[Something about metal]

You move past the noisy market. Though still without a goal, you can't shake off the sound of hammering you heard... It's louder now, a faint scent of iron cutting through the piss and sour of the busy city, like blood that doesn't scream. It smells clean. It sounds comforting. It's how you used to feel when you first picked up the sword.

...

Before you know it, you're walking the smithy row, drawn to the smell like it is pie on a windowsill. The majority of people here are men, but female warriors aren't all that rare either. Everyone is armed differently, from swords and shields to spears rested on leathered shoulders, to even bows and bucklers, daggers poking silhouettes through different styles of clothing. Some even have armor, the rich fuckers, of course, and those always get a second look. The grinding stones seem to see most service. Your sword could certainly use one too...

Some storefronts openly display their craft, blacksmiths hammering in the open, while other workshops don't even allow a single ray of light inside. It's like they're all reflections of the master smiths' personalities. You see boxes of coal and iron hauled by muscular men, like the flow of a river that comes from the mountain mines.

...This place feels like home.

...

The sound is almost deafening now. The heat strikes you in waves and smoke hovers like steam in a whore bathhouse. You couldn't help but stop in front of this store. It's odd, more of a den than a shop. You hear steel ringing inside, glimpse the orange glow and scattered sparks through the open door. Even now, you wonder. Why have you come here?

All of a sudden, the hammering pauses while water screams to a boil. Another few moments, and you see someone open the front door. She's short for a girl, sweat tracing the grime on her cheeks, a gloved hand raised with a flat piece of iron still hissing from the forge. There's a serious expression on her round face, the pair of green eyes that stare with purpose frowned and calculating. She's lean, though not without weight, the heavy leather apron resting on her chest like thatch on a roof. On her head, you see a headband pulling her short, brown hair off the forehead and to the sides, her ears more point than curve. A dwarven halfblood.

"Need somethi- Oh?" she switches her tone, high-pitched curiosity to interest. Her eyes spot the iron on your hip as soon as she opens her lips. It just seems like she spoke out of habit. "Need a grind?"