<<As you might have noticed, basically all I'm posting is shorts, done whilst I take a break from Oblivion. They are all of peripheral (non game) characters, but all based on an event taking place that the unidentified player character is also present for. It's not MY player character; it's anyone. Thanks for all the feedback. - Foster>>

THE NORD ARMY HAMMER

Working the forge was sweaty work. Sweaty work with absolutly no reward whatsoever, because the boss never really acknowledged the fact that he tried so hard, and usually took all the credit for anything produced, even if she hadn't laid one of her fingers upon it.

That was the way of the apprenticeship; Wellin did everything from running the bellows to tempering the blades, to repairing objects that people had broken because they'd run out of those little hammer things that magically repaired more or less everything, even to making some of the finer objects. The boss, for all her skill and craft, was more or less just the name of the shop. Once she'd been a good smith. Now she was more intrested in money, the prospect of money, and how to make more money. Every now and then she might make an exotic; a suit of armour, a sword that launched fireballs at the enemy, but for the most part it was down to Wellin.

He took a break and cooled himself from a pitcher of water that was hanging nearby, allowing the liquid to flow over him and wash away the stench of sweat and oil that had filled his nose. From before dawn he'd been working, but thanks to his more or less constant labours over the past month the only thing that bothered him was the smell. His arms were now strong and sculpted biceps, his feet calloused so that he could no longer feel the pressure of standing for more than an hour at a time. His ears were full of the bells of tinnatus too, so he couldn't really tell when metal was being pounded against the anvil because he was half deaf. That made him, in his considered opinion, offically a blacksmith.

"Wellin." The boss called out, slurring because she was more than a little drunk. Although rarely known, his apprenticeship was marred by the fact that half the instructions he recieved were the rantings of an alcholic. The bosses eyes were all glassy and glazed, and her sud-soaked words always slipped into one. "Wellindear...I wasnt's you to...fic..fic..fix thish. Okay?" she asked, throwing a pair of iron greaves to the floor, damaging them even further. Damage that would be fixed at no extra cost! Damage that would come out of his salary! He'd just need one of the hammers. Few people knew it, but the design dated back to the birth of the Empire itself. They used to be known as Nord Army Knives, until the hammer part developed more significantly and people started to refer to them as hammers. Few people could tell from a distance (or small picture, if they were hippies and viewed their personal possessions in a disemboded fashion), but the hilt contained everything. As well as the hammer there were tongs, pincers, knives of all description, a bottle opener, a corkscrew, a file, a sanding plane, a toothed saw, a tinder box and flint, a pair of scissors and, for some reason, a tooth pick. He'd never used the latter on any repairs, but it was good to know it was there in the hammer.

"Yes, boss." Wellin said, taking the greaves as the shop bell rang. Immediatly the effect sobered up his mistress as Wellin scuttled out of sight. It was the store policy that no customer should see anyone other than her majesty. The idea was that the expert should always be available, but secretly Wellin suspected that it was more to do with the fact she wanted to take all the credit.

Through the wood cracks, he could hear voices discussing the items. He couldn't tell if the visitor was male or female, but they were confident and wanting to sell some tat they'd looted from some ruin. An adventurer, then. He hadn't seen them, but he could imagine them dressed in full plate. Or maybe full leather. Or fur. Or even just a fetching green robe. Really, adventurers did pretty much everything.

The one aspect of the conversation Wellin could hear was that his mistress had magically sobered up, and, despite stinking like a brewery, she was pronouncing her words correctly and answering the customers queries with elegance. She was even haggling well, and her eyes probably looked somewhat normal. Wellin waited, shifting the Greaves into the 'to do' pile, before waiting. The customer left, and he walked out again. The boss was back to being a crazy drunken sow.

"Wellin...we'vegot new shtock, and soo..." she promptly mumbled incoprehensibly the rest of her thought, and threw a load of objects at him. He caught them all (one impressivly with his teeth - impressive because he only had five thanks to a bad case of malnourishment when he was young) and begun to put them in the back, ready for display. Armour, mostly, some gems of little retail value, and a claymore with 'mooogoo' scratched into the hilt.

From the front, he could her the boss move away, probably to sleep off the effects. He shook his head and set the new stock down, before heading off to find those greaves, and one of those little hammers that were so versitile.

Nice.

S.G.M., as we used to say on the other board...... (Story good, more)

OH THANK YOU GOD FINALY SOMEONE EXPLAINS WHAT THAT DAMN SGM THING IS !! Ahem...

This is a nice, yet slightly sad, satiric story that laughs at some of the more unrealistic game mechanics of TES - mainly, the ability of 'player' to repair his damaged weapons, shields and body armor with one simple tool... the only thing is, the tool isn't so simple great and at the same time very funny explanation, Foster. If I ever go questing arround Cyrodiil, I'll scrap the whole 'singleplayer' concept and form my own party; and there is always a room in such party for a skilled armorer...