Tinker Smithe
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Bang. Bang. Bang
Tinker's arm fell down and with it his hammer. Sparks flew as metal struck metal struck anvil. His latest project was nearly done. Despite all the delays. Despite all the time wasted because of his so called peers, he was nearly done. Strike after strike after strike. Each precise and measured. This was not a show of strength. Smithing, crafting, was far more than just a profession of brutes. Simpletons saw the hammer and assumed it was purely acts of strength. No. Strength often ruined works. It was control. Dedication. Those turned scraps of iron into lifesaving shields. Not strength.
One last hit. Into the water to cool the still hot metal. He was done.
The last bit of armor to latch into place. The last bit of armor for his newest creation. A golem with a core of clay but a shell of steel. One that could handle blunt blows yet not be hacked apart. One that could blend in with soldiers and civilians alike. A silent sentinel to guard Vel Anir.
The dreadlord in training stepped back to observe. Sweat dripping from his every pore. It was finally complete.
Soft claps came from the entryway. Casually in walked an adult, a proctor, covered from head to toe in leather and cloth. A mask commonly worn by alchemists and poison makers completely hiding their face. The voice that followed fit their figure: androgynous.
"Good work. What I expect from my favorite student."
Tinker turned. Proctor Atropa. The young man blinked. A slight smile on his face.
Proctor Atropa moved past the dreadlord-in-training to the golem. Finger tips gliding across as every inch was inspected. Hmms and has echoed from behind the mask. "Yes. Good work. Work good enough for testing."
Atropa turned to face Tinker. "Bath and eat. The perfect mission has come up to see what your project is worth."
The proctor began to leave, but stopped at the entryway. They turned back to Tinker. "Oh and I will gather some of the other students to tag along. To observe and judge."
Then they were gone. Tinker just stood there with his hammer in hand. Not a word spoken. Only stillness. For a moment. Then he set down his tool and moved to follow his orders.
Tinker's arm fell down and with it his hammer. Sparks flew as metal struck metal struck anvil. His latest project was nearly done. Despite all the delays. Despite all the time wasted because of his so called peers, he was nearly done. Strike after strike after strike. Each precise and measured. This was not a show of strength. Smithing, crafting, was far more than just a profession of brutes. Simpletons saw the hammer and assumed it was purely acts of strength. No. Strength often ruined works. It was control. Dedication. Those turned scraps of iron into lifesaving shields. Not strength.
One last hit. Into the water to cool the still hot metal. He was done.
The last bit of armor to latch into place. The last bit of armor for his newest creation. A golem with a core of clay but a shell of steel. One that could handle blunt blows yet not be hacked apart. One that could blend in with soldiers and civilians alike. A silent sentinel to guard Vel Anir.
The dreadlord in training stepped back to observe. Sweat dripping from his every pore. It was finally complete.
Soft claps came from the entryway. Casually in walked an adult, a proctor, covered from head to toe in leather and cloth. A mask commonly worn by alchemists and poison makers completely hiding their face. The voice that followed fit their figure: androgynous.
"Good work. What I expect from my favorite student."
Tinker turned. Proctor Atropa. The young man blinked. A slight smile on his face.
Proctor Atropa moved past the dreadlord-in-training to the golem. Finger tips gliding across as every inch was inspected. Hmms and has echoed from behind the mask. "Yes. Good work. Work good enough for testing."
Atropa turned to face Tinker. "Bath and eat. The perfect mission has come up to see what your project is worth."
The proctor began to leave, but stopped at the entryway. They turned back to Tinker. "Oh and I will gather some of the other students to tag along. To observe and judge."
Then they were gone. Tinker just stood there with his hammer in hand. Not a word spoken. Only stillness. For a moment. Then he set down his tool and moved to follow his orders.