1406
Mieland was a lad, nigh 26 yet still a lad at heart, though without doubt aspiring for goals not necessarily beholden by a “lad” in his age. No, in fact, Mieland was a hard working one, tending the flames of his forge and taking on the work of many men to keep himself afloat. Whether it be tools, weapons of war, or delicate cutlery, he would smith it - without relent, until the job was done. A proud worksman of Litzbaugh, the mid-sized cascaded village along a wide and shallow river, for which he did not know the name.
Mieland had not always been a smith in these parts, though smithing he had been since he was young – at least, with the help of many patient masters, and even more hearty meals to fuel the proverbial flame. Only recently had he settled in Litzbaugh, the silver fell this way as his services were needed and he had not many places to go – the latter left open for interpretation. Mieland’s craft, as stated, encompassed many areas of village life, though he preferred to focus most on implements for heavy work. Pickaxes, hatchets, the regular full ax - often his services with these tools would revolve around repair. This was of no insult or injury to him - the silver was earned and the work was fulfilling. An entire tool being needed, of course, was a project only looked upon favorably for the opportunity alone. Improvement in all areas, seeing the hard work turned into real results – that was the highest reward barring silver for the sweat and calloused hands he knew in constance.
The sun on this day shone like any other. Bright, welcoming, a glow he was familiar with - though the day smelled something off. Not the forge’s coals, not the river’s moss. Smoke, and not that of the alehouse. Aye, smoke of the straw and log from several homes on the top of the hill.
Mieland set his hammer down mid-stroke, the ring of iron on anvil cutting short. His brow furrowed. That smoke—black, thick, anxious in its rise—coiled from rooftops not meant to burn. He stepped out from the smithy’s shade, wiping soot-stained hands on his leather apron. A wind from the east brought more than scent; it brought shouting.
Not the merry kind, nor the drunken bellowing of ale-stuffed men. Panic. Running. A boy sprinted down the hill road, waving arms and sputtering breath.
“Fire! On Warton Row! They’re calling for water, and—” the boy nearly collided with a cart mule as he turned into the main square, “—someone saw figures in the woods! Before the fire!”
Mieland didn’t wait for the rest. His forge was forgotten, coals left to simmer. He bolted for the hill, each footfall a heartbeat in the dirt. He passed neighbors grabbing buckets, old women covering their mouths with shawls, and younger men hefting axes not for lumber but protection.
Figures. That meant raiders. Or worse—drifters. Not common in Litzbaugh, not with the river’s shallows acting as a barrier. But it was always a possibility when the frost melted and strangers stirred.
When he crested the hill, he saw three homes aflame. Orange tongues licked straw roofing. Smoke blotted the sun like ink in milk. Villagers had formed a frantic line from the pump well, but they were losing.
Mieland’s eyes swept left. Beyond the fire, past a broken fence, he saw movement. Not the villagers. Not even men, exactly. Cloaks. Mud-covered. Not local. They were slipping back toward the trees, shadows on two legs, fast and without shame.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t call to them. He just reached for the hatchet at his side—the one he made himself, balanced and smooth-gripped.
If this was to be the day he used it not for wood, then let the blade prove worthy.