20th of Cylus 720
The thrashing of a broom, bristling with twigs, swept across the floor of Brocksmith's forge. Clavam had no qualms about this chore. It beat going out in the middle of nowhere in a blizzard. Besides which, they'd made it clear to him that he wasn't fit for an excursion as such. Most of his comrades in the barracks related that the Shieldarm had nothing against sending green recruits out to die. Meanwhile, Clavam got saddled with forge duty, and later he'd be in the wood shop, and then the tannery.
The forge was not as interesting and compelling a place as one might presume. Not for the apprentice smith, it wasn't. It was a gauntlet of various tasks and menial chores that needed doing. It was a lung full of soot and iron dust in your eye if you weren't careful.
But Clavam didn't mind it. He'd had worse jobs in his time. Crawling out of a pile of gelatinous, poison goo being but one of them. And that he'd had to pay for in a loss of fortune.
It wasn't that exciting though. The most stimulating thing to happen there since Clavam began was when they wheeled in a cart of ferrous rock. Rocks that for most had to get scavenged and prospected from the surface area. They didn't have great prospects for the building of a dedicated mine. Which served them well enough. Such facilities would likely by noticed by all the wrong people.
"Lad" Brock said to Clavam. Beckoning him over with a free hand, while the other worked a pair of tongs to hold a piece of hot metal in place. "Do you notice what's wrong with this picture?" Brock gave the mark a blank stare.
Clavam squinted at him through the haze of soot and heat. Finally, after a languid look around, he shrugged, "Nah. Not in a puzzlin' mood, Brock."
Brock looked very near to braining Clavam in that moment with the sledge in his belt. And bear in mind that he wasn't a man that was swift to temper. "Oil quench needs filling. Send for some of Mama Joe's animal suet. Should of done refinin' what she needs from it. And you bring a water quench, once you send one of the lads after that oil."
Clavam grunted, and excused himself. He went off toward one of the younger recruits that also helped around the forge. The lad had strawberry yellow hair, and a face covered with freckles so thick that it looked like freckles was his skin color.
"Get Mama Joe's suet, for Brock. He needs to quench steel." So saying, Clavam didn't wait to see if the lad would comply. He knew he would. Half of the marks aspired to Brock's profession. They'd gotten lured by romantic notions of crafting masterwork weapons. Weapons taht would get put to hunting Kathor and Cliff lurkers. Clavam didn't know how many of them had gotten disillusioned. It wasn't as if any of them could go truant without the entire Post finding out about it. The Post shamed those who weren't known not to pull their weight.
So everyone did what the Post needed them to. And Shieldarm decided what that was. Far be it for Clavam to question the man who stood between him and a headsman's blade.
Clavam picked up an empty pail, and made his way out of the forge, toward where the underground aquifer fed into their well. It took him a break of walking to get there. On the way, he once more got haunted by a strange noise that had been following him of late. "Boop!" It said, as he passed by open areas of the tunnels running beneath the ground. He looked up only momentarily to see the black form of a raven hopping over the snow. It was following him, looking at him. Some of the men and women claimed he belonged to a scout that had gotten sent out on long reconnaissance and had yet to return. Clavam thought it was a demented, oversized crow. Both could've been right, for all Clavam cared, and he didn't.
After about a quarter break of walking, he made it to the spring from which much of the post's water came. Of course, the tap had frozen over. He chipped what ice he could from it, onto the bucket. Looks like he'd have to be on the lookout for yellow snow... Great.
Bits later and his bucket had been pat down from top to bottom to fill with dense snow. It'd melt by the time it got used. One of the advantages of hauling ice, you could get more water than you bargained for. So when he entered into Brock's forge, he could feel the ice palpable in its breakdown, in proximity to the heat.
"Taps frozen" Brock asked. Clavam gave him a sardonic look, and placed the bucket down by his feet. Then he went back to his usual duties of sweeping up iron.
Several bits into his work, and Brock had managed to thaw the snow and ice. Sloshing the water into the quenching trough, it was obvious how dirty the liquid was. Around this time, the other came back with the suet. Freckles dropped the two pails of oil down near Brock's oil quench, which was a coopered barrel. Brock tossed aside the water pail, and then emptied the suet into the quencher, topping it off.
About a few pounds of iron dust sweepings later, and Clavam figured he had done for the day, or night. Who could say? He only knew his weariness beckoned him to sleep.
Clavam set aside the broom. He was about to walk out into the tunnels leading toward his bunkhouse when Brock called him back. ""Ey, Clav, need a hand with some javelin heads, gonna teach ya something about how to make 'em so we can start pushing these out to the peltasts among the scouts."
So the smith taught Clavam more or less how to shape a small piece of metal. "Don't expect me to allow this every time you need a new spear..." Brock muttered to him, shaking his head as Clavam shaped the socket. "It's easier to figure the end of the shaft's measurements before the socket, so don't worry too much of fucking this up."
Brock chuckled as Clavam let the iron fall from the anvil several times. Brock let him continue until he managed to make the socket oblong, and unresponsive to hammer strikes. The smith shook his head, and pointed toward the furnace. "Shove it back in the fire. Might not be too late to salvage the iron.
Clavam said nothing but nodded, and placed the spear head socket end first into the fire. Then he put his tools down, and began working the bellows, to make the coals warm up again. The fire and coals became bright, imparting a straw-berry colored glow to the socket of the spearhead. At that point, Brock clapped his hands to get attention, "That's it, now take it to the anvil again. Hammer it gentle, enough to make a rough circle of the socket."
Clavam followed the rest of his directions to the letter, slowly getting better at it with every spearhead he forged. Finally, at the last, the third spearhead, the smith stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Time to pack up. We'll leave those spearheads where they be for now. After Forge Duty tomorrow, you can take a couple of small shafts and fix them to your work, see how they hold up."
So saying, Brock dismissed Clavam. The young soldier was glad for his part to leave the forge behind him. While it certainly held an allure even then, after working for breaks doing menial tasks, he'd rather plant his face in the straw pillow of his cot.
As he made his way back to the bunkhouse, he still heard the telltale sound of "Boop!" From that blasted raven, that would not let him alone.
He had several murderous thoughts before turning in, and dreamt that night of turning a small bird over the coals of a cook fire.
When he awoke, Clavam made his way back to the forge direct. He was rather looking forward to continuing his work on those throwing spears.