Not Far From Home (Solo)

The shivering peal of steel striking steel rung out through the hot, cramped smithy once, twice, and more, continuing for more than a minute. Finally, the hammer was set to the side and the sullenly glowing, half formed chunk of steel was thrust back into the hellish flames of the forge, as the smith wiped her brow and stepped into the open air outside the hut. Raising her arms above her head and clasping her hands together, Artheridge stretched out taut muscles as she reveled in the knowledge that she was bending the bones of the earth to her will. With a pleased sigh, she stepped back into the forge and stirred the coals to coax the flame higher, before turning to another, larger individual hunched over a workbench on the far side of the smithy.

"Hala’s last wagon bearing’s about drawn out and ready, Father," she called gently, over the rasping of a coarse file being drawn across soft, unquenched steel. A teasing tone in her voice, she continued. "Give me about another half hour, and you can walk me through the install?"

"Bah!" was the return, the rasping stopping as the large malamute stood up and turned to face his daughter. "You know good and well how to do it, Daugher o’ mine!" he laughed, fingers running through charcoal, almost black hair as he smoothed down the sweat soaked mop. He briefly ran his hands down the back of his neck and over his broad chest, smoothing rumples in the supple kid hide of his leather apron, his well formed and well used muscles rippling beneath his thick pelt. Heading for the exit to the shop, he beckoned his daughter to follow. As he took a deep breath of the fresh air, he smiled at his eldest, the one he intended to have take over the forge when he was old and feeble, even over her brother.

"You’ve done the job dozens of times by now. Why do you insist on baiting me?" he teased, eyeing her up and down appraisingly. Well built, strong, and beautiful, she was a catch in anyone’s book, and of the age where he and her mother needed to start considering suitors.

"Dozens of times, and not once have you been fully satisfied with the work," she laughed, a light, lilting sound as she swatted at her father’s burly arms, the back of her hands sinking into his plush, thick winter fur.

"Aye! How many times have I told you," he started, only to be cut off by his daughter.

"A good craftsman’s never satisfied. Always improve!" she exclaimed, then stuck her tongue out. "I know, dad. You make it too easy to get a rise."

"And you have too much fun poking at your old man," he responded, shaking his head. "Go finish up the rough bearing, and I’ll let your mother know we’ll be in shortly for lunch. Once we’re done, I vote we call it a day, finish grumpy Hala’s wagon tomorrow, on time mind, and get prepared for market day. They should be just over the hill by now."

"Yes, Father," she replied, before returning to the forge and stirring the coals again as the burly Furkin left to go pester her mother.


One bearing and a hearty meal later, Artheridge stood in her room in her parents well appointed house, humming softly to herself. Fluffing out the fabric of a lilac dress, she held it up to her collar and posed in the mirror, admiring the way the fabric draped and fell across hir curves, and would accentuate her femininity, without unduly hiding her hard earned musculature. Woman she may be, at 19 years of age, but she was proud of the effect her father’s forge had on her physique, and wanted to show it off, if for no other reason than to drive the men of the town wild. Nodding approvingly, she set the dress to the side, draping it over the footboard of her bed, and set about the task of grooming and smoothing her russet fur. After all, it was market day, and a caravan was due. What better excuse to get dressed up than that?

Having started at her toes and worked her way up, she was just starting to groom the red and brown feathers of her wings, a rather unique feature she’d not seen in the rest of the town, despite the mutable nature of her race, when her mother knocked on her door and bustled in. The petite shepherd patterned canine set a small ipewood box on the dresser before smiling beatifically.

"Ah, almost ready, and just about on time, too! I just saw the caravan pulling into town," the elder woman said, picking up a brush and after looking for, and receiving permission, began brushing her daughter’s hair to speed the process along. "Eesh, Artheridge, dear. You really should keep your hair in a braid, or at least up, so it doesn’t get so tangled in the forge,"

Giving a playful roll of her eyes, clearly visible in the mirror to her poor, set upon mother, Artheridge smiled. "You know a braid would just get in the way, Mother. And I try to keep it up," she grumped, nodding towards a sweat stained ribbon sitting piled on her dresser. "But I’m moving around a lot, and it’s easier to just pile it in a mess on my head and sort it out later."

"Oh, dear," her mother pouted. "What's your father always say? A minute now saves an hour later?"

"Yes, Mother," was the well worn reply, humoring the elder female more than anything else. Looking for a change of subject, she eyed the simple wooden box that had been brought in, and smiled. "So what's that, hmm?"

Setting the brush down after sorting the worst of the tangles out of her daughter's hair, Beatrice took the box and set it in her daughter's lap. "Open it and find out."

Taking the box and opening it carefully, mindful of the delicate hinges along the back, she shook her head upon seeing the contents. "Oh, mom… We've talked about this." With a sigh, she set the jewelry box back on the dresser and turned to face her mother.

"You're 19, and unwed, Artheridge. You're in your prime, and a beautiful woman. You could have your pick of husband in the village. Why are you so against letting them know this?" she asked, reaching out to take the courtship pendant from the box and running her thumb along the embossed silver

"Because, Mother. I don't want to settle down and marry. I'm not even sure I want to hang around the town and take over the forge just yet. Dad saw the world before he came back and married you. What's so wrong with me following his example?" she asked, standing up and beginning to slip into her dress as she spoke.

"There's nothing wrong with it. There's just certain… Expectations of a young woman, even one who's every bit as good as a young man at certain things, and the village is starting to talk."

Rolling her eyes again, Artheridge laced up the bodice of her dress, pulling it snug, then smoothing any rumples she found. Slipping an ivory comb she'd received as a gift years ago into her hair, she turned to her mother and smiled. "I'd intended to speak with Alfor about joining the caravan as a smith and ferrier when they leave. Do you think that would settle the talk, Mother?"

With a low chuckle, Beatrice nodded. "A rather extreme solution, but I think it should," she agreed. "Lets head into town and see what your future holds, then, shall we?" she asked, before tucking the pendant back into it's box and leaving the room.