The busy streets of the craftsmen’s neighborhood echoed with the sound of hammers hitting steel. All kinds of different contraptions and animals assisted the creators in making tools, weapons, and art. Rhana’s streets drowned in yelling, swearing, and smoke long before the crowds came rushing in.

Out of all of them, the blacksmiths were the loudest. The first clattering of iron started with the song of the roosters just as the sun was sneaking in. Strong arms hid in gloves. The forges warmed the air even where the sun couldn’t. By the time tailors and shoemakers had come out of their houses, iron was already pouring from the veins of the forges, giving new life to everything it touched. It was the lifeblood of the city, the whole nation even.

Without iron, there could be nothing. Who could harvest the great fields this country had without a saw? How could the horses of its cavalry charge into battle unshod? How could any other craftsman do their work?

At any point in time, a small group of people holds the world together. At this time, it was the blacksmiths who gave life and hope to everything. Their small corner of the city, covered in smoke and ash, the dirtiest street in the craftsmen’s neighborhood, made everything beautiful in this world possible.

There was a myth in the smithing world that you could only see the glow of heated iron in darkness. Only master blacksmiths could work in a brightly lit place. In this part of town, all of them are crafted outside.

The clacking of hammers. The hissing of water as it cooled heated iron. The swearing of the blacksmiths. This was the rhythm by which a nation was forged.

It was this song of creation that guided a group of four through the busy streets. They passed the stands of the merchants, but it wasn’t their silks that guided them. They walked by the tailors and the leatherworkers, but their tools were not that rhythmic. When sweat started beading out of their temples, they knew they’d found the place.

They were looking for a blacksmith, but not just any blacksmith. The task they wanted to accomplish required a special tool, one that only a few people in the whole world could create. Thankfully, one of them lived and worked here.

“I’m looking for Ogi. I was told his workshop is somewhere here.” - Jassen, the one who led them, said to one of the blacksmiths.

The man raised his hammer and pointed down the street. Words are saved for the times when the iron isn’t bending to your will. The man and his three companions continued after a slight nod of his head.

“I’m looking for Ogi, I was told…” - he asked, and the only response he got was the back of the blacksmith and a raised hand pointing further down the street.

“Are you sure you got the name right?” - asked Olena - “If we have to search through an entire town again only to find out this guy doesn’t live here anymore, I’d be pissed.”

“They look more convinced than last time. I certainly have my hopes up.” - Jassen replied.

“How’d you know? By the way, the last one raised his hammer? Never have I seen another man who’s so difficult to find.” - Niko said, forever bitter.

“I’ll write a story about him. If we ever find him, that is…” - the fourth companion said.

The more they asked, the shorter their questions became.

“Ogi?” - Jassen asked when he reached the last workshop on the street - a small dark shed pressed against its owner’s house.

The blacksmith left his hammer and tossed his gloves aside. He brushed the sweat off his head, where his greying hair was desperately fighting to stay on, and approached the customers, staring at him like dogs a chunk of meat.

“What can I do for you?” - he said with surprising eloquentness.

“Oh, thank the gods.” - Olena sighed and leaned on her knees.