34 Fall 522 A.V.
Walking with a jaunty step, Mitt carried the familiar weight of his anvil under his arm with a big smile. Headed off to the smith with solid purpose, it felt good, right, and about damn time. Mitt hadn't forged a thing since Spring and the ship's voyage felt like he was mourning more than just the death of his parents.
Smithing gave his life purpose and meaning. It wasn't just a job, it was both his life's validation and the solitary binding tie to his family's legacy. Setting up Izzy would bring him to Syka with the most important thing he had, beyond even his own soul.
Swinging a leg over the threshold, he double stomped his foot on the floor. Hard, giving Arty a heads up that someone was here.
"I'm here Arty." Mitt said, carefully enunciating, knowing the smith probably only had about twenty percent of his hearing left. Arty gave a brief nod but remained silent, watching with a critical expression.
Grey eyes flicked over to the older smith's face and he knew he'd better be nothing short of perfection in setting up Izzy or the guy would never let him back in the smithy. There might be Founders on Syka, but smiths looked to other smiths first and foremost. Mitt carefully set down his family's anvil, giving it a loving pat.
A few different wood stumps were lined up under the back table on the far wall and he walked over to them with studied concentration. Oak, Elm and Maple in different sizes and colors huddled near each other, awaiting a life long task. The Maple was too soft and split instantly. The Oak stumps were alright on first glance, but he knew they'd grow brittle with heat expansion. There was only one Elm stump and it was covered in manky looking half shredded bark with a wildly uneven sloping top.
"If I clean it up, it can still work. Just needs some adjustments." He said more to himself. It wasn't like Arty would 'hear' him unless he looked directly at him to speak.
Rolling up his sleeves, he grabbed the top of the heavy Elm stump and rolled it awkwardly outside, the chunk of seasoned wood trailing splinters and bark along its drag marks on the floor. Going back inside, Mitt took the ruler, sandpaper, level, chalk and a couple metal shims from the tool rack and returned outside.
He went back to the wood stumps and after a few chimes of debate, he chose and picked up the lighter Maple stump to make three rough hewn two by fours for the leveling.
Mitt made sure that he was directly in front of the door so the senior smith could get a clear view from his chair. He also knew better than to risk scattering wood splinters near even the cold forge. The young smith felt eyes boring into him and he didn't bother looking up. He was well aware of Arty's intense scrutiny. He welcomed it in fact. It felt good to have another smith around. Was it really only one season without forging? It had felt like a life time away from his lifeline to the world.
He grasped the small hand axe and shoved it downward, separating the bark from the wood, from top to bottom. It was a small tool that only took about three inches at a time so the hacking would be slow going. Placing his left foot on top of the stump to hold it still, he hacked away at the bark, careful to keep it in as much of a peeling technique as he could.
Mitt stopped twice to readjust his handhold on the unfamiliar axe because he was so used to a hammer grip. After a few swears at hacking off the bark, he finally cleared the stump clean. Resetting his grip for the dozenth time on the uncomfortable axe handle, he began squaring the sides as much as possible. Half way through his untutored efforts, he threw down the axe and strode into the smithy again, this time grabbing the measuring twine.
"I forgot." he admitted sheepishly to Artik.
"Can't do wood, don't know much about wood, but it's the only way for you to have a good home Izzy." he muttered on his way back outside, resenting that he had to do some crappy wood work just to get to the good stuff.
Mitt neatly wound the twine around his hand to his elbow twice, bit the twine and set it down beside him. He then wound the long length of twine around the stump vertically, lifted the heavy stump and crossed it underneath to bring up to the top again, neatly dividing it in four quarters with a quick knot.
Now that he had an even reference guide, he picked up the axe and chopped the sides as evenly as he could. It was definitely not the work of a master and there were obvious knots and splinters aplenty. Mitt released the twine and put it aside for later, stepping back to survey his work. He was no carpenter that was for damn sure. But as long as all the surfaces were free of bark and smooth with a level top and bottom, he'd get through it. He'd only done this once before so it was a bit of a challenge. One that he fully intended to carry out with determination.
The Maple stump was crap but he could at least split a few two by fours off it. Using the ruler and chalk, he first measured vertically from the ground, marked it, measured the width, and marked it across the stump at its height, carrying over the radius to the other side. And marked it again with the chalk.
Mitt chopped roughly at first, resenting every axe stroke with a fierce look.
"Chopping wood sucks ass. You couldn't pay me enough to be a carpenter." Said Mitt, cursing and glaring as he worked at it clumsily. He leaned on the stump with his left hand, holding the measurement spot with his left thumb to guide him. The axe slipped and twisted in his sweaty hand and he paused to drop the axe and wipe his sweaty hand on his pants.
"You don't have to be a logger to mount an anvil kid. Just make it precise and get on with it without all the bitching." Artik said loudly and deafly from inside the smithy.
WC 1,086
.
Walking with a jaunty step, Mitt carried the familiar weight of his anvil under his arm with a big smile. Headed off to the smith with solid purpose, it felt good, right, and about damn time. Mitt hadn't forged a thing since Spring and the ship's voyage felt like he was mourning more than just the death of his parents.
Smithing gave his life purpose and meaning. It wasn't just a job, it was both his life's validation and the solitary binding tie to his family's legacy. Setting up Izzy would bring him to Syka with the most important thing he had, beyond even his own soul.
Swinging a leg over the threshold, he double stomped his foot on the floor. Hard, giving Arty a heads up that someone was here.
"I'm here Arty." Mitt said, carefully enunciating, knowing the smith probably only had about twenty percent of his hearing left. Arty gave a brief nod but remained silent, watching with a critical expression.
Grey eyes flicked over to the older smith's face and he knew he'd better be nothing short of perfection in setting up Izzy or the guy would never let him back in the smithy. There might be Founders on Syka, but smiths looked to other smiths first and foremost. Mitt carefully set down his family's anvil, giving it a loving pat.
A few different wood stumps were lined up under the back table on the far wall and he walked over to them with studied concentration. Oak, Elm and Maple in different sizes and colors huddled near each other, awaiting a life long task. The Maple was too soft and split instantly. The Oak stumps were alright on first glance, but he knew they'd grow brittle with heat expansion. There was only one Elm stump and it was covered in manky looking half shredded bark with a wildly uneven sloping top.
"If I clean it up, it can still work. Just needs some adjustments." He said more to himself. It wasn't like Arty would 'hear' him unless he looked directly at him to speak.
Rolling up his sleeves, he grabbed the top of the heavy Elm stump and rolled it awkwardly outside, the chunk of seasoned wood trailing splinters and bark along its drag marks on the floor. Going back inside, Mitt took the ruler, sandpaper, level, chalk and a couple metal shims from the tool rack and returned outside.
He went back to the wood stumps and after a few chimes of debate, he chose and picked up the lighter Maple stump to make three rough hewn two by fours for the leveling.
Mitt made sure that he was directly in front of the door so the senior smith could get a clear view from his chair. He also knew better than to risk scattering wood splinters near even the cold forge. The young smith felt eyes boring into him and he didn't bother looking up. He was well aware of Arty's intense scrutiny. He welcomed it in fact. It felt good to have another smith around. Was it really only one season without forging? It had felt like a life time away from his lifeline to the world.
He grasped the small hand axe and shoved it downward, separating the bark from the wood, from top to bottom. It was a small tool that only took about three inches at a time so the hacking would be slow going. Placing his left foot on top of the stump to hold it still, he hacked away at the bark, careful to keep it in as much of a peeling technique as he could.
Mitt stopped twice to readjust his handhold on the unfamiliar axe because he was so used to a hammer grip. After a few swears at hacking off the bark, he finally cleared the stump clean. Resetting his grip for the dozenth time on the uncomfortable axe handle, he began squaring the sides as much as possible. Half way through his untutored efforts, he threw down the axe and strode into the smithy again, this time grabbing the measuring twine.
"I forgot." he admitted sheepishly to Artik.
"Can't do wood, don't know much about wood, but it's the only way for you to have a good home Izzy." he muttered on his way back outside, resenting that he had to do some crappy wood work just to get to the good stuff.
Mitt neatly wound the twine around his hand to his elbow twice, bit the twine and set it down beside him. He then wound the long length of twine around the stump vertically, lifted the heavy stump and crossed it underneath to bring up to the top again, neatly dividing it in four quarters with a quick knot.
Now that he had an even reference guide, he picked up the axe and chopped the sides as evenly as he could. It was definitely not the work of a master and there were obvious knots and splinters aplenty. Mitt released the twine and put it aside for later, stepping back to survey his work. He was no carpenter that was for damn sure. But as long as all the surfaces were free of bark and smooth with a level top and bottom, he'd get through it. He'd only done this once before so it was a bit of a challenge. One that he fully intended to carry out with determination.
The Maple stump was crap but he could at least split a few two by fours off it. Using the ruler and chalk, he first measured vertically from the ground, marked it, measured the width, and marked it across the stump at its height, carrying over the radius to the other side. And marked it again with the chalk.
Mitt chopped roughly at first, resenting every axe stroke with a fierce look.
"Chopping wood sucks ass. You couldn't pay me enough to be a carpenter." Said Mitt, cursing and glaring as he worked at it clumsily. He leaned on the stump with his left hand, holding the measurement spot with his left thumb to guide him. The axe slipped and twisted in his sweaty hand and he paused to drop the axe and wipe his sweaty hand on his pants.
"You don't have to be a logger to mount an anvil kid. Just make it precise and get on with it without all the bitching." Artik said loudly and deafly from inside the smithy.
WC 1,086
.
