The Etra Anthology

173th of Nemulum, 321 EA

Citadel of the Athalial League, Athal

“I’m a guildfellow, here,” Ferrik tried to cut through the excited din of the tavern to his date, “I work as a smith.”

“Oh! An artificer, how lovely!” Orivyre was dressed too well for this dive, where the tables were all beersticky and the bartender knew next to every face. “I always thought that the process of enchanting was such a noble pursuit, the binding of magic to material.”

“Oh, no,” Ferrik leaned away on his stool. “I mean, sure, I know some very talented artificers, and they’re great, but I’m not one of them. I’m a smith, I do metalwork.”

“Oh.” Orivyre’s brow creased ever so slightly, like they were trying to puzzle something out.

The two stewed in an awkward silence as the bar moved around their little bubble of tension. Orivyre took a sip of their drink. Ferrik took a sip of his, feeling suddenly quite dull.

Orivyre broke the silence with a question. “I guess, like, why?”

“What do you mean, why?” Ferrik turned a sidelong glance.

“Why come to the citadel? Everything here is so magical on it’s face, to explore across boundless cosmos. Ever outward, and all that. We’ve got the highest concentration of mages anywhere, here on this plane alone, not to mention the waystations. If all you’re gonna do is make metal, why be here and not somewhere less magically privileged, where the mundane would seem more useful?”

Ferrik was stunned by the gall for a moment, but only a moment.

“What a phenomenally rude thing to say.” He launched in.

“Oh, no, I mean, I didn’t-” Their eyes went wide and they began to stammer before Ferrik cut them off.

“No, you need to hear this. I’m here, because I deserve to be here. You think I just wandered in across a portal and ended up here? I worked my ass off, I became top of my trade, not only that but I’ve stayed on top through the endless gauntlet of contract work. And despite what you might think the citadel appreciates that shit.” Ferrik slugged back a hit of their drink, the whiskey putting a fire in their stomach, “Everything here is magical, get out of here with that bullshit. Like the whole of the Commission of Provisioning is just sitting around twiddling our thumbs. This place couldn’t run a single day without hundreds of makers, supremely fucking talented artisans by the way, who deal with all the mundane shit that lets high and mighty adventurers like you feel like it’s all effortless. If it were up to those spellcasters you think are so much better than me, they’d let it all crumble due to sheer lack of thought.”

At this point Orivyre was putting on their coat, their face an even flush of embarrassment and resentment as they gathering their keys and wallet.

“Yeah, that’s right, walk away. And think about the mason who laid the road those pretty fucking shoes are walking on. Think about the cobbler who made the pretty fucking shoes, while you’re at it.” Orivyre was nearly out the door at this point, and Ferrik hollered across the bar, “Just think!”

And then they were gone, and Ferrik was just at the bar. Folks nearby were looking at him, probably trying to figure out if he was the asshole for yelling at the pretty enby. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t go on another date for a good long while.

He ordered another whiskey and the bartender poured it tall, into a glass blown by hand, on a bar carved from solid wood, in a building raised through sweat skill and studs, in a world that would rather believe that it all came together magically than appreciate that labor.