The not-immortal Blacksmith

From the journal of Maxwell Smithson

24th of Anael, the first month of snow.

We have arrived in Dragon. The City is…almost gone.

--

In the fog of the morning Maxwell looked over the bow of the ship as they arrived in port, and watched the damage from the storm be revealed.

The storm and its surge had burst over the walls that usually kept the storms at bay, and flooded more than half the city. The portion nearest the docks had the worst of the damage, all that was left were piles of debris where shops and warehouses had been. Chunks of ships and piers were strewn about the beach and some of the chunks were easily visible in the town itself.

Eyes wide, and jaw slack, all Max could do was slowly shake his head in wonder at the power of nature at its worst and realized, That wasn’t just a storm, that was a hurricane!

As soon as the ship had anchored in the bay, Max was almost the first to volunteer to go and help in town. He missed being first because Brianna had beaten him to the captain to volunteer.

--

As the small boat closed on the port, the devastation of the hurricane could be seen more clearly. The storm surge was still draining from the city and the wreckage was far worse than Max had first thought, with the dead and injured still in and around the remains of buildings and ships. As soon as the small boat beached, he and the others were off and running.

Max cast the spell Detect Life and was off in a heartbeat with Brandy on his sheals, heading towards a chunk of ship that showed a life was still inside. The two of them (mostly Brandy) ripped the barnacle crusted hull open, exposing a sailor with a pair of obviously broken legs. They carefully carried the man out onto the beach and laid him down above the high tide line before racing across the beach again in search of another of the storm’s victims.

Brianna, for her part, had started to erect an aid station of sorts where her husband had lain the man down, assisted by the ships doctor an some of the other passengers. As the survivors came in, she and the passengers triaged who they could while the doctor did what surgery and healing his magic and training could do.

And thus, left to his own devices, Grendel walked the slums, the muddy flats above the beach that were still draining water, looking for people of his own to help. He scoured the slums, looking in, on, and under collapsed shacks. He checked every chunk of boat, every piece of debris that could hide a small child, he even checked the midden holes, but to no avail, the slums were empty of life, even the rats were gone. He then began the chore of counting the bodies of the slum’s dead.

-

As the sun neared its zenith, the city guard approached the dock district. They noticed the several small boats on the shore, and the people wandering around going through the wreckage from the storm. The Lieutenant, second class, in charge of the group ordered the troops to stop the looters “At all cost”.

Sgt. Ralph stepped up to the nearest man, held up his hand and yelled “Stop!” The man ignored him and continued shoveling the dirt away from a shops wall. “I said STOP!” he yelled again.

The man didn’t look up when he replied, “Why don’t you back to guarding the keep.”

Ralph raised his truncheon and started to bring it down towards the insolent man’s head when he felt something sharp at his throat and froze. Then something soft spoke in a honeyed voice in his ear, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. He gets really angry when someone kills him.”

Slowly, Sgt Ralph of the city guard, turned first his eyes and then his head to stare towards the voice. What he saw on his shoulder was a small fae, a pixie if he remembered correctly, staring at him. A pixie with a very sharp knife and an obvious will to use it. He swallowed hard, and dropped the truncheon into the mud at his feet. “Um…carry on citizen.” He said, before he bolted up the road.