The not-immortal Blacksmith

It was a decidedly nice day on the plain of the gods, and Bjorn was sitting on a comfortable lawn chair beneath a beach umbrella, reading the “Gods Times” paper and sipping cold beer from an ornate stein. He felt Narissa before she stepped into view, and sat, uninvited, at his table.

“So Bjorn, whats this I hear about you taking a Mortal as an apprentice?” Narissa, Goddess of Purity asked.

“Not that its any of your business, but yes, I have taken an apprentice. He is a good lad, around a hundred twenty years of age or so.” Bjorn said, eyes not straying from the paper.

“Isn't that a bit old for a human?” Narissa asked, feigning interest.

“Yes.” Bjorn replied. “Don't you have some poor impure soul to harass? Or do you just feel like annoying your betters?”

“You, are not one of my betters, Bjorn. You are just a jumped up Dwarven god.” Narissa said, rolling her eyes, “I voted against your ascension to the upper ranks.”

“I know. Thankfully the rest of the gods thought better of it.” Bjorn said, finally looking up. “You were the only one who voted against me. Even your paramour, Max, voted for me.” Bjorn chuckled as the goddess's face turned red, “Strange coincidence though, Max has the same name as my apprentice.”

“Max...Max...” Narissa sat up strait in her chair, “Oh! Maxwell Smithson? Tristan's assistant? How is he still alive?” She asked, finally interested.

“If I was a betting god, and I'm not, I would say he drank one of those stupid potions you made. You know, the yellow ones for the hero's?” Bjorn answered.

“But I told the hero's they were for them only! The effects on a normal mortal would be unpredictable at best!” Narissa said.

“Well, Maxwell seems to be immortal. And very quick healing. He picked up a white hot blade the other day and dropped it back into the fire without even thinking about it. No burns on his hand at all.” Bjorn said.

“Well, well, well. I could use a man like him.” Narissa smiled, “Keep him in good shape. I think he will make an invaluable guide for the hero's that come in the future.”

“I don't know about that. He has a large amount of anger pent up inside. And I have occasionally found him crying over a locket he keeps out of sight under his shirt.” Said Bjorn. “I'm thinking it is a picture of his deceased wife.”

“He was married?” Narissa gasped, “Did he have children? This could be bad. Very bad.”

“A whole passel of kids and grand kids. But don't worry, aside from being immune to disease and a slightly extended life span, they're harmless.” Bjorn replied.

“Oh, thank the elders.” Narissa slumped back in her chair.

“Now, if you don't mind, I have a paper to read?” Bjorn said.

“Yes, yes. Get back to your important duties.” Narissa scoffed. “Check out page ten. It has a most flattering picture of you at your forge the other day. You know, when you were drunk dancing?” Narissa hopped up from her chair and disappeared with a soft pop.

“Damnable woman. I don't know how she became the head of the gods.” Bjorn mumbled, turning to the page in question. “Well, at least they caught my good side.”