[Flashback] Learning the forge-fires

[Vinrir Stoneheart Sultros]

Timestamp: 469 A.V. 25th Spring Coming home, he could hear the sound of a hammer ringing on metal; the steady beat followed by the silence, then once again the rhythmic music of the hammer. His mother was working the forge, creating something that was to be used in the house or sold. The sound was a sweet symphony to his ears; the sound of the hammer shaping the solid metal bar, the silence following as the metal would be reheated only to be broken again by the introduction of metal on metal. Vinrir had always loved that sound, felt it calling to him as naturally as leadership came to Sultros Isur and sought to forge his life around these two aspects early on. Stepping through the front door, he took a moment to admire the carvings around the door, various scenes of family moments that were added by his family over time, even some as recently as his life that his fatehr had added in his free time. He could see the portion that was his birth, noting the imperfections of his skill, but still a beautiful piece of work that honored family and clan. Carrying himself to the forge, Vinrir stopped in silence to watch his mother working. The iron was being held by tongs from his mother’s left hand, while her rightt hand, a vibrant red, was shaping the iron over the horn of the anvil, the strength of his mother rippling across her deltoid and down her arm as she coaxed the metal into the shape she wanted. Thrusting it back into the fire with the tongs, she turned to reach for her hammer and saw Vinrir in the doorway. “Hello son of mine. Care to work the forge? We need another three quarter’s dozen horseshoes to be made to go out tomorrow.” Pulling the metal from the forge, she moved her attention fully back to finish the horseshoe, tossing the now cold metal onto a rag to absorb the water from it. Without another word, she set the tools down and left the forge, her arm clasping his shoulder as she past him. With that, her question had become a command. He was to finish the order tonight, and in a timely and quality manner good enough to be sold. No pressure, he thought to himself. He had made horseshoes before, and he could do it again. Nine times. That was the part that daunted at him. With a determination that was slowly overcoming his doubt, he walked towards the forge and took the tongs in his right hand, picking up a small bar of iron in his left hand. His fingers contrasted with the iron bar as they slid over its surface, feeling the cool iron, weak but unyielding. It needed to suffer the heat of the forge-fire, to have it’s impurities burned out. It needed to suffer the heat, made malleable to be bent and shaped into something better, something stronger