The Blacksmiths Misadventures

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
a short story about a blacksmith and some of his misadventures. this is my first fantasy/fiction so i'm very excited about it. any criticism is not just welcomed, but also encouraged.

Submitted: April 01, 2016

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Submitted: April 01, 2016

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The Blacksmith. A Blacksmith can create an object from metal. A Blacksmith can create gates. A Blacksmith can produce a lighting fixture that could be used for your home. A Blacksmith can produce multiple personal appliances for your home. Different types of furniture. Agricultural tools that could be used for farming and other purposes. Decorative items to be placed around your house. Religious decorations and statues. The Blacksmith could even repair objects. Among many of these creations there are some that he is well known for. Weapons are some of the many objects that a Blacksmith can make. They're also some of the most notable of objects to be created by a Blacksmith. Swords, hammers, two-handed swords, and axes are very notable creations by a Blacksmith. However, behind the scenes is a process that's crucial to the creation of the objects.

 

 

Blacksmiths heat pieces of metal - such as iron - until the metal is soft enough to shape with tools. Sounds boring doesn't it? It can be just as boring for the Blacksmith at times. Nonetheless, what if I told you that there was an aspect of this profession that is truly exhilarating. It can come in many forms. With indistinguishable traits of all types. This is a very general aspect of many professions. Some professions enjoy it, some do not. Some appreciate it, some do not. This polarizing aspect is called the 'customer.'

 

 

The Blacksmith sharpened the sword with a sarcastic smirk on his grungy face. ''You defeated the beast with your bare hands?'' The Blacksmith asked, with a subtle undertone of disbelief. Whether the person being questioned didn't notice or chose to ignore is anyone's guess. ''Of course I did'' He answered as if the question was rhetorical. The Blacksmith took a sharp glance at his customer. He was a very young man. Most of his body was embroidered with leather armor. A tattered brown and black cloak hung from his shoulders and it stopped, just at his waist. The bottom of the cloak looked ripped and filthy. The cloak never wrapped around his whole body. It mostly covered his back and stopped at the back of his arms.

 

 

Many warriors have entered The Blacksmiths shop. This one in particular had a very arrogant disposition about himself. He heard a 'tapping' noise, probably coming from a foot. It quickened the beat of its repetitious noise in the span of a few minutes. ''Someone's impatient, eh?'' The Blacksmith said aloud to no one in particular. His Irish-like accent filled the air. His stubby arms still sharpening the sword. ''Are you done yet?'' The warrior asked with an irritable attitude.

 

 

''How's your mother doing?''

 

''…...........''

 

''…...She's alright.''

 

''Just alright?''

 

''….She's good.''

 

''That's better. How's your fath-''

 

''Mom doesn't care too much for my profession.''

 

''You should have just became a farmer. You know? Like your father and mother wanted.''

 

''Eh, too late now. At least I'm making a living.''

 

''Hardly, I know many warriors.''

 

''So? What's your point?''

 

''A warrior can't make much of a 'profit' from hunting simple animals.''

 

''That's why I'm going to hunt my first mythical beast.''

 

''…..................''

 

''Which one?''

 

''A Centaur.''

 

 

 

The Blacksmith gave an exasperated and tired sigh. The room became still and tense with silence for a while. The sword was sharpened for about another hour before it was finished. He took the sword to the young man The sword was made with steel and embroidered with runes on the edge of it. ''Where did he get this sword? It doesn't feel like an ordinary blade.'' He wanted to ask, but he knew he would only dodge the question. ''Here you go.'' The Blacksmith gave the sword with a gruff voice. The young man took the sword with a cocky smirk and turned towards the door without another word. Before he could leave, the Blacksmith called out to him. ''Remember to take good care of yourself, Eric.'' Eric turned around and gave a smirk full of confidence. ''I'm always careful, old man.'' The jingle that came from him closing the door behind him left the Blacksmith with a sinking feeling. The Blacksmith obtained a reminiscent expression on his face, staring at the door. The Blacksmith gave a stern snort. ''That boy, is gonna get himself killed.'' He shook his head and began the trek back to his workshop.

 

 

 

It seemed that a migraine would be one of the main worries of the Blacksmith. A group of children felt the need to target some of the weapons he'd made. He would've made an effort to chase the children down to prevent themselves from hurting each other. However, his legs and arms were stubbly and small. Under those circumstances he would be hard pressed to chase after them. Eric's mother wouldn't stop coming by the shop to ask about him. How he was doing, if he looked alright, is he feeding himself right to down to asking if he was sleeping at the right time. He palmed his face with a stubborn frown plastered on his face. What was he? A babysitter? He assumed that Erics relationship with his mother had improved. It seemed he was wrong. At the highest point of this list was his newest customer. A noble.

 

 

 

''Can you make me a sword that can use fire with it?'' The Blacksmith wanted to choke himself. The Blacksmith absolutely hated nobles. The worst type of customer he hoped to never have. ''I've said it some many times and I'll say it again; I am not an Enchanter.'' He felt as though he was screaming at the moon. ''Don't tell me what to do, commoner!'' The indignant noble rose her voice at him. The nobles would assume themselves to be better than those they lord themselves over. Unfortunately, they seem to lack a good amount of any common sense or reason. As an unfair consequence, when they're dealing with ''common folk'' they seem to blame all of their lack of common sense on them. ''Hmph, the stature and integrity of this 'shop' is like your height – short and underdeveloped. Although, I suppose that suits your 'species.' She spoke with a haughty tone that could irritate the most patient and polite of elves. She left in a manner that resembled her entrance – rudely and derisively.

 

 

 

The Blacksmith poured himself a mug of mead and sat back in one of his favorite chairs. The front of his head carried a derisive expression. He took a sip of the mead. It touched the tip of his tongue and he savored the taste. The mead carried a warm and rough feeling down the back of his throat. It calmed his nerves and relaxed him. The noble is more than likely having a hissy-fit on the way back to her home. At the thought he poured himself some more mead feeling triumphant. He let the victorious smirk on his face spread, widely. At the memory of her – few words needed to be said. ''Dumb broad.'' He put his feet up on the table in front of him as he said this. Still smirking, he decided to end the moment on a high-note, filling his gullet and stomach with delicious mead.  


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