A steady rhythm—metal against metal.
Not frantic. Not urgent. Just… constant.
By the time the city came into view, the air had already changed.
It carried a scent I could not ignore.
Rust. Old iron. Something that had lived too long in the open.
They call this place Sanguine Anvil.
Six days west of Dunskar.
It sits lower, pressed against red stone that does not rise, only spreads.
The wind still moves here—but it no longer howls.
It passes through, like a visitor that knows not to linger.
The city is… smaller than I expected.
Five hundred, perhaps a few more.
And yet, it feels crowded in a different way.
Caravans come and go.
Always in motion. Always temporary.
Repairs, exchanges, quiet negotiations—then they leave.
A month, at most.
No one seems surprised by departure here.
The locals are easy to recognize.
Shorter. Broader. Their bodies shaped by repetition rather than battle.
Arms that remember weight. Hands that do not hesitate.
They laugh often.
More than I have heard in Dunskar.
And yet—
their work never falters.
I watched one of them shape a blade while speaking to another.
No pause. No second glance.
Each strike landed exactly where it needed to be.
Precision… without tension.
It unsettles me more than discipline ever did.
There are others here.
Those who no longer hunt.
I can tell, even without being told.
They carry it in what is missing.
An arm. A limp. A hesitation in their stance.
But not in their eyes.
They do not feel… finished.
They trade now.
Weapons, armor, tools—passed through hands that once used them.
Connections turned into currency.
A second life, perhaps.
Or something that resembles one.
At dawn, the city wakes with iron.
At night, the wind returns.
Softer than Dunskar.
But not gentle enough to forget where it came from.
I am told most people do not stay long.
I think… this city was never meant for staying.
Komentar
Posting Komentar