Never a humble man, Sven the blacksmith frequently boasted that his forge was the hottest in the three provinces and his hammer the biggest and most well used. Standing a few inches below seven feet and with nearly three hundred pounds of muscle, when he swung the heavy hammer down onto the anvil, sparks flew in a shower of power. [Those were his lines of oft-repeated poetry during bouts of drinking and wenching in his favorite tavern.]
A man of huge talent and even huger appetites Sven rose before the sun to stoke the furnace and worked until well after sundown, his creased face then lit only by the glare of the dying embers. All throughout the day, the town’s streets rang with the steady cadence of metal on metal, punctuated occasionally with pungent and blasphemous oaths. For Sven lived his life as he worked, loud, long and filled with the satisfaction of creation. No timid soul was he, the only resolve he chose, was to take as much pleasure from hammering as he could.
[Certainly the many swelled bellies spoke to his success.]
By Rose D. Kaye, January 21st, 2009