Snippet #1514240

On most occasions the workshop was alike unto an inferno, the clashing of steel akin to the screaming of the furies, while the aging blacksmith toiled tirelessly for days on end constantly drawing, bending, and folding the blistering metal into all forms of blades, or shrinking and punching plates to be used for the Crown’s skyship repairs. The few strikers apprenticed to Garbiel would rush to and fro while heating metal, fetching coke, the traditional fuel of Forgefire workshops, disliking the cheaper coal, and performing whatever tasks the smith deemed them capable of managing. However this afternoon was different, but a more common sight over the past year since the brutal assassination of the Marquis Adam Goldwater, as the workshop lay silent with hungry furnaces aching to burn once again, a thumping sound could be heard echoing from the upstairs living apartments reserved for the blacksmith and his family, or it would be for his family had the man ever had one. It was the echoing of Forgefire's colossal boots trudging back and forth through his study, contemplating the events occurring within the previous week since the discovery of The Cure by Dr. Vanderbilt, and the unconscionable procurement of this medicine by persons overwhelmed with greed.

A simple steel goblet lay clasped within thin, nimble hands, twirling the glass slowly with a slight twist of the wrist, swirling the deep red liquid in tranquil circles. A horribly scarred arm crept upwards to touch the cool rim to parched lips, sipping slowly from the spiced wine, but only lasting for a quick moment, almost teasing the tongue with the taste. It was not his custom to drink heavily, and many know the dangers of being a drunk blacksmith, but dark days like these forced a weak soul to seek solace where it could, pondering the evils of a failing world. This was merely his first cup though; he would not begin to drink more heavily until later off in the night when the Blacksmith’s Guild was less stringent upon the workings of their members. Less is required of the grizzled old man with each consecutive year, and all the Guild mostly desires is for the Forgefire technique to be taught to the younger generation. They were using him like they did everyone, bleeding them dry until they were worth nothing, but this was his life and he loved working on the forge.

What the man could not grasp his mind around was how anyone could let this happen to those already suffering more than any human should bear, but what could he do about it? It had been his biggest regret to never use his influence for good when he could, and now with his political connections were slipping away slowly, drifting towards the easily fooled youth. Garbiel had not seen it for many years, but the magi used to be imprisoned within that so-called school, and only if the walls could speak would anyone know what truly happened there, and now they are under the threat of extinction. With a guttural sigh the wine vessel was laid on a paper-smothered desk as orderliness had never been the greatest concern of Garbiel. The newly emancipated hand then gravitated towards the crude blade gracing the leather belt around the smith’s waist, thumbing the length of the blade curiously, as the elderly man seated himself roughly behind the cluttered desk in a lush goose-down chair, the red-velvet cases embroidered with a fuchsia-colored stitch. The man may not squander much wealth on clothing, but he would not settle for less than the best in all furniture used for lounging.

“Oh well…” Grumbled the blacksmith quietly to himself, “Nothing much I can do about it, so best leave it be for the bureaucrats to solve for their selves.”

As if a dark cloud had lifted from his furrowed brow the look of the Forgefire smith’s countenance metamorphosed from that of a tortured soul to that of complete tranquility, looking much more comfortable on the bearded face. The sip teased the parched mouth, the spices tantalizing the palette, begging for more of the beloved nectar, and this increased desire was sated with one long draught from the vessel, emptying of its contents. A warm smile crept upon Garbiel’s face at the prospect of another glass, but with a longing look he placed the goblet by the flask of wine seated in a corner of his desk. Instead his lumbering frame turned towards a window on the other side of the room overlooking the bustling streets of Beta District.

“Maybe it would be best to traverse to city on such a beautiful day. Who to visit however…”

Speaking to their selves, was not an uncommon habit of blacksmith, mostly it was done in an attempt to hear you speak over the blazing fires of the furnace, of the clashing of steel. The bald man ambled off towards the thick oaken door separating the apartment from the staircase leading to the workshop, stopping momentarily the key that lay dangling off a hook to its right. The locking mechanism had been designed by one of his scientist associates, and he had crafted the parts himself, consisting of a design unique to most other locks within Revelation. With a resounding thud the door was shut, and the quiet click of mechanisms turning into placed signaled the security of his living quarters, as creaking steps whisked the broad man outwards and into the clutching maw of the crowd, transforming the large man into another formless wanderer.