Post by CynanMachae on Jun 25, 2009 22:09:50 GMT -5
The sound of the old blacksmith setting up shop early in the morning mixed with the songs of first daylight the birds offered up to the sky. The trees of Sherwydd forest became visible in the gray mist and pink sunlight, streching off north toward the mountains.
Finlay, a young man with sandy hair and a thin, short cut beard, paused on the roof of the blacksmith's shop as he picked up the pair of tough leather gloves he had left there the night before. After a long day's work for the smith, Finlay enjoyed resting in the cool night air as it breezed over him on the roof. Many nights he had fallen asleep there and found himself awakened by the smith the following morning.
He sighed as his gaze swept south and east towards Loch Ard Forest. Already, stacks of billowing smoke could be seen rising from the green treetops. The blacksmith was a hard-working man. He rose as early as the sun permitted and toiled without tire until it sank in the west at night - and yet, the peasants hired by the king, little more than slaves, had been at work before his employer had even opened his eyes. Day by day trees fell by the hundreds, and it made Finlay sick to his stomach. The forest, older than the oldest tales by the oldest bards, was put to the axe so that pompous buffoon of a king could have a castle grander than any had ever seen. Surely, his vanity knew no limits.
Shaking his head, he worked his hands into the gloves and turned, climbing down the ladder to the dirt path below.
Finlay, a young man with sandy hair and a thin, short cut beard, paused on the roof of the blacksmith's shop as he picked up the pair of tough leather gloves he had left there the night before. After a long day's work for the smith, Finlay enjoyed resting in the cool night air as it breezed over him on the roof. Many nights he had fallen asleep there and found himself awakened by the smith the following morning.
He sighed as his gaze swept south and east towards Loch Ard Forest. Already, stacks of billowing smoke could be seen rising from the green treetops. The blacksmith was a hard-working man. He rose as early as the sun permitted and toiled without tire until it sank in the west at night - and yet, the peasants hired by the king, little more than slaves, had been at work before his employer had even opened his eyes. Day by day trees fell by the hundreds, and it made Finlay sick to his stomach. The forest, older than the oldest tales by the oldest bards, was put to the axe so that pompous buffoon of a king could have a castle grander than any had ever seen. Surely, his vanity knew no limits.
Shaking his head, he worked his hands into the gloves and turned, climbing down the ladder to the dirt path below.
