The Blacksmiths Misadventures
Copyright© 2016 by path4334
The windowsill made itself seen on the all-white walls. His curtains were spread open. From side to side, the burgundy drapes fell upon the wooden windowsill. He built it from scratch. Between the windowsill and the bed was a large wooden stand. The stand's height was equal to the height of the bed. The windowsill and the stand were on the right-side of the bed. It's a one-room house. The journey from his bedroom to the living room would be a short one. Connecting the bedroom door to the living room was a hallway. Again, the distance was short, including the hallway. The kitchen is also in the living room. The living room was in the shape of a square. In the upper-right corner of the square was the kitchen. Between the bedroom and the living room is the restroom. The carpet was cream. Three mattresses were on top of each other. The sleeper has a blanket and a pillow. He didn't bother with putting down a sheet under the blanket. The blanket and pillow were blue. The mattresses were made with polyester yarns combined with cotton. The color of the mattresses were white. The bed is pressed up against the wall.
His eyelashes struggled to release the captive irises. He grunted out a sigh. He was sleeping on his back. Flat and straight. He pinched his forehead with a frown. The deep lines that surfaced gave the frown more definition. He balled his hands and wiped the cobwebs out of the cervices of his eyes. He blinked his eyes to make sure the ''eye-boogers'' were gone. He sat up, pressing the pillow against the wall for support. His back slightly leaned against the pillow. The softness of the pillow comforted his lower-back. His head was titled back against the wall. He shifted his head to the right. He narrowed his caramel eyes at the wooden stand. It was thin at the base. It would spread out in width at the top. It was simple, but effective. Hanging from the stand was a brownish, cream-like tunic. A candle was placed next to the tunic, the fire had burned most of the beeswax away, leaving a crude pile of wax in its wake. He got out of bed and stretched. He hooked the forearm around the triceps of his left arm and pulled with his right arm. His left arm strained against the pull by his twin. He twisted his back, rolled his neck and touched his toes. He felt each stiff muscle pull against each other, providing relief. He stopped stretching and gave a loud yawn. He made a fist and covered his mouth, some of his breath reflecting back at him. He grimaced, the fabled ''morning breath'' reminding him of the reason for its title. He put on his tunic. The sleeves of the tunic stopped at his elbows. He felt his eyes grow weary. He struggled to keep his eyes open, as he knew he'd need something to wake himself up.
He sluggishly moved towards his bedroom door. He opened it and walked down the hallway, towards the living room. From his view, the kitchen was to the far-right. In the upper-left corner there was a gray couch. It lied horizontally, pushed as far as it could in the corner. In front of the couch was a small burgundy table. Close to his left-shoulder, without turning you'd see a large bookshelf. A numerous amount of books are lined up side by side. He grunted out a frustrated complaint as he just noticed he passed the bathroom. He turned the faucet and let the water flow, gathering it in his hands. He splashed some on his face and looked in the mirror. The color of his hair was a dark-brown. His hair was unusually long – it could reach his ankles. It's a good thing he had it wrapped up in rubber-bands. His beard connected with itself from ear to ear. It didn't have much length, but his beard was thick and bushy. His mustache was also thick – it would spread over his upper-lip and connect with his beard. He took another yawn and felt fully awake. Leaving the bathroom, he walked towards the living room to leave the house. As he opened the door he heard the loud noise of a bustling crowd.
The noise from the crowd irritated him. He liked his house. He just didn't like the area of his residence. His house is situated in the marketplace. A small marketplace. Still, it was aggravatingly loud. A number of people – bartering, selling and buying. There was a good amount of stands clustered together, side by side. He walked towards the stand, titled: 'food.' ''I assume you're here for the usual?'' The owner of the stand, asked him. ''Did you just meet me?'' The customer grunted out, impatiently. ''Okay Mr.-grumpy, here you go.'' The merchant placed the food on top of the stand. '' ... Do you want help with that?'' The customer stood on his tipsy-toes, his stubbly hands reaching for the food. He turned his eyes up and looked at the merchant with stubborn determination. He leaned against the stand and teeter-tottered against it. Moving from side-to-side, he reached up – almost falling upon his own weight – and quickly snatched the food off the stand. Some of the water doused him, giving his face a quick shine. He quickly fled the scene with his glass of water and bread, his face exploding with a red blush. The merchant gave an exasperated sigh as he stood behind his stand. He picked up the silver pieces that the customer littered on his stand and put them in his pocket. ''Now that the 'midget' is gone can we buy some food?'' Someone said that sarcastically, he tried to see who it was, but all he saw was huge line of customers. He gave a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment. It seemed his 'customer' took up a good amount of his time.
He took a furious bite of his bread. Gnawing on the food with a frown stuck on his face. Relief spread though his veins at the sight of his shop's door. The shop was entered with a stomp and a growl, the wood creaking under the aggressive offender. The shape of the first-room of the shop is a square. The entrance would give you a simple view of the shop. The first room was the lounge. A simple couch was placed in front of a small table. Two entrances to two rooms would be one of the first things you'd see. Above the two door-less entrances would be two signs titled, 'Weapons' and 'Armor.' With weapons on the right and armor on the left. Inside the rooms would be a series of weapons and armor in display cases. To the left lied a small counter; behind it was a door leading to the blacksmiths workplace. Loud stomps sounded the pathway to the couch. He gave a relaxed grunt as he felt the couch hug his form. The glass of water in his hand was placed on the table. It was still morning. He wouldn't expect any customers this early in the day. The blush on his face died down as he ate his breakfast. In a matter of moments the huge piece of bread was swallowed. Wobbling over to the shop's counter was somewhat difficult. The counter was moderately small. Put in the lower-left corner of the room, it was somewhat cutoff from the rest of the room. With no pathway behind the counter, one could try to climb over it.
He leaned against the counter and brainstormed. His arms reached for the edge, it couldn't be too hard right? Thick fingers grasped onto the edges and pulled with all the effort in the world. He felt his toes lift off the ground, slightly gliding in the air. The head would be the first part of the body to reach above the counter. Beads of sweat fell off his forehead and into his mouth. The bitter taste made him frown with grim determination. Eventually, half of his stomach was above the counter. He leaned on top of the counter with his upper-body as support. His body was now set in a horizontal position. The upper-body was okay, but his lower-body was stuck hanging in the air. The legs flailed in the air with persistence. His flailing stopped when he realized he'd obtained a moderate amount of balance and stability. However, now he was stuck in place. He gave a sigh and took a quick break on the counter. The yawn that escaped from his lips made his eyes flutter. He grunted with stubborn determination and pressed on wards. Unfortunately, he forgot that the counter was somewhat small. Enough of his upper-body was on top of the counter to tilt him over. His journey to the pavement would be a monumental tale of triumph and determination. The yelp that fled from his mouth would be a courageous cry against the ''evil counter.'' Bards would sing tales of a Blacksmith and his battles against his own shop. Well, I guess not 'all' of those things would happen.
- The Blacksmiths Misadventures -
Ignoring the bump on his head was an annoying task. Well, at least he could hide it within the forest of his hair. He withheld a grunt, as he felt the shattering force of his arm hit the anvil. The right hand was constantly smashing against the metal. He felt his mind drift as he heard the jingle of his door being pushed open. He left the door unlocked for any new customers. Surprise filled his ear as he only heard a few selective steps of the new customer. ''Either the customer is an Elf, or a ... child?'' His thoughts resounded with curiosity as he suspected the species of the ''light-footed customer.'' He didn't hear the door close – in fact, it was left open. The customer could be considered a ''happy-go-lucky'' fellow. However, hearing the customer jump onto the very thing that separated his workshop and store could be considered somewhat ... alarming. Although, hearing a squealing voice could put some people into a fritz of exasperated and relaxed sighs. ''I assume your mother knows you're here?'' The customer ran right into his workshop; the door to his workshop was left wide open and you could easily see the customer at the front-desk from the 'right' position. He could easily see the black hair of his customer through his peripheral-vision. The customer's hair was darker than the night and blacker than a Hawk. The customer's hair contrasted with his red-eyes in an unholy manner. ''Of course she knows I'm here!?'' The red-eyed customer spoke with a rhetorical and sarcastic tone. An exclamation would fill his voice with boisterous excitement. After all, his so-called customer is a child. The child wore a simple brown tunic and brown pants. ''And, your father?'' The boy gave a sheepish grin, as he scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. ''Well, my father's the one that gave me permission to come here!'' The boisterous intruder obtained a smug and somewhat victorious smirk. ''I assume we should begin to plan the funeral of your father? Your mother will kill him.'' The child's face turned as white as a sheet. The boisterous child gained a mock-somber look. He went to the front-desk and picked up one of the Blacksmith's candles. He sat it between him and the Blacksmith and put his hands in a prayer and closed his eyes. ''What are you doing now?'' The short man grunted out his question. ''We must begin a funeral pyre for my father.'' The Blacksmith didn't know whether to guffaw with laughter or give a somber look for his friend ... He did both.
- The Blacksmiths Misadventures -
''Hey, Mr. Blacksmith, whats this book about?'' The boy picked up the book from his front-desk. The Blacksmith gave a deep frown at the sight of the book. Sometimes he'd leave different things lying around in his store. He'd usually leave random stuff in his workshop. Leaving things such as, magical trinkets, enchanted staff, swords, and enchanted armor. Also, any enchanted items he had would've been acquired through traveling and from just different people in his life. If the child came in contact with any of these things his mom would make him shorter than he already was. Still, some items were more valuable than others. Not all of them were ultimately dangerous. However, he was known to be a very cautious man. Nonetheless, this book is a very special book, it wouldn't harm the boy but, the knowledge it contained would be a very deadly force.
The book was brown. Cream feathers were spread around the title. The feathers stopped halfway around the letters. ''Mythical Creatures, sounds like a boring name don't ya think?'' The boy said this in a smart-like tone. He opened it up to first page and gave an intrigued expression. ''Mr. Blacksmith, are these the beasts beyond the borders?'' He wondered how he could convey his thoughts to the child in way that wouldn't startle him. The owner of the shop gave an exasperated sigh. The day had hardly begun and he was already feeling somewhat tired. ''Actually, what are the borders? I've heard a lot from my mum and dad but, what are they, really?'' The question gave the anvil-hitter a startle. The boy definitely inherited his mother and father's intelligence. He was still making new weapons in the seven-technique process. Still, he supposed he could give an explanation.
''I want to keep this somewhat simple. This explanation is somewhat 'rough' but, it can give you a run-down in the most simplistic manner. Are you ready?''
''Of course I am!'' The boy exclaimed with enthusiasm in his voice.
''Okay, I assume your father has told you about Wizards or Witches?'' He lifted his right eyebrow in question.
''Magic!? Is it about magic?!'' The owner of the enthusiastic exclamation sat in a brown chair behind the Blacksmith and away from his tools.
''Yes, magic is used to create the borders. The borders are used to protect us from monsters and mythical creatures.''
''How many Wizards live here?'' The boy's eyes narrowed slightly.
''What an interesting question ... he has a sporadic personality, just like his father.'' He relinquished himself from his thoughts and responded. ''Not many, most, if not all of them are mostly travelers.''
'' ... That's a conversation for a different time an-''
''Why can't you tell me now!?'' The boy interrupted him.
''-And it's almost evening, and y'know what your mom will do if your late.''
The boy's face paled - you'd be able to see the veins rising to the surface of his skin. His mother was going to kill him! He couldn't imagine her using one of her bel- No, he had to get home – his father wouldn't be able to help him this time. Besides, he doubt that his father would want to sleep in the living room this time. And if his mom was really angry she wouldn't make dinner! The red-eyed intruder felt a shudder climb up his spine. He pivoted on his boots and began to leave the shop. However, feeling the object in his hand caused him to stop and narrow his eyes.
''Can I keep the book?''
Most of his time as a traveling Blacksmith introduced him to new cultures, ideas, and he would come across many, many books. Some, were gifts from friends. Some, were books he bought himself. Although, some books are more valuable than others. He would like to keep most of his past buried, and not to be dug up. It seems to be harder than he expected. He gave a deep sigh. Hoping is considered useless to him, if you make your choices – knowing the consequences – why would anyone feel regret? Saying this to a friend of his resounded within his mind in remembrance. He communicated his message with a haughty and arrogant tone – feeling his ideals were superior to his friend's. Most of his regrets were sown from the actions in his youth. Ironically, he hoped he could move on from his past. ''Hope and regrets are important aspects of a person's character. Just because I'm an elf doesn't mean I can't understand humans and dwarves, my friend.'' He gave a bitter smile, feeling the questionable embrace of his memories. ''You can keep i-'' Hearing the closing of his doors sent him a slight smile. It quickly fell off his face as a pit formed itself in the depths of his stomach. A dry swallow would be only sound that would hit his ears. ''I hope I made the right choice?... '' He shook his head and began to close up for the day. He quickly went home and wrapped himself in his blanket. Sleeping was somewhat hard as the consequences for giving the boy the book haunted his mind. But, as he stretched his legs underneath his blanket he decided not to worry too much. Besides, whats the worst that could happen?