Inspired by Library of Attnam.
The trees around yellow like butter left overlong in air, then darken into crisp black spears. Through its windows, orange light flickers from the gentle tone of an orange peel to the red glare of sunset through a ruby.
The forge continues its work.
Each sill spread thickly with a layer of ash. Your feet will perch on their tops, where grime has collected. Let the soot thread its way into your hair as you enter. Take a long breath of dry heat.
Crooked figures stalk the low ceilings, staring into your eyes through gaps in dusty stacks of charcoal, as they stamp towards the furnaces, casting sheaves of that blackened fuel into its maw. Others rise and fall over the bellows, ancient shoulders swollen, pinching their heads between their bulk.
In the workshop, sparks cast out across the stifling air seeking tinder fruitlessly, cast out from each thick hammerstrike clanging off a yellow bit of metal. The shape is slowly coming into relief, as it has one hundred, one thousand, ten thousand times. The ceiling is covered with them. Near the windows, they rust when the few droplets make it inside from the melting snows.
Occasionally, the huge figure quenches its task in a greasy black pot which rises quickly to steaming, then withdraws the blackened metal tool from the oil, turning it over with the slow patience of exhaustion.
A small sound of clattering arises from between its feet. It lumbers outwards towards the windows, seeking a rusty scrap to reforge. At this time, and only this time, its silhouette can be seen stooping, blocking the orange flicker with a dense blackness.
The task begins again.
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