[Aminatu]

HP 100% | MP 100%

Paladin - Cavalier - Blacksmith

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Aminatu mined Geb’s earth within the Cimmian forest under the sweltering heat of the sun for hours. Her arms were weary to the point of exhaustion as she cracked into several ore veins with the strength of a rhino. CLANK! CLANK! CLANK! She was one with the beating heart of the Earth. Coming from resource rich lands of Heliopolis, Aminatu was no stranger to carving out ores from rich veins and caves. After a long day, she drank from her, she drank from her waterskin and sat by the campfire as she spoke to her tribe.



“I cannot help but reminisce some days about wandering through the glamour of Ankhet. The jewel of Heliopolis, for all my resentment of having finally found permanent housing in the city with At-Arabiah still manages to dissuade me from my prejudices of a city. I will admit that I am biased in many ways in saying this. I am privileged there, if I were anyone else I would imagine I would have fallen to fine silks and finer wines long ago. The money that trades hands and the interesting character the city takes as a port and trading hub of the province never ceases to impress and tempt me to a degree. Yet, above all else the unique nature of the city is also what keeps me bound to my origin as much as it separates me from it.



When I arose from my bed this morning, parting ways with my Lioness with a kiss and dressing myself in leathers that have seen use in the wastes of the desert for many years I will admit feeling somewhat lethargic. My scars tingled and nipped at me, my throat was dry, and could not help but feel some form of desire to embrace the Desert’s Rage for a brief moment to numb such minor annoyances. I am not an old woman, why would my body betray me like this? My joints do not ache, I can fight from a saddle just fine, and I could wrestle a stallion down to its knees. But, I am bare the weight of a thousand souls and its weighs heavy. I find my comforts when not in the arms of a lover or in the adrenaline of a fight in other means.



I tended to avoid the main streets in Ankhet, the place between the Grand Bazaar and the Temple are too much for me at times. The bustle of the crowds and merchants haggling their wares, visiting foreigners enjoying the spectacle of entertainers and the wealth of these lands as they buy trinkets from clever men of the sands. Others come with black hearts and are lured by the shadow the estate casts over the habor, illicit goods and deals to twist the harm they could do to favor the desert. While it has left a bad taste in my mouth in the past, I cannot deny that controlling the crime is much easier than eradicating it, nor can I deny my own sin in maintaining this balance; I pray sometimes for Horus to forgive me, but I know that actions speak louder than words. As long as we do good to these people, I do not feel the weight of these sins.



The alleyways between buildings and neglected streets where many of the natives of the city and of the desert itself are far more familiar grounds for me. I smile beneath my mask as a orange merchant offers a taste of his wares for free to a young mother and child. The child is shy of this strange old man, but she ultimately accepts the gift and her mother makes sure she thanks the man properly with a “thank you” that rolls out in broken tongue. It brings a smile to the merchant’s face and to mine as I pass. It is small scenes like these that endear me to these places less traveled, scenes that are preserved as crime is regulated behind closed doors; for the most part these streets are safe at night and day.





I walk further down the street, the worn sandstone under my boots scraped slightly by my spurs. It often betrays my presence, but the khopesh at my side and the red sash around my waist are signs enough that I am the Huntmaster. I do not need to show my face to these people for them to know who I am, I sometimes receive welcome smiles and wary glances. Most in these neighborhood are Enoch, many seem traditional and despite the nature of my job; the modesty I take in hiding my face absolves me of some of the dirtiness that comes with it. I pass another man preparing a morning coffee for his family in a large metal pot. I have grown to know this man as Ibrahim and he offers a steel cup to me as he waves me down with a wide grin.



Ibrahim is a merchant in the main bazaar, he of course sells coffee and tea leaves; and for a time was the only man in the city I could find more exotic coffee beans from when the Shiekh was out of reach. His wife is a handsome woman from deep in the desert, a few scars on her arm tell she is from one of the tribes but had found peace in the city life. I never dishonor Ibrahim and make it a point to share time with him as I drink from the cup. As the rest of the neighborhood awakes, others move to join us around the pot of coffee. We chat in a mix of Helio and common, I learn that Nagida’s daughter is going to move to Ankhet soon to marry a wealthy merchant and that Iztuti has been hired as one of the guards in the city. I am treated with suspicious glances at that and shrug my shoulders, I tell them that El-Lil’s winds are mysterious and they chuckle. I am their Huntmaster as much as I am that to the Marquess, if I can I manipulate the winds in their favor. An orphan from Litte Asad sneaks out to join us, Ibrahim chastises them gently but shows them how to prepare coffee quietly. All too soon I have finished my coffee and must bid them farewell, they ask that Anhur guides my blade and Isis my path as I have often done for them in the past. My throat was not as dry anymore and my shoulders were a bit lighter.



When I arrive at the gates of the estate, the guards let me in without a second thought. In the past, in the first weeks that I arrived, I would have to wait for a time with the men. I would come with Khubla, flat bread, covered in date jam to share with them as I awaited approval to enter. Now, after such a time in service to At-Rabiah I am occasionally greeted with the same treat. The soldiers know me from my time with them in the war, we speak for a few minutes while we break bread with one another. I learn that Musa is becoming a Sergeant soon, finally through with his training to become a Gallant and could leave his duties as an archer on the walls behind. We all give thanks to Horus for that, Musa had lost the fingers of his draw hand during the Siege of the Sun Keep during the War of the Lions. The role of Gallant was a welcome promotion, he had spent months practicing his swordsmanship to prove himself worthy of the role. Between bites of the food, I am also told of some grumblings amongst the guards that they are anxious to face the Brotherhood; I cannot help but confide in them that I feel the same but to have patience. Amirah rolls her eyes a bit and jokes that I sound like her mother, but everyone is willing to wait a bit more for the enemy to reveal themselves. They bid my blessing and I thank them for the meal, we part ways with smiles as I enter the estate. My burns no longer nipped at me as my belly was full of the bread and jam, the pleasant feeling driving the ghosts away.



When I became the Huntmaster, even when the role was de facto, I had not imagined as much paperwork as there was. I was not only their leader, but often their organizer and managed the requests from villages and tribes across Ra Kotu. I delegated far more often than I expected and always found my day, regardless of what was to be done, filled with reports from the eyes and ears of the sand. Dispatch, request, bounty, and report occupied me for hours. Then I would walk the grounds of the estate, before exiting through the gates once more as I returned to my home to train and prepare for the next day. My journey there was of course extended as I walked through the narrow streets and exited through one of the city’s main gates. The sun still hung high above and although it was midday, I had an appointment amongst the tribes.



Since the Lion’s War had ended, many of the nomadic tribes camped closer to At-Rabiah than they once did. Sometimes right along the wall if there was no clear and present threat. To go from the cramped confines of a city to the open space of a nomad’s camp is a welcome thing. The Ne-Ghraewaj and The the Shen-She-Ru-Duptra set up near the city for sometime, the lovers Chieftain Salim and Iris Ne-Jinn invited me to their tent for a meal. Their love has been an odd affair, at one point I had led a warband to their camp to break an arranged marriage between them as Iris sought to take her walkabout in celibacy.



Salim was and is an honorable man, accepting this and supporting her throughout it. She has many more months of isolation left, but visits the camp of her family for prayer as is permitted amongst her tribe. If Salim happens to be there and her family happens to be on a hunt, who is Horus to judge such a coincidence only he could arrange. A pot of Tajjin awaits me and the smell of the spiced chicken and cuscus is enough to make my stomach grumble as I join them. Iris’ young sister Kiya is there as a witness to Iris’ vow of celibacy during her walkabout and I am that to Salim. As far as I could tell, the tension between them was as thick as the steam coming from the Tajjin as it stayed warm over the fire as we ate. Using unleavened bread as our utensils, we ate until it was difficult to stand. More and more from the tribes joined us as time passed, eager to see Iris after her journeys before they departed again and to seek Salim’s council for any troubles that arose. In my eyes I saw a court forming in the shade of a simple tent and food, but one without the pomp and masquerade of the nobles I have come to meet in the service of the Marquess. I saw the simple honesty and honor of my kin, the thing that the sacrifice of those thousand souls helped preserve there around a growing feast and I could not feel the weight of their loss on my shoulders. I could only feel the warmth of their souls, even in the absence of their bodies.
"


After sharing her story, she eased her mind with hookah and then fell asleep in her tent to arise the next morning and work in one of the workshops of Romalia with a merchant of whom she had known for a number of years. The streets of Romalia were growing more active by the day as citizens and workers streamed in to help with the great rebuilding project. Aminatu’s horse Anhur carried the bulk of her load of ores that she came to store in the workshop. She manned her station and swiftly got to work.







A soft bell echoed into the quiet room as the door to a small, low lit NPC workshop was pushed open. The bell rang a few times in order to alert the dusky skinned Enoch blacksmith that someone had arrived and did so elegantly. Warmth swallowed up the black shadow which stood at the door and the man beneath the dark shroud was happy he had chosen the place he had because of that heat. It made him feel at home again. A small fireplace burned to his left, and a few chairs were positioned around it for people to sit and chat in. Over to his right, there was a small couch that ran along the wall for a short distance (the length of five cushions), and next to it there were four tall furniture pieces with large glass front doors to show off the little knick-knacks and portraits which sat inside of them. Back to his left and beyond the edge of the fireplace there were several racks filled with various types of close-combat weapons; battleaxes, swords, pole arms, javelins, and hatchets to name a few. However, those weapons were already made and were up for sale as price tags tangled off their handles or off their hilts. The man at the door wasn’t interested in purchasing anything from the Heliopolite blacksmith. Not today at least. He had other plans.







“Good morning!” Out of the back of a room at the other side of the slightly elongated room, a muscular, winged woman stepped out from the rightmost door that the player could see. She left that door open and the player could see that it was dark inside with one warm red light keeping it from being pitch black inside. The door to the left was locked shut and it didn’t seem like he would be gaining access to it.



“Welcome to the Last Sentinel, hamwatan! We sell the best and most pristine weapons in the market at the lowest prices we both can afford. Even so, I’ll be willing to haggle with you if something you see suits your fancy enough.” The woman seemed to notice that the person standing in front of his door wasn’t exactly interested in swords or shields, so she didn’t continue with his speech like she probably would have if it had been someone else entering the shop. The bow strapped across the visitor’s chest and the arrows sticking out over his shoulders showed that he wasn’t a man who used weapons made for close-quarters fighting. The player had considered it, but not for now. He may have surged through the levels and was high enough to take on the perils of Monti Sabatini in the starter zone, but for now he had other objectives.





Over the past few days, Arangalion had focused on leveling and perfecting his ranger class. He fired arrows day in and day out, hunting everything in sight in order to boost the skill up as quickly as possible. The days quickly turned to nights and the nights back into days in a blink, but the player never rested. He did took short naps to keep himself from falling over in the middle of a hunt, but ensured he would wake up by positioning himself in such a way that gravity would pull him down onto his face over time. After the drop, he’d pop back to his feet and get back to grinding without a complaint. Though, he had neglected his subclasses the entire time he was doing that. Now he was an strong player without any supporting skills, forcing him to rethink his grinding strategy. At first, he considered leaving his Tracker and Blacksmith subclasses to burn and was going to continue with his ranger class until he collected most of his rank 1 skills. The only issues with that were the conditions of his weapons and clothing.







The rough and constant grinding was beginning to wear on his body and his mind, causing him to break down more than once and pass out, but also it was breaking down his gear. The starter bow Arangalion had resting across his back was on the verge of shattering apart as the wood chipped off in some places, making it a volatile piece of equipment. The man’s clothing was ragged and filled with holes, making staying warm more difficult with every passing day and it decreased the amount of protection he had. Even his tough boots were starting to show strong signs of decay as a small hole poked through his right boot’s left side. From another player’s perspective; Arangalion looked like a man who was falling apart at the seams. He looked horrible both in the eyes because of how tired he was and because of his deteriorated figure. It was tough living the way he did, but Arangalion didn’t regret one second of it. He was accomplishing his goals of becoming a force in the field, and now he was going to go forth with his second; he would become a force in the market. This time, he would take his take and would be more careful with what he was doing. He’d learn from someone else, and would build up his strength more passively in order to ensure that he learned everything he needed. He was good at fighting and taking down enemies, but making things was a different story. He had the patience, now he just needed the knowledge.





With his mind set on reaching his next goal, Arangalion began to make his way over towards the towering Heliopolite Blacksmith. He slithered his way quietly passed the cabinets, passed the chairs and fireplace, and passed all of the weapon racks without breaking eye contact with the foreign woman. He stepped onto the elegantly designed strip of carpet on the floor and moved between the two glass cases which were filled with scimitars and smaller tools as he headed straight for the place the blacksmith was standing. When he reached the other side of the room and stood in front of the final piece of furniture that kept him out of the Paladin’s face (a small island with a collection of weapons to its sides), Arangalion placed his hands down on the fine wood and leaned forward slightly. He looked up boldly, glancing over his dark gray scarf with a pair of two dark, tired red orbs, at the blacksmith. He stared the woman right in the eyes, refusing to divert his gaze even though Aminatu began to lean away to get some of her personal space back. Arangalion was silent for a long time as he stood there, staring at the unwavering woman, until finally the Blacksmith took in a breath, showing that she was about to open her mouth.







“I want to learn the art of Blacksmithing from you. I need a mentor.” The words caused the Blacksmith to hold her tongue. The woman stood there, taken aback by the bold authority of the adventurer in front of her and it seemed she lost the words she was about to speak. Such a demand Arangalion assumed wasn’t exactly rare, but by the look in the Blacksmith’s eyes it didn’t seem like this man got asked it a lot. Yet, Arangalion’s opinion on that changed when the woman smiled and stepped back. Arangalion took the unconscious movement as a sign, so he relaxed and took a step away himself, causing a bit of distance to grow between the two of them.







“You know I have been asked that by many other Immortals, and I have told them all no. Why should I say yes to you, sayyid?” The hefty Blacksmith was a smart woman it seemed. She was as wise as she was tall, and it supported Arangalion’s choice of this shop as the shop he wished to work in. This place would be perfect. However, first he needed to answer the question.



A job interview in reality was dictated by only one actual interaction, but it was fueled by several other checks behind the scenes. Those checks were composed of the application, things people had heard about both parties, the speed of the applicants response to receiving an application [how fast did they fill out the sheet(s) and return them], the speed of the response to the applicant from the hiring corporation, as well as any meetings prior to the job interview and the interaction immediately before the interview itself. All of those checks would give the Hiring Corporation insight on the character of the applicant as well as a look at their daily life without the applicant knowing. For the applicant, they would be able to learn if the job they requested would really be an enjoyable one to have or if it the proportion of work to money was truly worth the effort. Once both sides had done their pre-checks and were satisfied, then they would contact each other; the applicant would send in their application and the Hiring Corporation would schedule an interview.







Arangalion had skipped the sequence of research events and after just hearing one thing about the shop (that it had a talented blacksmith from a foreign nation), he decided to waltz in and give it a shot. Now he was standing across from his potential Teacher at the interview stage without any prior knowledge of the woman and he had only one question to answer. However, by the look of Aminatu, his answer to that single question would dictate his future here so he would have to be careful. If he said one word wrong then he was going to be thrown out the door and left searching for another place to practice. If he said the right words, then he would be in that back red room in five minutes. The only question Arangalion personally had was how to word his answer. There were hundreds of ways to say “I want to work here”, but only one would get this Enochlian to say yes. Arangalion could see it in her eyes, and its obviousness was the problem. The grin on the woman’s face told Arangalion that the woman was enjoying watching the Adventurer’s mind tick.







“Glad I could entertain you.” Arangalion narrowed his eyes slightly and then turned away from the Blacksmith in order to help him keep from speaking up. He had his answer but there was an alternative to the one-question-one-answer situation that he could use. Arangalion hadn’t learned to be good at conversation for nothing. Conversation was key in becoming a powerful person who had influence in the world, so he had spent plenty of time practicing it. For some, money was a quick way to power. However, a person’s contacts and their network was a deciding factor in everything; politics, jobs, acquiring materials, security, and the potential for growth. Arangalion only wished he had started trying to spread his name around the city when he was starting Gaia Reborn. Doing so could have increased his chances here, but at the same time it could have hurt him. Being someone who randomly appeared had its advantages; one of them was that the Blacksmith had no idea who he was.



Aminatu didn’t know if Arangalion was a good man or a bad one. She didn’t know about how hard of a worker Arangalion was, nor did she know if Arangalion knew anything about smithing at all. In the Blacksmith’s mind, she was most likely thinking about the same possibilities that Arangalion was. If the Blacksmith took Arangalion as her apprentice, she might have to start from the basics because of the Adventurer’s lack of knowledge. Yet if she gambled and Arangalion was able to learn everything well enough, the Adventurer could be an amazing asset to the shop. However, that’s exactly what this would be; a gamble. He had chosen not to with the other Adventurer’s and that fact showed many others that this woman was tough. Arangalion, the optimistic man he was, thought of that as another advantage. Aminatu had gambled plenty before and she had been approached many times. As traffic increased, so did the nomad’s ego, boosting it to the point that she would deny anyone and everyone to maintain a brick wall image, especially if it meant people would keep coming in. On the other hand, it also meant that she had most likely been thinking about the position. In the beginning she would most likely turn people down because he didn’t want an apprentice. Now, she was doing it because she had a reputation to keep; but it was on her mind. That was why she asked Arangalion the question she did. Rather than just say “No, buy a weapon or leave”, the Blacksmith asked Arangalion “Why should I say yes to you?”. She had opened the door and showed that there was a position, not a brick wall that could not be climbed.







This was a battle Arangalion had come prepared for, and he was ready to prove himself to the Blacksmith no matter what it took. What was even better was that the Heliopolite behind the counter had supplied Arangalion with plenty of tools for him to do so. Yet Arangalion only needed one thing to prove his worthiness. On the side of the room with the weapon racks sat one of many hatchets. It didn’t stick out like several of the others, not at all, but instead it blended in. It was dull on the side of the blade and its handle wasn’t to particularly comfortable to grab onto. It also didn’t look worth any more than a few pieces of gold; however its price tag was almost six-times the amount a lower level would even consider spending on it. That single fact was a red flag to Arangalion who had been searching for a decent secondary weapon. The player lifted the weapon off the rack and grunted lightly because of the surprising weight to it. It was heavy towards the tip and the edge of the weapon was sharp. It was completely off balance and Arangalion found himsAelf having trouble holding it due to the hatchet’s constant urge to tip forward.





“This weapon… This hatchet…” Arangalion mumbled softly as he tossed the weapon back and forth in his hands. He looked up to his right towards the Blacksmith, catching the hatchet in his right hand. The long-lived woman seemed intrigued at the sight before her.



“...It’s not made for woodcutting or hacking at enemies. That’s why it’s still in your store.” With the hatchet in hand, Arangalion walked back towards the counter Aminatu stood behind and placed the top-heavy weapon onto the fine wood countertop. The player looked up towards the large woman and pushed the hatchet across the platform to the NPC.







“What makes you so sure of that, Immortal?” Aminatu grinned wide, even more entertained by the actions of the player in front of him. Arangalion grumbled at the grin and looked down at the weapon he had brought over and gave it a strong spin. Due to the bump by the lip of the handle, the weapon was raised slightly off the table and when Arangalion gave it enough velocity, the edges lifted and it rotated around in a circle with ease.







“The weapon is heavier near the top and it has more refined features towards the top as well, meaning that you put more care into forming the head than you did the rest of it. The metal is also denser, which makes it as top heavy as it is. You smelted a higher concentration of the metal into the top than you did the neck and the shaft, creating that stronger feeling of weight near that location, moving the center of balance on the weapon. The edge of the hatchet is sharper and is made in a similar fashion to a sword, not an axe, making it better for slicing and not chopping. This weapon is not a hatchet like you have labeled it.” Reaching out, Arangalion hovered his hand over the spinning weapon. Then with a hard push, Arangalion pressed his finger down on the weapon’s shifted center of gravity, causing it to stop mid-spin with the metal top of it pointing directly at Aminatu. The woman furrowed her eyebrows and looked up towards Arangalion curiously.



“This is a tomahawk that is in the form of a hatchet because of the way you crafted it. Even the hilt is formed in a way to support the aerodynamic design of the weapon.” Arangalion paused, letting his theory sink in. The Blacksmith nodded lightly, showing that Arangalion was indeed correct.



“You are a skilled craftsman, and I require your knowledge of smithing so I can survive in this world. I do not plan to steal your money or your customers, as I have other plans for this place.” With that, Arangalion leaned away from the counter and pulled his scarf down away from his face. Aminatu uncrossed her arms and placed his hands down onto the wooden platform in front of him as she looked towards the bold player that stood there. Arangalion could feel the power in the store shift, but he felt as if he was suffocating.



The silence was heavy and Arangalion stared uneasily towards the tanned woman in front of him. It was tough trying to figure out what the Lander in front of him was thinking and that was the hard part. On the other hand, Arangalion didn’t particularly want to know. If he did know, then that would have taken the fun out of the situation at hand. He had done his best to try and spark something in the Blacksmith’s mind but whether it was enough or not, Arangalion didn’t know. The look in the Aminatu’s golden orbs didn’t show hatred or annoyance, but it seemed she was remembering something, something important. The woman wasn’t looking at Arangalion, but someone else that Arangalion couldn’t see. It made Arangalion feel as if he was a ghost in the middle of some memory. It made him feel a little awkward just standing there.







“You remind me of myself when I was young.” The Blacksmith finally said with a wide grin as she stood up from her leaning posture. She grabbed the tomahawk disguised as a hatchet and began to examine it for a moment. She tipped it forward and wiggled the weapon before finally releasing a loud, booming laugh that shook the wooden floor beneath Arangalion’s feet. Arangalion narrowed his eyes on the woman and considered speaking up, but bit the inside of his cheek. Silence was a better option to choose for now as the Blacksmith looked over at him.



“I do not know your name, Immortal. What is it?” How rude to ask such a question after laughing. Even more, the Enoch didn’t even give Arangalion his own. Such an exchange meant that the Blacksmith was smart and seemed to know the game Arangalion was playing. Perfect.







“It is polite to introduce yourself before asking others for their own titles.” Arangalion brushed the Blacksmith’s attempt to become in control of the conversation by bouncing the question right back. The woman chuckled in response to the defensive move and set the hatchet down on the counter.







“My name is Aminatu, Aminatu Nandi. Hunstmaster and Shiekh of the Khi’fika tribe. I am also a Blacksmith of this fine shop. Now, what is yours, Silver-Tongued Ranger?” The Blacksmith slowly made her way around the counter, eliminating the boundary that kept her and Arangalion away from each other. She stepped out onto the middle section of the room with the unknown Adventurer and stood only a few feet away, arm’s length to be exact. Arangalion extended his hand as he quickly realized why the Blacksmith had come out from behind her shield. Aminatu grinned, showing the pearly whites beneath her lips, and grasped only the puny Hunter’s hand in the mutual form of a silent pact.







“I am the Adventurer known as Arangalion, I am indeed a Ranger, but I am also one who will prove to be worth your while.” Aminatu laughed loudly again at Arangalion’s curt introduction and released the smaller man’s hand. As she laughed, she walked to the right of the counter and began to walk towards the door there. She looked towards her new Apprentice with a triumphant face. Arangalion had achieved victory, but it was one that he and the Heliopolite Blacksmith shared. Aminatu had earned a new pair of hands that would help in the shop and Arangalion had earned the right to learn from someone wise like his father.







“Well, Arangalion, I will teach you everything I know over time but first, we much figure out how much you know. How does that sound?” Aminatu’s proposition was a sound one and Arangalion nodded in agreement. Arangalion didn’t know much about smithing but he knew his way around a weapon. If he could put that into use with the actual creation, then he may be able to speed the process up.







“Sounds like a great idea to me, Ma’am.” The player pulled his bow and arrow pouch off his back as he walked around the edge of the counter. Aminatu patted the player hard on the back as he released another laugh after Arangalion released the word “Ma’am”. Arangalion stumbled forward a few paces and grumbled as he made his way into the back room. Aminatu followed closely behind.



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“Stiffen your grip!” The shout echoed through the dimly lit red smithing room. After the shout filled the space, a loud CLANG followed suit, spreading into the air with the noise of several metal bells. Fire spewed out from the furnace as the flaring hot red and yellow coals inside of them cracked and bubbled in the intense heat. Sparks flew out into the air like flares as a heavy hammer came down once more onto the glowing orange piece of metal on the anvil; CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.



“Strike the metal not with the hammer but with your soul, sayyid!” Another loud, booming shout sounded off over the sound of the metal-bell explosions. Just off to the side of the furnace, a large woman stood tall with her arms crossed as she watched a much smaller man stand at the anvil in front of her. That man at the anvil breathed heavily, his arms were tired and burning from the physical abuse he was taking. The metal he held between the tongs was slowly started to take form of a flat object, but he wasn’t done with it yet. The blacksmith blinked and raised her head as her apprentice raced the hammer once again.







CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! One swing fell… and then another… and then another… all striking the hot iron bar that had been smelted into a mess of burning orange light. It was starting to cool because of the lack of flaring heat that the furnace provided but the hammer kept coming. The heavy tool crashed down with a ferocious outcry of force each time it smashed against the glowing metal, causing fire to fly into the air and causing another small dent to form with each connection. The iron bar began to stretch across the anvil as it was smashed into by the hammer again and again. Aminatu stood in her place with hungry eyes, watching the Adventurer beat on the iron bar like a machine. The sight reminded the woman of her younger self; defiant against the will to quit, filled with locked up emotion that she poured into the metal, and ready to take on whatever challenge came to her young store. Since she worked at the shop, the Heliopolite Blacksmith had seen many strange things occur in her forge. She had been asked to form various objects, tools, and weapons. She had met people from all across the land who came to his shop, looking for finely crafted weapons. When the Adventurers appeared, her busy life only increased as the store’s traffic did. Now, she was seeing something else she had never thought she would get to; he was watching an Adventurer who was just like her slowly being crafted into a blacksmith just as she had.





It had been two days since the Adventurer appeared at his door and during those two days he had refused to leave the forge. Aminatu stayed with him and the Enoch’s tribe brought them food occasionally. However they left the pair to their work. The fire in the Adventurer’s eyes burned as bright as her furnace and she wasn’t going to miss a second of the young man’s progression. The player known as Arangalion was here to learn how to forge the strongest, sharpest, and most durable weapons. He was here to learn how to create armor that could withstand any situation. He was here to learn everything. Yet his determination seemed misplaced. The Adventurer held the hammer as if it was a weapon and bashed at the metals the Blacksmith fed him as if they were beasts. After two days, his form had been refined and his swing was strengthened. The Adventurer had learned majority of the crafting process so quickly that it was hard for Aminatu  to keep up, but due to his speed; he missed much. As the Enoch watched her Apprentice bash away, he could see it in his swing. The young man swung to kill, not to mend.







It became even more apparent of this after the next swing. Arangalion brought the hammer down harshly, slamming it into the thick metal before him. Upon the impact, the usual clanging noise was replaced with something vicious. The noise filled the room, making Arangalion step back and it made Aminatu grimace. The metal cracked through the middle, breaking the seam that was being formed and causing all of the work put into its shaping to be lost. The metal could be smelted back down and reformed, but for the moment it was only a lump of cooling ore.







“Step aside, Apprentice. Let me show you your mistake.” Aminatu approached the anvil and Arangalion stepped away to a safe distance. He relinquished the hammer and watched silently as the Heliopolite Blacksmith took over.







Aminatu returned the ore to the furnace with her tongs and increased the heat by adding air to the bottom of the coals. Fire raged inside, slowly causing the iron ore to melt down to its purest form once more. The metal object it had originally been formed into was lost and it was turned back into a single mass of orange goo. Aminatu stood by her furnace for several minutes, watching the ore melt down in the raging heat. When the ore was ready, she cooled down the furnace and allowed the iron to harden. Then with speed, Aminatu reached in and clasped onto the metal with her tongs. She stepped away from the furnace and turned swiftly to her anvil. Placing the iron down, she held the tongs with one hand and grabbed onto her hammer with the other. A hard swing fell onto the ore, crashing and causing it to spark beautifully. Aminatu turned slightly so Arangalion could watch as she pummeled the ore.





“You strike as if you wish to kill it.” The desert warrior spoke in between swings.



CLANG!



“That is why you fail every time.” The woman’s lips drew into a straight line as he eyed the ore. It was already starting to form into the small shape the pair were trying to make it.



CLANG!



“And, that is wrong.”



CLANG!



“Geb teaches us that you must feel your swing, feel the ore!”



CLANG!



“The ore is your guide. Watch it, follow it, and let it lead you to the end!”



CLANG!



“Do not fight against the ore. That is where you fail.”



CLANG!



“You must feel the ore. You must work with it to reach your goal.”



CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!







Pulling the ore off the anvil, the Blacksmith returned the ore to the flames of hell and watched as the slightly straight object began to heat again. The bright orange glow returned to the metal and Aminatu stared at it with proud eyes. Then when she felt that it was time, she pulled the ore back from the furnace and placed it onto the anvil once more. The hammer was raised up high again and the Blacksmith began to slam its hard, blunt side down onto the ore. One swing after another, he formed the ore into a small, banana shape. When the ore became too cool, she reheated it just enough so he could continue to form it. When the piece of metal was almost in the shape he needed, Aminatu folded it over on top of itself, thickening the metal and adding strength to its core. She then formed it more and more until she was forced to reheat it. Form, Fold, Heat. Form, Fold, Heat. Form, Fold, Heat. It was an almost endless cycle as the Blacksmith created the small weapon. She took care to follow each step as precisely as she could, allowing himselfto have just enough time to move to the next stage.





One loud, heavy clang made the Blacksmith break that cycle though and she stepped back. She watched the ore steam on the anvil for a moment and watched it cool in the air. The weapon, a curved sword, had been created by her hands and it looked beautiful but she wasn’t done with it yet. Aminatu watched the orange glow fade from the weapon, patiently staring at the weapon as it took its time cooling off. When the last bit of orange had faded, the Blacksmith stepped forward and grabbed the weapon with her tongs. She carried the weapon to her right and dipped it into a trough filled with water. The metal steamed brilliantly, filling the air around the Blacksmith with the hot air until she finally pulled the metal out of the bin. She then carried it over to the anvil and placed the piece of sharp metal carefully down.







“Do you understand now?” The Blacksmith looked towards the on looking Arangalion. Two days it had been, and Arangalion was still lost on how the woman had done it. However, it was starting to make sense. Rather than take care with what he had been doing, the player had simply swung away at the ore to try and force it to be what he wanted it to be. His Master had done the opposite. The two swung the hammer the same way, but they were very different. Arangalion’s was fierce and brutal. Aminatu’s was collected and accurate. Arangalion knew full well what that meant and it was expected of a novice smith. Yet heaccepted the challenge of learning the craft. He would not give up now.



“I do.” Arangalion stepped forward to the anvil and looked down at the scimitar. He had struck the hot ore thinking it was just a metal that would form on its own. That was wrong. The ore was like clay, it was its own being that needed to be mended and molded with a gentle touch. Forcing it to take shape would only lead to failure. Arangalion would have to caress the ore and let it speak to him. His ears had been closed before and he needed to open them as well as his eyes.







“Then show me…” Aminatu placed the hammer down and removed the scimitar from the anvil. Arangalion stepped into his position and accepted the iron bar Aminatu passed to him.



“Make me a sword.”



____________________





The sun was high in the sky when the dusty street began to fill with an increasing number of whistling winds. It was at the same time that Arangalion had reached his long awaited destination. After walking from the populated city of Romalia to the area which could only be called the Abandoned Crafting District of Romalia, several hours were lost in time’s grasp and Arangalion had spent them enjoying his freedom as well as dealing with a mysterious woman of sorts. Now he stood outside of a building he didn’t particularly wish to enter due to its condition and could only help but have the urge to walk away. There was a large hole in the left side of the roof, the windows were covered by flapping pieces of fabric, the door was barely holding onto the rusted hinges, and there was absolutely no sign of any life coming from inside. He began to wonder if the Blacksmith, Aminatu, had sent him on a wild goose chase just to get the Adventurer out of his hair for a while. Then again, Aminatu had not steered Arangalion wrong so far during their time together. The woman was true to her word and assisted Arangalion in his quest to become a force among the crafters of the world without asking too many questions. If that woman had sent the player out this far, then there was only one route for Arangalion to take; forward.







With his uneasiness put aside, barely, Arangalion walked up to the front door and placed his hand gently on the metal knocker. He tapped the metal handle twice against the lip before taking a step back. Silence followed after and Arangalion once again started to wonder if there was anyone inside the rundown place. He waited and counted to twenty, as was polite, and then made a move for the door when his timer ended. However the sudden sound of locks moving and a distant grumble made the ranger freeze. He eyed the window to his left and attempted to see inside from where it stood; it was a futile attempt because of the darkness. Although during the time it took for him to stare, the door fell ajar. From behind it, an aged and greyed blue eye looked out. It stared warily at the hunter whom stood before it, peering almost into the Adventurer’s soul. Arangalion made eye-contact with the organ and didn’t say a word, as he was ordered to. Aminatu had told him to remain silent until spoken to once the door opened and simply make eye contact. After twenty seconds of the contact, he was told to shut his eyes for five.





Following the given instructions, Arangalion closed his eyelids after twenty seconds of staring at the other being’s eye. He counted in his mind from one to five, patiently doing so while making sure not to move from where he stood. When he opened his eyes, the door had been opened up completely. In front of him, and several feet away from the entry way, a dusky skinned zarian with a massive eye stood with his hands clutched together behind his back. The Heliopolite didn’t look extremely happy to see Arangalion, but at least he had opened the door. That told Arangalion he had done something right at least. Though, the urge to speak filled Arangalion’s stomach. Fighting it was difficult and as the Zarian turned away, Arangalion could barely hold his tongue.







“Enter, Apprentice. I have been waiting for you.” The Zarian’s voice was deep and low, making it difficult to hear from the distance Arangalion was at. The player didn’t respond but simply entered the room as he had been told to. The player forced himself to walk on his heels, making his usually silent steps click so the other person could hear where he was. When Arangalion walked out of the path of the door, a light shimmered to his right and the object slid shut, automatically locking closed to deny anyone else entry.







“Clever.” Arangalion thought as he eyed the auto-close and locking mechanism. From just looking at it, he could tell that making it could only be done by someone highly skilled.







“Aminatu wrote me a letter a few days ago that she had taken an outlander apprentice. After seeing you perform your actions, ones that I had only told Aminatu, I assume you are that apprentice. Am I correct?” The Zarian spoke much louder now that the door was closed and made his way slowly across the house, taking his time with his steps as well as with his words. Arangalion followed, keeping a bit of distance between himself and the man who wore a turban. The Apprentice listened well and answered only when he was given a chance.







“That is correct. I am Aminatu’s Apprentice, Arangalion.” With a calm and collected tone, Arangalion responded in accordance with the prompt. The Zarian paused in his movement long enough to look at the player and listened intently to Arangalion’s voice. When Arangalion was finished introducing himself, the man wiggled his nose briefly before turning away.







“Quiet. Follow me.” He looked to his right and placed his hand against the stone wall beside him. The rock he pressed on gave way and slid inwards. A click echoed from behind it and suddenly the rocks in front of the Zarian popped open. The robed man grumbled heartily and pulled the hidden door open with a hard tug. Dust and ground debris fell from the top of the door right into the pathway, but the Zarian paid it no mind as he began to descend down the well-lit steps that had appeared. Arangalion complied and stepped inside, pulling the stone door closed behind him as the Zarian pointed at it.



The staircase spiraled around to the left and a candle was nestled into a holder every ten feet to light the way. Even though the staircase was cooler than outside, the candles made it seem much warmer and it helped Arangalion deal with the chilly air. The Zarian was unbothered though so Arangalion kept his discomfort to himself. Zarians were much more mystical than Alvs, which was Arangalion’s chosen race due to the potential racial bonuses he could get to his class and weapon. It might have been because of his status as an adventurer that the Zarian didn’t talk to him very much as well, or it could have been because of something else. In some places, Players and Landers never really got along for some odd reason. If that was true here, then Arangalion was going to have some issues. He prayed that the rumors were only rumors. Although, with every step he took, he couldn’t help but feel as if there was an invisible tension line that was on the verge of breaking. Oh did he pray.







“What you are about to see must never be spoken of to anyone. Do you understand, Apprentice?” The Zarian said aloud, most likely using Arangalion’s Blacksmith title as extra weight on his words. Arangalion immediately nodded his head in response, and then he grumbled.







“I understand.” Due to the Zarian not looking at him, Arangalion was forced to speak up. His voice echoed a little more in the stairwell than the Zarian’s did. Because of that, he made a note that it would be best to lower his voice the next time he was asked to speak.







“Good.” After a few more steps, the staircase finally came to an end, as if the Zarian had timed his question perfectly. The Zarian didn’t stop walking when he stepped off onto the straight walkway and strode right out into the center of the massive room. Arangalion on the other hand stopped in his tracks when he popped out of the stairwell. The walls stretched upwards into the abyss and rows of bookcases boldly chased after them. The ceiling could barely be seen due to the shadows that lingered around it, giving the room a near-endless feel. As Arangalion switched from looking vertically to looking horizontally, he could barely count the number of massive bookcases that were in sight. What made counting even more difficult to do was the fact that every single one of those bookcases was stuff full of books. Pages upon pages of books lined the walls and the bookcases making the place a treasure trove of information. If Arangalion had considered this place marvelous by his own standards, then it would probably be labeled a gold mine by a scholar. Its size simply begged the question; how had this place been hidden?





“Don’t stray behind.” The Zarian shouted almost as if he had been reading Arangalion’s mind. Whether he was or wasn’t didn’t exactly matter though, as the shout snapped the player from his trance and Arangalion quickly returned to following behind the guide. They had to have walked almost a quarter of a mile before Arangalion realized where they were heading. His eyes were far too distracted with the countless number of books.







In the center of the massive walkway and underground library, there was a large circular stone table. It stretched nearly ten feet in diameter and was raised just high enough for the Zarian to stand comfortably at it. The Alv, whom had been following the short creature, looked down at the table as if he was a giant from another world (he was, but that was beside the point). It would tough to use the table, but worth it if Arangalion would have to at some point. Even with the library looking as old as it was, the table was not vacant of life, as there were several books strewn across it. Some were opened with ancient text lining the pages, others were closed and either stacked or used as pillars for other opened ones. Someone had been busy but it didn’t seem to be the Zarian as Arangalion watched the shorter male scan the books. Then again, Arangalion never knew about this place until a few minutes prior to arriving at the table. Arangalion was about to ask what the Zarian was searching for, but the man moved away and began to circle the table. The player stepped up to the large stone structure, and a moment later the Zarian looked over at him.







“This is the one of the libraries of Thoth. It is full of books which speak of ancient magics, otherworldly creations, and unknown machines of various sizes and with many different uses. Many of the texts will not interest a outlander such as you. However, there is still a large collection that might.” The Zarian stroked his chin as he spoke and eyed the Alv who curiously looked back at him. The mysterious man took a long pause as he tapped his chin which was void of facial hair, then he took in another breath and continued to speak.



“Alas, as much as I argued otherwise, your Mentor has convinced me to allow you to have access to the trove of information you see around you.” Arangalion grinned at the good news and looked towards the table in front of him. The information around him was going to be his it seemed. Well, not his but he would have access to it.



“Be aware, Adventurer, the walls have eyes that have watched over this place for centuries. They also have very trained ears. Do not attempt to take one of these books out of this library. You may only take its knowledge with you. Is that clear?” The Zarian’s ultimatum did not bother Arangalion. The Adventurer had no plans to remove any of the books around him. Now that it meant something terrible would occur, he pushed those thoughts even further out of his mind.







“I have no qualms with that. I do have one question though.” Arangalion’s eyes shifted from the Zarian as he began to search the room around him. There was something he wanted in here, but he could not see it.







“Speak then.” The Zarian stopped stroking his bread and crossed his arms firmly in front of his large, muscled chest.







“Is there a forge here?” At his question, the Zarian seemed to grin. Though, due to the mask that covered his mouth, Arangalion couldn’t tell. The Heliopolite man simply turned around on his heels and pointed to a distant orange glow on the far left side of the room.







“You will find something similar over there. The stores in the Library do not last forever like your Master’s will so you will have to gather any materials on your own. For anything else, I suggest searching this library on your own. I am simply the one who allows access for the time being. Is there anything else you need?” The Zarian looked over his shoulder towards the taller Alv and began to stroke his bread again. At first, Arangalion considered asking him for a tour, but he decided to hold his tongue. With a shake of his head, the Zarian nodded and began to make his way towards the door.





“Don’t stay too long down here, Alv. You may find yourself growing a third eye and losing some of your sleep!” The Zarian man began to laugh loudly, his voice bellowing into the library as he casually made his way to the staircase. Arangalion grinned at the thought of turning into a Zarian because of his presence here, but he knew full well that such a change would never occur. Rather than dwell on the possibilities, Arangalion turned his head to the books in front of him.







The first thing Arangalion would need to do would be to actually circle the entire library and figure out the categorizing system of it. Once he did that, he would most likely create a small map of sorts so he could quickly navigate the large area and get to things quickly. Though, he also had something else he needed to deal with; the forge. Arangalion walked towards the dim glow that was burning in the distance towards his left, his mind running over the possibilities of what he could do with it. If he had the materials, Arangalion could easily stay down in the library for days and work without any distractions. If any of the books had blueprints inside of them, Arangalion would be able to use them to bring the theorized creations to life. He could practice what he already knew in silence like a hermit and enhance his skills. If he had any issues, he could refer to the ancient texts for hints if he found the correct books. If not, then he would be forced to return to Aminatu. Arangalion could guess that returning would be a sign of failure though so if he had any problems; he was on his own. The Heliopolite Blacksmith must have planned this. He had taught Arangalion only the basics and enough to survive. The Adventurer had done his best and had learned much in a short time, but Aminatu was limited to what she could teach. Arangalion would have to learn everything from here on by reading the texts. If he couldn’t read them, he would have to learn.







“Well played, Aminatu.” Arangalion could see her now; hands on her waist and a huge grin on the big woman’s face. The Heliopolite nomad was as crafty mentally as she was with her hammer and it made Arangalion feel like a puny person in comparison. Sure, he had schemes of his own but that blacksmith was another monster.



When Arangalion arrived at the forge, he was delighted to see that he wouldn’t have to work from scratch. There was a huge furnace that was surviving off an extremely minute number of coal fragments. It was literally surviving off the heat of the burning ashes; that was it. It was probably warm enough to heat up his hands and fight away some cold weather. Other than the furnace, there was a long, empty trough. It showed signs of use, but it didn’t have any holes in its frame anywhere. Adjacent to the trough was a small table. On it, there were a handful of tools that could be used for basic crafts; two simple hammers, tongs, an old set of goggles, a wedge, a wide metal plate someone must’ve worn for protection, a chisel, two metal stakes, and a pickaxe. Then just to Arangalion’s right, the prized piece stood off on its own in the middle of everything; an anvil. It had some wear on it, but the slab of metal looked as if it was ready to be used at any minute.





It seemed that everything tool wise was there but everything that he would need to actually put the tools to use wasn’t. He needed coal and he needed ore. Before he could get to reading, it seemed he would have to get to work. Just as his Master had taken care of the forge in her shop, Arangalion would now have to take care of this one. He would have to find a mine nearby and would have to start digging. So, rather than reading the entire library and divulging in the information it was stuffed with, Arangalion grabbed the pickaxe and began to make his way towards the staircase. He had his priorities, and maintaining the forge was always a blacksmith’s number one item on the list of things to do. Without a useable forge, Arangalion was nothing more than another random player. It seemed that thanks to Aminatu, the adventurer was well on his way.





__________









“THAT’S IT!” The shout echoed through the book-filled halls of the underground library, awakening any and every wandering soul within its cradle. In the center of the massive room, a shadowy figure stood with his hands planted firmly on the stone table beside a book, who’s pages were yellow and dusty with age. On its pages was a set of instructions, images, glyphs, and a long mathematical formula which very few beings could actually understand. Now, that was only saying that they had not read the rest of the book; as all of the variables were supplied by the author of the bindings. The man who loomed over the book had taken all of that knowledge and formed a solution in his mind.



The question was simple, how could one create a metallic piece of armor or weapon which could flex and endure a strong enough twisting force to keep it from shattering to pieces? The armor would be one which could be worn on any part of the body, bend, twist, and stretch with the user’s movement but also be strong enough to withstand the force of an offensive strike. To put it simply; armor which could bend with one’s joints and still deflect an arrow or sword. The current known armor was stiff, unmalleable, and weak if bent or twisted. In order to make it strong, said armor would have to be reinforced or layered to increase its density. However, the solution was right in front of the Scholar; smaller, tinier pieces linked or molded together to create a much larger piece. It was an easy thing to come up with, but that was where the formula came in.



How small was too small? How large was too large? Was there a specific shape the pieces had to make? How would the effectiveness of the armor differ from chainmail, which used the same concept? The answers were all within that mathematical equation… The size of the pieces would have to be in proportion to the user, as every person’s limb length was different. Each piece would have to vary in weight in order to match the user’s strength, combat ability, and their limb length once again as to keep strain to a minimum. Flexibility of the armor would be based on the number of pieces, and that would have to be connected to the size of each piece; the larger the piece, the lower the flexibility. Or, decrease the size of the pieces and increase their number, but that could lower the strength. Larger pieces would be able to take a larger impact, but the displacement of the force would be lower across multiple pieces. Smaller pieces would be weaker, but the spread of the impact force would be greater. It was just like chainmail, to put it into a more modern perspective. But there was one difference.



Rather than using hundreds of tiny chain links and connecting them all, there would be hundreds of tiny “scales”. It reminded the Scholar of dragon scales, or just reptile skin in general. It would be tough, flexible, and light. If he was smart about it, he could also modulate it. Modulating the pieces would allow for hot-swapping lighter pieces for heavier pieces. So if someone wanted heavier shoulder guards, they could detach the upper arm from its section and connect in the new piece. That would be more difficult, however, so Arangalion would have to wait on that. For now, he would focus on the task at hand.





Still, Arangalion had a plan. At first he would need to create the army of tiny pieces and would have to create a way to link them all together. There was no way he could possible turn one piece of iron into a singular piece of a hundred “scales”. Said scales would have to be individual and then most likely melted together or superheated and placed on top of one another. However, doing so could create and uneven surface. He needed singularity; one piece, one layer. Anything else could create a weakness in the armor and put the user at risk, doing that would put his craft at risk. So he would need a method to fix that. The author of the book whom had speculated the “Reptile Skin Armor” suggested putting the scales directly next to one another and then applying heat on their edges to melt them together. Doing that would simply make each plate an individual piece, allowing a well-focused strike to break through the hard metal. Arangalion couldn’t risk that. Instead, he had another option.



Just like he had initially planned, he could use a staggered form of creating the armor. Yet, then he could compress it all slightly. Under pressure, the pieces would smoothen out slightly and make a less rigid face. Then, he would simply attach some kind of barrier on the inside to protect the user from the potentially sharp pieces, leaving only the outside on its own. If he wanted to go further, he could completely enclose the armor with some sort of hard leather, but that would decrease its flexibility. Light cloths would probably be the best way to go, but then again, he could leave it up to the buyer to determine how they wanted the armor protected, if they wanted it guarded at all. Arangalion personally thought it would be uncomfortable to the skin to feel the armor, so he would probably keep a shirt on.



“Well, I guess it’ll work.” The man stood up and scratched the back of his head, questioning himself as he stared at the text before him. If the creation worked, the armor would be much better than the crap he currently wore, and it would probably help a lot of other people if he shared his findings. He would have to do so carefully, however. Unlike his other crafts; Arangalion would test this one personally.



“It better work…” A heavy sigh escaped his lips at the thought of him failing this and potentially being stabbed, but he had no choice; his armor sucked at the moment and he needed something better. In order to do so, he had to put his life on the line, literally. Though, it was better late than never. It was good that his gear lasted this long. It had saved him a lot of money.



The lifespan of his current armor was about to come to an end however, and so he deposited all of it into his inventory so he could move about the library easier. Yet, he didn’t go to bookcases; he went straight to the forge. There, he pulled out seven iron bars that he had created out of the ores he had mined; two bars for the chest piece, one for each arm, one for each leg, and one for his pelvis. His pelvis would probably need extra protection, so he would definitely focus on that being perfect. But that was beside the point.







After he had each bar, Arangalion returned to his table and grabbed a sheet of paper as well as his quill and ink. With that, he began to draw a very simply form of a scale. It was terrible at first, as he couldn’t draw too well with ink, but after a few strokes he began to get the hang of it. Then, he finally had the design he wanted; it looked sort of like a guitar pick, but the bottom wasn’t pointing. Instead it curved just like the top two corners, creating a triad. That design would work better than any others Arangalion could think of, as there were three connection points and a flat enough surface to absorb an impact. There were also no sharp corners so the impact force would flow off into other pieces a lot more steadily. Though, the sides would be the most annoying thing to worry about. Yet, that would be where the other corners of the other pieces would rest; this would create an almost seamless fade.



With his design drawn out and his mind confident, Arangalion returned to his forge and grabbed a hold of one of his white marble blocks which he used as molds. Using his hammer and a chisel, he broke the mold into three pieces and then sanded them so their surfaces were smooth. Next, Arangalion took his chisel and very, very carefully etched the design of his “scale” into the molds. Yet, he didn’t just etch one in… he etched twenty five of the scale templates into each mold. After about an hour of doing those seventy-five, Arangalion grabbed another marble mold, broke it apart, and then created another seventy-five. This time, it took him forty five minutes. He did this two more times until he eventually had three-hundred templates for the scales. At that point, the blacksmith took a break. A long one… So long that he ended up leaving for a day because of how damn tedious it was.



Once he finally returned and didn’t decide to turn and walk back out the door, Arangalion returned to his workspace and heated up his forge. When it was ready, he placed an iron bar into a reinforced bucket and placed that bucket into the heated hell fires. As the iron bar heated, Arangalion stared at the handful of molds that sat on his workbench; his arms became a little tired just thinking about what he had done, but that was the last time he ever would. Due to creating them all so many time, his interface allowed him to simply insert the required ingredients and summon the finished product. This asset was probably the only thing that allowed Arangalion to deal with being a blacksmith, but then there was a thing this game had that the world didn’t have. After each use, or a certain amount of uses, the game essentially ate the molds Arangalion created. In reality, that would never happen. So having the interface option was probably a good balance to the game’s theft of his work materials.



Looking back towards the ore, Arangalion cursed a little as he saw that it was already a burning hot liquid and was actually bubbling. In haste, Arangalion put on his blacksmith gloves and retrieved the smelted ore from the inferno. He placed the bucket onto his anvil and then placed the molds carefully around it. Then, he very slowly poured the melted ore into each mold. The design of the mold allowed him to pour the ore into a fraction of the actual scale-holes, as he had connected them all together with very thin flow lines. These flow lines allowed the liquid metal to expand from the little holes and spill over into the ones surrounding it. This saved time, and saved any wasted ore as Arangalion could retrieve the flow-line bits when they cooled.



In less than five minutes, Arangalion had filled each mold and still had a lot of ore left. So, he set the bucket near the entrance of the forge to keep it hot, but not too hot. He wanted the ore to be melted, not scorched. Plus, it would cool faster if it wasn’t extremely hot, but that was just for Arangalion’s benefit. His first batch on the other hand was scorching, and so he was forced to wait much longer for it to finally cool off enough to be worked with. Unlike his weapons and the other pieces of armor Arangalion had made, there was no hammer required to work on the scales once he took them out of the molds, but he did need his chisel.



With the chisel rested on the anvil, the blacksmith carefully flipped each marble mold over and tapped them gently with a small mallet, causing the arrays of scales to drop out of their little homes. As each plate of scales dropped out, Arangalion stacked them on top of his work desk. Yet, before he started popping each scale out, Arangalion retrieved the bucket from the flames and refilled the molds, starting the process of another batch. As the new set of three-hundred began to set in, form, and cool, Arangalion returned the bucket to the forge and then headed back to his work table. With his chisel in one hand and a mallet in the other, Arangalion very carefully began to separate the scales from each other. Each tap was light, gentle, and very carefully placed as to not damage the tiny pieces. However, as Arangalion got to tapping, he learned just how tedious even this was. Dear god this armor was going to take forever…



BUT. SIX HOURS LATER… Arangalion had actually got a rhythm down. Using a “popping” method rather than his chisel, Arangalion was able to removed the scales much faster. In addition to that, he had almost three thousand of the scales. He had melted all of the ores, molded all of them, and not he just had to put it all together. That would take even more time, but he was okay with that. Why? Because he dropped everything, go up, and left. Another day, he would come back…



That day wasn’t for another three, when Arangalion actually remembered that he had the smithing to finish. It had slipped his mind entirely, but that was a good thing. As he returned to the table, he had a bit more tolerance for the tiring duty ahead of him, and he was determined to finish it now rather than waste more time and run off again. He had some warm breakfast with him as well, which was actually quite rare for him. That same morning, he had gone to his favorite little coffee shop and asked the lovely owner if she would be willing to cater to his foolish request for bacon, eggs, and toast; she complied at the expense of a fairytale book he had on him, but only for a week. Buuuut that was for another time… Back to the boring topic.





With the huge pile of scales at his side, Arangalion summoned one of the few actual good shirts he had and placed it on the table. Immediately, the white shirt was stained with black soot and dust, but Arangalion didn’t care. He wasn’t going to ever wear the thing again anyways. With his template ready, Arangalion began arranging the scales across the front of it very carefully. He made the array of them so each piece touched a total of six others; three with its corners, three with its edges. He also made the array so every other scale was the bottom layer, and the ones around it were the top layers. This made a sort of “rolling-hill” feel to the scales, as one scale was up, one was down, and then the next was up. It was better than having them stack on top of each other, and it was also much smoother to the touch.



When the black sheet was finally formed in front of him, Arangalion returned to his forge and placed the sharp end of his poking-rod into it. He dipped the end into the depths of the inferno and held onto the other end with a small glove to protect his hand from the heat distribution that would occur. Once it was hot enough, Arangalion carried the rod over to his table and began the welding process. However, this process was much different than simply connecting the corners of each scale. Instead, the Blacksmith very carefully touched the centers of the scales and slid the super-heated end of the hot rod around it, quickly raising the temperature of the entire scale. Then, as one scale heated, so did the others it touched. It took a long time for everything to come together, and it wasn’t exactly working. The scales were heating, but they weren’t connecting; the rod had too small of a surface area.



“I can play hard ball, too.” The annoyed ranger stated before dropping the rod onto the floor angrily. Instead of the rod, the man grabbed another iron bar and began to heat it. Once it was up to temperature, he pulled it free from the flames, placed it on his anvil, and began to flatten it with heavy strikes from his hammer. There was no intent to form a weapon or armor, but to completely flatten it into a sheet. Using the anvil itself as a template, he created a two-inch thick flat piece of solid iron. In order to ensure it was flat, Arangalion used his own hand and then tapped out any ripples or curves. When it was ready, he put the entire thing into the furnace.





The sheet didn’t take long to ignite into an orange glow, and immediately when it did, Arangalion pulled it free and then placed it smack dab on top of the scales. He stared at it for a moment, eyeing the edges of the plate as to not burn down his table, but only worried about it for a minute. After that minute, he lifted the plate and looked down to see that the scales had been heated themselves and were actually starting to melt into one another, somewhat. They were sticking, and that was what Arangalion wanted. He placed the iron plate down to the side and gave the scales a few minutes to cool. Once they had, he lifted the little plate up before him and narrowed his eyes on them. Nothing fell off, but they also didn’t curve or bend right away. That bothered Arangalion a little, but it was okay. The scales had to be rigid in some sense. Yet holding it up wasn’t the test. With both hands, Arangalion grabbed both ends of the small square of scaled armor and squeezed his grip so it was firm. Then, very gently, he began to bend. It was tough at first as he barely used any strength, but as he increased the pressure the metal started to give. The blacksmith eyed the small sheet warily, watching as the scales flexed and curved. However, they did not break, and they did not part from one another. It wasn’t until Arangalion’s hands almost touched that there was finally a cracking noise, and the cracking was from his own bones because of how awkward it was.



Slowly, he returned the metal to its original position and then let go; the scales were bent in a few places and did not return entirely to their original position, but replacing the individual scales would be easier than replacing an entire plate of armor. In addition to that, no group of scales would need to be bent that much. If there was a need for such a curve, Arangalion would simply add more of the pieces to smoothen out the angle and make it less stressful on each individual piece. Putting that aside, he was mostly successful. Now, he simply needed to create a full set… and that would take a while.



And by the Gods it did…



Three days later after strenuous work of constantly refilling molds, remaking said molds once the game decided to eat them, tediously welding the scales together, waiting for the ores to melt, and burning failed armors in his furnace just so he could try again, Arangalion finally had his chest piece. Yes, the chest piece. Not the arms or legs; just the torso. The freaking torso. It was composed of almost two thousand scales and was actually fairly light, but it looked pitiful because of its color, so Arangalion was in the process of polishing it when he realized that he was hungry. Dropping everything, the ranger abandoned his post and fled to get food. He was back in a few hours however, and saw something amazing…



Due to him leaving the armor very close to the furnace, the steady amount of heat had made the scales a little more malleable, and the armor had actually begun to curve on its own. When he picked the thing up off the table, it wiggled in his hands and seemed less stiff. That was when he realized what had happened; the steady stream of heat and gentle pull from gravity had loosened up the stiffness of the scales. That made Arangalion grin. Without worrying about finishing his shabby-polishing job, the man slid the armor over his head and onto his body. It was a little sharp around where his arms poked through and it was a little loose, but it fit. As he twisted around, leaned forward and leaned backwards, the armor curved to him. It wasn’t perfect and it was still a little restricting, but the option for this armor being worn was much more viable than plate armor. It wasn’t sucking the life out of him, didn’t suffocate his lungs, and he still had almost all of his freedom of movement. It wasn’t extremely light like cloth, but the increased protection made Arangalion a little more comfortable with the thought of being stabbed at. At least now he could have something cover his body.



With that in mind, Arangalion removed the piece of armor and placed it on his table. Very carefully, he added to the armor and connected a pair of scaled-cylinders to the shoulders; adding protection to his upper arms. For now, that would do him enough good. His legs hardly ever were targeted and he was moving them too much for them to ever be struck. The main target for both people and monsters was the torso, as the most damage could be done there. And so, Arangalion tossed the armor back into his blazing furnace and watched it melt down. Once it did, he repeated the entire process all over again from the beginning. This time, he did it both to increase his efficiency, and to get a reforge effect.



Thankfully, it only took him a day. Not all at once, as the ranger bailed twice in order to get food and kill a few things to balance out his life, but in total. And after that day, the adventurer had a finely polished, silver piece of Scaled Armor to wear.

INVENTORY

EQUIPMENT: Arm of Heliopolis, Starter Heliopolite shield, Heliopoilte Platemail
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Word Count: 14002
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