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Post by EZEKIEL L. on May 5, 2013 13:44:21 GMT -6
[cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width:400px; background-color:#ffffff; border: 2px solid #000000,bTable]Lets walk through the fire together, disappear in the golden sand
| [cs=2] Within their circular prison, they danced. The thin black hands spun as they had done for years, well-versed in the choreography. They grew languid from the redundancy, though, from the boredom, restlessness having settled in once the excitement of their performance had waned. The only spark of thrill came from the accompaniment to their decaying waltz - an incessant series of stocato ticks. But the song of the dying clock on the far wall, endless as the time it recorded, couldn't be appreciated - not when it was so overpowered by the thundering orchestra of the forge.
The blacksmith's shop of Sepalum Peninsula was a composer of music all it's own. The place was loud, wholly poignant and full of life in the daylight. The highlight of its ballads was a steady, clapping din as the experienced workers descended upon steel with the faces of their hammers. The hearth along the eastern wall radiated in colors of orange and bright yellow from within its blanket of brick. And the smoldering coals never failed to fill the high-ceilinged expanse with a hazy, murky warmth. Few meandered through the troves of machinery, through the twisted metal and scorched tools. Few could tolerate the inevitable sweat and noise - but it was in this place that Ezekiel Peter Lynch had found his calling.
Consitency was a concept that his life had eluded from him, a word that had no definition in his vocabulary. Financial misfortune and forever fluctuating economies cursed his perceptions of the world with the assumption that everything was temporary. People, places, memories; all a blur. Recalling the past was as depcrepit and troublesome as his meager understanding of "home". Yet in the quaint confines of a small farming establishment, in the smothering torrent of the blackened shop in which he worked, the man finally discovered a fragment of peace. With just a hammer in his hand and a finished product in mind, Ezekiel could release himself to the world; could target his focus and allow his other senses to draw a blank.
The mechanical movements of working on steel and wrought iron with his bare strength became trained muscle memories, backed with the force of a lifetime of bottled emotions. Each flaming spark born of his strikes was like a fragment of caged anger, a roaring monster, a fuel that transformed metal into masterpieces on his anvil. Such tunnel-vision produced a marvelous array of household accessories for his public: from fireplace pokers, grilles and gates, to hinges, end tables, and hanging pot racks - not to mention infinite amounts of farming tools.
With red hair tied back, cotton shirt laden with sweat, and green eyes ignited with an internal fire as hot as his hearth, Ezekiel surrendered himself to his craft - to the meditative, therapeutic state that was his salvation. | words 459 tagged open~!
notes hurry in, he needs a break~~ |
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Post by verity on May 6, 2013 15:24:50 GMT -6
Sometimes, she wondered if her mother was truly superstitious -- with the hoodoo and voodoo, dolls and nails, strings and hair -- or if her beloved-yet-so-very-irritating parent was simply tugging her arm, or however that saying went. Verity thought of all the times her mother had sent her out on wild goose chases ("Go follow that rainbow, Verity! Find the gold!") and of all the times she had threatened her fledgling children with mysterious magic ("Do you want to know what happens when I stick this pin in?"), but also of the conspicuous lack of any such items commonly used in hexing and 'dark magicks' around their home.
She had never seen a single toad hopping around, or any straw dolls with people's names on them. The girl had the vague feeling her mother found some sort of pleasure in teasing her.
In any case, despite her misgivings, Verity was once more on the hunt for a 'magical item' -- last week's task was to find a five-leaf clover ("Mother, do those even exist?"), and this week was to somehow procure a lucky horseshoe ... as if Verity could discern the difference between a perfectly ordinary horseshoe and one to that brought good fortune. With a slightly frustrated sigh, the girl carefully walked through the cobblestone streets of the town, out toward the mine. If anyone could tell her what she was looking for, it was surely the blacksmith. (She hoped.)
The girl felt a vague feeling of disquiet; this was farther from the bathhouse than she liked. Other than perhaps the library and the sea, Verity really had no business going elsewhere. With hesitant, uncertain steps, she knocked on the door of the forge. The clanking sounds of hammering and the hiss of steam drifted outward from inside. Hm. Perhaps she could not be heard? She slowly pushed open the door, glancing inside. "Excuse me," she said quietly, her light green eyes scanning the interior before coming to a rest on the working, rather sweaty smith.
"..." Was she interrupting? "I shall wait outside, then." Verity slipped out, closing the door and leaning against the exterior wall.
(sighs i'm sorry this is incoherent ;;; and i hope you don't mind that my posts lean toward the shorter side?) |
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Post by EZEKIEL L. on May 7, 2013 1:07:08 GMT -6
[cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,width:400px; background-color:#ffffff; border: 2px solid #000000,bTable]Lets walk through the fire together, disappear in the golden sand
| [cs=2] There was no record of how long he subjected himself to such strenuous work.
Or rather, what usually could be considered strenuous work. Ezekiel's upper body had become too sculpted, too specialized for there to be any further gain from these menial tasks. Larger, more demanding projects were essential to prevent stagnation - but as the phrase went: you win some, you lose some. Even if he was far from feeling any overwhelming burn or fatigue, he was on his feet from the moment he opened shop. Still, he found modest pleasure in the smaller duties - they were, in many ways, more creative, and required a refreshing attention to detail. They also meant, that for a time, he could relax. Presently, he was taking a well-deserved (albeit short-lived) vacation of sorts: by sculpting a custom ordered rose. It was to be a pretty thing, adorned with an elongated stem and abundantly blossomed.
When at last his mind began to numb from the focus and the metallic petal plates were beginning to hold their shape, the red-head straightened from his position over the anvil, critiquing his progress. The design did not yet embody the image he had in mind, but if the remaining of the day's work hours were dedicated, it would soon decorate his patron's shelf, nightstand, or coffee-table; wherever he decided to grace the display. Ezekiel took an invigorating breath, the sweat that hung between his skin and the fabric of his shirt cold. The trusty tool of the trade hung characteristically in his hand, and he glanced down at it with pride in his eyes. With a flick of his fingers and a well-trained turn of the wrist, it flipped in his hand then brought up to eye level. The smith's appreciation of his inanimate partner was interrupted, though, when the shop door signaled a guest with a customary, creaky moaning.
The man started at the sound, lengthy bangs sticking to his jaw-line from the motion. Through the gap in the wood appeared a gentle face, framed by fleeting fringes of blond hair. He blinked at her, curious and slightly surprised by her sudden appearance. If she knocked, he hadn't heard it. The parched skin of his lips separated, prepared to issue a greeting, when the blond retreated back across the threshold and the door closed behind her with another sad lamentation. Ezekiel lingered in the haze of the forge, internally gaping at the space she occupied moments before, picking at his thoughts to reason why she fled just as quickly as she manifested. Curiosity compelled him to satisfy his own inquiries as to her whereabouts, so he stashed his hammer onto his work-table with a clank before approaching the entry.
The door swung on its hinges for a third time, and Ezekiel poked his head through the threshold, immediately settling on the feminine figured leaning casually against the wall. "Ah-" He mused with a small smile. "There you are. I, uh- I thought I saw you come in. Can I help you?" The man pushed the wooden portal to its limits, then extended an arm, inviting her inside. "Please." He gesticulated once more for good measure, then returned into his workshop, leaving the door open for her to enter at her own pace. | words 546 tagged ari!
notes its bad but im tired im sorry orz ill just go to bed now |
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