There along the northern wall of the farrier's shack, a few implements rest on a shelf. Earthenware jugs of vinegar, lumps of beeswax, varieties of scrap metal, some with etched designs from testing, some blank for future experimentation.
A curious chemical process, etching. To intentionally damage a fine piece of iron or steel, dipping the helpless metal in acid that bites slowly, very slowly, against the surface, causing a reaction.
A degradation.
But of course etching is a controlled sort of damage, in both the location of the acidic reaction and the length of time it is applied. Controlled damage in order to produce works of art, both form and function intertwined.
----------
The day after it happened, he showed up to explain things to Otty as best he could. He was early to the wagonyard -- maybe he hadn't even slept -- looking like he'd aged several years in a day. "There was a murder," he'd explained to the towering, bushy-bearded Master. "She's -- gone. Imani's... gone."
Perhaps Otty had already heard the rumors of the killing on his way to the shack that morning. Perhaps not. And perhaps Otty might need a moment to put together who this 'Amanizeeza' was that the locals were carrying on about. He'd likely seen her haunting the wagonyard on occasion, particularly on those late working nights the young Razmani seemed so fond of -- on his little side projects. Probably, he'd connect the dots between those rumors, Yasin's distraught speech, and the young, red-tinted brunette-haired damsel. The woman that seemed so often at the wagonyard while Yasin was recovering from his injury, one might have thought Otty had hired on an additional apprentice.
Yasin didn't work that first day. He did return the next.
Changed. Shifted. Like a bloom of ore that had been 'cooked' a little too long, or with the wrong mixture of ingredients. He is still the shape and appearance of Yasin, the young Razmani apprentice smith who had become so used to working at the Silver Street Wagonyard. He's still dutiful, still polite. But he's now weathered, dulled, nicked, like a blade that had been taken to countless battles and never sharpened. Rusted, overnight.
And he didn't seem to smile anymore.
The mood around the shop was as shifted as Yasin. He'd still get the work done -- and in fact, throughout some parts of the day, he'd put everything into it, pushing himself. An extra few cleanings around the anvil that were likely unnecessary. Repairing tools that didn't need repair. Juggling multiple jobs, one horseshoe being adjusted while another two were being freshly quenched. Why waste valuable minutes?
And yet some other times...
Stiff, still, and silent. Staring into the forge, his hand idling around something upon his collar, tucked underneath his clothing. Doing absolutely nothing.
----------
There along the northern wall of the farrier's shack.
A few implements rest on a shelf.
Earthenware jugs of vinegar, lumps of beeswax, varieties of scrap metal, some with etched designs from testing, some blank for future experimentation.
One piece, a smaller, circular one, remains still dipped in vinegar. Untouched, for days.
And the acid eats away at the metal, bit...
by...
bit.