Prism Ward makes her way through the buildings of the smiths. Each step clad in steel that inspires jealousy, awe, and respect from those around her. Here, it seems, she has found some with like minds, individuals covered in heavy armor plates for safety. Those who trust the safety of metal over the weakness of flesh. Proven tradition, over the unreliable innovations of the moment. Yet, even here the pony sees that she is alone in a way. While blacksmiths work with traditional tools, there are still the trappings of this strange station. In spite of this, the pounding of hammers and smell of the furnaces brings the mare back to a simpler time…
*clang clang clang*
A large stallion, without either horn nor wings, watches carefully the steel at the end of his tools. Deep in the fire of the forge, the metal starts to glow and soften. The stallion’s coat is covered in the soot of his work, yet still in places the deep magenta comes through. His mane is a more striking feature, a bright colored red more saturated than any in his fire. Putting down the tool, he gives a shout around the forge, “Just a little more on the bellows, sweet pea.”
Practically standing with all her weight on the bellows, a pink filly with a messy rainbow mane smiles through the soot on her face as she jumps onto the press of the forge’s bellows. “Yes pa!” Responding to the air, the flames roar forth, giving the last touch of heat needed for the plate.
Prism makes her way around the forge just in time to see her father bringing the plate out onto the anvil. A small plate of steel, it glows from the heat of the forge, and it starts to yield easily to the strikes as he brings down blow after blow from the hammer. Short, repetitive strikes meld the steel into shape as he moves it masterfully around the surface of the anvil. Seeing the wonder in the filly’s eyes, the master blacksmith carefully puts down the hammer. “It should still be warm enough, why don’t you get this last bit.” Happily hopping onto her father’s knee, Prism puts on a small smith’s apron that is just her size. With enthusiasm, Prism wastes no time in lifting the hammer and trying to emulate the technique of her father. In spite of this attempt, her skills come to play as the hammer hits wildly around the target, while managing to miss it, and denting the plate. “Now now, calm down sweet pea.”
Putting a hoof on the hammer, her father slowly guides it up and down where it needs to be. “You need to be gentle, otherwise you’ll hurt the steel. At the same time, you have to be firm, or the steel won’t listen.” Following his advice, Prism manages to finish off the last part of the plate. In spite of this, the dents from earlier remain. With the steel now too cooled, these dents seem well set in place. Prism looks to her father, confused. Stroking his beard with a sooty hoof, he replies to the filly sagely, “As much as we’d like to, we can’t undo what we’ve already done. There’s no way to take back a stroke of the hammer, or the sword. The best we can do is either ignore it, look around it, or do more work to fix what we’ve done.” As he finishes these last words, he brings out a smaller intricate hammer from its place on the rack, head glowing red hot, it melds the steel as if it were the same on where it strikes. In a matter of seconds, the plate is fixed, and ready to cool.
A distant signal tone rings from the town’s belltower. Ponies all around the town square begin coming out of their buildings and tents to see the commotion. With glee, little Prism hops off of her father’s lap and to the door. Laughing with her enthusiasm, he puts the glowing hammer back and takes off his apron. “Sounds like your mother should be back, let’s get you washed up.”
- - -
“Excuse me, miss?” The shopkeep’s words bring Prism back to reality, inside the cramped quarters and artificial surroundings of the station. “Are you going to buy something or not?”
The mare’s response comes as softly as ever, “So sorry, just looking.”