After the meeting, Clyde didn't linger. He walked straight through the stone corridors of the Fortress. The tension of the council chamber still clung to his cloak like smoke but he didn't carry it in his shoulders. He didn't really thought about it too much. After all, Methion was there. He surely able to handle that.
Outside, the air was cooler. Crisper. It helped with his mood actually.
He made his way down a sloped path lined with anvils, molten channels, and char-marked walls until he reached the familiar forge near the westhern quarter.
Hammer was there as always. Because this place also his home.
The smith sat on a wide bench beside the forge building, his apron stained with soot, his massive forearms resting atop his knees.
A broad worn wooden cup sat in his grip. Filled with something dark and undoubtedly alcoholic. He took a long drink. His face half-lit by the forge's fading glow.
He didn't look up when Clyde approached. He didn't have to.
