Apollyon's footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridor as he approached the entrance of the smithy. He had asked a couple guardsmen for directions.
The smithy in front was a large, dark workshop located in a secure area of the military camp. Upon entry, he quickly noticed the brick walls that were lined with various types of tools and weapons, and the floor was covered in a thick layer of ash, of burnt wood, straws and charcoal.
Apollyon was almost drowned by the pungent smell of smog, blackened smoke and sweat. He noticed the long-sloped roof leading to an opening above which tried to ventilate the invasive smoke.
His eyes adjusted to the glow, revealing the intricacies of the scene before him. The sides of the noisy room were filled with multiple working stations where different smiths were working on different types of projects be it smelting, forging, repairing oddities or hammering. In the center of the room, he noticed was a larger forge, where a fire raged. Three smiths worked at the forge, hammering, and shaping pieces of hot metal.
One of the smiths was a tall, burly man with a shock of white hair. He seemed to be the person in charge as he gave out orders to the others. He was a bystander who observed the other two smiths who worked tirelessly.
The second smith was a younger man with dark hair and a muscular build. He looked to be learning the trade, inexperienced but eager to learn, Apollyon noted. He was following orders like a trained hound adjusting to the older smiths’ corrections,
“Harder! Smooth it out! Watch the edges! Again!”,
“Yes, Lead smith!”.
The third smith was a woman with short brown hair and a slender build, sweat pouring over her face which had been caked with ash. Apollyon could easily tell that this person was the most inexperienced out of the smiths. She had been reprimanded the most by the authoritative figure overshadowing her person. However, he noticed a fire in her eyes, not angry but determined; ‘The same ones on the naïve kid’ harrumphed Apollyon, shaking his head at the thought of it.
“Useless, Again! The metal isn’t hot enough, Again! Too soft, Again! Harder! Faster! Stronger! Again!” he heard the man shout, his voice trembling like the quake of an earthquake.
The sound of hammers rang out constantly, and the atmosphere was thick with minor grievances and a sense of anxiousness. The heat from the forge was intense, glaring almost. They were all wearing leather aprons to protect their clothes from the sparks and the hot metal. The floor was covered in a thick layer of ash, and the walls were blackened with soot.
Despite the heat and the noise, the smithy was a calm and orderly place. The smiths at the sides knew their jobs well, and they worked together seamlessly. They blatantly ignored the commotion in the center, unperturbed, carrying on as if this was a normal daily occurrence.
The lead smith, a grizzled veteran with a skeptical eye for newcomers, paused mid-lecture. His gaze narrowed as it settled on Apollyon, a figure that seemed out of place amidst the seasoned artisans and their craft.
He wiped his brow on a rough cloth, his expression a mix of surprise and caution. He approached Apollyon, his steps heavy on the stone floor intensified by the sound of clanging metals. The other smiths paused in their work, curious eyes following the unfolding interaction.
"Well, well, what's this?" the lead smith grumbled, his tone tinged with skepticism. "A new face in my domain. And what business does someone like you have in a place like this, Tiro?"
Apollyon met the lead smith's scrutiny with a steady gaze, his posture exuding a sense of unwavering self-confidence. "I've been assigned to assist in smelting ores, as directed by the Contribution Hall," he replied, his voice measured and devoid of pretence.
A skeptical eyebrow arched on the lead smith's weathered face. "Assigned, you say?" he echoed, his arms crossing over his broad chest. "And what makes you think you've got the know-how for the work that happens here?" he eyed the ‘small’ boy in front of him.
Apollyon's lips curved in a subtle, knowing smile, his gaze holding a glint of challenge. "I'm well-versed in the intricacies of this craft," he responded, his voice tinged with a hint of hidden scorn. "I've handled my fair share of challenges, and I assure you, smelting ores won't be one of them."
The lead smith's skepticism deepened; his gaze unwavering. He surveyed the bustling forge, the intricate dance of skilled hands and the symphony of craftsmanship. Then his eyes returned to Apollyon, unyielding in their scrutiny.
"Don't think you're the first to come here with tales of skill," the lead smith retorted, his voice laced with skepticism. "We're not in the business of taking chances. Smelting is more than just throwing ore into a fire. It's a precise dance, a delicate art."
“One small failure” he paused before grabbing a piece of charcoal nearby and bringing it to Apollyon’s face giving with it a tight squeeze:
“And it crumbles, like so” he gestured; letting the ash fall between the cracks of his fingers.
“Tiro, do you understand the gravity of such failure?” he mused giving him a thoughtful smile.
“A failed smelt is a failed metal”,
..
“A failed metal is a failed sword”,
..
“And a failed sword is a dead soldier”.
The lead smith bent down slightly to meet Apollyon’s gaze;
…
“Do you understand, Tiro?”
Apollyon's confidence remained steadfast, his gaze meeting the lead smith's without faltering. "I understand the gravity of this task," he said coolly. "And I'm prepared to prove my capabilities through actions, not just words."
The lead smith regarded Apollyon for a long moment, his eyes seemingly searching for the truth hidden beneath the surface.
“Good”, he snorted.
Finally, he grunted and motioned toward the furnace, his tone gruff. "If you're as capable as you claim, then you'll prove it. Fetch those tongs and join the line. We'll see if you're cut out for the real work."
“Fail me” he paused building tension once more;
…
“And I will have you flogged for wasting my time” he warned,
“You may begin” the smith commanded after throwing him a worn leather apron perfect for his size.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Amidst the ceaseless cacophony of clashing metal and the searing blaze of the forge, Apollyon strode purposefully towards the designated workstation as he wore the apron over his meek head, tying it around his waist in practiced manner. The lead smith's challenge hung in the air like a storm, an unspoken test that crackled with tension. The other working blacksmiths paused in their work, casting sidelong glances filled with curiosity and anticipation whilst others carried on in the background.
‘Here we are again’, Apollyon mused, his heart a blend of nostalgia and determination. ‘Just like the lessons with Regis, except this time, the proving ground is different.’
The workstation lay before Apollyon, an altar of transformation bathed in the furnace's fiery glow. His gaze swept over the scene, absorbing every detail, the crucible's lip gleaming like molten gold, the shimmering tools lined up with precision, and the iridescent dance of heatwaves that wavered like ethereal spirits.
‘Regis always said that the forge is a realm of its own’, Apollyon thought, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. ‘A place where the metal bows to the will of skilled hands, and where lessons are etched into every hammer strike.’
Amidst the symphony of clashing metal, the hushed expressions of the nearby smiths lingered like shadows, their focus now riveted on Apollyon. Whispers of skepticism and speculation wove through the air like threads of smoke, each artisan wondering if the newcomer could truly live up to the lead smith's challenge.
Apollyon's breath steadied as he reached for the tongs, their cool weight a stark contrast to the furnace's blistering heat, its dull lustre bowing to the radiant glow. His fingers wrapped around the handle with a practiced assurance, his touch reminiscent and deliberate. The tension in the air was palpable, every eye in the forge fixed upon him as he accepted the challenge.
‘Just like the first time Regis handed me those tongs’, he recalled, a surge of gratitude welling within him. ‘I really have to thank the old man’.
With the tongs securely in his grip, he approached the crate of iron ore, its weight a testament to the raw potential it held within. The lead smith's skeptical gaze remained fixed upon him, an unspoken reminder that this was no ordinary task.
Regis would say, "Appreciate the weight of your materials," Apollyon thought, his fingers tightening around the tongs. ‘The weight of the ore and the weight of responsibility they're intertwined’.
As Apollyon clamped the tongs around a hefty chunk of iron ore, a rush of searing heat enveloped him. It was as if the forge itself was testing his resolve, the flames roaring like a living beast eager to devour its prey. Sweat trickled down his brow, mingling with the soot on his skin, but his grip on the tongs remained firm.
With a measured breath, Apollyon stepped toward the crucible. The edge of the furnace's flames licked at his skin, the inferno's rage threatening to consume him. He hesitated for a split second, his eyes locking onto the abyss of fire before him, before he plunged the iron ore into the crucible's heart.
A fierce eruption of sparks and steam erupted, a testament to the raw power of the forge. Apollyon's eyes widened as he felt the weight of the iron ore yield to the inferno's embrace, its transformation unfolding in a symphony of melting and creation. The air was thick with the acrid scent of melting metal, and his heart raced with a mixture of awe and exhilaration.
His grip on the tongs remained steady as he carefully manipulated the ore, guiding its journey through the crucible's fiery depths. The molten iron bubbled and roiled, its bright liquid shimmering like liquid gold. Every movement was a delicate dance, a balance between precision and consideration.
As he approached the moment of truth, the lead smith's gaze remained unwavering, his skepticism a palpable presence. Apollyon's muscles tensed as he withdrew the tongs, the molten iron dripping back into the crucible like a molten tear. The air was heavy with anticipation, the forge itself seemingly holding its breath.
‘Regis, old man; this one's for you’, Apollyon inwardly praised, his fingers moving with the deftness of a seasoned blacksmith.
Finally, the iron ore released its last droplet, and Apollyon lowered the tongs with a calculated grace. The lead smith's gaze met his, and a grudging nod of approval passed between them; it was an acknowledgment of the mastery that Apollyon had displayed in the face of his challenge.
As Apollyon stepped away from the crucible, the tension in the forge began to dissipate. The heat, once suffocating, now seemed almost comforting. The eyes of the surrounding blacksmiths followed him, their initial skepticism replaced with a newfound respect for the young man who had proved his mettle in the heart of the forge.
Approaching the lead smith, Apollyon's expression was a mix of humility and hidden pride. "Lead smith," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. "What do you think?"
The lead smith grunted, his demeanor softening slightly. He stepped forward, his gaze shifting from Apollyon to the crucible where the molten iron had transformed. With a scrutinizing eye, he inspected the product of Apollyon's efforts, his fingers hovering just above the still-glowing metal.
The silence in the forge seemed to stretch as the lead smith examined the result, the weight of his scrutiny filling the air like the heat from the furnace. Apollyon held his breath, his heart a steady rhythm in his chest, a mix of hope and uncertainty intertwining within him.
Finally, the lead smith straightened, his eyes meeting Apollyon's once again. There was a grudging respect in his gaze, a recognition that the young blacksmith had met the challenge head-on.
"Your work is solid," the lead smith admitted, his tone slightly stripped of skepticism. "The iron's been smelted properly. You've got a steady hand and a keen eye for the process."
Apollyon's chest swelled with a mixture of relief and confidence. "I'm glad to have met your expectations," he replied, his voice steady.
The lead smith's lips twitched in a semblance of a smile, a rare show of approval. "Not just mine," he said, a touch of gruffness in his tone. "The forge has its own way of judging."
Apollyon nodded, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "Indeed, it does," he agreed, a sense of respect blossoming amidst the embers of the forge.
The lead smith turned back to his ‘apprentices’, his focus returning to his lessons with a determined air. "Continue on then," he grumbled, his words both an instruction and an invitation.
"Smelt the remaining ores" he trailed off.
"Consider it done," Apollyon said, his gaze sweeping over the remaining ore. ‘Uptight bastard’. He checked his Quest tab just to make sure he was on the right track; of course, he was relieved to hear three consecutive dings of approval.
Ding!
{Smithing (Chain): Report to the nearby smithy - Complete}
Ding!
{Smithing (Chain): Prove your Worth! : Complete}
Ding!
{Smithing (Chain): Smelt iron ores, 0/12 : Incomplete}
Afterwards, Apollyon looked at his Overview to check on his Leveling progress,
‘As expected,’ he sighed in utter disappointment whilst eyeing a set of numbers beside his Level 1 status.
{Level 1 : 0/1000 (0%)} is what was displayed.
He had a slight hope for gaining experience points for completing the sub-quests in his chained smithing questline but alas his other theory prevailed.
‘It looks like Ill only receive the reward once for completing the entire chained quest’, he concluded bitterly.
Apollyon approached the crucible once more, the forge seemed to welcome him with a renewed warmth. The other blacksmiths had returned to their work, the symphony of clashing metal resuming its rhythm.
He selected the next piece of iron ore, his movements fluid and purposeful. With each plunge into the crucible, each manipulation of molten metal, he felt a sense of connection to the craft; it was oddly calming in his own opinion.
Time seemed to lose its meaning as Apollyon continued his work, the forge's heartbeat echoing in his own. One by one, the chunks of iron ore yielded to his expertise, transforming into molten potential. The hushed expressions of his fellow blacksmiths were no longer ones of skepticism, but rather of quiet appreciation for a new helping hand.
By the time the last piece of ore had been smelted, Apollyon's body was weary but his spirit was alight. The crucible now held a pool of shimmering molten iron, a testament to his dedication and skill. He stepped back, the tongs still warm in his grasp, and regarded the lead smith with a sense of accomplishment.
He approached the lead smith once more, informing him of his works completion. The lead smith's gruff nod was all the approval he needed.
"You've proven yourself as a worthy addition to our ranks" he added.
The lead smith reached to the workbench beside him, picking up a small, intricately crafted token. It was a piece of metal, a miniature anvil forged with remarkable detail. The anvil's face bore the markings of a hammer's strike, each line a testament to the craftsmanship that had gone into its creation.
He held the token out to Apollyon. "Take this," he said, his voice softer than before. "It's a sign that you've completed your task here. When you present this token to the Contribution Hall, they'll recognize your efforts and reward you accordingly."
Apollyon's fingers closed around the token, a mix of surprise and gratitude crossing his features. "Thank you," he said, his voice holding a genuine warmth.
The lead smith's gruff exterior seemed to soften for a moment. "You've earned it," he acknowledged, a rare hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Now go and make your report. Let them know that your part is done."
Apollyon nodded once more, clutching the token as a tangible reminder of his journey through the forge's challenges. With a final glance at the crucible, the anvil, and the fellow blacksmiths, he turned and made his way out of the workshop, his steps echoing with purpose. With a casual stride, he headed towards the Contribution Hall.