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Writer
Join Date: Feb 2008
Location: Edmonton, AB Canada
Gender: Male
Posts: 50
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The Ever-Stone: Chapter 1, Part 1
This is the next section of The Ever-Stone Chronicles. If you haven't read The Alchemist's Formulary, I suggest you do so before reading further. This piece is rather dry, but keep in mind that the next half of chapter one will be uploaded in a few days. Critique as needed, but don't be a troll.
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The mallet struck the anvil again, sounding out in a shrill, metallic voice with each hit. Forcefully, the hammer drove itself again and again, upon the anvil with a blind, determined vengeance. The wielder raised the tool and struck again, bringing down his might upon the curved, cherry - red metal that rested upon the stone slab. With each strike the metal hissed in response, it's loathing for the hammer revealed by the glowing, burning hatred welling up from within it. Yet it could not defy the mallet, and soon found itself curved and bent over, like a fetus in the womb.
The hammer then ceased its assault, and the horseshoe was attacked by a new enemy, and was lifted into the air. Yet it did not squeeze the metal, as an enemy would have, and clutched it with both arms, instead, with the gentle touch of a lover. The two embraced each other, and the world around them shifted as the tongs carried it away from the cruel, unforgiving touch of the hammer. But the friendly solace of the arms disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and the horseshoe tumbled through the air, spinning and falling. A cold darkness engulfed it, and the metal hissed out in fear, ready to defend against a new attacker. But the oncoming darkness was cool, and welcoming, and the fiery temper of the horseshoe dissipated from within it. It greeted the darkness, and relaxed, breathing in the newfound solace that surround the shoe.
The blacksmith looked, with piercing blue eyes, into the bucket, and watched as the shoe cooled in the water. He was a youthful man, for he was not yet in his third decade, and was tall, lean and muscular; his trade had done him also a fine tan from toiling for hours by the fire. His hands were weathered and worn from his trade, but little else had been marred so. He wore his long, black hair bunched up, like a pony's tail, and his handsome, dirty face stared intensely into the pail, watching the heat escape the shoe.
When he was satisfied that the shoe was cool, he retrieved the tongs that lay upon the wooden table nearby and picked the piece of metal from the water. Making sure that the metal was not cracked and of good quality, he dropped the shoe into his palm, feeling its weight. Convinced of its worth, he placed it upon the table by many others, and started anew. And for hours he worked, making shoes, for that was his craft.
The Blacksmith was called Tobas, and no smile was upon his lips as he worked, as there seldom was. He had seen much atrocity in the few years he had lived in the Shants, and his heart had become hardened with the passing years. His father, Tobin, had taken ill to death only months before, and the workshop had been his inheritance as the only son; his mother had died in childbirth, and had birthed no children before him.
Despite his good looks, he had not married, for he cared little for romance. He was the envy of all the young men in the Shants, for many of the young maidens in town took to him in favour above the rest. Tobas courted many young women, but loved none. He cared even less for the life as a blacksmith, and longed for a life outside the lands of Shales, one filled with journeys and great adventure. Tobas’ heart was for stories, and would spend nights under the tavern, listening to the tales of men and mer. He knew the songs of bards by heart, for he had heard them many times, and took upon their counsel often.
A particular bard, by the name of Gethan, had grown into favour with Tobas and they had become friends. The young storyteller had travelled to countless lands by his twenty-fifth birthday, for his father had been a bard too, and often would Tobas and he spend nights in the hills, weaving stories and plans of adventure that they would embark on. Yet they never did; for Tobas was the Shants district's only Smithy, and he made good custom from the nobles and princes who came from the Inner City to have their horses refitted. Custom was not always as welcome, however, in the case of certain royalty. Occasionally would he be forced to sell his wares for almost nothing, for denying the demand of a noble was punishable by death, and this left a bitter taste in his mouth. Tobas was wise for his youth, but rash as well. He took to anger quickly, and was proud. On those occasions when his wares and services were demanded from him by a noble for less than their worth, he would make sure that he fitted the horses improperly, so they would throw a shoe. His friends thought this clever, but also dangerous, for angering a noble could result in many unpleasant things.
“Unpredictable,” said, once, his friend Gethan. “His eyes are filled with wisdom, yet he minds his heart too.”
Tobas pulled the shoe again from the water, and placed it upon the pile when he was sure it was of worth. Calling his work for the day at an end, he grabbed the bucket of water and flung its contents upon the flames and embers lingering in the furnace. The heat had become stifling in the summer hours, and Tobas was sweating profusely.
He latched the front door to make sure that none would bring any more custom that day and, taking off the smith's apron, walked to the stairs that went to the loft where he spent the waning hours of the day. There was little luxury in his home, for Tobas was modest in his spending, but the house was filled with old things his father had left in his death.
The smith climbed the stairs, and walked to the stove that stood against the far wall, picking up the tinderbox beside it, and reached inside. From the box he withdrew the flint and steel that had belonged to his father and, opening the gate upon the stove, began the process of making fire. Taking some wood from the box, he tossed it into the furnace. Tobas set to striking the flint and steel together and after only a few minutes, he was rewarded with a small flame from the sparks. Tobas shut the gate, and put the kettle on the stovetop.
Tobas then walked to the tub and, tossing his clothes from his body onto the floor, eased himself into the bath. Relaxing for a moment, he shut his eyes and his ears took in the crackling of the fire in the stove as it scarred and burned the wood. Soon, Tobas drifted to sleep.
The hiss of the kettle awoke him from his dream, which he could not remember, and he stumbled out of the tub, slipping and falling onto the floor. Swearing to himself, he pulled himself to his feet and walked to the stove. He set the kettle off the stovetop, and onto counter.
A knock on the door pulled Tobas out of his routine and, reaching for his pants and tugging them on, headed shirtless downstairs to answer it. Fumbling with the latch, he pulled the door open, and looked outside. There upon his step was Gethan, swooning with the wind, with a flask of brackle-wine in hand.
Gethan was a stick of a man, and rather short in stature. He tended to wear colourful clothing, from distant lands, and on this day he wore a blue vest made with foreign dyes from Murambar. He wore high boots, which went to his knees, which was the distinguished footwear of the Murambar noble-folk and riders. Always with a wide smile on his face, he was a pleasant fellow that could cheer up a man at the gallows with little effort. ‘Better to be hanged than be a hangman, were it not for the hanging,’ he would say.
“Oye, Tobas!” he cried. “How has custom been treating you today, dear friend?”
“I venture not as good as you, Gethan.” said Tobas. “For you are drunk, and the sun has not yet fallen. “
“Truly?” asked Gethan, looking to the sky. “You are right, it seems. But it was nightfall when I started, in my defense!”
Tobas laughed, and embraced his friend. “Never do you fail to bring light to a long, dark day,” he said. “What brings you here?”
“My sister Telsandra was married this-day, and I need no other reason for merrymaking,” Replied Gethan, with a laugh. “Come! Let us go to the tavern, and drink that she should give her doomed husband many sons!”
“I am not in the mood for merrymaking, dear friend.” said Tobas. “But I shall drink to Telsandra’s health, if you insist.”
“I do, Tobas. Too long have you not toiled away in your workshop, working and wasting the light of day? Come! Let us go. There will be many young maidens there tonight, and with my charm and your dashing blue eyes, we shall have our pick from the lot.”
Tobas laughed, and replied “Aye, Gethan. Allow me to get dressed, and I shall meet you there.”
“Aye, Tobas. But do not be tardy, or you will be stuck with my cousin Gretchen, who is an ugly duckling with no hope of ever becoming a swan!”
Gethan staggered down the cobblestone path, and Tobas watched him turn the corner and disappear from sight. Tobas sighed to himself, and shut the door. He donned upon a simple buttoned shirt that he retrieved from his wardrobe on the second floor, and pulled on his boots. Stuffing his purse with a few coins he kept hidden in a wooden box beside the furnace, he opened the door again and stepped outside, locking it behind him with an old, brass key.
Counting his footsteps as he walked, for he was meticulous in all things, Tobas made his way to The Shant’s Inn, which was the only place outside of the walls of Shales for a traveller to seek lodging. It was rather rundown, for it housed some of Shales’ roughest folk, not privy to any one patron so long as they brought the proper amount of custom to pay for their stay. The doors to the tavern were thrown wide open already, and from the street Tobas could hear already the noise and laughter from within. He stepped through the door, and was greeted by the smells of wine, cheese, and vomit. Tobas walked about, feeling out of place, but could not find Gethan through the crowd. Making his way to the bar, Tobas called for a drink, but the bartender could not hear him through the shouts of the inn’s patrons
From the crowd, a chanting broke out in poorly timed rhythm. “A Tale, Bard, A song!” the crowd shouted.
Then Gethan appeared upon the table, and took off his widebrimmed hat and bowed, holding it to his breast. “A story you have called for, and a story you shall get. This Tale comes from the reaches of Mordanin, and tells of the disappearance of the Elves.” He shouted, over the crowd. Then the crowd was hushed, and Gethan spoke:
“From Ulermo’s hand did all things grow, and in the beginning the land was filled with Elves, Dwarves, and Faeries. For a time, these ancestors lived in peace; The Elves built their homes in the trees, the Dwarves in the earth. The Faeries took a liking to the waters, and lived deep, deep in the lakes. Believing in their own strength, the Dwarves and Elves grew into wickedness, and conspired against the Faeries. They tossed rocks, muck, and dead animals in the Waters, and the lakes became stagnant and foul. The Faeries could not stand the smell, and they came out from their underwater cities and cried ‘Why have you done this?’ The Elves and Dwarves replied ‘These Waters belong to us now, and you must leave. Go away; you are not welcome here.’ So the Faeries left, and went away with Ulermo to his lands, never to be seen by men and mer again.
“But where did the Faeries go?” asked a man in the crowd.
“It is not known, for Ulermo’s realm is outside of the living and only the dead go there now.” Gethan replied. Then the Bard continued his tale, raising his voice over questions from the crowd.
“The Elves and Dwarves looked at each other in glee at the departure of the Faeries, but Ulermo saw what they had done and cried out ‘You have done ill to your brothers and sisters over the Waters I gave you. Why did you not ask for more? For such misdeeds, you will become the coveted thing you hold in your hearts. Such is my Judgement’ Then the Elves ran into the woods and the Dwarves to their halls of stone, and hid in fear.
But Ulermo’s vengeance would not be so easily escaped, and the dwarves soon found their limbs grow stiff, and they became unable to move. They were turned to stone, and their halls in the mountains were closed forever. When the elves learned what had happened to the Dwarves, they ran away from their trees and thought them to be safe, believing they had outsmarted Ulermo.
But the Elves could not escape Ulermo’s wrath, and from their bodies sprouted leaved and branches and they became stiff and rooted into the ground. They elves watched in horror as their faces and skin turned into bark, and their hearts to wood, and they became trees.”
“And there they still stand, The Elf-wood, not a day’s ride from here. You can visit it, if you like. But be wary, for many a villain hides among the trees, waiting to steal your coins.” finished Gethan. The crowd began to clap, and the young storyteller bowed low with a sweep of his hat, and ignoring the questions and shouts for more, he stepped off the table and onto the floor.
The Bard then caught sight of Tobas, and cried “Oye, my friend! What are you doing in the corner all by yourself?”
“Listening to your ridiculous bedtime stories, I was” said Tobas, as he walked to Gethan’s side. “Ulermo The Tree – Shepherd? You are lucky that the King’s spies are not here, or you would be spending the night in prison, and probably burned at the stake as a witch in the morning.”
“Well, they are only stories, and have little else to do than be ridiculous,” said Gethan. “Only silly children would care to listen to tales of Elves, Faeries, and Dwarves. But I must appease the crowd, for such is my trade. Let us go outside, for we must talk.”
Gethan and Tobas made their way outside the inn, and began walking in no particular direction. The sounds of the party lingered behind them until they could not be heard at all, and they stopped for a moment. When the bard was sure that nobody was listening, he spoke softly to his friend.
“I am leaving tomorrow. I have stayed in Shales for too long, and I itch for the delicious sights and scents of Murambar. It is a wondrous place, with fine women and wine. All that a man should ever want, provided you have the coin, can be found there. I shan’t be coming back, methinks” Said Gethan. “I want you to come with me, on a journey of which we have talked so often of.”
“A journey? And what am I to do in Murambar? Spin tales, like you? Nay, for speaking is not my strength and I having a shop to mend to. You talk of a journey, but what of your family? This is irresponsible of you, indeed.” said Tobas
Gethan did not speak for a moment, and they continued down the path. ”I suppose it is irresponsible, in a way, but I cannot stay here. I will go mad, in these stone houses and castles. Telsandra was the last to be wed of our generation, and she is not my responsibility any longer. No, my mind is clear on this matter, and I have made all preparations already. Would you come with me? It is not as hard a choice as you make it to be,” he said.
“I cannot, friend. My shop is my father’s shop, and I will not throw away my inheritance,” said Tobas, “though my heart yearns to go with you.”
“I understand, brother. It was only a whim, held from old pastimes of ours. But I will miss your company, to be sure. Alas! Here I am, ruining the evening with my talk of nothing. Let us not speak of this until morning, and be merry for now!” said Gethan. He then embraced Tobas, laughing, and they made their way back to the inn. The two joined the party, and they drank and danced with young maidens and their mothers. They drank, and drank, for merrymaking’s sake, and then they drank some more, until the sun began to rise in the east.
Gethan left in the morning, like he had foretold, with a packhorse carrying provisions for his journey. Upon his head was a wide –brimmed hat, with a blue feather tucked into the belt. He bid farewell to Shales and its stone houses, to Tobas and his family, and never did he set foot there again in his life.
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