Role

Chapter 2

My father, Jimlum, was a master blacksmith of the third order
of iron workers, a branch once taught by Mortorn dwarves.

The move he made a few years prior to my birth was to Galadon,
hoping to spread knowledge of our craft and earn a living.

Now, at my seventeenth birthday, I was to take up the mantle and
begin learning to ply our trade and art.

For many years I had carved and inlaid some of the finest detail
into our many woodworks, tableware and toys.

These insights into iron smithing should have been as second
nature but things do not always fold out as expected.

It wasn't that I didn't wish to have a proud father, parents or
relatives who adored and respected my work. No.

The intricacy in which to shape and mold objects was known to me,
Yes, but not these metals.

In the beginning, I felt it. A foreign feeling, the instruments
needed would not touch my skin, no matter how I tried.

"Hold the Hammer" my father cried out, pain and frustration
readily apparent upon his furrowed brow.

I did try, I truly did. With all my strength I wanted to be what
they wanted, I wanted it too, or so I thought.

Anger, furocity, rage, no amount of any effort would bay metal to
me and a sorrowful acceptance was what followed.