The Loneliest Blacksmith
Sometimes when I’m forging a cursed blade for combating the forces of the Overlight, I ask myself, “What is it all for?” I quench the black steel in fetal blood, fill the graven runes with manbane resin, wrap the grip with strips of skin, and still I feel empty inside.
Sure, the hordes need weapons to destroy the humans, and this protects our subrealm from being purged from the material plane of existence, but all of this seems very abstract. How many talon guards can I make before I lose my mind?
Clang, clang, clang. It doesn’t mean anything.
This wasn’t what I looked forward to doing when I was a larva. But sometimes it seems like those dreams get sloughed off and eaten along with your first carapace. At least there’s a pint or two of spoiled ichor at the end of the day.
But still I can’t wait for retirement — which seems like an eternity away.