Actually, this is more of a twofer... Enjoy.
As soon as I could politely do so, I had finished my dinner and
left the Great Hall for the Mansion. The Lovely Lady Innsmouth
had seen fit to sit in on my class the the last period of the day
(seventh-year Ravenclaws) and had spent much of it, clipboard in
hand, interrogating me.
Now, not only do I have considerable experience fencing verbally
with bureaucrats, I'm smarter than the average bear. Tying her
in mental knots was both easy for me and entertaining for my
class, but it did little to relieve the anger I felt at her
blatant bigotry and sickeningly-sweet but insulting insinuations.
I'm not an egotist (I'm *not* -- stop laughing) but even though I
made a literally metahuman effort to maintain my cool simply to
spite her, I was still was *furious* about the self-righteous
malice the bitch dripped from every pore.
Fortunately I took dinner early enough that I avoided her at the
staff table, but as soon as I could scarf down my dessert, I bade
my coworkers good night and ran all the way up to the eighth
floor with my helmet in hand. As soon as the Mansion door
manifested, I slammed it open, blew past Summerfield, and threw
myself into the Danger Room, bellowing for the computer to start
the Million-Mook March right fucking *now*.
An hour later, the endless slaughter had done little to soothe my
anger, and I ended the simulation before I could get caught up in
another wave of suicidal crunchies. I needed something different
to calm me. I needed something *constructive* instead of
destructive.
I stood there in the chill, empty Room, staring blankly at its
dimpled white walls, panting from the effort of the last few
minutes of the sim, while I wracked my brains for something,
anything, that might help.
And then it came to me.
"Computer. Give me Hef's shop."
The real Mansion's Danger Room would have no idea what I was
asking for, even after downloading the records in my helmet, but
I was counting on whatever magical mechanism was behind the Come
and Go Room to know or figure out what to give me the same way
it had known how to provide the Mansion.
I wasn't disappointed.
A familiar shop, one I had spent many weeks in, swirled into
existence around me. Concrete walls with open glass windows, a
floor of packed sand, and at one end a pair of double doors
almost like the doors of a barn. One of these hung half-open,
wide enough to let in a cooling breeze and reveal bright summer
sunlight and an open yard in which a rusting pick-up was parked.
Here inside, though, it was warm, almost uncomfortably so, thanks
to the gas-fired forge, its interior already up to temperature
and glowing red, that stood in the center of the shop.
Surrounding and between it and me were bins of metal stock, racks
of tools, barrels of water and oil, an assortment of anvils in
all sizes, and a power hammer just the right size for one or two
people to use. I took a deep breath through my nose and savored
the scent of hot metal and oil and, incongruously as always,
burning coal.
It brought me right back, and I immediately felt calmer.
Walking through the shop, I collected up a pair of tongs, a thin
bar of one grade of steel stock and a much larger ingot of a
certain different grade of steel. I stacked the bar on the
ingot, then slid them into the forge. As I waited for the steel
to glow cherry-red, I thought back to the last time I had been in
this building.
I'd met Tom Hefner a couple of worlds earlier at a ren faire and
SCA event in southern California. It'd been late summer of that
world's 1997. My adopted daughter Utena and I had gone
specifically to look for a swordsmith, and Tom'd had a booth of
his wares set up near the ring where they'd been holding their
mock combats. A former quarterback sidelined by an injury that'd
left him with a permanent limp, Hef was a mechanic by trade but
made knives and swords on the side; he turned out some absolutely
beautiful -- and *functional* -- blades, about which he was
justifiably arrogant. When Utena expressed an interest in one,
he pretty much dismissed her with words to the effect of "move
on, little girl, and stick with your dolls."
Well. You just *don't* say stuff like that to Utena. Long story
short, we broke one of his blades (not to mention Buckaroo's
katana) while proving she could use and was worthy of owning a
sword. This impressed Hef no end, and we ended up involved in
the process of custom forging one for her.
I'd already acquired a minor interest in smithing from long hours
watching Skuld at work even more worlds before that, and having
had Buckaroo's katana shattered in our no-holds-barred Rose Duel
over, around, through and above the faire's arena, I decided that
this would be the time to learn how to do it myself -- by
reforging his blade.
In the end, both Utena and I learned swordsmithing from him, as
well as general blacksmithery. With her help and Hef's
instruction I had repaired Buckaroo's katana. And as is typical
for anything on which I do work with my hands, it ended up
accidentally enchanted -- at least, that's the only explanation I
have for why it now gives off the scent of roses when I draw it.
And all three of us worked on Utena's sword, which proved it was
more than up to the task for which it had been made not long
afterward.
The night we completed the blade which she and I had dubbed
"Calyx" was the last night we saw Hef and his shop.
In any case, I had come to find smithing was very relaxing, and
I realized it was exactly that kind of relaxation I was needing
after having Dolores Umbridge in my face all afternoon. So as
the ingot heated up, I took off my robes and shirt, selected my
tools, and visualized what I wanted to make -- nothing fancy,
just a simple serviceable broadsword.
I rummaged around in one of the many cabinets and pulled out a
plastic deli container labeled "borax" in black indelible ink.
From a nearby rack I grabbed a scoop for the flux and, after a
moment's thought, a different hammer from the one I'd initially
decided upon. There was also the power hammer, which would make
the job faster and easier, but I wanted to do this manually, to
feel the work deep in my muscles.
I put the hammer and scoop down on a small table next to the
largest anvil, then opened the container of borax and set it down
next to them. I stepped back over to the gas forge, took up the
tongs, and using them withdrew the now-incandescent slug of
steel. With quick but deliberate steps I carried it over to the
anvil. I laid the glowing steel down on the top of the anvil,
held still by the tongs in my left hand as I took up the hammer
in my right.
And then I began pounding.
In between repeated trips to the forge to reheat the ingot, I
slowly stretched it out and folded it over, sprinkling flux on it
with each fold to better weld the alternating layers of different
steels together. The repetition of the pounding and folding was
almost hypnotic, and I lost myself in it as the two pieces of
steel became one, and slowly lengthened, thinned, and narrowed
until it had begun to look less like a block of raw steel and
more like the sword it was intended to be. It was nowhere near
done -- it normally would take me at least two or three days of
hammering by hand to shape the blank properly, a lot less if I
used the power hammer -- but it had served its purpose in the
hour or so that I'd been working it. My fury at Umbridge was
expended, transformed into constructive effort.
I studied the results of my hammering and decided I liked what I
saw. I stored the cooling blank in the rack reserved for blades
in progress, and turned back to clean up my workspace.
"That was very pleasant to watch," a dreamy voice suddenly said,
and I started. Glancing around the shop, I finally spotted Luna
Lovegood perched on an anvil in one of the more shadowy corners
of the shop. "I do believe I enjoy watching sweaty men without
shirts."
I snorted at her bluntness as I wiped the sweat off with a towel
that hadn't been draped over the anvil a moment before. "Good
evening, Luna." I dropped the towel back on the anvil, and it
disappeared as I reached for my shirt.
"Good evening, Colonel Sangnoir." I raised an eyebrow at her
choice of address as she hopped off her perch and stepped into
the well-lit center of the shop. "You were very focused on your
work," she continued, "and I chose not to disturb you."
I waved off her concern, then finished buttoning my shirt. "That
wouldn't've been a problem."
She regarded me for a moment. "If you say so. I was speaking to
Kat earlier," she continued on without any warning, "and she told
me your full code name. Are you the one the Sorting Hat sang
about?"
I thought back to the moment when the Hat had mentioned "The
Music of the Madness". I grimaced, and after a moment I
muttered, "Yeah, I think so."
Luna nodded slowly as I put the lid back on the tub of borax and
put it back in its cabinet. "I thought you might be. My father
sent me an owl today."
She was going to snap my neck with these sudden topic changes.
"Oh?"
"Yes. He says he's free to speak with you tomorrow or next
Saturday."
I nodded to myself as I put the hammer and tongs back in the
racks where they belonged. Tomorrow was no good -- it was a
Hogsmeade weekend, and I was one of the chaperons. I couldn't
ditch that for the hour or so it would take to talk to Mr.
Lovegood. "I think it'll have to be next Saturday. Please ask
him if noon at the Three Broomsticks will work for him."
She nodded. "I'm sure it will be."
"Thank you, Luna."
"You're very welcome, Colonel," she replied, smiling brilliantly.
As soon as I could politely do so, I had finished my dinner and
left the Great Hall for the Mansion. The Lovely Lady Innsmouth
had seen fit to sit in on my class the the last period of the day
(seventh-year Ravenclaws) and had spent much of it, clipboard in
hand, interrogating me.
Now, not only do I have considerable experience fencing verbally
with bureaucrats, I'm smarter than the average bear. Tying her
in mental knots was both easy for me and entertaining for my
class, but it did little to relieve the anger I felt at her
blatant bigotry and sickeningly-sweet but insulting insinuations.
I'm not an egotist (I'm *not* -- stop laughing) but even though I
made a literally metahuman effort to maintain my cool simply to
spite her, I was still was *furious* about the self-righteous
malice the bitch dripped from every pore.
Fortunately I took dinner early enough that I avoided her at the
staff table, but as soon as I could scarf down my dessert, I bade
my coworkers good night and ran all the way up to the eighth
floor with my helmet in hand. As soon as the Mansion door
manifested, I slammed it open, blew past Summerfield, and threw
myself into the Danger Room, bellowing for the computer to start
the Million-Mook March right fucking *now*.
An hour later, the endless slaughter had done little to soothe my
anger, and I ended the simulation before I could get caught up in
another wave of suicidal crunchies. I needed something different
to calm me. I needed something *constructive* instead of
destructive.
I stood there in the chill, empty Room, staring blankly at its
dimpled white walls, panting from the effort of the last few
minutes of the sim, while I wracked my brains for something,
anything, that might help.
And then it came to me.
"Computer. Give me Hef's shop."
The real Mansion's Danger Room would have no idea what I was
asking for, even after downloading the records in my helmet, but
I was counting on whatever magical mechanism was behind the Come
and Go Room to know or figure out what to give me the same way
it had known how to provide the Mansion.
I wasn't disappointed.
A familiar shop, one I had spent many weeks in, swirled into
existence around me. Concrete walls with open glass windows, a
floor of packed sand, and at one end a pair of double doors
almost like the doors of a barn. One of these hung half-open,
wide enough to let in a cooling breeze and reveal bright summer
sunlight and an open yard in which a rusting pick-up was parked.
Here inside, though, it was warm, almost uncomfortably so, thanks
to the gas-fired forge, its interior already up to temperature
and glowing red, that stood in the center of the shop.
Surrounding and between it and me were bins of metal stock, racks
of tools, barrels of water and oil, an assortment of anvils in
all sizes, and a power hammer just the right size for one or two
people to use. I took a deep breath through my nose and savored
the scent of hot metal and oil and, incongruously as always,
burning coal.
It brought me right back, and I immediately felt calmer.
Walking through the shop, I collected up a pair of tongs, a thin
bar of one grade of steel stock and a much larger ingot of a
certain different grade of steel. I stacked the bar on the
ingot, then slid them into the forge. As I waited for the steel
to glow cherry-red, I thought back to the last time I had been in
this building.
I'd met Tom Hefner a couple of worlds earlier at a ren faire and
SCA event in southern California. It'd been late summer of that
world's 1997. My adopted daughter Utena and I had gone
specifically to look for a swordsmith, and Tom'd had a booth of
his wares set up near the ring where they'd been holding their
mock combats. A former quarterback sidelined by an injury that'd
left him with a permanent limp, Hef was a mechanic by trade but
made knives and swords on the side; he turned out some absolutely
beautiful -- and *functional* -- blades, about which he was
justifiably arrogant. When Utena expressed an interest in one,
he pretty much dismissed her with words to the effect of "move
on, little girl, and stick with your dolls."
Well. You just *don't* say stuff like that to Utena. Long story
short, we broke one of his blades (not to mention Buckaroo's
katana) while proving she could use and was worthy of owning a
sword. This impressed Hef no end, and we ended up involved in
the process of custom forging one for her.
I'd already acquired a minor interest in smithing from long hours
watching Skuld at work even more worlds before that, and having
had Buckaroo's katana shattered in our no-holds-barred Rose Duel
over, around, through and above the faire's arena, I decided that
this would be the time to learn how to do it myself -- by
reforging his blade.
In the end, both Utena and I learned swordsmithing from him, as
well as general blacksmithery. With her help and Hef's
instruction I had repaired Buckaroo's katana. And as is typical
for anything on which I do work with my hands, it ended up
accidentally enchanted -- at least, that's the only explanation I
have for why it now gives off the scent of roses when I draw it.
And all three of us worked on Utena's sword, which proved it was
more than up to the task for which it had been made not long
afterward.
The night we completed the blade which she and I had dubbed
"Calyx" was the last night we saw Hef and his shop.
In any case, I had come to find smithing was very relaxing, and
I realized it was exactly that kind of relaxation I was needing
after having Dolores Umbridge in my face all afternoon. So as
the ingot heated up, I took off my robes and shirt, selected my
tools, and visualized what I wanted to make -- nothing fancy,
just a simple serviceable broadsword.
I rummaged around in one of the many cabinets and pulled out a
plastic deli container labeled "borax" in black indelible ink.
From a nearby rack I grabbed a scoop for the flux and, after a
moment's thought, a different hammer from the one I'd initially
decided upon. There was also the power hammer, which would make
the job faster and easier, but I wanted to do this manually, to
feel the work deep in my muscles.
I put the hammer and scoop down on a small table next to the
largest anvil, then opened the container of borax and set it down
next to them. I stepped back over to the gas forge, took up the
tongs, and using them withdrew the now-incandescent slug of
steel. With quick but deliberate steps I carried it over to the
anvil. I laid the glowing steel down on the top of the anvil,
held still by the tongs in my left hand as I took up the hammer
in my right.
And then I began pounding.
In between repeated trips to the forge to reheat the ingot, I
slowly stretched it out and folded it over, sprinkling flux on it
with each fold to better weld the alternating layers of different
steels together. The repetition of the pounding and folding was
almost hypnotic, and I lost myself in it as the two pieces of
steel became one, and slowly lengthened, thinned, and narrowed
until it had begun to look less like a block of raw steel and
more like the sword it was intended to be. It was nowhere near
done -- it normally would take me at least two or three days of
hammering by hand to shape the blank properly, a lot less if I
used the power hammer -- but it had served its purpose in the
hour or so that I'd been working it. My fury at Umbridge was
expended, transformed into constructive effort.
I studied the results of my hammering and decided I liked what I
saw. I stored the cooling blank in the rack reserved for blades
in progress, and turned back to clean up my workspace.
"That was very pleasant to watch," a dreamy voice suddenly said,
and I started. Glancing around the shop, I finally spotted Luna
Lovegood perched on an anvil in one of the more shadowy corners
of the shop. "I do believe I enjoy watching sweaty men without
shirts."
I snorted at her bluntness as I wiped the sweat off with a towel
that hadn't been draped over the anvil a moment before. "Good
evening, Luna." I dropped the towel back on the anvil, and it
disappeared as I reached for my shirt.
"Good evening, Colonel Sangnoir." I raised an eyebrow at her
choice of address as she hopped off her perch and stepped into
the well-lit center of the shop. "You were very focused on your
work," she continued, "and I chose not to disturb you."
I waved off her concern, then finished buttoning my shirt. "That
wouldn't've been a problem."
She regarded me for a moment. "If you say so. I was speaking to
Kat earlier," she continued on without any warning, "and she told
me your full code name. Are you the one the Sorting Hat sang
about?"
I thought back to the moment when the Hat had mentioned "The
Music of the Madness". I grimaced, and after a moment I
muttered, "Yeah, I think so."
Luna nodded slowly as I put the lid back on the tub of borax and
put it back in its cabinet. "I thought you might be. My father
sent me an owl today."
She was going to snap my neck with these sudden topic changes.
"Oh?"
"Yes. He says he's free to speak with you tomorrow or next
Saturday."
I nodded to myself as I put the hammer and tongs back in the
racks where they belonged. Tomorrow was no good -- it was a
Hogsmeade weekend, and I was one of the chaperons. I couldn't
ditch that for the hour or so it would take to talk to Mr.
Lovegood. "I think it'll have to be next Saturday. Please ask
him if noon at the Three Broomsticks will work for him."
She nodded. "I'm sure it will be."
"Thank you, Luna."
"You're very welcome, Colonel," she replied, smiling brilliantly.
-- Bob
I have been Roland, Beowulf, Achilles, Gilgamesh, Clark Kent, Mary Sue, DJ Croft, Skysaber. I have been
called a hundred names and will be called a thousand more before the sun grows dim and cold....
I have been Roland, Beowulf, Achilles, Gilgamesh, Clark Kent, Mary Sue, DJ Croft, Skysaber. I have been
called a hundred names and will be called a thousand more before the sun grows dim and cold....
