Language of the smiths

James let the massive bag he had been carrying on his shoulders drop to the ground, making a massive thump as it did so. He had been wandering the wilds of an entirely separate continent on his own for nearly a month, and the backpack he had brought with him was significantly lighter than it was when he began, but still heavier than most average people could lift, much less carry for extended times. He smiled to himself, looking up at the building that he had come across some distance from the town where his journey was to come to an end.

The smell was powerful and instantly recognizable to him, even in such different lands than those he had grown up in. Smoke filled the air, loud ringing noises accompanying it, and so he began to dig through his pack.

James was an experienced camper. He knew that any weight he put onto his shoulders needed to be vitally important, else he ran the risk of putting himself in needless danger of injury. But from within his pack, he pulled a small, three pound hammer, and a pair of iron tongs, both of which he had been unable to use in any useful capacity until this very moment. With a fresh lungful of smoke, James pushed his way into the shop.

Almost immediately eyes fell on him, his complexion and stature visibly different from those of the workers in the smithy. They called out to him in their own language, but to James they sounded like little more than babes speaking before they could fully form words. He knew better though, assuming they must have asked something about what he wanted and, without a word, held his hammer and tongs up with a smile.

The smiths blinked for a moment, recognizing the tools, but untrusting of the man brandishing them. They called out to him once more, questions clearly being asked, but James had no idea what questions those were or what answers were being hoped for. He just smiled once more and held out the tools again, attempting to urge the men to understand he was one of them.

The men looked at each other and muttered back and forth for a moment. Finally, an apprentice was sent forward, and brought James to one of the forges given a small piece of steel, as if as a test that he was indeed who he claimed to be.

James happily set to work pumping the flames of the forge, heating and shaping the metal into a new form with a new purpose. The apprentice watched him closely and, having eventually decided that James was in fact who he claimed to be, the men were content to return to their work and let James use the spare space.

James grinned a toothy grin to himself as he worked and watched the other men work. Their styles were massively different from one another, and they each had much to learn from each other. This was what he had been hoping to find when he had set out on his journey. A chance to learn and share. Speech did not matter. The language of steel and flame was enough.