50, Summer of 514 AV
Baelin couldn’t tell if he was excited or nervous. This wasn’t some training piece. If all went well, it would actually be sold. Sure, it would only be munition grade armor, made out of a standard Ironworks template and ready-to-wear. And, admittedly, the demand for vambraces at the munition grade was slight...but still. A tremor ran through Baelin’s hand, nearly causing his hand to slip.
Shyke, he thought irritably, Can’t be doing that. He glared at the stencil, as if glaring at it would steady the thing. He had laid a pre-made leather template over the sheet of iron he was working on. And he was trying to be careful as he outlined where his cuts were going to be made. While a mistake here wasn’t the end of the world, it wasn’t a good sign if his grip was slipping at this stage.
Shaking his head, shaggy hair shifting in front of his gaze, he forced himself to focus. Now was the time to concentrate. He continued to drag the stencil around the template, hand moving slowly and steadily across the flat piece of iron. The smith paused for a moment when he came to a corner, not quite sure how to get around it smoothly. Frowning in concentration, he decided to go straight past the corner with one line, and then start a little beyond the corner with the other. He was fairly confident that any attempt to get around the corner in one line would appear absurd. He had observed Fredrick go around corners, and he remembered how deftly the armorer switched angles when moving around the corner. It wasn’t a thing he was capable of. Frustratingly enough, the more experienced smith had gone around the entire template in one smooth, clean line. Baelin’s frown deepened, his brows furrowing further together as he examined his inferior trace. It would have to do.
He pulled the template off of the sheet and set it back in the pile of munition grade templates on the worktable. He examined the trace he had finished once more while the template was gone and, while he kept his face impassive for the benefit of his coworkers, he internally cringed. He could tell where lines were supposed to be straight, and he could tell what the corners were, but you’re supposed to be able to trace the lines with some tin snips effortlessly. Not extrapolate where the tin snips should go based off of surrounding lines.
But Baelin had to keep moving forward, he couldn’t linger on the trace any longer than he already had. He was far too aware of how much slower he went than more experienced smiths. Grabbing one of the Ironworks’ many snips, Baelin slowly began to cut the relatively thin shin of metal. He went deliberately with this, since once the metal was gone...that was that. You could attempt to weld a piece back on, but you’ve already ruined it. No weld would be as strong as the uncut iron itself.
He had watched Fredrick fly through his sheet cutting, yet still manage to pull off straight lines and smooth curves. It was insane. As Baelin slowly cut his way down a line, he couldn’t help but notice the severe difference between cuts by Fredrick and his own. He could see where each cut ended and the other begin...every time he opened the snips, pushed forward, and cut down again. The edge was jagged. His line was more or less straight, but the jaggedness was testament to just how much of a novice he still was.
Once he was finished cutting the metal, Baelin took a step back and examined the edges. He held a finger over one particularly jagged looking edge, tempted to feel it. But he resisted the overwhelming urge to touch it, knowing full well that he’d get himself nothing more than metal splinters. The tiny little shards were more painful than they had any right to be. Grinding his teeth, he decided that it would have to do. The edges would be cleaned up later.
Baelin couldn’t tell if he was excited or nervous. This wasn’t some training piece. If all went well, it would actually be sold. Sure, it would only be munition grade armor, made out of a standard Ironworks template and ready-to-wear. And, admittedly, the demand for vambraces at the munition grade was slight...but still. A tremor ran through Baelin’s hand, nearly causing his hand to slip.
Shyke, he thought irritably, Can’t be doing that. He glared at the stencil, as if glaring at it would steady the thing. He had laid a pre-made leather template over the sheet of iron he was working on. And he was trying to be careful as he outlined where his cuts were going to be made. While a mistake here wasn’t the end of the world, it wasn’t a good sign if his grip was slipping at this stage.
Shaking his head, shaggy hair shifting in front of his gaze, he forced himself to focus. Now was the time to concentrate. He continued to drag the stencil around the template, hand moving slowly and steadily across the flat piece of iron. The smith paused for a moment when he came to a corner, not quite sure how to get around it smoothly. Frowning in concentration, he decided to go straight past the corner with one line, and then start a little beyond the corner with the other. He was fairly confident that any attempt to get around the corner in one line would appear absurd. He had observed Fredrick go around corners, and he remembered how deftly the armorer switched angles when moving around the corner. It wasn’t a thing he was capable of. Frustratingly enough, the more experienced smith had gone around the entire template in one smooth, clean line. Baelin’s frown deepened, his brows furrowing further together as he examined his inferior trace. It would have to do.
He pulled the template off of the sheet and set it back in the pile of munition grade templates on the worktable. He examined the trace he had finished once more while the template was gone and, while he kept his face impassive for the benefit of his coworkers, he internally cringed. He could tell where lines were supposed to be straight, and he could tell what the corners were, but you’re supposed to be able to trace the lines with some tin snips effortlessly. Not extrapolate where the tin snips should go based off of surrounding lines.
But Baelin had to keep moving forward, he couldn’t linger on the trace any longer than he already had. He was far too aware of how much slower he went than more experienced smiths. Grabbing one of the Ironworks’ many snips, Baelin slowly began to cut the relatively thin shin of metal. He went deliberately with this, since once the metal was gone...that was that. You could attempt to weld a piece back on, but you’ve already ruined it. No weld would be as strong as the uncut iron itself.
He had watched Fredrick fly through his sheet cutting, yet still manage to pull off straight lines and smooth curves. It was insane. As Baelin slowly cut his way down a line, he couldn’t help but notice the severe difference between cuts by Fredrick and his own. He could see where each cut ended and the other begin...every time he opened the snips, pushed forward, and cut down again. The edge was jagged. His line was more or less straight, but the jaggedness was testament to just how much of a novice he still was.
Once he was finished cutting the metal, Baelin took a step back and examined the edges. He held a finger over one particularly jagged looking edge, tempted to feel it. But he resisted the overwhelming urge to touch it, knowing full well that he’d get himself nothing more than metal splinters. The tiny little shards were more painful than they had any right to be. Grinding his teeth, he decided that it would have to do. The edges would be cleaned up later.
