Iron sings inside the Blacksmith’s humble shop. He is a man much like the very iron he works: large, strong, impossible to see through. His arms are all muscles and rippling veins, their strength forged from thousands of repetitive blows, from twisting superheated metal with nothing but his own power. His legs, too, are strong: he cannot sit if he wants the best striking angles upon his anvil. All his clothing serves his work as well, with simple but durable fabrics showing years of minor burns and ash.
It is rare that the Blacksmith works on a true work of art. For the most part he simply stands, bushy-bearded face hunched over his battered anvil. Today, he makes a simple wrought-iron crowbar. Tomorrow, perhaps a simple dagger. The day beyond, perhaps a set of horseshoes.
But inside of him he yearns for his masterpiece. He sees the silversmiths, the jewelers, the woodworkers; he sees the beautiful twists and curves of their materials. He sees those curves within his own work, every bend and taper an expression of his physical mastery, yet he knows others do not see it. They see that he is talented, they see that he was made for the smithy, they know that his tools do not break and his weapons do not dull. They do not see, they never see the self-expression he puts in every piece he creates.
So the Blacksmith, between daggers and butcher’s knives and hooks and chains, sets aside time. He sets aside materials. He heats, and he hammers, and he punches, and he spreads. He lets the work direct him, he lets his hands wield the hammer, and he lets the hammer choose the form. Over weeks and months, he makes something for himself. It is in some sense a simple thing, a thing of twisted cobalt steel, its embellishments mere pips and geometric notes. Yet, it is covered with intricacies, with notes and with minuscule patterns, with textured lines and unusually looping curves. He holds it in his hands and he feels that it is a pure work of art, one made for its own aesthetic appeal and nothing else.
The day after he finishes it, a man of nobility comes into his shop, all robe and embroidery. He sees the piece and admires it for just a moment before offering the Blacksmith 350 ducats for the thing.
The Blacksmith, knowing nothing but the undeniably practical, takes the deal, and has never stopped regretting it.