The Hammer of Fire

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Udor Firefist sat at his workbench, in his private chamber, and stared at hammers, axes, shields, armor, swords, and various other implements of war that lined the walls. His bench-top was clear of his work tools, they hung neatly on wall-hooks, but the stone table retained the stains of thousandsof jobs, tens of thousands, who knew how many? He looked longingly from one implement to the next and then put his fire-blackened right hand to one of the four platinum and gold bands, encrusted with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, which circled the gray beard that he spent over fifty years cultivating since he gave up his apprenticeship robes all those years ago. It seemed like a blink of the eye to him now as he gazed at five thousand years of work produced by the finest metal smiths of Craggen Steep. “Five thousand years,” he said with a quiet voice, and he frowned deeply although his heavy beard hid most indications of such.

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