That all too familiar and distant sound of those forges at work, the black plumes of smoke billowing into the clear blue sky. The click-clack of wooden wagon wheels on cobblestone roads, the banter of merchants and guards interacting on the main ways into and out of town. Farther out the clinking of metal pickaxes on stone, the ‘thunk’ of axes against wood, and the joking and camaraderie of menial laborers. Those brave souls that venture into the wilds to feed the never-ending hunger of the town. A simple farmer brings his family together for a hearty lunch, lovingly prepared by his wife, after hard work in the fields. More work would come to follow until the setting sun chased him to bed. These and more make up the lifeblood of the town. The town always asks for more. More food, more wood, more iron. Improve. Become better. A crushing goal. The citizens would have it no other way, for without true goal their lives would be meaningless. In the town square, a crowd is gathered. Craftsmen, launderers, cooks, the laborers inside the city come together. They speak with friends, eat lunch, and make merry in light of the day’s festivities. Today a group of nearby bandits were caught. Trying to take from the prosperity of the town, make its roads unsafe and the people suffer. Claiming things not their own. And the people of the town watched in excitement, waiting for justice to be done. The bandits were lined up, one by one. They had already been measured and there was a special spot for most on the hangman’s walk. Their leader, bound, was brought forth. He would be forced to watch as each and every one of his crew was hanged. Forced to listen to the sounds of cheering as his crew was dropped one after the other. Click. Crack. Click. Crack. With the final drop, and the last crack, the crowd started the chant. “Cut! Cut! Cut!” The bandit leader, confused, was brought to the front. A large man lugged out a block. As it was being set-up, the crowd went into a frenzy. Shouting, screaming, laughing. And the chant continued. “Cut! Cut! Cut!” Soon a basket followed, and the bandit leader was led to the block. The ashen white face of the bandit leader was lowered onto the head rest. He was asked for his last words, but neither he nor the executioner could be heard over the mob. The executioner raised his axe, light glinting off the perfectly crafted silver blade. The blade fell, and his head rolled. As blood sprayed out over the people, the crowd cheered in excitement. Just another day in Silveraxe Field.
