The shift from Gemini's cool and shiny feel died in the fiery hell of Tunnel C. He had run fearfully through it, especially the spitting geysers and hot sparks of flame. Beyond the hell of the tunnel was the bay, and boy was he glad he braved the tunnel long enough to make it here! It was gorgeous! But again, he felt the pull of drowsiness beginning to drag him under. He ventured a small way from the tunnel entrance and settled into the warm sand, curling around the kunzite piece to keep it safe. Sam drifted quickly into sleep...

He woke peacefully. It was tiresome being so tiny! He gathered his treasure and continued. Sam did not know anything about swimming—he probably didn't even know it was an option—so he avoided the water as best as he could. As he climbed within the rocks, he was thankful to find a trodden path. Following it quite willingly, Sam found himself at the opening of an inviting workshop.

Well, Sam didn't know it was a workshop. Sam didn't know what a workshop was. He blinked at all of the tools and things within, leaning his tiny head through the opening to spy at all of the pieces on the wall and on shelves. Everything was too tall for him to see properly; the marten kit found himself clutching the kuznite to his chest once again. Was everything always going to be so much larger than him?

"H-hello?" he squeaked; it smelled as if there was another being here, but he also wasn't completely sure he knew what that meant. It didn't feel like a bad place, at least.

The wire in his hands was twisted first this way, then that; it wasn't quite the right malleability yet. Maybe a little more heat, and-

'H-hello?'

He peered up, unsure at first that he'd even truly heard the little squeak of a word. Wire was set upon anvil with a gentle clink, and his robes swished quietly away from the sputter of the open forge.

It took him a moment to find the speaker: he was looking too high, at first, and it was not until he cut his eyes down to among the stones and stacked scrap along the floor that he noticed the child. And a child it must have been--or a very small Gembound, indeed: all browns and silver, with a little fin of pale violet. Or was that its stone-?

"Hello, little one..." he rasped, peering down. After a beat, he added: "You are safe... here. Do you... seek something?"

He had not had company in days; the preparations for Fornax had been taxing, and his travel back and forth equally so. But he had time to take for a visitor, and in fact he welcomed them. He was curious: what would this one bring, or ask? What purpose had led it here?

@Wolfwood

A tall figure approached him.His racing heart begged him to flee, but he found himself made of lead. He could not move. He could only crane his head all the way back to look up at the figure, eyes squinting to really capture the face that was so high up. It said hello back, and mentioned he was safe.

Despite that, his heart continued to scream for escape.

Did he seek something?

"Y-yes," he decided, but he didn't know if it was true or not. But after taking another glance around the area, he noted the weapons and bits of armor. What were those? Were those the things he could be seeking?

"Yes," he said again, scooting through the doorway to point a tiny toe at the various items. "What are those?" he asked, then turned and pointed at other items. "Those?" What was any of this weird stuff?

And WHY was Sam so SMALL?

He shuffled forward a small bit to grab the creature's robe, so that he could stand and look around easier while hanging off of tall one's garments. Still, he clutched the kunzite in his other paw, close to his chest.

"What are you? Who are you?"

He half-knelt as the little one approached, remaining carefully motionless so as not to dislodge its balancing grip. Eight feet of height became perhaps half that in his crouch, and the scent of smoke clung to his cloth.

The question was greeted with a slow look around, a brief examination of the targets of its tiny pointing. "They are weapons... armor... tools. Things I have created," he explained. There was, of course, the question of how to explain--to a Gembound child--what 'weapons' and 'armor' were for. He paused, because explaining war and its horrible concepts... Well.

"Armor is... worn, to protect the body from attack... weapons are... used to fight, when it is needed." Sorrow. "Tools are... things to be used... to help us perform our tasks. And any of them... can be works of art," he added softly, lifting a small, well-tooled little dagger from a neat stack. He held this out to show the child, careful to keep the bladed edge from touching; it was shining, gleaming, flowing markings etched along a rough-grip metal hilt. The hot light of the forge flashed over the metal as he turned it.

A downward cast of his eyes noted the gemstone clutched to the little one's chest, but he chose not to comment on it, yet; instead his gentle answering of questions continued. "I am the Blacksmith, and... I live here. I make these things... for those who ask," he said, still careful not to move too much.

@Wolfwood

Weapons and armor and tools... that this guy created. Sam's eyes widened. Whoa! He didn't know anything like that was even possible, but then, he had only been awake for maaaybe a few days, he wasn't sure. As the creature explained these things, Sam could only picture how much use Wolfwood could get out of things like that. When a dagger was held out to him, he gently leaned in to sniff, then pulled his head back to observe: it was big and bright and shiny. When the light of the fire flashed across the blade, Sam was sold. Yep. He wanted that! Well, maybe not that one. Even though it was small in the creature's hand, it was large to the little marten kit.

His grip tightened on the robe—it had not occurred to Sam that it might be impolite to just grab on to someone, but he was still learning lots of things. The creature answered that he was the Blacksmith and that he makes these things for those who ask. Then... could Sam...!!

"Ooh!" rose his little voice, and his head spun around and tilted back to look at everything again. Finally, his eyes rested on the dagger, and he released his grip to point at it. It was time for Wolfwood to go where no Sam could dare travel..!

"I'm Wolfwood, I'm going to be an adventurer!" he said, introducing himself with his head held high and his free paw curled into a fist, stationed on his hip. What a pose! Behold, WOLFWOOD! He released his fist and lifted his paw to rub his chin, eyes narrowing at the dagger. "Hmm.. could you make.. one of those in my size?" he asked curiously, eyes darting up to the displays. "Like that, but for me," he clarified, pointing to a long, straight sword with a decorated hilt.

Finally, the paw clutching the kunzite came free of his chest, and he held it out with both little hands. "Maybe with this? This is...." Sam. "Special." His voice cracked on the word, and he swallowed the fear of potential fights. Maybe he wouldn't really ever need it, but it looked very cool, and would suit Wolfwood well!

The Blacksmith listened very solemnly, remaining crouched.

He had much to do, but a great deal of his physical labor was complete, and he was recovering his magic between exhausting sessions of careful enchantment. Perhaps a little task, on the side, while he rested-? It was so rare for him to have a visitor, let alone a polite one, let alone a kind little child.

He resisted the urge to pat the creature, and instead pulled slowly away, turning back to lift the straightsword toward which Wolfwood was gesturing. Some of these Gembounds knew what they wanted. They were drawn to it, moths to flames, unaware of the meaning of their desires--but didn't all things love beauty? Whatever they saw as beautiful. Did this one love war--or art?

"Like this one?" he asked, voice soft. It was sad, in a way, for a child to wish to wield a weapon--but the idea of a little creature with an equally tiny sword was also... sort of endearing. He found it hard to tell them no; but he would offer a warning, too. "They can be... dangerous. You will need... to be careful. A weapon... is meant to harm... but to defend. If you drop it... on a foot... it will hurt," he explained.

He knelt again, holding the blade out horizontally, one hand beneath the tip, the other under the crossguard. "I can make... you a small sword. I can put this stone... here," he offered, tilting the blade upward, shifting his hands to indicate the center of the hilt's crossguard. It would be decoration; a shining bit of bright stone offering some light and color to a pretty weapon.

"What do you... think of that? Would you... like to stay, and watch... and learn, while I work? Or... come back... in a few days? When it is done?"

@Wolfwood

He waited patiently as the Blacksmith went to retrieve the sword, head tilting at his words. Without realizing it, Sam looked down to his feet and then shuffled them. It was dangerous. "Yeah," he mumbled softly as the Blacksmith returned, kneeling to show him the blade. His tiny paws rested almost instinctively on the nearest fingertip of the hand holding the hilt, careful not to lean in too close. As the Blacksmith turned the blade upward, Sam's eyes gleamed, his paws retreating to allow the bigger creature to freely move his own hands. The marten kit found himself lost within the decorative gemstone. How pretty!

"Yes, like that!" he said excitedly. Honestly, he didn't have anything in mind, but, wow! That would be the perfect use of his little treasure. When the Blacksmith offered for him to stay and watch, he was elated. His little hands clapped together and his fingers interlocked. "Ohh!! I would love to stay and watch!" he said, tail wriggling behind him.

What could Sam do to help? Probably nothing, but damned if he wasn't excited at the opportunity to learn what this nice creature could do. How did one make these blades, or armor, or anything!? Sam was still learning lots of things, so he was more than eager to add to the list.

The Blacksmith moved with the same careful gentleness as before--this creature was so small, he feared accidentally treading on it or knocking it aside with an incautious gesture. He watched his every move, then, as he set the sword back on its rack, and went about gathering up a few materials. He spoke as he did so.

"Then of course... you may," he began, moving to a pile of scrap metal. He often spent time hunting down lost, broken tools and armor, sorting the ruined from what could be reused--and almost anything could be reused, with a judicious hand and the right alloys. Impurities could become decoration, instead of weaknesses; chips and scratches could be melted into a new form entirely. So now, he was picking one of the pieces of steel--one he'd already confirmed to be worthwhile--from a pile of such metal chunks. For a moment he prepared his crucible, laying in his metal and a choice few other pieces. "There are many things... that some would throw away. Or lose..." Or drop when they die. "They are left... forlorn. Abandoned, but... with care, they can become wonderful again." He turned, regarding Wolfwood with a steady gaze, and for a moment his posture and the light of the forge behind him suggested he might be about to grant some eternal, magnificent wisdom. But what he said was, "Always wear... eye protection," and he knelt, having plucked out a suitable-sized (well, a little too large, but it would do) pair of clear quartz goggles, on a leather strap, from a pile. "The embers can be... very hot."

He set these down before the little marten, after lightly gesturing to try and show how to put them on. Then he stood, turning back to his work.

What had he put in again-? He thought it had been a bit of tungsten; but had it been titanium? One of those sorts of things, anyway; strong, silvery, something to make a worthy little blade. "First, we take a... good material. And we melt it--there," he told Wolfwood, pointing to his crucible. It was stone or worn metal (hard to tell--pocked and scarred to the point of looking porous), large cup-shaped, heavy; it perched above the forge on black rails. "And then-..."

The Blacksmith began to rummage, as a quiet sizzling and hissing began within the forge. It was already stoked, burning--it almost always was--but he paused to pump the bellows briefly, with a glance back to his guest. "Fire must breathe... as we do. It always needs air. These are its... lungs," he tried to explain. For a moment he regarded Wolfwood, wondering about him: what had brought him here, exactly? What path had led him, perhaps by chance, winding through the caves and into this very workshop? Where would his little paws carry him, after he had gone?

Nimble hands began to pick through his collection of ancient molds. Sword and dagger, mace and axe. Many of them were only bases, as a custom design for his... clientele, had always been important. But finding something so tiny-... He found himself for a moment at a loss.

Oh-! Hadn't there been that one guest--the one who'd wanted a letter-opener? It was a start, anyway; and the Blacksmith pulled that tiny decorative mold from its shelf, and quickly--and carefully--began to adjust it. "It starts with sand... simple, you would think. We shape it... You see?" He tilted the mold down, to show the marten; showed him how he was using a tiny pick to carve a little bit away, here and there, to make the letter opener's mold into one for a proper, tiny weapon. A dagger would be too heavy, too broad--he'd make a miniature shortsword, instead.

He was very serious in his duties--never mind the fact that his guest was a child Gembound with little idea of where it even was. Masked face didn't waver from his focus.

Except once: to glance down, and ensure that Wolfwood had put on his eye protection.

@Wolfwood

Sam waited patiently where he was as the Blacksmith began to move around, ears twitching as he listened to the words; it made him feel a little sad to think about abandoned things. At the same time though, it felt kind of cool if his sword was going to be made from old metal. He didn't understand the feeling, but it was something like, maybe his sword had a past life? And it was being reborn to serve Wolfwood? His lips pulled back in a little grin. Yeah, that was cool! "With care, they can become wonderful again." His little fingertips tapped against each other in front of his chest and he nodded eagerly.

When the Blacksmith turned to look at him, his eyes widened and his ears fell back a little. It felt intense. Like it was going to be something really important, some string of words that he'd have to remember his whole life. He'd live by them. This was it, his purpose, his fortune, Wolfwood's motto...! With the forge alive behind him, the Blacksmith said:

"Always wear... eye protection."

Sam's expression fell a little. Oh.

Hot embers, yeah, yeah. He reached out to take the goggles, trying to fit them on his head as shown. Hmm. The strap fell a little loose behind his ears, and the eyepieces did not stay in place without his little hands holding them up. They were larger than his face, but his eyes sit nicely in the corners and were still technically protected. That worked, then. He shuffled forward to observe.

When the Blacksmith showed him the metal piece, he nodded quietly, taking in the information and trying to store it someplace he might be able to recall it later. Wow! That was his metal piece. Where had it come from? What had it seen!? He felt his little tail moving gently behind him. Oh, it was more exciting than he had anticipated!

As the bellows were pumped, Sam scuttled backward out of instinct, out of fear—the fire in the forge had popped and hissed louder than it had been before. Was it alive? The Blacksmith explained that fire must breathe, as they did. Somehow the Blacksmith had access to its lungs—huh? Sam adjusted the goggles and took a few tiny steps forward, head tilted all the way back as he tried to look up to where the Blacksmith helped the fire breathe. It could not breathe by itself? He frowned. Well, at least the Blacksmith was here to help it then. He had his hands flat against the goggles as they plastered to his face at the weird angle.

"It is good fire," he decided, and smiled. "I like that you help it breathe. That is nice of you."

The thought of it made his paws feel oddly warm for a moment, but then it dissipated.

He sat flat on his little rump with his tail straight out behind him and his little legs straight out in front of him, while his arms were still raised to hold the goggles in place. He was staring up at the Blacksmith as the creature looked through different things. When another item was tilted for him to look at, he leaned forward and pushed himself back up into a standing position, again adjusting the goggles, so that he could observe better. Sand... shaping sand. "Ooh," he sounded softly as the Blacksmith demonstrated what he was doing, carving out a shape in the block. Then he returned to working, glancing down once to look at that marten kit.

Sam expressed his continued interest with a large, goofy grin and happy squinty eyes, tiny paws flat against goggle pieces as they kept the accessory firmly in place.

The mold was prepared after some long minutes of work, and the Blacksmith considered how best to set the gemstone.

"The stone... will be put in afterward. The heat... of molten metal, it would crack the stone," he explained, glancing at his attentive, excited little student. It warmed him, a little--Wolfwood's interest. It reminded him that it was good to have a guest.

He took the mold to the forge, and settled it atop the abutting anvil. The soft rush of air from the open chimney behind the forge filled the space with shimmering heat, so that he seemed to step into running water, for a moment. Wolfwood's sentiment on the topic--of fire breathing, that is--gave him pause, and he thought about it. "Thank you, although... I do not know if... the fire knows. Maybe. It is... like a wild thing. It loves to eat... to run free... but like many wild things... it has its bite." He glanced to the fire, and decided against explaining the metaphor further--about being burned alive or eaten by wild animals. ...Best not to.

"It breathes on its own... a little. There is a hole," and he paused to indicate the length of the chimney, with a sweeping arm. "But more air... at times, is needed."

The Blacksmith spent a little time first pumping the bellows, checking the crucible, and then settling a vice around the mold. It was a worn vice, as pocked as the crucible itself, and he clamped the bottom directly to the anvil. Using the anvil as a base was simple convenience, but he explained the safety aspect of the vice as he worked, nonetheless. "We clamp the mold... so that it does not fall over. We all... need support, sometimes. And falling metal... molten... it would burn," he added, from life lesson to practicality in the space of a few words.

Once the metal was truly melted--red-hot, sizzling against the air--he lifted a pair of tongs. Carefully--at arm's length--he gripped the crucible, and lifted it from its iron support. Sometimes he pushed a mold in beneath the crucible itself, and tipped it, particularly when the item would be heavy; but for something so small, for added control, he did it this way instead. Carefully a thread of red-glowing goop was poured into the mold--and then he returned the crucible to its stand, and settled the other half of the mold over it. He was still debating how to settle in the gemstone, particularly without weakening the hilt. Generally such things were decorative--only adorning one side. If he could settle it through the center of the crossguard--so that the gem took up a piece of the hilt straight through from one side to another--it would weaken the blade overall. That would have mattered, perhaps, for a broadsword; but for a dagger a few inches long it would have virtually no effect. Interrupting the tang, he reasoned, was perfectly valid for aesthetics in the case of something so small.

"We must wait... for it to cool, now. It will be... a few moments, and then I will... continue." The quenching and reheating, too, would take some time; but for now they had time to chat. "Tell me... why did you choose... the blade?" It was a gentle question, a curious one, as he turned to regard Wolfwood. "The blade, over... something else?"

He studied Wolfwood from behind his mask, curious as to the little one's motivations. He seemed happy, outgoing, adventurous. Why had he chosen a weapon, over a tool or armor?

@Wolfwood