After an agreement, an exchange. That makes sense :) I am stepping very briefly away from Kraulik and co today because I wanted to get this idea written down; I hope you enjoy it.
Exchange "I'm looking for the blacksmith." The stranger had brown curly hair and a broken front tooth and wouldn't meet her gaze for more than a fraction of a second before blinking and looking away. Sephira mentally shrugged, passing it off as yet another oddbod come to talk to the blacksmith about the War though it was nearly forty years past. "Carry on down the road," she said, though it was really just a hard-packed cart track of orange, clayey soil. "Past the crossroads, past the Inn of Four Trees, and then take the ro-- the pat-- the trail to your left. It goes up and around and you won't see the smithy until you're almost there, Jon set it practically into the rock itself." "Jon," said the stranger, nodding. "Thanks." Sephira watched him walk away, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of a heavy, hessian rucksack, and wondered what memories of the War he had come to share.
Jon the blacksmith, which was what pretty much everyone in the hamlet called him to his face, looked up as the stranger walked wearily up the last, stone-set path to the smithy. As Sephira had said, the building was built into the rock of a small hill; a hard granite extrusion out of the ground that resisted the efforts of the wind and rain and infrequent storms to wear it away. Jon was quenching a length of iron in the water-barrel and a cloud of steam quickly dissipated as it cooled from orange-hot to black. Pieces of iron flaked off and settled slowly through the now-tepid water. "Are you Jon the blacksmith?" asked the stranger, frowning. The afternoon sun was still above the roof of the smithy and was in his eyes. "Just Jon," said the blacksmith. "And you are?" "Call me Callum," said the stranger. He shrugged his rucksack off and set it down; it looked heavy and as Callum straightened up again he seemed to grow five or six centimetres taller. "I'd like to talk about an exchange." "Money for services," said Jon. "Bluntly put, there are plenty who think a strong arm is all it takes to hammer metal. That might be so, but there's a lot more to blacksmithing than that, and I'm not of a mind to take on an apprentice."
The stranger tapped his rucksack with his foot. It didn't even wobble. "Black skyle ore. Enough for four greatswords, in exchange for one spadroon." There was silence; skyle ore was rare in the country, and not much more common in the lands of the main trading partners. Black skyle ore was rare enough that the people who knew where to mine it kept it a secret even from their own families. "What's the catch?" Jon's fingers itched to see if the rucksack genuinely contained black skyle ore. Making an entire sword-blade from it would be wasteful to an extreme, but enough for a sword-blade would be sufficient to see him rich in a matter of months. "It's not easy to craft, but it's not so hard that it's worth that much." "You make it yourself," said Callum. "All of it, no bought parts, no help with the smaller bits. A sword from a single smith." Jon nodded slowly. "You sought me out," he said. It wasn't a question, just a bare statement. "You were known as Hrozoen during the War," said Callum. "Part of the exchange is me forgetting all about that, of course." "Of course." "And the blade... the blade is infused with this." Callum put his hand in a pocket and pulled out something thickly wrapped in cotton padding. He passed it over carefully and Jon, taking the hint, unwrapped it equally carefully. Inside seven layers of padding was a small glass bottle containing a red liquid. "Blood taken from the altar of Narushiteli," said Callum, stressing the "-eli". Jon wrapped the bottle up again before speaking. "You've picked a name for this sword?" "Oathbreaker."
3 comments:
After an agreement, an exchange. That makes sense :) I am stepping very briefly away from Kraulik and co today because I wanted to get this idea written down; I hope you enjoy it.
Exchange
"I'm looking for the blacksmith." The stranger had brown curly hair and a broken front tooth and wouldn't meet her gaze for more than a fraction of a second before blinking and looking away. Sephira mentally shrugged, passing it off as yet another oddbod come to talk to the blacksmith about the War though it was nearly forty years past.
"Carry on down the road," she said, though it was really just a hard-packed cart track of orange, clayey soil. "Past the crossroads, past the Inn of Four Trees, and then take the ro-- the pat-- the trail to your left. It goes up and around and you won't see the smithy until you're almost there, Jon set it practically into the rock itself."
"Jon," said the stranger, nodding. "Thanks."
Sephira watched him walk away, his shoulders slumped beneath the weight of a heavy, hessian rucksack, and wondered what memories of the War he had come to share.
Jon the blacksmith, which was what pretty much everyone in the hamlet called him to his face, looked up as the stranger walked wearily up the last, stone-set path to the smithy. As Sephira had said, the building was built into the rock of a small hill; a hard granite extrusion out of the ground that resisted the efforts of the wind and rain and infrequent storms to wear it away. Jon was quenching a length of iron in the water-barrel and a cloud of steam quickly dissipated as it cooled from orange-hot to black. Pieces of iron flaked off and settled slowly through the now-tepid water.
"Are you Jon the blacksmith?" asked the stranger, frowning. The afternoon sun was still above the roof of the smithy and was in his eyes.
"Just Jon," said the blacksmith. "And you are?"
"Call me Callum," said the stranger. He shrugged his rucksack off and set it down; it looked heavy and as Callum straightened up again he seemed to grow five or six centimetres taller. "I'd like to talk about an exchange."
"Money for services," said Jon. "Bluntly put, there are plenty who think a strong arm is all it takes to hammer metal. That might be so, but there's a lot more to blacksmithing than that, and I'm not of a mind to take on an apprentice."
The stranger tapped his rucksack with his foot. It didn't even wobble. "Black skyle ore. Enough for four greatswords, in exchange for one spadroon."
There was silence; skyle ore was rare in the country, and not much more common in the lands of the main trading partners. Black skyle ore was rare enough that the people who knew where to mine it kept it a secret even from their own families.
"What's the catch?" Jon's fingers itched to see if the rucksack genuinely contained black skyle ore. Making an entire sword-blade from it would be wasteful to an extreme, but enough for a sword-blade would be sufficient to see him rich in a matter of months. "It's not easy to craft, but it's not so hard that it's worth that much."
"You make it yourself," said Callum. "All of it, no bought parts, no help with the smaller bits. A sword from a single smith."
Jon nodded slowly. "You sought me out," he said. It wasn't a question, just a bare statement.
"You were known as Hrozoen during the War," said Callum. "Part of the exchange is me forgetting all about that, of course."
"Of course."
"And the blade... the blade is infused with this." Callum put his hand in a pocket and pulled out something thickly wrapped in cotton padding. He passed it over carefully and Jon, taking the hint, unwrapped it equally carefully. Inside seven layers of padding was a small glass bottle containing a red liquid. "Blood taken from the altar of Narushiteli," said Callum, stressing the "-eli".
Jon wrapped the bottle up again before speaking. "You've picked a name for this sword?"
"Oathbreaker."
Greg - well. Hmmph. I suppose I shall have to read what you've done instead of continuing the story before I pass judgement on your decision.
Okay, first off - thank you for the link. I have never heard of a spadroon before.
Secondly... fine, I'll allow this. And more of it, as the inspiration and mood strikes you. Preferably sooner than later though :P
Post a Comment