my head. "The belt is a mark of who you are. I am not you." The words seem strange in the light of events.
I am strange.
They drop their hands, turn to look at the lumps of stone I made them carve their names into. One has added a message of good intent beneath his name. One points. "Why do you make us make our gravestones?" He asks sadly, his eyes dim with the prospect of a quick death. I smile. "Funerals are not for the dead. They do not know if we burry them or leave them to be eaten by rabid monsters. They'll not read the writting on their graves! We do it because we are afriad of what is coming. We. The ones who are left behind. It is to comfort us, to sooth the fever of fear. Now go away from here and burry your fears of death, mark the spot with your stones. And when you die I will burry you with your stone in the place you mark today. And you will kindle your fear and laugh with it. At how childish you once were."
I turn away from them. And listen as they do as I have told them to. They hurry away, down the east-west facing street to their harboured safe spots. One day I'll have to find them, take their bodies there and burry them. It was what I have always done. Live with guilt, and hope that one day it may change to fear so I too can burry the memories of my past...
|
|
|
Post by Verdana on Nov 26, 2010 5:41:39 GMT -5
[shadow=black,left,300]SHAYGRIN [/center][/shadow][/size] There's this funny thing I've observed about people. It doesn't apply to everyone, and neither does it apply to any specific species. It's just... People. And what I have discovered about people is this: Most, even the paranoid ones, will look in front of them, beside them, behind them (especially behind them) and even below them. But they hardly ever look up. You can get away with the most rudimentary camouflage if you're above people. They'll glance up, and glance back down. As long as you're not wearing insanely bright colours. That tends to give you away. I am applying this logic at present. I'm in a small, rather inconsequential village. Why am I out of my city, my haven? Oh, you know, the usual. A bit of fresh air, a nice change of scenery, less enemies... That sort of thing. Anyway, that's another set of rules, and I don't feel like getting into them right now. The small buildings are clustered close together, which makes things a little easier for me. Not that I need it to be easy. It's just quite nice. I'm sitting in a sprawling, strong-limbed tree, close to a building that smells like fire. I'm perched right on the edge of an extended branch that seems like a hand reaching out to the rickety-looking roof. I recognised the building as a forge quite swiftly. Forges have always been interesting places. Things are made in there, and things are broken. I've found a hole in said rickety roof, and I am peering through at the activity within. Why did I go to so much trouble to spy on a forge? Because I can. And I'm glad I did, at that. Something strange and unusual is going on. My kind of party. I watch, with growing perplexity, as young people, no more than children, work at stone. At first, I assumed they were sculpting. I assumed wrong. One shifts, and shows me that it is creating, of all things, a gravestone. Now why would they be set to do that? Several theories begin in my head. They're child labourers in a funerary parlour syndicate. They've all got some fatal disease, and are preparing for the inevitable. But both of these theories are wrong. It turns out that they're making gravestones because the man who told them to is quite insane. I listen to his little rant, shaking my head. In my opinion, forcing the poor kids to accept death isn't going to alleviate fear, it's just going to make them morbid. Fear of death is a vital part of life, anyway. If you have no fear of it, you won't fight to keep away from it. This scrawny guy, cloaked in shadows, is barking up the wrong tree entirely. Now, if it were me... I shift my position slightly. The scant leaves on my tree brush restlessly against the forge. But no one notices. After all, hardly anyone ever looks up. Aww, what a shame. The lesson is over. I watch the children leave, smiling triumphantly to myself as they look everywhere but up in search of danger. My investigation done, I lean back so as to retreat down my tree and merge seamlessly into the crowds. Only, it doesn't work like that. I miscalculate the tree's strength. I put my hand on a protruding branchlet, and it cruelly neglects to hold my weight. In short, it bends, throwing my equilibrium off and sending me tumbling into the several-times-mentioned rickety roof. I make an assumtion. I assume that the roof will break under my scant weight, sending me tumbling into the forge (with a cushion of roof to break my fall) and into the company of the strange man, where I will have a very interesting conversation with him, scold him a bit, then steal something of his and leave. See, the problem with assumptions is that they don't always come true. The falling bit happens alright. Then I meet the roof. It turns out, it isn't nearly as rickety as I thought. It holds, and I, unprepared for this turn of events, neglect to grab hold of it, and tumble down onto the ground, which is very lacking in the 'cushioning' department. I lie on the ground, winded and groaning very softly, but unhurt. Except for my ego. That may never recover.
|
|
|
Post by aefaradien on Nov 26, 2010 8:26:03 GMT -5
A blacksmith's work is never done, and nor, could one argue, does it ever begin. For my days are spent hammering and my nights melding, all to the same effect. Death. I have long made tools of the trade, death is a buisness, not an event. And I have saught to master the arts of buisness by all means possible.
And i'm doing a bloody good job of it.
There was a large order placed two days ago. Ten and four steal swords, two lances and a sheild. It were of no mean an easy feat to create sturdy products of quality in such a short span of time, but I was their man and the man of every armies smithy. It is said order I have spent the morning working on. Mornings here and the same as afternoons which are the same as nights. Cold. Dark. Dirty. Bloody. I live in relitive safety, such a good smithy cannot be slaughtered without a price. Kill me and you'll find your weapons and armour and doors don't work quite as well anymore.
I had now finished working the iron into steel and could begin at last to shape the swords. The anvil and swages came in most usefull, and the constant hammering of my fuller against the metal left a aloud, echoing ring inside the compact wooden forge. This is distrubed only by the soft drilling of bird wings. Smite -the falcon- swoops in through the loft and lands on the sword swing. Her amber eyes blink once, then remain fixed on the roof. I look up. There have been soft muffled thuds up there for a while now. Now there is a rustle of branches. We have company.
I bring the fuller down on the steel and then use a pincher to place it back in the flames. I work the bellow furiously, insuring the heat of the fire was at its height before dusting my hands off and making my way over the straw scattered floor to the sword swing. It had long been a personal favourite of mine, and was unique -as far as I knew- to here.
The sword swing was a large wooden pillar that worked much like the clogs in a watch. It had five timber beams stretching out two and a half meters which was then rounded off by a large circular ring of timber that conected all the beams together. The top was similar. Five beams each two meters long were connected by a bulkier ring of timber from which hung all the swords I had made. Some were for sale, some had been made by order and were waiting picking up, or in somecases, some extra work. The sword ring was also a turner, to which I had hooked my faithfull Plodder too. The shire horse was currently stood at ease and was munching on some hay which I had strung from the timber bar above. It worked well. And as I had no stall or other means to provide a habitat for Plodder it worked in all senses as a home.
It was also where Smite had roosted herself. As if the two were inseprable. She now aspired to have a fluster as the roof gave away and a girl fell a little way from the anvil. I sniff is distaine and hurry to bellow more air into the fire which seemed to stutter for a moment, unsure if this had been a call for it to go out; which by no means had it been. As I hurry to regain the fires heat I study the girl who lays motionless on my floor.
"Shaygrin arn't you." Common knowledge of every feared thieve comes in very handdy on occasions. Shay was one of those I happened across a few years back. She never saw me, I saw her though. Of course I did! I have three pairs of eyes and a little army of scouts. I see everthing. "Did no one tell you it was rude to break peoples roofs? I hope you fix it. it will let the rain in. And that will upse the fire and then I shall be unable to forge weapons for people who rather not be made angry by thives."
|
|
|
Post by Verdana on Nov 26, 2010 10:02:14 GMT -5
[shadow=black,left,300]SHAYGRIN [/center][/shadow][/size] Urgh, I hate getting winded. It's temporary, but it feels like it's going to last forever. The groaning, the flailing, there's nothing I can do about it. I become helpless. There's nothing I dislike more than being helpless. Except fish. I really hate fish. I give that breathless little whimper that means my diaphragm is slowly coming back into play. I try to sit up, defend myself. This is dangerous. This is stupid. But as hard as I try, I can't flip myself up and leap into action. Maybe I'm getting old. Maybe this is it, maybe I'm going to finally get killed today. Maybe... Ooh, looks like I have company. A shadow falls across my face. I let my eyes open. It's a little fuzzy, but I know who's accompanying me. It's that guy. The one who thinks teaching kids that death isn't so bad is going to make them more effective. Well, do I have news for him. In an ideal world, I'd jump up and give him a piece of my mind in no uncertain terms. I try that. I do. All that happens is that I jerk a little, and moan softly. No, that's not good enough, I tell myself firmly. Come on, get up. I don't manage to do it before he starts speaking. He knows me. Okay, that's a good start. He knows me and he hasn't killed me yet. Either he respects or fears me, or he can barely put a name to a face. Or maybe he doesn't care. Either way, I'm not dead at the end of it, so it's all good. However, he is distinctly lacking in the sympathy department. He just stands there. Great. So it's an unchivalrous chap too. I only like chivalry when it suits me. This is one of the times when it would suit me quite nicely. Indignity makes a very good source of adrenaline. I sit up, rubbing my head. You shouldn't leave roofs in perfectly inhabitable pieces of air, I retort breathlessly. It's not brilliant. It's not even decent. But at least I'm saying it now and not remembering it in three hours after we've parted ways. That's how it usually goes. Oh ho ho, I wheeze as he throws in a threat. That's lovely. So gentlemanly. No, 'Are you okay, you sexy miasma that has magically appeared in my life?' No, of course not, it's just, 'Fix the roof, get out of my cupboard, put some clothes on', blah blah blah!Okay, my voice is back. I stand up, dusting myself off. I've grazed my elbow and I think the back of my head might be leaking, but those are small details. I round on the snooty guy, scowling. And who are you to take such a superior tone? Oh, but don't feel obliged to break your run of gentlemanly behaviour just because you seem to know me and I don't know y... I curse as my nose starts to bleed. I have to stop my rant to wipe it on my sleeve. Feeling that the effect of my wrath is somewhat diminished, I put my hands on my hips and demand, So?
|
|
|
Post by aefaradien on Nov 27, 2010 8:20:34 GMT -5
It is going to change into the noon soon. And I am a busy person, i've big things to deal with. Bigger than Shaygrin's alterego at any rate. She struggles to her feet, and seemingly towers above me. I would be more worried if she did not. It is hard to find anyone small than myself. It's a fact I've long grown used to. And who suspects such a small boy of being such a key part into a buisness? No one. That's who. Not that Shaygrin's noticed. Infact, she is aware of me as I she is dirt she treds on every day. There is no need to dismiss me as easily as she does. I could prove to be very valuble. Most people find I am. They also find me a pest. I work in two ways. Hinges both side.
"If there had been no roof there you'd have been unable to evesdrop on the convosations." I retort with little interest at her bleeding nose and dirty clothes. "And if you stayed so long it must have been of some interest to you." Smite squakes from her place and stretches her wings as she swoops down, purching on my shoulder. If she had been a parrort and I a sailor it would have been a comical scene. She was not a parrort and I no sailor --though sailing was a hobby that had its rewards-- thus the scene remained myterious and low key. As it always is.
The blood stains the cuff of her sleeve, I pull out the white pressed hankerchief from my chest pocket and hand it to her. "You cannot expect people to help you if you do not deserve helping." I turn away from her and use the pincer to turn the steel over in the flames. I must keep a keener eye on it. The girl is a comedian, in her own arubt and peculiar way her perplexity has greatly amused me. I sway towards increasing her curiosity, and decide that her torture has been enough. Her ego is bruised enough by now. "Aefaradien. Blacksmith to anyone who asks for me and vigilant city watcher. Perhaps I can assist you in someway? I hear that the Palace gaurds are changing tonight. There will be a two and a half minute window for anyone to sneek past the west wall unseen. I also know that something of great value and wealth is currently being kept inside said Palace."
Just a little infomation. Keep 'em hooked.
|
|
|
Post by Verdana on Nov 28, 2010 11:09:10 GMT -5
Wow. Now that I'm standing upright, I can actually see how tall this guy is. The answer? Not very. When he was 'teaching' those poor, misguided children, he seemed taller, and obviously when I was out on the floor he seemed to attain a decent height. It turns out, he's actually a fair bit shorter than me, and I can easily be mistaken for a child in their teens in a crowd. It's rare for me to be taller than anyone, and this makes me feel a little more amiable towards my newfound acquaintance. I've never been rational with my likes or dislikes, and I'm not planning to start now. He's short, so I like him, until proven otherwise.
He doesn't act like the child he appears, though. He acts like a rather crochety old man. Funny, but I know it will soon grow old and I'll have to hold him up against a wall and tell him to lighten up. For the good of society, you understand. For the moment, it amuses me. I draw myself up, as if affronted. That was not eavesdropping, I state coldly. It was investigative journalism. And I wasn't interested, quite frankly, I was a little bit nauseated at what you were trying to imply. I'm not going to elaborate unless he asks, but I have a perfectly good explanation in mind. I am briefly distracted by the falcon that flies down to join him. Pretty bird, as birds go. Looks smart too, which makes it stand out from the usual, stupid brand of bird that one encounters. Part of me, the part that still wants to play hopscotch with the kids in the street and win, wants to touch said bird. Thankfully, most of me realises that this would be a very bad idea, and holds my hand back.
I remain a little distracted, but still listening, until he introduces himself. My face doesn't change. But inside, I die. Just a little. This guy... Wow. I mean, wow. His reputation spans a large sector of Gossip (which is not your everyday brand of gossip, you understand). He fades in and out of interest, whereas I stay in the limelight, but still. He's pretty amazing. Not that I'm going to tell him that. No. That would break all the rules of impressive figures. So all I say is, Nice to meet you, Far. Can I call you that? Okay, good. Well done, Shay.
I take his handkerchief with a little nod, and blot up my pouring nose. I purse my lips, mulling over his information. The palace always has interesting things in it. That sort of goes without saying. I've been in and out of there many times. To be honest, the Temples have more exciting things in them, and are more of a challenge to get into. The palace hasn't had anything of use to me in it since before I was born, I say dismissively. Unless, of course, you know of something spectacularly amazingly superbly mind-blowing, I'm not interested. I should keep quiet, I should, but something prompts me to add, Besides, I'm looking for a very specific artifact right now.
|
|
|
Post by aefaradien on Nov 28, 2010 11:43:01 GMT -5
The articil in question arrived at the Palace two nights ago in disguise. Shaygrin informs me that she is not interested, unless it is something she is looking for. I doubt it is, but how much does she really want me to drop the subject?
I turn away from her again and take the steel from the flames, using a fuller to smoothen it again, turning it quickly and stroking the hammer down the burning surface. It sends little sparks flying in all directions, but i've no time to worry if Shay gets hit by them. I'm sure she can move aside. "Far's fine." I agree as the steel takes the shape of an oblong. I start to work the edges, tuning them to a finer point that will slice the skin of a grape without even applying pressure. "Eh, I doubt it is what you want." Quite the oppisite, i think it will take her interest up very quickly. But lets just see how long it takes for her to change her mind. I'm cruel arn't I?
Smite leans forwards towards Shay, and just before toppling of my shoulder, hops over to her. She sits on Shay's upper arm, her talons sinking deep into her skin. Then, spotting something she likes, she plucks a tiny clump of Shay's black hair and flies out of the new hole in the cieling far faster than an ordinary bird should be able to fly. I laugh but offer my condolances.
I don't mention that her hair is of my use.
"This specific artifact that you're after, tell me what it is exactly...or a little more detail. You never know, I must just be able to help you..." And that's true, because what I know about is the city, what my sister, Nate, knows about is the world outside. She's my eyes and ears for everywhere beyond the stone walls that mark the boundry between here and there. Nate could be of great use to Shaygrin, and Shay is of great use to me.
|
|
|
Post by Verdana on Nov 29, 2010 6:45:11 GMT -5
I watch over the boy-man's shoulder as he works metal. I've always admired people who could. It's not really an option for me, due to my embarrassing allergy to silver. I touch the stuff and everything goes fuzzy. And since silver is a very big part of metal-working, it makes the whole practice out for me. It's never bothered me unduly. I can threaten and cajole and convince other people to do it for me. Still, it's wonderful that something as dense and compact as metal can be twisted and formed by the delicacy of hands. There's something symbolic about it. Something. Ehh, I couldn't be bothered to think further than that.
The sparks dance about me. They fly up, down and sideways, but only a couple hit my flesh. My luck is on today. Sometimes it's with me, sometimes it isn't. Today's one of the good days. My fate is good. My mood becomes sunnily optimistic. That is, until that bleeding falcon attacks my head. At first, I thought it was being friendly and snuggly. Then the damn thing nips me. I yowl, and try to bat it away (perhaps not the wisest thing to do to a predatory bird, but it hurt!) but it's already flying. A small trail of black things are coming out of its mouth. I don't really know what to say about this, but my sunny optimism drops a notch. Rubbing my head, I glare at Far. His stupid falcon. Grr.
My feeling of wellbeing isn't completely gone, but it's also not spill-your-guts prominent. Which is why I don't completely ignore him when he asks about my artefact. I watch him from under my hair, lips pursed as I consider exactly how much to divulge. I lick my lips, and then say: It's... Not so much one artefact, that's the problem. It's seven, that combine to make one. You may see where I'm getting at here, you may not. But they're what I'm looking for. I don't mention that I already have one of The Seven, and I'm a professional, so neither do I put my hand to my neck or show any other sign of knowing. I just stand there, watching him for recognition, scorn or any other reaction or lack thereof.
I hate to say it, but my curiosity is piqued. I want to know what he could offer. Part of me is far too proud to ask, but luckily, most of me has no pride whatsoever and is like a little child with the hint of a secret on her ears. She wants to know. So, what do you know about? Damn. Now I feel like I've lost.
|
|
|
Post by aefaradien on Nov 30, 2010 11:55:11 GMT -5
Nate would know more on Shaygrin's dilema than I do, because unlike her I am not a crazy (I'd call her physopathic if she was not my sibling) treasure seeking, arrow firing, music playing, thumb breaking school girl. Not that she goes to school. Or that she makes a habit of breaking peoples thumbs. Mine at least are safe. This is all beside the point.
"Nate will know more on that." She wont know Nate, or at least, it is highly improbable. That just adds to my enjoyment of her confusion. And suffering. I could keep her in this little web of knowledge for a long time, that is how I work. I have been described as many things, but my favourite was a merchant. There is, after all, a market for everything. Knowledge, possesions ...people. "Nate will be here later if you want her. If not try down the docks tomrrow. She'll know you when she sees you." I wouldn't want her staying here to much longer.
Now back to work.
The oblong of steel has no real sharpness to its edges, nor any point about its tip. These are my next two tasks. Exchanging the fuller for a smaller hammer I begin to clang along the thin edges, turning it everyother hit and often replacing it in the flames for a few moments to reheat the metal. It takes a morning to make a sword, it takes days to craft a sword, takes a lifetime to perfect the art of using it. My trade is demanding, and that is the fun of it.
Oh but look, my company seeks some more infomation on the mytserious Palace treasure that she could have the oppertunity to take tonight. This is my forté. "Haha, I don't give my knowledge away freely Miss Syncrame-" I told you, I know almost everyone in the city "How am I to know you wont sell the knowledge on to someone else, or take advantage. No, I need something in return." I pause, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I draw along the edges of the steel block again. It has begun to take a little more shape.
"Come back at dusk if you want to know, and don't forget my payment. Until then, I have work to do I am afriad."
And I do. So I turn my back on her completly, bidding her a goodbye and good day as I do so, before implying all my interest onto the weapon, drilling at it with more force than before as I drive sharp smooth edges onto the metal. This will be my best blade of the lot. And then I will start on Shay.
|
|
|
Post by Verdana on Dec 8, 2010 12:24:05 GMT -5
No. No, I can't believe it. The bastard's already lost interest in me. He gives me some cryptic little comments, and then goes back to work as if I am no consequence. If I had any less control, my mouth would be agape, and I would quickly become indignant. However, I do not. I feel a wry flutter of respect for this rather pessimistic creature. He's been around a long time, probably a lot longer than me. He's skilled with metal, and he knows who I am. I could do without the riddles, to be sure, but he's got style. I appreciate style. It's become rather lacking these days in the underworld.
But now I have a little bit of a dilemma, you see. Or, actually, come to think of it, it's several dilemmas. He's given me advice on who to go to to sort out my quest. That's nice. But he's also offering me some more tantalising information. And I always like to be on top of the grapevine. If I go to the jetty tomorrow, I may miss out on something big. But if I get his information, I miss out on what I want. What does he want from me, anyway? What can I get him? Can I do both? My eyes flick from left to right in indecision, and then I make a decision. I'll try do both. If I can get him something he wants by sundown, I get his info. If not, I just go to the jetty. When have I ever played it safe? I turn around, and flee out the door.
What do you get a guy like him? Only one way to find out.
I flit into the city, and arrive out of breath and disliking isolated villages. Grumbling, I maraud through the streets. I have a contact who knows metal. He specialises in how to camouflage various metals as various more valuable metals, but he knows about all sorts anyway. He's very difficult to find. For most people, that is. Me, I'm different. I know which hairs to pull, which corners to dig, and where to poke, prod and sometimes wallop for results. I get what I want, and head over to my man. He's more than happy to comply. He should be, what with the way I 'convinced' him and all. I find out what smiths want more than anything. It's an ore called Stridum. I didn't quite follow all the babbling and big words, but I got what I needed to. I know he'd like it, and I know where to find some.
It's not going to be easy. But it wouldn't be nearly as fun if it was.
I'm not going to go into all the details of my mad race and incredible on the spot planning. The former because I can't remember half of it, the latter because I never have any planning whatsoever. I just turned up at the well-guarded sub-temple, and hoped. Thankfully, it worked. I had some Knights on my tail for a bit, but I shook them (not without difficulty or injury). All you need to know is that by the time the sun is setting, I limp wearily into the isolated little forge, the large but surprisingly light package hugged to my chest, my pack hanging by one strap. I'm drenched in sweat, panting heavily and dizzy from adrenaline.
I walk up to an anvil, and drop the package on it. I want to see him open it for two reasons. Firstly, I want to watch his face to see if I have to add some on-the-spot payment. Secondly, I'm desperate to know what the stuff I worked so hard for looks like. I'm too breathless to speak, so I wait to be noticed.
|
|