Stoking the Fires

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Messenger of Love
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Stoking the Fires

Post#1 » Fri Feb 09, 2018 9:17 pm

Stoking the Fires

The heat of Blackrock Mountain was especially bad today. The forge of the Dark Irons rang loudly as a hammer slammed on an anvil, metal being pounded into long swords and axes. Sweat glistened off of Turnon Hardhammer’s dark, ashen skin, some of it sparkling a bit in his waist-long, fiery red beard, dripping down his bare chest, making his toned core ever more apparent. Covering his legs were only simple linen pants, enough to cover him, but filled with holes and oil stains. Raising his smithing hammer, he slammed it down against the dark iron metal on the anvil. Normally, he worked on weapons, but today, he decided he needed a new forge stoker.

About this time, many others were busy drinking at the Grim Guzzler. In fact, everyone but Turnon was busy drinking at the Grim Guzzler. Though Turnon didn’t mind this, he preferred having only his own hammer hitting the anvil as he worked. And the lack of others made it even easier for him. With a final slam of the hammer, he picked up the stoker and walked over to a bench. Taking some cloth, he wiped his brow before he grabbed some oil. A smirk grew under his beard as he looked on his work, proud of the long and rather attractive rod he had produced.The grizzled dwarf spread the oil evenly along the shaft before taking the cloth and rubbing up and down in firm strokes, polishing it clean. He worked on it in silence, enjoying every moment of his personal time, although it was soon interrupted as he heard a rather firm feminine tone, one he recognized all too well: Thiccan Hotforge.

“Ach, Hardhammer, what in the name of the Firelord are ye’ doin’ here?! I expected ye’ at the Guzzler ages ago!” Hotforge’s voice was just as stern as always as the woman came into view: A stout woman with skin as dark as soot, wearing the garb of a fire mage, deep red robes that accentuated the little muscle she had, as well as her voluptuous hips and endowed bust (which Turnon swore should’ve caused the robe to tear as she moved).

“Oi, I got distracted ye’ blasted witch! I had somethin’ to finish sharpenin’ and then polish.” The two generally tossed insults back and forth, but in the case of Turnon and Hotforge, it was how they showed their friendship. At this comment however, a brow raised on Hotforge’s harsh face before a devious smirk formed.

“Sharpenin’ and polishin’, hrm?” Her attitude evolved instantly as she changed her tune from harsh to swooning, strutting over purposefully to the blacksmith, swaying her hips with each step. Upon reaching the anvil, she laid on top of the rock-hard anvil coquettishly, her robe sliding past her shoulders, slowly revealing more of her ashen skin. As he saw this, Turnon’s beard rustled a bit as he struggled to not ogle at her, mouth agape, “Why don’t ye’ show me how ye’ swing that hammer to make up for bein’ late, hmm?”

He regained his composure as a gruff chuckle left him, “I think I’ll do more than that, lass… how ‘bout I stoke yer forge?” He tossed his new stoker behind him, clanging against the wall of his forge.

“How are ye’ gonna do that without yer poker, Hardhammer?” As he lowered his pants, she came to realize there was no better stoker than the one he carried on him.

<The rest of the pages are covered in soot and slightly charred. It would be too much work to uncover.>

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