Greg woke up with a terrible headache and a hazy memory of seeing two moons that weren't in the sky. Lylia was sleeping in a chair next to his bed, with her head resting on her arms on the edge of it. He felt guilty and something else he couldn't name when he saw it.
"Ah, fucking hell. I'll never drink that much again," he said quietly as he pulled himself out of bed without waking her.
For once, his workshop was quiet. Seraphine must have gone somewhere else to do her research, Elwen was probably practicing in the village square, and Mira was likely changing someone else's life for a change.
Greg had made up his mind last night, through his drunken haze and embarrassing tears, that he needed to take a break. A real one. He was only a few days away from the forge, from commissions, and from the pressure of being the Peaceforger or whatever name people wanted to give him.
He had been on a break for exactly three hours. The noise that broke up his peaceful morning tea was unlike anything he had ever heard before. It started with a distant wail, then turned into what could only be called violent retching, and finally ended with a voice screaming words that made even Greg's old vocabulary sound tame.
"BY THE HAIRY ARSE OF THE STONE FATHER, WHO IN THE NINE HELLS IS HAMMERING AT THIS UNGODLY HOUR?!"
Greg looked out his window and saw a dwarf stumbling into the village square. One hand was covering his mouth, and the other was pointing at nothing in particular. The dwarf was short for a dwarf, maybe four feet tall, and had a beautiful beard that looked like it had been braided with colorful beads. His clothes were worn from travel, but they were still good quality. He didn't have any weapons or armor, which was unusual for his kind.
The yelling went on. "STOP! STOP THE HAMMERING! I CAN HEAR IT FROM THREE VILLAGES AWAY!"
Greg put down his tea. "There's no hammering. I'm enjoying my everlasting break right now."
But the dwarf had seen him through the window and was now running toward the workshop with the determination of someone who had come a long way for a very specific reason. He burst through the door without knocking, took one look at Greg's forge and tools, and immediately vomited into a conveniently placed bucket that Mira had left there.
"Sorry," the dwarf said between gasps. "Wait a second."
"I just need to settle my stomach before I can really introduce myself and maybe throw up again."
"Take your time," Greg said, because what else could you say to a dwarf who was throwing up in your workshop?
The dwarf straightened up and tried to look dignified after taking a few deep breaths and throwing up again. "Bork Ironbottom, formerly of the Ironbottom Clan, currently of nowhere because every dwarf settlement from here to the Northern Mountains has kicked me out."
"Pfft... Ironbottom...?" Greg tried very hard not to laugh, but he couldn't help it.
"What's wrong? Haven't heard of an Ironbottom yet?
"No, it's fine. I'm Greg Greyson."
"Can I ask why they kicked you out?"
Bork said sadly, "Because I can't stand the sound of hammering. Any kind of hammering."
"Making things, building things, or even putting up a picture frame. The sound goes right through my head like a pickaxe, and then my stomach decides to empty itself in protest."
Greg stared. "You're a dwarf who's allergic to blacksmithing."
"Not allergic, just really don't like the sound of metal percussion." Bork stopped. "Okay, yes, I'm basically allergic."
"Do you know what that's like? It's difficult to be born into a clan of famous blacksmiths, especially when the sound of their work makes you feel like dying!"
Greg said, "Honestly. That sounds awful."
"It really is! My father's name was Thorin Ironbottom, master weaponsmith."
"My uncle made the ceremonial hammer for the king."
"My cousin built the Gates of Irondeep, which have been there for three hundred years." Bork leaned against the wall. "And I can't even watch someone make a horseshoe without getting sick."
"So why are you here? There are a lot of hammering sounds in my workshop. It would be a problem, though, if I weren't on an EVERLASTING break. Greg pointed it out so that he won't get bothered.
"Because I heard about you," Bork said, and his eyes lit up with what looked like hope. "The SSS-rank blacksmith who won't make weapons."
"Who makes legendary items with good intentions and somehow makes great works of art that go against all the rules." He eagerly stepped forward.
"I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could learn without wanting to die if your methods are different enough from how smiths usually work."
Greg said, "That's a double maybe."
"It's the last maybe I have." Bork's voice broke a little. "Every dwarf clan I've talked to has either laughed at me or done something worse."
"They say I'm a shame to my ancestors and that I should just give up and become a farmer, a merchant, or anything else. But I can't." He stared at his hands.
"This is in my blood, even if my body doesn't want it. I want to make things that last, to create them, and to forge them. I just need to find a way to do it that doesn't make me sick every five minutes."
Greg looked at this sad dwarf who somehow knew how heavy legacy was and how hard it was to go against what everyone else thought. He thought about how he had refused to follow the path that had been set for him and how he was determined to make his own way, no matter what.
"Okay," Greg said. "But I'm warning you, my methods are strange, and I can't promise this will work."
Bork's face lit up like Greg had just offered him a mountain of gold. "Thanks! Thanks a lot! I promise I'll do anything to learn, even if it means throwing up the whole time!"
Greg said, "Let's try to stay away from that if we can, because Mira just cleaned this whole room."
...
Bork was too excited to wait, so the training started right away. Greg chose to start with the very basics, like how to hold a hammer correctly. He picked up his favorite forging hammer, the one that had made so many SSS-rank items.
Bork turned green right away and put his hand over his mouth. "Urgh!"
Greg said, "Dude, what the fuck? I haven't even swung it yet."
"The weight shift," Bork said in shock. "I can hear the possible strike. My body knows what's coming."
"This will be harder than I thought if it felt like some kind of trauma you are having."