Bokkrid had rolled into town close to midnight, sitting in the back of a wagon with her tools on her back. Her smithy was a travelling one, and she usually mended items more than selling the small products that she had to hand. She had packed rather light and had opened her smithy, renting an anvil from a local blacksmith and transporting it with use of his mule which she had returned to him into the middle of town where the other pop-up shops.
In the wee hours of the morning, before the sun rose, the moon cast enough light for her to get a fire going. Scrawling her symbol, the one that she used to sign for things officially and which all of her wares that she made bore, onto a piece of paper, she used it to light the fire. She knew that praying for the fire to light wasn’t going to do anything, but she was able to coax it to heat the coals that she had bought in town into a hot flame, then fed it a mixture of Ash, Oak, and Hickory tree discarded remnants that she had picked through on the outskirts of town once she had settled in. It was a small town, without much in the way of roads. It certainly wasn’t the largest town she had been in, but she would mend broken kitchen knives, and work their edges to a razor’s edge for a bit of money, enough hopefully to get to the next town and perhaps buy a couple night’s stay somewhere warm. The season was changing, and Brokkrid wouldn’t be able to keep sleeping out of doors soon.
She looked to her empty purse, which was held down so that the wind wouldn’t pick it up and carry it away with her smithing hammer. It was going to be a dismal night if she didn’t get any business today. The first light of the day brought the first customer, who was a man who had broken his axe and had to have it re-hafted. She inspected it and took out a piece of oak, saying that she would have it lathed and ready by the end of the day. From where it had broken, he had been using the axe incorrectly, and it had eaten through the haft close to the head, splintering it so that working the handle out would be a pain and a half. She added the broken piece to the forge, covering it with coals and working the billows before the flames danced, she could tell that they were at just the right temperature for the metal to begin to soften again.
Finally it was time that Brokkrid decided that she would use her magic, one that she had been gifted with and which she had explored enough in her youth to know that she wanted to become a smith and artisan. She held out her hands toward the fire, concentrating until beads of sweat formed on her cold skin, her eyes held the fire in their depths, and the fire obeyed about as much as it always did. The flames took on an eerie uniform pattern as she willed the fire to remain as hot as it was. It would burn the fuel faster, but she wanted the temperature to stay as hot as it was, and working the bellows was not as precise as working her magic. A bead of sweat trickled its salty way into her left eye, blinding her momentarily, and breaking her concentration. Her muscles ached in the way that they did after a good half hour of pounding the metal, but the heat would make the steel more pliable, and therefore make for less time that she would have to work on this one project.
She would have to retemper the edge, but it was better to make sure that the man’s clumsiness wasn’t going to cost him an eye, if the blade shattered. She always wanted to guarantee her work, and would put her mark on this axe when she was done with it, right below the maker’s mark of the previous craftsman, so that she could identify her own work should she roll back into town. The nails that held the axe in place came out easily enough once the wood burned sufficiently, and the rest of the haft that had been buried within the eye of the blade of the axe came out smoothly with a bit of prodding.
Brokkrid hummed while she worked and took out the blade, turning it over three times before striking it with her large hammer, reworking the steel and willing it back into shape. It was about this time that the woman with dark brown curls walked up to her stall. Between the beatings of her hammer, the woman asked Brokkrid about her knife. She smiled, put the piece of steel back into the smithy and took out a leather roll, there were four knives, a couple daggers, a short sword, and various farm tools, “I have here my pre-made selection.” Brokkrid said, and then turned the piece of metal in the coals over, adding more wood to the dimming coal heap that it sat atop, “The daggers that I have are for two different purposes, one is for self defense.” She said, moving a finger along the middle of a curved blade with a hand-guard, “It’s more commonly used for people who are in bigger cities and want to defend themselves or their purse.” She then pointed to the other dagger, her coal-covered glove “This one is technically not a dagger, but something called a Kris. It’s a stabbing weapon and, well, I won’t go into too gruesome of detail with what it’s used for.” She smiled at Alys and shrugged.
“Who’s it for?” She asked, “And what is it going to be used for? I guarantee the edge for everyday use for a year, fighting for a month, and being dumb until it leaves the shop.” Brokkrid chuckled, and waited for the response. If this woman was interested in a new piece, she would have to work out how much it would be for materials here, and it would probably take the better part of the next day to complete it. Then again, she might be able to get the cost of materials plus a good three night’s stay at an inn for a custom-order piece.
In the wee hours of the morning, before the sun rose, the moon cast enough light for her to get a fire going. Scrawling her symbol, the one that she used to sign for things officially and which all of her wares that she made bore, onto a piece of paper, she used it to light the fire. She knew that praying for the fire to light wasn’t going to do anything, but she was able to coax it to heat the coals that she had bought in town into a hot flame, then fed it a mixture of Ash, Oak, and Hickory tree discarded remnants that she had picked through on the outskirts of town once she had settled in. It was a small town, without much in the way of roads. It certainly wasn’t the largest town she had been in, but she would mend broken kitchen knives, and work their edges to a razor’s edge for a bit of money, enough hopefully to get to the next town and perhaps buy a couple night’s stay somewhere warm. The season was changing, and Brokkrid wouldn’t be able to keep sleeping out of doors soon.
She looked to her empty purse, which was held down so that the wind wouldn’t pick it up and carry it away with her smithing hammer. It was going to be a dismal night if she didn’t get any business today. The first light of the day brought the first customer, who was a man who had broken his axe and had to have it re-hafted. She inspected it and took out a piece of oak, saying that she would have it lathed and ready by the end of the day. From where it had broken, he had been using the axe incorrectly, and it had eaten through the haft close to the head, splintering it so that working the handle out would be a pain and a half. She added the broken piece to the forge, covering it with coals and working the billows before the flames danced, she could tell that they were at just the right temperature for the metal to begin to soften again.
Finally it was time that Brokkrid decided that she would use her magic, one that she had been gifted with and which she had explored enough in her youth to know that she wanted to become a smith and artisan. She held out her hands toward the fire, concentrating until beads of sweat formed on her cold skin, her eyes held the fire in their depths, and the fire obeyed about as much as it always did. The flames took on an eerie uniform pattern as she willed the fire to remain as hot as it was. It would burn the fuel faster, but she wanted the temperature to stay as hot as it was, and working the bellows was not as precise as working her magic. A bead of sweat trickled its salty way into her left eye, blinding her momentarily, and breaking her concentration. Her muscles ached in the way that they did after a good half hour of pounding the metal, but the heat would make the steel more pliable, and therefore make for less time that she would have to work on this one project.
She would have to retemper the edge, but it was better to make sure that the man’s clumsiness wasn’t going to cost him an eye, if the blade shattered. She always wanted to guarantee her work, and would put her mark on this axe when she was done with it, right below the maker’s mark of the previous craftsman, so that she could identify her own work should she roll back into town. The nails that held the axe in place came out easily enough once the wood burned sufficiently, and the rest of the haft that had been buried within the eye of the blade of the axe came out smoothly with a bit of prodding.
Brokkrid hummed while she worked and took out the blade, turning it over three times before striking it with her large hammer, reworking the steel and willing it back into shape. It was about this time that the woman with dark brown curls walked up to her stall. Between the beatings of her hammer, the woman asked Brokkrid about her knife. She smiled, put the piece of steel back into the smithy and took out a leather roll, there were four knives, a couple daggers, a short sword, and various farm tools, “I have here my pre-made selection.” Brokkrid said, and then turned the piece of metal in the coals over, adding more wood to the dimming coal heap that it sat atop, “The daggers that I have are for two different purposes, one is for self defense.” She said, moving a finger along the middle of a curved blade with a hand-guard, “It’s more commonly used for people who are in bigger cities and want to defend themselves or their purse.” She then pointed to the other dagger, her coal-covered glove “This one is technically not a dagger, but something called a Kris. It’s a stabbing weapon and, well, I won’t go into too gruesome of detail with what it’s used for.” She smiled at Alys and shrugged.
“Who’s it for?” She asked, “And what is it going to be used for? I guarantee the edge for everyday use for a year, fighting for a month, and being dumb until it leaves the shop.” Brokkrid chuckled, and waited for the response. If this woman was interested in a new piece, she would have to work out how much it would be for materials here, and it would probably take the better part of the next day to complete it. Then again, she might be able to get the cost of materials plus a good three night’s stay at an inn for a custom-order piece.
