A roar tears through me as I bring a gleaming adamant hammer down like a meteorite from the heavens. Shooting stars in the form of sparks spray out from the silvery blue mithril, rendered white hot from the blazing heat of the forge.

  I am a dragon, the hammer of my claws shape metal, the heat from my breath melts stone. Wild black hair whips behind me like flickering flames in the rushing hot air, barely contained by a leather strip tied tight. The muscles in my back and arms flex and strain as I bring down strike after titanic strike.

  My sharp teeth gleam in the firelight, split in a wide grin as I lose myself in the sheer bliss of heat, power, and creation. Another echoing roar bellows out from deep in my core. Raw primal energy coalesces in a flare of life then blinks out as the magic completes.

  “Pretending to be a dragon again?” The hoarse tones of my former teacher Hepthaz breaks me from my trance. The aging dragonkin always had a knack for timing.

  “Let me have my fun old man, some of us still enjoy our work” I jab at him good naturedly, a beaming smile splitting across my face. There was a time he'd have reprimanded me for playing around, but the impeccable creations I made wore him down eventually. Somewhat. He had still punished me on the rare occasion I took it too far.

  It’s been fifteen years and Sierri is still barred from his forge.

  “I’m just about done with this if you'll wait a moment.” The hissing of the blade and belch of fire from the quenching oil punctuate my statement. A practiced run through the heavy Starstone grinding wheel and a quick polish bring the longsword's blade to perfection. I affix the meticulously crafted handle, winged guard and runic inscriptions bringing an ornate splash of beauty to the deadly weapon.

  “If you wanted to make weapons you could have chosen a different class.” He asks with a brow raised in confusion.

  “Only checking to see if anything’s changed for my weapon crafting since ascending. Seems I can still hammer out a decent blade in a pinch.” I respond while examining the finished product and tossing it in the discount barrel with the others when I’m done. I had been afraid my enchantments wouldn't take hold and I'd be forced to abandon crafting anything magical with an edge. It’s good to know that having armorsmith in the class title doesn’t mean I can only make armors.

  “False modesty’s not a good look on you, lass.” Hepthaz retorts in his typical crotchety tone.

  “Hmph, it's not modesty, I just have standards.” I fire back, crossing my arms in minor annoyance.

  Far too many smiths with no talent and no drive putting their trash in the hands of people who depend on those weapons to survive.

  “So what brings you here elder?” I ask while grabbing a nearby rag to wipe the sweat rolling down my tanned skin and the scattered crimson scales of my dragonkin heritage.

  Despite the deep wrinkles of his bronze scaled skin and shaky fingers, the old man moves with a steady strength. The heavy wooden box he carries with ease is dropped on to my workbench with an echoing thud.

  “A gift from all of us.”

  A gift?

  I reach out to grasp the lid with nervous anticipation, wondering what they could have gotten me and why. I only crack the lid an inch, enough to peek inside, before I drop it shut. Afraid that what’s inside will fly away if I leave it open.

  “Adamant bars?” I ask, not able to accept the reality that my eyes showed me.

  “Yes, even the other elders-.” His words are cut short as I heft the man into a crushing embrace, lifting him fully off the ground.

  “Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou, thankyou.” I spin the grizzled smith around, unable to contain my excited energy. He grumbles something in annoyance, but I can tell he’s just being bashful. He’s the only one who thinks his emotional deflections are at all effective.

  “Alright alright, put me down already.” Hephtaz says, attempting to regain some semblance of dignity as I plop him back down on his feet.

  A million ideas race through my mind and my body is vibrating from the sheer possibilities. The thin thread of politeness is straining under ambition and the man can easily tell.

  “Go, shoo. Play with your new toys.” He adds with a toothy grin.

  I barely hold on until he finishes speaking before I transform into a woman-shaped hurricane. Upending crates of drawing tools upon the table and clamping the entire stack of canvas drafting paper down. Whispering a short prayer to the god of crafting for insight, I dip my quill in the ink pot and let my mind loose. Design after design flows out through my pen in unbridled creative joy, It feels like the first time I picked up a hammer all those years ago.

  It isn’t until I’ve run out of drawing paper and my stomach starts protesting the neglect that I realize I’ve been in my workshop all day without eating anything. I note that my inkwell is running low too as I make a mental list of supplies to pick up while I’m out. There are papers scattered across the table and floor, but that’s future Eliza’s problem. Current Eliza is hungry.

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  Pushing out the heavy steel door and stepping out of my forge into the half finished storefront is like taking a dip in an ice lake. The cold mountain air chills my bare arms and sends a shiver through my body. I quickly duck back in to grab my heavy fur cloak from the metal hooks near the entrance, wrapping it tightly around me to return the heat that was stolen by the frost. Much better.

  The thick wrapping brings the outside cool to a manageable level and I wonder how much easier it would be if I were descended from an ice dragon like most of the other dragonkin here.

  But then I’d be suffering from the intense heat in my workshop instead, not worth it.

  My breath frosts over in the open air as I exit my shop, a nervous excitement zipping through me at the thought. My shop, my very own shop. Another growl from my belly cuts into my reverie, reminding me why I’m outside.

  The crunch of snow underfoot greets me as I walk the coated cobblestone path winding down around the mountain. The dense stone buildings of Dragonforge pass greet me on either side, the wisps of smoke rising from chimneys into the clear night sky. Soft glows from the windows illuminate my path as I trudge down the street, toward the butchers and bakers and many others that keep us well fed and happy.

  Mouthwatering aromas of cooking meat and generous spices tell me I’ve arrived. I instantly spot the familiar loaf of bread embossed in steel hanging from Sierri’s bakery sign, pulling me in like the charms of a succubus.

  Fallen to the allure of the pastry demon, oh woe is me.

  I tap the snow off my boots on the stone wall and push open the heavy wooden door, the scent of fresh bread flooding my senses with delicious intensity. As soon as I step in, my eyes immediately lock onto Sierri, passing over the displays of baked goods despite my hunger’s reluctance.

  My heart soars at the sight of the baker, her black hair a match for mine and held down by a pristine white headscarf. She moves with practiced grace as she pulls her finished pastries from the back oven, her apron and green dress fluttering from her swift movements. As she turns, her emerald eyes lock with mine, dimples appearing from the wide smile that blooms on her face. A beautiful divine being.

  “Be careful with those eyes, the priests will accuse you of putting people under a spell.”

  She rolls the offending spheres at me, but her smile only widens.

  “Did you spend all day coming up with that one?”

  “Nope, just a little divine inspiration.”

  Her light chuckles set my heart aflutter, this charm is too far gone to be dispelled. She motions for me to come closer, the dextrous way she moves her hands and the sway of her hips entrancing me as she swiftly returns to juggling the many tasks of her work.

  “Meat pies, goat and chicken with extra spice for my favorite ‘divine armorsmith’.” She says in a sweet voice while pushing a pair of flaky golden pastries toward me with a wink. I don’t miss the soft stroke of her fingers as our hands touch during the exchange, the only hint of her mischief an almost imperceptible smirk.

  “I’m the only ‘divine armorsmith’ you know. But I’ll take the compliment, and the pies. Everything from you is delicious and I am hungry.” I playfully stick my tongue out at the subtle jab, all of my tongue as the flexible appendage unfurls past even my chin. The furious blush on Sierri’s face eliciting the exact reaction I was hoping for, her spattering of blue scales now a deep shade of purple.

  The seed of heat blooming between us is chilled cold by the gust of wind from a new arrival, eliciting a frustrated sigh from both of us. An unfortunate reminder that the work day is not yet done. I bring the full force of my willpower to bear against the irritation that wells up in me at the interruption before I turn to see who entered.

  Deep wrinkles and a permanent scowl are etched heavily on the green tinged skin of the orc woman. Miss Zovruh, the bane of all the children in the middle district of Dragonforge pass. Yet her presence only brings a comforting joy to me and most of the adults in the area. Only with the wisdom of hindsight would one realize all the reprimands and scoldings were to protect us from the very serious dangers of the Frostwyrm Mountains. The harshness of her expression belying the great care she put in her lessons to ensure we understood them.

  “Good evening Miss Zovruh.” Both me and Sierri say in a well practiced greeting with deep respectful bows, the years of habit being difficult to break.

  “Good evening Sierri and Eliza.” The guttural tones of her orcish accent make the words come across far harsher than I know she means.

  “Oh, your order! Give me a moment Miss Zovruh!”

  The baker scrambles to the back shelves of the shop, retrieving a bundle of bread wrapped in a thin cloth in a flash. Her reaction eliciting an amused grin from the older woman as she leans in closer to me with a conspiratorial air.

  “Always panicking that one, why I remember the time she showed up to lessons in a rush with all her clothes on backwards.”

  Her words ring out clear across the room bringing an indignant squeak out of Sierri as she rushes back to the front counter in a huff.

  “Miss Zovruh please, I was 7 at the time!”

  “Yet you haven’t changed in the two decades since.”

  “Hmph, here is your order.” She responds with annoyance, pointedly ignoring the barb while she pushes the bundle forward.

  “Thank you dear and have a pleasant evening you two.” Zovruh takes the bundle with a satisfied smirk, pulling her hooded cloak in tight as she exits out into the swirling snowy winds. The heavy wood slams shut behind her, leaving us alone with each other once again.

  “Backwards clothing huh.” I chide with an evil grin on my face, not knowing the doom I’d just wrought upon myself.

  “Oh, do you want to go down this road? From the woman who wet her britches at 11?” She fires back. There’s no real heat in her words, but I know better than to keep poking, lifting my hands up in surrender.

  “Okay, you made your point.”

  Her fierce expression cracks into a quiet laughter and I’m soon joining her. The embarrassments of my youth having no edge all these years later. When the laughter finally dies down, Sierri straightens herself out while smoothing out her uniform.

  “That was the last order for the day, so go sit and eat your pies while I clean up. Oh and do remember to clean the crumbs please.”

  I roll my eyes at her as I retrieve my dinner from the counter. You take a girl to your forge one time and she suddenly thinks you’re a slob.

  There are no chairs or tables so I take a seat against the outer wall and carefully dig into my meal, making sure all the crumbs land on the wrapping. Each bite is a slice of divinity, an otherworldly delight. The flaky and buttery crust melts in the rich gravy, the tender cuts of meat burst with flavor, and the cuts of root vegetables are soft and soaked in spice. The searing hot peppers that bring the dish to unpalatable levels for most residents here is a perfect match for my tongue. An obvious indication that these were made specifically for me, filling both my belly and heart.

  I would marry this woman, I would. Save for the fact that every time we’ve tried it’s fallen apart. She once told me in a moment of frustration that I’m already married to my forge and I couldn’t even deny it. There are sparks and heat between us, but in the end we want two very different things out of life. She wants a partner who’s there by her side, to raise a family together with. I want a partner who’ll let me roam free, to craft and study and travel by my side. We both know we’d be miserable if we tried to force it, but whether as my lover or my closest friend I want Sierri in my life and most of all I want her to be happy.

  She finishes the last of her closing a short while later, cutting the fire from the oven and wrapping the remaining few loaves of bread to be sold for cheap tomorrow. With a radiant smile I take her hand gently in mine and escort her into the cold snowy night, the wind and chill of the mountain in contrast to the warmth exchanging between our palms. Each frosty puff of hers I catch from the corner of my eye dares me to lean in and mix our breaths together, but the biting winds keep my cool. In no time at all we’re upon her small stone house, the one she calls home and which I consider as such myself, as much as I do my own dwelling. I’ve spent more nights in her bed than I have my own and when she invites me in I can only smile at the faint blush on her cheeks, appearing no matter how often we do this.

  My life is blessed by the divines.