Hammering Out a Skill (Otherwise Untitled)
#215 of Short Stories
A fennec answers to their teacher.
~ The cool night air was a welcome change of pace for the instructor, stepping out from a long draw of paperwork and records-keeping. The phoneix was always more comfortable with a hammer in his hand, than a pen, but matters of teaching always seemed to dictate discomfort. As he was shaking out his wings to encourage the crisp air in amongst his plumage, he noticed the glow of lights inside the forge. A soft clicking of his beak snuck into the tempo of his paces as he sought to investigate.
~ Quietly slipping in through the door, the instructor first made note of the pile of wrought pot-stands that had accumulated in the scrap bin since he'd last seen it before his lunch. They were in varying states of quality and muster, though his attentions did not linger long on the twisted pieces of metal. Upon seeing the fennec, wrapped nearly head to toe in a heavy sanded canvas garment, the phoenix called out.
~ "Oi! What're's'ya got at this hour, t'keep'ta'ir?", the moment's modest surprise displacing what he had left of elagance after the evening's long tabulations.
~ The fennec froze in place for a moment, before carefully setting down his work-piece and tools on the stone table where they'd not be sparking any flames, before turning about to answer his instructor, "Practice.", muffledly.
~ The old bird leaned against one of the iron tables, regarding the bundle of canvas and unable to read the fennec's expression through the large glass discs of the goggles, "You seem damned determined to keep on this work, for someone who's barely not yet failed out. Why've you not gone over to something you're suited at, like the fine jewelry?", making a bit of a motion with his fingers for emphasis, "You were pretty good at the section of fine work."
~ Both hands freed from tools, the fennec's hood and mask came off with an abrupt jerking motion upwards. He fixed the instructor with eyes heavy of exhaustion beyond what the night's forgings had provided, "Arrow went through m'dad's breastplate. Mace caved in my cousin's helm. A town's silversmith doesn't make any better of armor there, and these border raids will see my children and their's raised.", ducking his head back into the mask and hood as he turned back to his tools.