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The Arrival
Topic Started: Thu Jul 14, 2011 10:46 pm (256 Views)
Mist
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The road to Striberg from Taras was long, and not entirely without dangers. Gage felt the weariness in his bones, a deep ache that no amount of warmth nor wine could sate. He had tasted warmth and wine aplenty on the journey, stopping at a tavern for the night whenever possible to accept their meager hospitality and poor fare. He had only been set upon at night once, but a pair of thieves who had been staying in the inn as well. The innkeeper had paid the smithy well when he cracked their skulls open with his hammer, although the man had been glad to see his savior depart the next day. No man will truly trust one who has spilled blood under his roof.

Fortunately, the blacksmith had departed Taras at the start of the summer. In the deep Northern Reaches there was no season of warmth and festivities, simply bitterly freezing cold and a marginally warmer spring. He had trudged through the mountain passes as the ice began to melt, opening the trail to any traveler who sought his fortune in the north. Truth be told, there had been many more wanderers passing in the opposite direction, staring sullenly at Gage as they escaped to the warmer lands of southern Imythess. Even Taras is south of here, and its winters are still bitterly cold. How much more frigid can these Northern Reaches be?

Two week's worth of walking the road to Striberg had proven him a fool. He had been forced to stop and purchase a thick fur cloak, as well as fur-lined gloves and boots. The fur trader had attempted to cheat this hulking simpleton at first, but Gage would have none of that. Now, two weeks later he stood on the hill above the city of magic, the thick garment wrapped around his burly arms. The citizens of the arctic city might name this season summer, but snow still dusted the grass and branches, and he had been forced to break a crust of ice from streams in order to drink the painfully cool water.

There was a larger crowd here than Gage had seen in many days. Other travelers were a rare sight on the northern roads. A family of disgruntled farmers had pulled their wagon off of the road at the sight of the lone man, staring at him with unveiled hostility and suspicion. Yet he was no highwayman; Gage Schmied was the Forgeson, known to many in Taras and the Debon Plains as a master of his craft. However, after the sacking of Taras there was too little work for him in the ruined city, two few clients with enough money to purchase arms and armor when they could scarcely afford to feed their children. So he had left to find somewhere more appreciative of his skill. And Kirsikka Enterprises appreciated blacksmiths, if the rumors were true.

He had more than sufficient gold to hire a wagon to take him to Striberg, but he had always believed a man did not belong anywhere his own two feet couldn't take him. So he had walked to the north one step at a time, his armor on his back and his hammer on his belt. Now, as he crossed the threshold into the city of magic he felt a warm zephyr on his face, halting to appreciate the arcane heat that had been instilled in this city of contradictions. It was perched on an iceberg, yet never cold; its roads were often clogged with snow, yet only rain fell on these streets. Striberg was one of the wonders of Imythess, a thriving metropolis made possible by the arcane might and sacrifice of a long-forgotten wizard. This would be a good place to live. He began to sweat under the thick cloak and thicker armor, yet he did not remove the heavy garment. The smith knew he cut an imposing figure in his thick adamantine plate, and he did not wish too many strangers to notice his arrival in the city.

The smith walked through the streets, letting his ears guide him more than his eyes. There were plenty of sights to see, but the ringing tones of the forge called to Gage like a chapel's bells summoned the most devout, and now that he was finally here he was ready to reach his goal. The harsh sound of hammers on anvils was music to his ears, leading him straight to the street of artisans. Although merchants and craftsmen of every occupation sold their wares here, only one building held any interest for Gage. Smoke rose from the multiple chimneys of the forge, a squat and square building with wide alleyways on either side of its thick walls. No one wanted to have their own business adjacent to a forge in case there was an accident. Gage walked into the building, breathing in the scents of soot and steel, sweat and smoke. There was no perfume so sweet in all the world.

The inside was well-lit, with rows of armor and the walls and racked of gleaming weapons. There was an inspection table near the entrance, a dozen swords laid upon the thick wood. Gage walked over to the man who was bent over the weapons, inspecting them with a critical eye. The smith ran his own gaze over the blades before leaning down, setting his gauntleted hands on the edge of the table. ”The third blade was not fired properly. There is a weakness above the hilt. And the next one is poorly tempered.” The man looked up in surprise, taking in the intruder warily. He was clearly one of the men in charge of the forge, with thick arms covered in bristly black hair. His face was tanned from the fire, and an accident or assault had left a small scar above his left ear where no hair would grow. He was short and stout, altogether not an overly attractive man.

Gage knew his own appearance was not much kinder on the eyes His features were stout, with a thick brow and square jaw. He had a bull's broad chest and a boy's flat torso, muscles covering his broad frame from years of intense labor. His plain brown hair had been cropped short to accommodate the heat of his occupation, and a day's worth of stubble darkened his cheeks. A deep scar split his flesh, starting just below his left eye and stretching down his cheek and thick neck to disappear under the fabric of his winter cloak. ”I have heard that Kirsikka Enterprises is in need of skilled blacksmiths. I am more skilled than whatever dolt forged these blades. Let me replace that under-armorer, and I promise I will bring more men to your cause than this fool.” He leaned back from the table, folding his arms under his cloak and staring at the inspecting smith. The other man's eyes flickered to one of the apprentices bent over the anvil, his hammer beating a steady rhythm against the red-hot steel he was manipulating. ”Call your Lady Kirsikka if you must, but I doubt she would want her clients to seek out another manufacturer because some boy forged a weak blade.”

”That won't be necessary. Lumi grants me full control of the forges. Her presence is not required.” The master blacksmith rose, revealing himself to be a giant of a man. He stood almost a full foot taller than Gage, with a figure most bodybuilders would envy. He picked up the offending swords, throwing the shoddy blades into a bin next to the table. His next words were a yell, although his ire was not directed at Gage personally. Scotty! Those are your third and fourth rejects this month! One more and I throw you off the iceberg!” The under-armorer jumped, his face blanching and almost dropping his hammer at the ferocity of the big man's words, but the master armorer had already returned his attention to Gage. ”These swords are for untrained soldiers in Istan, sir. I would rather have a novice soldier-boy spend some time with a whetstone and oilcloth than be late on this order. But we're ahead of schedule, so I'll make the boy start over. I swear, the metal does not speak to him like it did his brothers. We'll see if he lasts.” The massive blacksmith scooped up the rest of the swords, placing them in a bin of finished weapons. ”Words will not find you a place here. I take it you have a resume with you?”

Gage nodded mutely, reaching for the clasp of his cloak. No true smithy would ask for a piece of paper detailing a competitor's skills; instead, they would wish to see the culmination of his efforts. ”Of course. I made my armor myself.” The fur-lined cloak fell from his shoulders to reveal the metal plate he wore, its surface shimmering by the light of the flames. Adamantine was an odd metal, a shade of blue-green that was unique among the metals of Imythess. Gage had colored the metal as he worked with it, leaving the majority of his suit as black as night with silver line. Elaborate silver designs had been etched around the edge of each piece of metal, arcane runes inserted into the decoration to make it far more practical. The giant's eyes widened at the sight of the heavy armor, which appeared far too heavy for Gage to wear himself. Yet the secret to his success were a scroll of diagrams the smithy had discovered in his youth, penned by the legendary genius Koshkin. Using those instructions he was able to craft armor of excellent design with the minimum amount of material, making each suit he designed a beauty to behold and incredibly efficient on the battlefield. ”Is this proof enough of my skill?”

The giant roared with laughter, slapping Gage's armored shoulder with a meaty fist. ”You might just have the skill to back up those cocky words of yours, boy. Come with me and I'll show you a bunk to lay your head on and a table to eat your fill at. Kirsikka Enterprises would be glad to have you on the winning team. That is to say, ours.” Gage nodded, although he did not return the other man's broad smile. It was time to get to work.
Edited by Mist, Thu Jul 14, 2011 10:48 pm.
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