Is a Gamble Worth a Gander?

Chapter 1: Weak Hands, Weak Bodies

Is A Gamble Worth A Gander?

Ch1

Weak Hands, Weak Bodies

Our story begins in the dim, arid interior of a smithy. The soft roar of flames stoked by bellows, the acrid scent of charred metal, the rhythmic ringing of hammer on steel. A small shop occupied by two souls pouring their hearts into their craft. Swing by swing, twisting and turning the glowing metal. Shaping their art hit after hit, touching and feeling the hidden object within the lumps of ore, slowly bringing forth the sight in their minds. Tap tap tap, ching ching ching. Ringing steel singing along to the chorus of the smiths' hearts.

They beat away on their respective pieces, occasionally wiping the sweat from their brow. Though both are clearly talented, one is the obvious superior. An older individual, hands moving with the careful attention of a pianist's fingers, sits just to the right of the large forge-pit in the center of the shop. He stares intently at the glowing lump of steel gripped in his tongs, turning and turning as he brings the hammer down upon it. His dull, aged eyes still show a deep brown hue, glowing in time with the sparks flying off the now tiller-blade-shaped metal.

His muscles flex lightly in the shadows cast by the glow of the forge, timed perfectly with the expert movements of his hammer. His shadow dances along the wall beside him, cast in the fiery glow of the forge, showcasing a very averagely built older gentleman. Jet-black hair is wrapped tightly in a bandana, now soaked in sweat from the heat of his art. A gruff beard, shaggy from neglect of grooming, frames up his chiseled, jutting chin. Chaffed lips cracked from the heat are pursed tightly together in thought and concentration. This is the Master Smith. This is the teacher to the apprentice sitting not two meters away, busily working on his own piece in the dull glow of the forge.

Apprentice, that's what they call him because that is what he is. Apprentice, one who learns from his Master's careful, attentive teachings. Apprentice, hoping to follow in his Master's footsteps and become a great artist of metal-working. Yes, Apprentice is what they call him for that is what he is, or at least it's what he should be. After all, he is learning from a Master. After all, he is hunched over this anvil, in this dingy stone smithy, bathed in the fierce glow of a raging furnace as he shapes raw ore into various tools. The locals call him an Apprentice, his Master does too so that makes it true.

This is what he tells himself, tap tap tapping away on the gradually changing chunk of iron. This is what he tells himself, ignoring the slight throbbing pain building up in his wrists. He repeats it over and over again in his head, I am an Apprentice.

His brow furrowed tightly over deep brown eyes, glowing fiercely in the light of the iron taking shape before them. Long, dark-brown hair would easily reach past his shoulders if it weren't tied up into a formerly neat ponytail, now a vaguely matted mess of sweat and stray hairs on top of his head. A headband is wrapped tightly around his forehead, failing to catch the sweat nearly pouring from his every pore. A faintly maintained beard, what was once something of a goatee, now beginning to become shaggy, sits on top of a strong chin. Jaw clenched tight, lips pursed much like his Master's, the Apprentice deeply considers the iron before him, almost asking it what it is.

Who are you? What are you? What do you want to be? These thoughts run through his mind as the metal takes form with every swing of his hammer. He found it easier to work with something with which he could empathize thus, in his mind, he asked the metal the very same questions he oft asked himself. The very same questions that burned in him over his given titled, not rightly earned in his own opinion. After all, an Apprentice should be good at what he does. And he was to some extent. However, as the gradually strengthening throb in his wrists reminded him, one's talent alone wasn't enough to satisfy an evaluation. One's body had to be physically sound enough for his chosen profession. One's hands must be strong and resilient in order to force the will of shape upon the World's bones, the metal he sat there beating into shape.