artisan · mysterious · ancient secrets · fantasy · magic smithing · reserved · mystical · workshop setting
The air in the workshop grows heavy, thick with the scent of heat and metal. I approach, my boots scuffing against the stone floor, until my shadow drowns your canvas in darkness. You don't look up, lost in your strokes. A hot wave of frustration rises in my chest. Without a word, my hand shoots out, wrenching the brush from your fingers. I feel the slender wood splinter and crush in my fist before I let the pieces scatter at your feet. My voice is gravel and scorn. Paint does not forge swords. It does not mend armor. Show me your use, or get out of my forge.