EndEro: Fantastic Metalworking

Many Ironborn bloodlines traced back through the written records, their names and deeds carved in stone on the faces of mountains or great buildings. Nemo’s family could be found there, the Tall-Hearts; steadfast miners for the most part, a few honorable warriors and those who rose above their origins to be smelters and even smiths, though that sort was rare. Some clans went all the way back to the days of oral history, recollections passed down from the time of legends when the first Ironborn had settled Irontown and struck the earth in search of glory and wealth. There the lovely Gen’s family had a place, the Brewers; shrewd dealers, innovators, a bloodline which had only occasionally known poverty or disgrace.

They were never the most prestigious family, their wealth generating from the breweries and distilleries, not forges or the field of battle, and still their influence was everywhere. Wordshapers had tales about mighty Hammer generals with Brewer companions, wise Whiteshirt Overseers who took Brewer counsel. And if you got down and took a look at the foundations of a structure that had been there since before your birth, there would be a Brewer name etched deeply somewhere in the cornerstone.

One of the many ways Brewers maintained their position at the peak of Ironborn society was by making advantageous matches for their daughters, usually to wealthy bachelors or sometimes even a promising young man. They did not match them to upstart Tall-Hearts who got lucky in one battle against a foe that turned out to be on their last legs anyway. Brewers would suffer a Tall-Heart to drink their beer, but not to sit at their table. Gen’s father, the imperious Gennat Brewer Himself, tolerated Nemo’s timid courtship because it entertained his beloved daughter; but it had been made clear that things would not progress beyond youthful flirtation, on pain of swift and severe retribution. The old man had spotted the young lovers holding hands at a festival to spark that uncomfortable conversation, in which Gennat had taken Nemo aside to privately deliver a list of the many ways in which he personally and his many sons assisting would ensure that the youngest Tall-Heart scion would be made physically incapable of securing any woman as wife, pleasing her in bed, or producing an heir of his own.

At the time the threats had been terrifying, but later seemed so extreme in their ferocity that Nemo had rationalized that they would never be carried out to such exactitude. His time amongst the boastful Vaqui had changed that mental picture drastically. Vaquis were always threatening this, swearing oaths to do that, as profligate in their words as with their bounty of coal. It contrasted so directly with the Ironborn way that Nemo was now convinced that not only would Gennat do every single thing he had promised in retribution, the old bastard would remember with clarity the entire list and be sure to hit every point just to keep his word honestly.

So his thoughts ran, around and around as he and his fellow militiamen marched home to Irontown. New Ironborn colonists had established themselves at the new outpost, their population reaching parity with the remaining Vaquis, and the Firewatch had secured the borders. Though their hands would be needed in Irontown, they were not returning without spoils. Nearly as long as the armed column of homeward-bound men was a coffle of slaves, chained in groups of ten behind wagons heavily laden with anthracite and trinkets. They were mostly women, the chained figures, so thoroughly brutalized by their menfolk when free that they made suitable chattel without much further training. Nemo had not yet taken the time to pay much attention to the two girls he had claimed for himself, being more interested in getting his share of coal squared away before the officers laid claim to whatever was left unattended.

As things stood, he would be sufficiently wealthy from the proceeds of his share to put up a house within the limits of Irontown. With two servants to keep it for him and cook his meals, he would serve out the rest of his time as a Smelter, and then hopefully a Smith, in relative splendor compared to his bunk in the Foundry dormitory. Most of his fellows had already divided their gains between beerhouse and brothel in their minds, without care or worry for the future. But then, they had no greater desire than a steady wage and a warm bed. Nemo’s plans were much grander, grand enough to pull his tiny family out of their holes in the ground and into Shor’s light; Omen’s ascension to the Meet had shown him how easy it could be, if circumstances were made correct and opportunities taken advantage of with the appropriate vigor.

But for now, it was back to ladling molten steel and tending the furnaces, the fires of which would roar ever more brightly with the fuel they had captured. Steel was the backbone of Ironborn society, their edge over every other tribe whether great or small. Steel were their swords, steel was their armor, and steel was in their hearts and souls. They had the finest ores, the most exact science in rendering it, and the greatest skill in smithing it into shape. However brief his time in the Foundry before mustering up, Nemo had learned that the smelting process was deceptively simple, the difficulty lying not in knowing how, but in getting it just right the very first time. Mistakes meant starting over at best, wasting precious time and resources. At worst, it might mean disfigurement or death for an unlucky smelter. Luckily enough, Nemo had always been a fortunate son.

Only days after arriving at the Foundry, Nemo had been selected for testing in a talent for pyromancy. The true knack was rare outside of the Smith bloodlines, whose scions could raise flames from nowhere or smother conflagrations through an effort of will; they also used it to control the temperature of their forges to precise measurements, making it possible to temper and harden their products exactly as they desired. Such gifts usually expressed themselves in adolescence, but it was not unknown for a latent talent to go undiscovered for years afterward without purposefully seeking it out.

Under the guidance of a Master Smelter, Nemo had held his hand over a candleflame for as long as he could bear it. He had managed the pain for what seemed like an eternity, the dancing light flickering hungrily for his flesh, before withdrawing his hand almost against his volition. The Master had made a note on his slate, then instructed Nemo to mentally urge the flame not to burn him, or perhaps to will his flesh to be proof against its heat. Trying the first method had yielded a result exactly the same as the first, as well as raising a sheen of sweat on Nemo’s face. Using the second, after switching hands to avoid blisters, he had lasted nearly three heart-pounding minutes before the Master called a halt. Upon inspection, his hand was reddened and raw, but not otherwise damaged.

“Minor talent for shielding,” the Master had called it, excited and smiling despite the small praise his words seemed to intimate. Writing as he spoke, he bestowed a wide grin on Nemo, who tried not to return a sullen glower. “No apparent external control, unsurprisingly. Don’t look so put out, this is a wonderful discovery! There’s no record of a Tall-Heart having any talent at all. For pyromancy, that is.” That last had tumbled out of the skinny geek in a hurry, his haste probably spurred by Nemo’s rapidly lowering brows.

“What’s all that mean, sir?” His hands stinging, Nemo had to fight hard to keep respect in his voice. Frail as the other man appeared, his rank was much higher than Nemo’s own, and it would not be wise to earn any ire at this early stage. Tapping his head, he tried to balance the situation with a joke. “I’m still just a miner up here, give it to me in rock-buster terms.”

“Oh, certainly. Think of it like this… You can do magic.” Back to grinning, the Master spread his hands with a reveletory air, as if he had just explained everything. “Sorry. Shielding is like putting on a kind of armor all over your body, one which repels heat and fire. Incredibly useful for a smelter. Or a smith, or Watchman, I suppose. Just incredibly useful! As it is, you can resist one candle in a small area. With training, you’ll be able to withstand much greater temperatures, maybe as much as standing in a burning building without your body noticing anything. I wouldn’t advise trying that ever, though, as buildings on fire have a habit of collapsing. What it means for you, right now, is that your shift will be shortened by two hours every day. For one hour before and one hour after, you and anyone else with a talent will receive instruction in how to use it properly. Excellent news for you, all around!”

Excellent news indeed. Nemo had done some digging on the subject, it never having been one he was much interested in before; sure, he loved the stories about pyromancers and Master Smiths, but those were beerhouse tales. Actual research in the library of manuals the Foundry provided revealed that Talents, as they were called, usually went on the fast track in any faction. Culturally, they were blessed by Shor directly, and functionally they had abilities beyond the vast majority of Ironborn. Some could control flame, some could withstand it, the greatest could do both. There were greater and lesser degrees of power in a talent from person to person, but the greatest roadblock was training; any talent, no matter how slight, would reap manifold benefits from training by one of the Masters.

And so Nemo trained, and then he worked. He trained at pyromancy, pushed carts loaded with raw ore and pig iron, and wielded long poles and hooks to maneuver the giant ladles of glowing, flowing steel. He tended furnace fires, inspected flues and pipes, and scraped slag out of cooling crucibles. As a miner, he had grown up strong and hearty, but pale. As a smelter, his skin became tough and leathery, hands and arms and face spotted with the tiny burns left by kisses from scattering, splattering metal. Every once in a while, he would be tasked with delivering steel to one of the great smiths around town, or put in charge of the billet stockrooms; easy, boring work usually reserved for the older men who couldn’t or didn’t want to deal with the exhausting clangor and heat of the Foundry, but sometimes granted as a reward to hard workers.

Wrought iron, mild steel, carbon steel, Nemo did it all. He learned what came in to the Foundry and how much, and what and how much went out in product and waste. By the time he had been and returned from the short, victorious war against the Vaquis, his pyromancy had burgeoned to the point that he no longer needed to periodically douse himself in one of the many water barrels standing around the Foundry while working. Keeping his shield up still took almost constant conscious effort, and tired him much more quickly than his job would otherwise have required, but such was the price he paid.

Had he been living in the dormitory still, the effort would probably have been too great for him to maintain. But instead, he returned each night to his newly built home, a modest sandstone structure with a comfortable bedroom for him and the girls, a kitchen with a well-stocked pantry, and even a private bath in which he could soak away his aches and pains. His slaves still shied away from him, refusing his half-joking invitations to join his bed and bath, but they no longer flinched every time he raised his hands above his hips in their presence. Before long, he was sure, their personalities would begin to emerge from behind their ever-present defenses of fear and servility.