The wind whistles as it throws snow all about. For a moment, it sounds like a neighing horse in the distance. Despite the flurries and the sound, the Smith’s hammering rings out and the glow of the forge melts through the darkness. That warmth comes over me as I draw near, the snow disappearing in the heat. Even the wind slows to a breeze here. The Smith ceases his work as I step onto his land, setting down his tools once more.
“Welcome back,” his voice booms with excitement. He turns and his eyes go to my blade. Puzzled, he looks from it to me with an arched eyebrow and crossed arms. “If you killed Ohnesh without bloodying your blade, then that is a story to tell over a drink. Maybe half a drink for you. You look like a lightweight.”
Part of me wants to protest his quip and prove I can hold my liquor, but the angry sword in my hand demands different answers.
“I didn’t kill Ohnesh,” I tell him, black brows furrowed and a scowl on my face. “It’s just a baby. Its mother is just trying to feed it. There’s no strength in murdering the innocent.”
Our eyes lock for a long silent moment, both of us giving the other a sour look. The only viable weapon near him is his hammer. Though I have limited training, I at least have a sword. With a mad fury I could disarm him quickly. From there he could submit or die. Though, I do have to factor in his size. Who’s to say he would not simply slap the sword away and rip me in half? A cold fear trickles into my gut, but I stand ready regardless. If anyone is meant to bleed tonight, by the gods it will be him.
His red eyes ease. The fowl, mean look fades into a pleased grin. A laugh rolls from his belly and into the air. He loosens his arms from their lock over his chest. With carefree steps, he approaches.
“Well done, little man!” he exclaims. “I knew you would pass. Got that look in your eye. A good man at heart always has that look.”
My feet are planted in their spot. No longer out of bravery, but confusion. Is this just a tactic for him to get close and squeeze the life out of me? Throw me off guard and then extinguish the life from within me? The sword rises, my grip firm, and points at the orc.
“Easy with that,” he jests, knocking it to the side with the back of hand. I let it fall back to my side, defeated with no struggle. My befuddlement paints itself a ghastly hue of green all over my face.
“Strength is not just borne of muscle,” the Smith says, clapping a rough and heavy hand on my shoulder once more. “That’s might. Strength is the willingness and capability of doing good, not just for yourself but for the benefit of others as well. You could have slain Ohnesh with ease had you wanted to. It’s a pacifist, and you saw it meant no one any harm. You knew it would have been wrong. And you returned, looking to take on the awful person who ordered you to kill it. That, little man, is true strength.”
There is pride in his crimsons, undiluted and eager happiness. My heart swells. The only other time someone has looked at me that way has been in my swordplay lessons with Sir Rovert back at the Tower. A warmth greater than that of the forge fills me, bringing a wave of tears to my eyes and a brimming smile to my face.
“Now,” he says, softer as he leans in closer, “let’s talk about that blade.”
Tyler Gohde 
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