Alfred tends the forge, ruminating on his past.
He thinks back to his childhood, learning the stone and iron from his parents, hefting a hammer at the forge just a soon as he learned he was no use with a bow. The hammer blows are clumsy, uneven, the blades brittle.
His father smiles, and says, as he frequently does “The next one will be better”. Alfred took this to heart, each mistake was carefully addressed, each imperfection beaten out of the red-hot iron.
Alfred is a young boy, nearing 14, making finer blades than his aging mother and father. His father is becoming ill, His mother not as strong as she once was. A familiar face comes to town, the Steelsmith. Thomas Stone always had a smile to share in the bleak lands around blackforge, the children often flocked to see what baubles he brought along with him. His calm grey eyes fell on the latest blade, appraising it.
That night, under the slim crescent moon Alfred stepped out on his first of many adventures. On a slow mule cart rolling out of Blackforge, the dim torch-light fading away past the hills of Rogalia and Alfred had hope in his heart for the future.
Alfred looks at the fine blade, shining bright and sharp, and a smile falls on his face, remembering the campfire stories Thomas told that night in the dim light of the morning over breakfast.
