KRA-KA-THOOM!!

Squish… squish… squish

RRRRUUUUUMMMMMMMMBBBBLLLEE

Cragthor continues forging the bark in the midst of a storm. With naught but a meager roof of mossy leaves hastily woven together to protect them from the elements, yet Cragthor continues their work diligently. Cragthor holds up the waterlogged bark to eye level, clacking their beak in displeasure at the abominable conditions they are forced to work in.

“Crying clouds…” They think to themselves, looking up just as lightning flashes.

KRA-KA-THOOM!!

“And screaming light…” They finish the thought, letting the low, echoing rumble of thunder wash over them.

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Squish… squish… squish

The mossy hammer squishes once more…

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A plume of smoke rises from the horizon after the storm passes. Curious, Cragthor travels towards it, along the western coast of the Northernmost lake of the Southern region. Arriving at the stone house of the metal chefs, Cragthor gapes in wonder. Half of the tower is destroyed, scorched stone and corpses strewn about. A clanging noise of metal hitting metal sounds out, and Cragthor follows it to its source.

Metal. Everywhere.

Cragthor is awestruck. Metal anvils, with metal tongs and various hammers of all shapes and sizes hanging on the walls. There, slumped over an anvil in the center of the room, was a man, hammer clutched tightly in his hand. A wind blowing in from the now demolished double doors in the corner of the room swung his hand and knocked the hammer into the anvil.

This… this was it. This was what Cragthor was missing! Eagerly, yet cautiously, Cragthor reached for the hammer in the man’s hand. Before they could reach it, though, the man woke up.