It was so real. The smell of the forge, the sound of hammer ringing against steel, the shock of the contact running up my arm. Everything feels so right that it feels as though I am really there. I want to weep now, thinking back, I miss it so much. Manipulating a piece of steel into a war axe or a hammer, putting a piece of yourself into everything you make. The feeling of satisfaction at seeing the look of appreciation on someones face when you hand them a well crafted weapon is beyond description.I know that I am a smith. I can feel it in my bones. I know that I used to make weapons for the warriors in my city. I know this, just like I know that I didn’t make the axes that I weild. They are too old, too magnificent, too… I know that I didn’t make them. I also know that they seem as though they were made for me. The balance in my hands is as though they are a part of my arms. Huge deadly claws that only I can use. I don’t remember being trained in their use, but it seems as though I must have been.
These walls that surround me now seem familiar?? Why can’t I remember anything else? I hope that something comes along to help me remember something else.