Late night at the forge: Difference between revisions
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[Disclaimer: This story is of Sandwich's youth and is set before some of the stories above] | [Disclaimer: This story is of Sandwich's youth and is set before some of the stories above] | ||
It was late, almost midway through First Night-Watch, but Sandy continued to work doggedly at the anvil, her violet-gray forehead shiny with exertion. The flyweel before her had become her nemesis, the most hated enemy of her life. Twice already her father had inspected her work, pointed out the unevenness, predicted the inevitable and shameful failure of the wheel under stress. Peening-hammer in hand, she struck at its surface again and again, maintaining that body-rhythm that would produce a consistent pattern. Tap-tap, slam; tap-tap, slam. It was a slow, monotonous process; the greatest difficulty in the job was staying focused on the work, for hours at a time, lest the results be...sloppy. | It was late, almost midway through First Night-Watch, but Sandy continued to work doggedly at the anvil, her violet-gray forehead shiny with exertion. The flyweel before her had become her nemesis, the most hated enemy of her life. Twice already her father had inspected her work, pointed out the unevenness, predicted the inevitable and shameful failure of the wheel under stress. Peening-hammer in hand, she struck at its surface again and again, maintaining that body-rhythm that would produce a consistent pattern. Tap-tap, slam; tap-tap, slam. It was a slow, monotonous process; the greatest difficulty in the job was staying focused on the work, for hours at a time, lest the results be...sloppy. | ||
Revision as of 20:49, 13 January 2010
 | This article contains PROMOTIONS! Don't say we didn't warn you. |
/tg/ can't resist portraying the characters it's made in some sort of sexual situation. While Sandwich's lovable reserved nature managed to ward off most pairings that could lead to sex, one thread introduced a partner that finally caught on; An Anvil. Strange, but true, like any girl in her youth, an innocent moment lead her to experiment a bit with a large chunk of tempered steel.
The Story
[Disclaimer: This story is of Sandwich's youth and is set before some of the stories above]
It was late, almost midway through First Night-Watch, but Sandy continued to work doggedly at the anvil, her violet-gray forehead shiny with exertion. The flyweel before her had become her nemesis, the most hated enemy of her life. Twice already her father had inspected her work, pointed out the unevenness, predicted the inevitable and shameful failure of the wheel under stress. Peening-hammer in hand, she struck at its surface again and again, maintaining that body-rhythm that would produce a consistent pattern. Tap-tap, slam; tap-tap, slam. It was a slow, monotonous process; the greatest difficulty in the job was staying focused on the work, for hours at a time, lest the results be...sloppy.
Sandy found herself very poor at staying focused.
The face of Braega kept coming to mind, all the cruel things she and her friends would whisper across the room, just loud enough for Sandy to hear. Long-ears. Dark-filth. Spider-kisser. Table-top.
Tap ta-KLANG. Sandy's hammer skipped off the rim of the flywheel as she clamped her lips together, shoulders shaking slightly, willing herself not to tear up, not to show weakness. The rest, she had grown used to over the years. It was easier to ignore; she wasn't really a...one of those. Not really.
But as she and the girl-children around her had grown toward adulthood, Braega and the rest had...developed. Pudgy, girlish bodies had grown womanly, sprouting hips and breasts, causing the boys to trip and stammer. But Sandy had just grown...tall. Inches taller than any of the boys, and slender as a brush-bristle. No matter how tightly she bound her bodice around her waist, she could scarcely emphasize her hips, the meager handfuls of her breasts, the way that the others did so effortlessly. It wasn't fair...and she was the only one! Not even Auntie Vera could know what this was like.
She sniffed, shook her head, and wiped her nose on her rolled-up sleeve. Muttering, she centered the flywheel back on the anvil, and went back to work. All those boys were just stupid anyway, always talking about "axes versus hammers," and throwing dice, and seeing which could drink himself stupider, the fastest. She began her hammering again, brows furrowed, concentrating on the motions of her arm, the bounce of the hammer that let her go on longer before her shoulder and arm began to burn.
Stupid, all of them. And mean. Arguss was the only one who wasn't-
KLONK.
She blushed, paused deliberately to stretch. Arguss was only a year or two older, apprenticed to the Beardaxe Vester-Mason Primogenicus. And he deserved it, she had seen his work: never content with the easy, symmetrical geometrics that were 'good enough' for most. Sometimes his sculptures and reliefs seemed to flow...to pulse. Gods and ancient heroes seemed to breathe from the stone, not merely scowl in cold, abstract profile.
Now she was being stupid. She didn't know him; Arguss might be just as mean and dumb as the others. But he was so quiet, like the men Poppa worked with; not a braggart or a rowdy brawler. Even when he wasn't working, he seemed lost in thought. She would sit across the alehall once in a while...sometimes...a lot...and wonder what he was thinking of. When he worked, he often had this tiny smile on his lip, almost hidden by the braids of his beard.
She had managed to fall into a more proper rhythm, the 'prentice-smithy ringing with a good pattern, a right pattern. The impact of hammer on metal was a smooth pulse that traveled up her arm, which sent a tiny shock through the anvil with each blow. Without thinking about it, she had begun to lean slightly on the anvil, feeling the pace of her work through her hips and pelvis as well as her arm. Dimly she became aware that it felt...different.
She paused. She hit the flywheel a few more times...then, experimentally, she tapped the anvil itself. Pressed firmly against it, she lifted her hammer, and brought it down in a solid blow.
Oh. That was...oh.
She suddenly felt her face heat up, her ears burning. She looked around herself, mortified that somehow, someone might have come into the smithy. No. No one else came in here this late, it was why she liked to be here, when all the others had gone home. She leaned in once more, slender hips pressed to the surface of the anvil. She struck the anvil again. It felt good, but muffled. She wondered if...then she ran her hand over the thick leather apron she was wearing. She pursed her lips, then set the hammer down and yanked it off, tossing the grimy apron aside. When she placed her pelvis against the metal this time, she could feel its slightly chilly surface through the fabric of her work-skirt. She tapped the surface of the anvil...then harder...then a solid, ringing hammer blow. Her knees quivered beneath her. Her nipples felt tight beneath her shirt. Surely this was wrong...
As she toyed with the hammer and the anvil, experimenting with angles and varying amounts of force, her mind wandered. She thought of Arguss again, licking her lips. She thought of his hands--powerful, skilled, wielding a hammer and chisel. She could just see the gentle way his fingertips would brush across his work surface, scattering chips and dust, a confident caress on the curved surface of... the...
She dropped the hammer, barely missing her toes. She didn't notice. She was grinding against the surface of the anvil, its hard pommel pressing between her thighs, the sensations so sweet yet not...quite...there. She let out a tiny, frustrated moan, then bit her own hand, mortified at the sound. Finally she hiked her skirt up one leg, placing her foot on the edge of the raised dais that the anvil rested upon, one bare thigh pressed to its side. She leaned in--it was chilly! Yet the surface of the metal warmed quickly enough, and she moved again, fluidly, breathing heavily through parted lips. Arguss...she thought about his hands, about being touched, the shape of his lips as he blew dust off of his engravings...
She seemed to burst inside, a wonderful sensation fluttering outward from deep in her abdomen. She whimpered, dropped to her knees, clutching a handful of her skirt between her thighs in a mix of amazement and horrified embarrassment. White hair fell over her eyes, and she pushed it back, fingers dragging slowly through her hair, her pulse finally settling. She smoothed her clothes, looked for her hammer...glancing once more around the empty smithy.
Tap-tap, slam. Tap-tap, slam. It seemed so much easier to concentrate now, her mind placid and content. Tap-tap...
