The blacksmith

John wiped away the sweat on his brow before pulling the heated steel out of the forge. Having his cool sweat dripping onto the metal would be bad, cooling it before he was ready and improperly forming small bits, causing weakness in the finished project. He laid the steel out on his anvil and lifted his hammer high into the air, bringing it down with full force. A loud clang rang out and sparks flew as the steel was flattened in an instant. He did this over and over, shaping the metal how he wanted it until its orange tint began to fade to red, at which point he immediately threw it back into the fire.

He pumped the flames a few times, making sure it was at the temperature he wanted it, before he walked out to the front of his store. He wiped his hands on the way, removing both sweat and ash, which tended to mix together into a disgusting black substance that liked to get on everything he touched. He supposed they didn't call it blacksmithing for nothing.

On his desk were the blueprints for several pieces that he was working on, which he picked up and looked over as he sat down. He grabbed his goblet of ale, half drunk throughout the day to keep his throat from becoming too dry, and took a good long swig. He still had several hours of work left to do. The raging fire of his forge allowed him to work late into the night, and he often did, long past when others had gone too sleep. For that reason, his workshop was located a good deal off from the main part of town, avoiding keeping his neighbors awake. He may not have been much of a people person, but he certainly wasn't rude.

As he looked over his blueprints, the door opened, and in walked a strange man. He was clearly not from this town, although looking at him, John couldn't say he could think of any place the man would belong. The man seemed nervous and frail. A blacksmith's shop was the place he belonged the least. "What do you want, son?" he called out. "I've only got a few minutes before I need to get back to work. I advise that if you wish to speak with me, you be doing so quickly."

The man looked over John, his eyes wide, as if he were surprised by both his presence and his size. "T-this is the blacksmith's shop, right?" he asked timidly. John rolled his eyes and nodded. "I-I'm looking for a sword."

"Well, we got plenty of 'em," John replied, "but somehow I doubt you could even lift our lightest ones, much less swing one. It'd best not be for you."

The man cringed at John's words, clearly wounded. "I-I want to be strong," he said, "and I think something guided me here for that purpose?" His voice was clearly confused. "Isn't that how people get strong here? They fight with swords?"

John laughed, a deep and hearty bellow. "If you want to be getting strong," he said, "I can surely help you there. But a sword is no way for a man like you to be getting strong." The man appeared clearly disheartened. "Come with me, boy, and I'll make you strong. What do the call you?"

"M-Michael, sir."

"Well, M-Micahel," John said with a coy grin, "get in here and tend to my fires. I'll make a man out of you, else God may cast me down."