In a small valley forgotten by maps and untouched by bardic tales, nestled deep within the Karum-Dar mountains, lived Grumbar Forgefire. A dwarf among dwarves, he had never battled dragons, nor raised an army, nor fled a grand destiny. Grumbar preferred the steady rhythm of hammer on anvil, the gentle warmth of forge fire, and the comforting scent of wax on oak furniture.
Every morning, long before the first rays of sun pierced the darkness of his stone-hewn forge, Grumbar awoke without alarm or urgency. He would stretch lazily in his solid wooden bed, yawn like a bear, and light a small tallow candle. He drank no coffee nor reviving potion, roasted barley tea was enough for him, along with two thick slices of bread slathered with sweetroot jam, a recipe from his grandmother.
Then he would don his leather apron, already stained by a thousand sparks and metal shavings, and begin his craft. The day had begun.
He worked tirelessly, yet never forcefully. Every motion was fluid, natural. His calloused hands guided the tools as if they had been forged together. Jewelry, weapons, ceremonial trinkets flowed from his workshop with a delicacy few could match. A sapphire-inlaid dagger hilt for the Gildenroc border guard. A wedding ring, both slender and sturdy, commissioned by a young couple from the neighboring valley. A griffon-shaped door knocker urgently ordered by the village mayor. Nothing extravagant, nothing glorious, just exquisitely right.
That morning, Grumbar had a special commission: a suit of armor for a young knight. He stoked his forge, only to find that his charcoal stores were almost empty. Without a moment's irritation, he wiped his hands, grabbed a small burlap sack, and trudged through the crisp morning air to his neighbor Baldric's home. Baldric was an early riser too, and after a short, pleasant exchange, Grumbar returned with enough charcoal to fuel the forge for the day.
He set to work, shaping the metal plates with precision. As he worked, a comforting smell wafted from the small oven where he had placed a loaf of bread to bake. Time slipped away in the rhythm of hammering, and the bread, forgotten, charred to a thick crust. When he finally retrieved it, Grumbar chuckled softly to himself, scraping off the worst of the burnt parts and savoring the smoky, bitter crust without complaint.
But not every day was full of flow. Some afternoons, inspiration would desert him. On days like this, Grumbar would set his tools down, walk out of the forge, and meander along the winding paths up the mountainside. He would breathe in the sharp scent of pine, listen to the murmur of distant streams, and watch the clouds drift lazily across the sky. It was not about seeking ideas; it was about letting the mind empty and refill itself naturally.
Every few weeks, Grumbar would visit the village market. It was not a grand affair, just a handful of stalls with dried herbs, fresh vegetables, and the odd trinket or two. He would trade a few crafted goods for necessities: salt, barley, and sometimes a new pair of sturdy socks. Familiar faces greeted him, nods were exchanged, and Grumbar always took the time to sip a cup of hot tea under the sun, enjoying the simple bustle of life.
Of course, not every interaction was smooth. One day, while repairing a wagon axle for a neighbor, he was met with grumbles and complaints about the "slight unevenness" of his work. Grumbar listened quietly, nodded, and, without protest, made the requested adjustments. He knew that some folk carried their own burdens and that a bit of patience often soothed more than sharp words.
Grumbar had never sought recognition. It had come to him on its own. Across the region, folk would say: "If Grumbar forged it, you can sleep easy." It was not that he worked hard, rather, he did not truly work at all. He lived what he did. He loved metal, wood, stone, and he spoke to them in his own way. There was no line between his life and his craft. He never aimed to be the best. He simply was.
In the afternoon, he would often take a break. Sitting on the stone steps outside his door, puffing gently on a short deerwood pipe, he would gaze at the mountains. Sometimes a neighbor would stop by, with a commission in mind or simply to chat. Grumbar always listened, said little, but his eyes sparkled with the quiet kindness of one who has nothing to prove.
As evening fell, he would tidy up without rush. He fed his old crow, organized his tools, and lay down in his bed, arms folded across his chest beneath a heavy russet blanket woven long ago by his sister. The workshop would fade into shadow once more, bathed in the bluish glow of moonlight spilling through the stone archway.
That day, like any other, Grumbar slept deeply, a gentle smile beneath his thick beard. Nothing extraordinary awaited him. And that was the true secret of his happiness.
