Location:Seven Peaks — The Forge; The Hall
Date/Time:TC1857.11.14 – TC1857.11.17
The forge had been cold since the fifth month, and it still smelled of his father.
Coal and scale and quench water gone stale in the trough, and the leather of the big apron that hung on the peg by the door, and under all of it the thing Aren had no word for in either language, which was the smell of a place where somebody large had worked every day of Aren's life and then stopped. He had not let anybody clean the trough. Nobody had asked to.
He went in most mornings and sat on the anvil block for a bit, which his father would have told him not to do because it put grit in your trousers, and then he went and did the linen with the northern girl, who had decided in the ninth month that he was hers to organize and had not asked him either.
