Clang. Clang. Clang-chk. Clang-chk.

A blacksmith’s hammer bore down in strokes, the wielder a novice, checking and rechecking her swing. The blows were a series of dents, but with purpose: lengthening, curving, strengthening, shaping.

Grasping the armor piece in tongs, Arialynn returned it to the gaping mouth of the furnace. With a hiss, the flames awoke and writhed till they painted the metal molten red. Searing hot, the metal was then spared the flame, but laid again beneath the hammer’s falling shadow.

Clang-chk. Clang-chk. Clang-chk.

“Yer gunna leave a hole, lass,” a gruff voice intoned from the smithy corner.

The voice arose from a nearby dwarf, the light of the smithy’s only window lit just the very fringes of his beard, along with the thick cloud of smoke from his pipe. With each intake of tobacco, his pipe lit with a tiny pinprick of molten flame, flashing red, then winking out.

Through the frame of the window, it rained. The sheets of water nearly obscured the view of rolling countryside, bereft of trees but rich in close green and distant jagged mountain. The sky overhead spewed forth rain, but the smithy remained dry inside.

The lady knight was only a few lengths from her dwarven companion, at work between the anvil and furnace. The smithy was hardly spacious, and bore all signs of dwarf ownership: as stocked in tools and metal as it was mead, and the ceiling was a hazy canopy of pipe smoke and belches of furnace soot and steam.

She shed her traveler’s clothes for a smith’s apron and metalworking glove. Her face was smudged with soot, her cheeks burned by heat, her hairline both wet and dry by fast-evaporating sweat. By appearances, she looked the part – by movements, her hammer falls lacked the full certainty.

“How many times should the metal be heated?” she asked between hammer strokes, her eyes on her work.

The dwarf puffed a mouthful of smoke with his answer.

“Depends on th’metal,” he replied. “Beat it too much, an’ all yer gunna get is sumthin’ tha’ looks pretty, but cannae take more than a tickle.”

Clang-chk. Clang-chk. Clang-chk.

“This metal is not there, yet.”

Somewhere beneath the bush of his brow, the dwarf narrowed his eyes.

Clang-chk. Clang-chk.

“Lass, most folks tend tae remember their own armor when they go an’ waltz aroound where it be deadly,” his teeth clicked the stem of his pipe as he spoke. “Are yer gunna tell me how a soldier jus’ fergot aboot it?”

The hammer paused.

“I am not a soldier.”

“Then tell me wut else dresses up in armor, an’ shows up in places where most smart folks dun’t.”

Clang. Clang. Clang-chk. Chk.

The hammer began anew.

“I was a soldier - for a long time. Then I was called upon to be more than a soldier.”

The dwarf peered at her, remaining rooted in his smoky corner, but with a no less perceptive gaze. He puffed and chewed at his pipe as the lady knight continued her task. He seemed to wait for her to speak and offer more, but the two instead sat in silence, the passing time marked by the strikes of the hammer.

Clang-chk. Chk. Clang-chk. Chk.

Catching the stem of his pipe between his teeth, the dwarf spoke.

“Pound th’metal too much, an’ ye’ll only wear it thin,” he began. “Ye’cn try an’ reheat it, shape it intae sumthin’ useful again, but it’ll still be jus’ a bit weak,” the dwarf leaned forward, smoke wisps rising from his nostrils. “So jus’ add sumthin’ new.”

Arialynn raised the curved metal piece toward him, it gleamed in the thin shaft of light cast from the window.

“Is this strong enough, still?”

The dwarf shrugged.

“Eh, jus’ enoough, I’m willin’ tae bet. But aye – it’ll be better wit’ this.” He pointed a gnarled finger at a large crate in the opposite corner.

Arialynn’s gaze followed the gesture, then returned to the dwarf.

“What is within?”

“Sumthin’ I made, meself. Dun’t think tha’ yer gunna walk in an’ know everythin’. Ye still wield tha’ thing like a beginner.”

“I am a beginner.”

“Aye, well – if ye want armor, yer gunna need tae be more than tha’,” the dwarf winked, the expression was nearly lost in the dim light of the corner, but the movement of his thick brow preserved it. “Soldier ‘er not, blacksmith ‘er not. We’re all screwed intae bein’ sumthin’ else we dun’t plan tae be. Jus’ like metal, jus’ add more. Or dun’t.”

“And you? What did you plan to be?”

The dwarf laughed, the rise and fall of his voice hoarse but no less amused. A flash of stained yellow teeth appeared beneath the wisps of his beard.

“Thane.”

Arialynn looked at him, her face broke into a small smile.

“Priestess.”

The dwarf laughed again, his laughter not harsh or cruel. He seemed to grasp at an absurd joke, but the at-fault jokester was not present in the room. Grinning and thumping his chest, the dwarf winked again.

“Well then, Miss Priest,” he added the title with a smile. “Yer gunna be up all night if ye want tae get anythin’ done. Use th’metal over there,” he pointed at the crate. “An’ stop heatin’ tha’ thing tae oblivion.”

“I will. And thank you for your forge and kindness - Thane,” her final word was added with a nod.

The dwarf responded first with a grin, then set to relight his pipe.

“Repay me by not breakin anythin’. Lady ‘er not, priestess ‘er not, soldier ‘er not, nuthin’ ‘er not, I’ll break yer arms if ye break this old blacksmith's hammer.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

Clang. Clang. Clang-chk. Clang-chk.