[The Ironworks] Make it Light, Make it Strong

by **Baelin Holt** on August 12th, 2014, 9:24 pm

3, Summer of 514 AV

Baelin clutched the paper, absentmindedly rubbing calloused thumbs in slow circles over the letters. His gut roiled with unease, self-doubt slowly rising in him. He had managed to wrestle it down during the walk here, but here it was, swelling once again like an unfailing tide. The tall and stocky man cast his eyes about, suddenly immensely self-conscious. The shadow of Li Mauta hovered above him, taunting him with a well-timed puff of dark smoke. Baelin glared nastily at it, not feeling the least bit better.

Upon arriving at the city, Baelin had thought the sight of the crematorium’s smokestack would put him at ease. He had always found comfort in the cemetery of Black Rock and had expected the smokestack, while not as elegant as a graveyard, to incite the same sort of relaxation. But rumors of what the Undertaker did with the bodies of the unloved put an end to any sort of relief the structure may have given him. Baelin was well aware that within the walls of Syliras he was loved by none. The thought that his body might serve as a host to some treacherous Nuit sickened and infuriated him. If he were to die here, he prayed it was a bloody and mutilating death.

Stop distracting yourself, he chided himself. He was pulling the same stunt he had at the Welcome Center, hesitating in front of the building. Baelin shifted his weight restlessly and glared at the paper he had received from his visit there. Not being able to read used to only be embarrassing; proof of just how foolishly obstinate he could be. Now it was downright aggravating. The woman at the Welcome Center seemed to be honest enough, and he couldn’t imagine why she would send him to the Ironworks if she truly thought him incapable of gaining employment here, but suspicion clouded his reason and bred trepidation.

The loud and resonating sound of the Watchtower’s bell snapped Baelin out of his thoughts and caused him to jerk forward. He couldn’t stand outside forever. He had to make a decision, either leave or get his mulish self in there. Anger swelling in him for no reason he could identify, though if he were pressed he would have to blame self-disgust, Baelin gave one final glare to the others mingling outside in Winthrop Alley before pushing through the door of the Ironworks.

Outside he had only been able to feel the soft pull of warmth emanating from the building, but once he had pushed the door out of his way Baelin was hit with a wave of welcome heat. He moved out of the doorway and rolled his shoulders back, trying to pull as much of the fiery air into his skin as possible. As the warmth loosened some of his tenseness, the burly man allowed himself to take in his surroundings.

To say the Ironworks was massive didn’t even begin to encompass its enormity. The familiar sound of hammers striking metal rung in the air and shouts for more bellows or other various commands to get the apprentices in action were deafening.

Ten, Baelin counted with shrewd disbelief, having to go on tiptoes even with his height to see along the length of the enormous building, Ten forges! Evidently Baelin lacked imagination, because even his grandest dreams of what the Ironworks must be like failed to meet reality. Baelin tried to count the number of smiths scattered about, hammering away at their anvils, but in his growing excitement he lost count twice.

You’re loitering again. He practically growled, his displeasure in himself mounting. He scanned the area, searching for the Isurian. Ros Vizerian was a name any smith living in Syliras was well aware of. The man practically owned the industry. Baelin certainly never heard an end to the grumblings from the other smiths he had obtained small jobs from over the years. A monopoly, they would snarl, claiming it left no room for the common man to make a way for himself.

But the majesty of the Ironworks...grumble they may, the place was amazing. Baelin didn’t know how one could setup an operation of this magnitude. It seemed like there were so many moving parts, so many different things that could go wrong. He didn’t even begin to comprehend how someone could stay on top of it. Baelin swept his dark, slitted eyes across the forges and horde of anvils, marveling at all the skill and expertise housed in one building. He’d give an ear for the opportunity to apprentice here.

Sucking in a harsh, shaky breath, he glanced back down to the paper from the Welcome Center. If it didn’t have some cruel joke written on it, he wouldn’t have to give an ear. The opportunity was here, right now.

Baelin rolled his shoulders back again to ease the knots tightening in them as he pushed through the haze of heat to find the owner. He didn’t have to go far; the Isurian had set himself up close to the door. Baelin imagined his positioning usually allowed him to quickly attend to potential customers before the enormity of the place scared them off, but Baelin’s timing had been poor. His knowledge of metalsmithing was weak at best, but even Baelin knew that it was a long, tedious process. Messing up a stage could spell hours or even days of lost work, if the horror stories he had heard from other smiths had any truth to them. And he happened to have caught the smith as he was stirring the metal.

by **Baelin Holt** on August 15th, 2014, 2:37 am

While Baelin may have not seen the Isur upon his entry, the man slowly stirring the metal certainly hadn’t missed the half-Dhani enter his shop. Baelin fidgeted anxiously as he realized the short man’s gaze was watching him astutely. He licked his lips and brushed the sheet in his hand, nerves rising again. Had he messed up already? What was Ros Vizerian waiting for? Should Baelin call him Ros or Vizerian? What if it wasn’t him? Syliras was a large city, maybe it was some other Isur. Does he ask his name first? Would that make him seem like an idiot if it really was Ros Vizerian?

A slow smile began to creep over Ros’s face. With a quiet chuckle, unheard by Baelin in the riot of noise permeating the Ironworks, Ros called out to the man restlessly shifting his weight by the door, “Come here, I can spot Trega’s handwriting even from over here.”

Baelin wasted no time in complying, crossing the distance in a few quick, long strides. He held the sheet up tentatively, not quite sure how Ros wanted to read it as he continued swirling the liquid metal slowly. Baelin bowed his head, letting his hair obscure his slitted eyes. He hated first impressions.

Ros raised an eyebrow, gesturing at the sheet with his chin. ”Go on then, read it aloud.” He never once stopped spinning the metal, his slow circles consistent and steady.

The Isur’s easy comment sent a shock of fear through Baelin’s spin. He reflexively sucked in a sharp breath and glared back down at the sheet. Baelin had spent enough time staring at it before even getting near Winthrop Alley to know that staring at it now wasn't going to help him any. Releasing a displeased hiss, Baelin confessed, ”I can’t...”

Ros’s other eyebrow rose to meet the first and his smile slipped away. Despite the change in mood, his stirring was unaffected. ”In this day and age it seems to me that the uneducated are usually the lazy. I have no need for lax smiths.”

He’s right, you have been negligent. This is no place for a fool like you. Baelin watched the Isur’s grey arm flex methodically, its silver veins shifting regularly, as he contemplated his response. Stand up for himself or accept his worthlessness? He thought of his apartment, nestled deep in Stormhold Castle. Far from light, far from friends and family, far from hope of a better future. He could return to it easily.

But changing it would not be so easy. Baelin knew this. He didn’t go to the Welcome Center on a whim. He needed change to happen, else he’d die lonely and worthless and his body would go to some cursed Nuit.

He felt resolve start to sprout in the root of his spine, and he urged it onward, straightening his back as it reached up like an unyielding weed. Baelin’s jaw took a stubborn set and he hissed despite himself, “Meansss nothing, I’m a hard worker and ssmithing is my life.”

The small smile was gracing the short man’s face again. Despite his height, Baelin felt like the Isur threatened to tower over him. He fidgeted again as he waited for his potential employer to speak. But his jaw held its stubborn tilt and he refused to bend his spine.

Ros turned to look over his shoulder and barked at an apprentice to take over. The lad relieved Ros of his stirring. Baelin watched him spin the fluid, and while he had to admit it was better than what he could do it was still a far cry from the unfailing consistency of Ros’s skill.

Ros allowed Baelin no more time to analyze the apprentice’s technique as he came around to face Baelin. Standing next to him, Baelin was finally able to fully realize how much shorter the Isur was. With well over a foot on the experienced smith, Baelin was forced to relax his spine and stoop to hear the man over the roar of the Ironworks.

Catching the command to hand over the sheet from the Welcome Center, Baelin complied, handing it over after only a moment’s hesitation. Ros scanned over it quickly, a grin which Baelin sincerely hoped was pleased growing on Ros.

“An armorer!” he shouted above the din, “I certainly have too few of them. Well then, lets pass you off to a proper armorer and see what we can make of you.”

by **Baelin Holt** on September 4th, 2014, 9:06 pm

Ros led Baelin through a maze of anvils, swords and maces and other various instruments of death coming to life around him. Baelin found himself wishing the Isur would walk slower so he might better study the processes going on around him, but as it was he could barely catch glances while keeping up with the Isur’s surprisingly quick pace.

Baelin took a moment to steal a glance at a particularly tall smith working on a breastplate and realized the area had changed. All of the smiths here were working on helmets, plate armor, chainlink garments, and if he looked harder he was sure he’d see gauntlets and shields and other pieces of protective gear. Armorers, he thought with a thrill of excitement, they’re all armorers.

He nearly missed when Ros made a quick left into a tight space between anvils and stopped in front of an unassuming, middle aged man. The man kept his eyes fixed on the round sheet of metal he was working on. Baelin wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be, but whatever it was it looked like the man had only just started. Still, he didn’t pull his attention away as he spoke above the sound of his hammer striking the sheet, “Who’s this you’ve brought me?”

“He comes straight from the Welcome Center. Lad is close to competent in blacksmithing and has dabbled in some armoring.” Ros shot a half-smile to Baelin as he added, “And he’s your problem now.”

And as quick as that, the Isur was gone. Baelin caught himself before he started to follow, realizing that Ros must have more important things to do than spend all day overseeing a new hire. All the same, as Baelin turned to watch the armorer continue his work, still having yet to look up, the half-Dhani wished the Ironworks owner wasn’t quite so busy.

Evidently the armorer reached a good stopping point and suddenly Baelin was face-to-face with him. The armorer bent down to rest his hammer on the ground, but kept a hand on the sheet of metal to keep it from falling off of the large steel ball he was working on. The man cracked a smile at Baelin’s apparent surprise and held out his other hand. Carefully, Baelin reached with his own and received the firm grip.

“Fredrick McGowan,” he clipped, and Baelin had the sense that the man was well-practiced in introductions. Baelin certainly wasn’t.

“Baelin,” he returned, his voice lower than it should have been. As an afterthought, he added, “...Holt.”

Fredrick let the awkwardness of Baelin’s introduction slide and instead turned to the dented sheet, gesturing with a wide swoop of his arm. “Tell me, Baelin, what do you think I’ve started working on?”

by **Baelin Holt** on October 12th, 2014, 5:32 pm

The novice smith chewed on his lip, studying the metal. For all intents and purposes it just looked like a sheet of metal with a long dent that circled around the center. It was too small to be a shield, unless it was supposed to be a very small shield. More of a forearm guard, really. But then the concentric dent going around the middle wouldn’t make very much sense. Unless it’s supposed to dip out in the center so the user could put their hand in it? It could be breast plate, they tended to point out in the middle. But it seemed too centered to be that. The points tended to be lower on the armor to accommodate fat bellies. And it was again far too small, unless it was meant for a child. Perhaps a helmet? The sheet of metal looked better suited to wrapping around a head than a beer-belly. “A helmet?” Baelin asked uncertainly.

“Aye,” Fredrick said, splitting a grin, “Tricky part about making helmets is making such a deep vessel. Ideally you want to eliminate joints. They’re weak points and since the helmet doesn’t need to be articulating in so many places, best to avoid them. What I’ve been doing is raising. Better control of the shape too.”

Baelin listened intently, surprised he was getting a lesson so quickly. He assumed the armorer would want to see his skills first or something along those lines. But the smith apparently was in no mood to waste time or stock material on a pre-test.

Fredrick stepped away from his anvil for a moment and headed over to a table behind him, taking the circular sheet of metal with him. At the workbench he scooped up a finished helmet and set down the sheet he had been working on before coming back over. “One of my apprentices did this one here. He’s not skilled enough for raising, neither are you, so he settled by curling a plate around itself. You get a seam from where it meets, but it’s a good alternative. Don’t have to spend nearly as much time planishing either.” He studied Baelin for a moment, and at the less experienced smith’s blank look continued, “That’s where you smooth out the surface, especially the interior. It’s best to use a mushroom shaped stake for it, and only little taps of the hammer.” The armorer made a wide gesture over Baelin’s figure and added, “No need to use all of that muscle on you. You’ll just make bigger dents than you had been trying to smooth out. Don’t want any of your knights coming back complaining that their helmets are any more uncomfortable than they have to be. You have any questions so far, Baelin?”

Baelin shook his head, dark eyes fixed on the helmet. He could see what Fredrick was talking about with regards to the curled metal. An ugly seam marred the back of the helmet. Fredrick noticed Baelin’s gaze and grinned. “It’s a sloppy weld. Certainly wouldn’t give this apprentice anything more than iron to work with right now. Easy to learn how to weld on it. And we’re certainly not selling it. The Ironworks has a reputation to uphold.”

Fredrick set the helmet back on the table and snatched a well-dented sheet of metal from the floor under the workbench. He rested it against the steel ball he had been working on previously and handed the hammer to Baelin.

Baelin wrapped his fingers slowly around the hammer as Fredrick clipped, “Let’s see what you’re capable of, Baelin. Make a dented ring around the center, first part of raising a helm. If you’re off center you better hope your stock is large enough to accommodate the skew. If your circle isn’t a circle then it’ll only be fitting a deformed head.”

He licked his lips slowly, contemplating how he was going to start. With a slow nod, Baelin took hold of the stock from Fredrick and shifted it against the steel ball. Holding the hammer sideways, he uncurled his index finger and held it pointed over what he gauged to be the center of the metal. Shifting the stock around slightly, he adjusted it until he felt that his index finger was up against where the stock was resting against the steel ball. This was made a little harder by the fact that the surface was already slightly dented in places, and the contact point kept shifting depending on how hard he pushed down. Once satisfied that he had it close enough, he held this point with his finger and brought his left arm up and rested it along the stock. The burly man got a firm grip of the edge and planted a good portion of his arm against the surface to better hold it still.

Now to decide how far out from the center to start...he peered over his shoulder, but Fredrick was blocking his view of the stock he was originally working on. With a knowing smirk, the more experienced armorer gestured that Baelin return to what he was doing. Baelin pressed his lips together with displeasure as he turned to stare back at the well-used stock. He unfocused his gaze as he tried to picture what the original stock looked like when he first saw it. The smith spent a little longer fixed on the memory until he was confident that he had a decent idea of how far from the center the head armorer had been working. Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, Baelin shifted the sheet so that the point he wanted to start at was now resting against the ball and brought his hammer up. He let the space of one more slow breath pass before he brought the hammer down and began his work.

It was a slow process, much slower than he had seen Fredrick work. But he could see the dent starting to flesh out nicely. He rotated the stock metal as he worked, keeping his hammer more or less in the same place. The smith made sure to keep his eyes off of his potential supervisor, not knowing what he would do if he saw disapproval mar the older man’s expression. At a few points he lost his circle and had to spend a few strokes to bring it back, but by the end he had more or less a decent circle around the center. He finished his last hammer stroke with a little more force than was strictly necessary and, slowly, crept his gaze back to Fredrick. His head tilted low and his body still bent over the metal, the half-Dhani looked up from under his hair to see what the verdict would be.

He needn’t have worried so much, Fredrick cracked a smile and thumped Baelin on the back. “Not so bad, Baelin. Needs a good bit of work, but you have good spatial memory and a decent knack for keeping your line. Your form needs some practice, you’re moving your arm around too much. Wasting energy and throwing your hits off. We’ll work on that. For now, try to see how far you can get.” The man pointed to a slightly more worn steel ball and said, “That’ll be your round stake for now. You’ll use it for raising and planishing, and shaping when you get to it.”

A warm glow of pride was beginning to soak into Baelin, and the half-Dhani split a grin as he nodded his understanding. With an extra bounce in his step, he took the sheet of metal off of Fredrick’s round stake and proceeded to his.

As Fredrick picked up his original work and refocused his attention on it and away from Baelin, the apprentice smith allowed himself a moment to pass a calloused hand over the round stake. It was very old, he could tell that. A little rusted at a few spots and it carried a handful of dings to its surface, but it stood tall and proud in the belly of the Ironworks. And it was his. A smile spread over his features and, when he tried to force it back, it refused. With a soft laugh, he brought the stock metal up to his round stake and began his second concentric circle. The smile never left.

References :

OOCI didn't get nearly as much smithing done as I wanted here, so I completely understand if you have to skimp on skills. Thank you for reading and I'm looking forward to whatever grade you give!

by **Nivel** on November 16th, 2014, 3:41 am

Baelin Holt :

Solo [The Ironworks] Make it Light, Make it Strong