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People die by the soldier’s steel. People live by the blacksmith’s iron. – RecklessPrudence

They say that magic and iron don’t mix.

What do they know?

Common magic does not fare well against iron and steel because both are a different kind of magic. It is a magic of muscle and might and hot fires. Making useful things out of that which was once just rust.

And it is why, should you travel to the village of Uskunriod'thet[1] you will find the Smithy That Builds Itself.

There are numerous things there that eat coal and vent steam. Seemingly alive, but not. Useful, to those who can afford to feed them. And it is also there that you will find Black Jenny.

She, too, seems alive. She is more alive than most of the things at the Smithy That Builds Itself. She, too, eats coal and breathes steam. And she also walks and talks and calls the blacksmith ‘Father’. She will charge you a penny an hour to stare at her, and calmly go about her business as people follow her around like bemused ducklings.

She knows that she’s as unique as her father’s shop. And she also knows she is not for sale.

There had been some debate - years ago, now - when a wealthy foreigner attempted to buy her. The local witch was called to sort it out, and spent a healthy week or three demanding to know how Baker the Smith had managed to 'magic iron’. Then the witch declared that Black Jenny was not now and never would be for sale, because it is Wrong to own people.

Thereafter, she was Black Jenny Baker to the village of Uskunriod'thet. Another piece of local scenery like the wandering oaks.

Black Jenny usually helps in the smithy, now that her father is growing old. Following his instructions to build him a new, metal suit. To replace the flesh one that is growing frail and weary.

So that she, his daughter, will never be without him.

[1] Named in the fine tradition of pointing and shouting at the locals and then writing the name down in a book. It translates out as, “it’s just a bunch of trees, you fool.”

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A (literal, not figurative) God/dess, fallen on hard times, forced to work 9-to-5 to make a living, in the absence of offerings et cetera. And how the lowly mortals around them feel about it.

Make it as light-hearted or dark, as uplifting or Schadenfreudic(?) as you please. – RecklessPrudence

(#00424 - A049)

[AN: Considering that 99.99999% of Gods are arseholes…]

Grace tried to hurry past the street market. Goddamn hippies were bad enough, but now there were goddamn foreign

A seemingly eternal argument between some friends and I.

*As defined by a philosophy student who was party to some of them - he later admitted he got the definitions from ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’.

“Form follows Function. A well-built machine, designed to last decades if not longer, has a quiet craftsmanship, an economical beauty, which no amount of pointless frippery or gilding - or, indeed, curved plastic - can ever match.”

“But much

Fairytales don’t tell children that dragons exist. Children already know this instinctively. Fairytales tell children that dragons can be killed. - G K Chesterton, with some posthumous turning of phrase by others. –RecklessPrudence

Mom found her literally up to her neck in the archives. Books held her place in other books. Notes hung out of yet more books like exhausted, multiple tongues.

“It’s getting late,” she said.

Danny looked up. Then around herself. “Uhm.

“The first time I saw them, I don’t know, I just wanted to kick their arse. I wanted to build a machine to kick their arse. I wanted to found an empire to house the machine to kick their arse!” – RecklessPrudence

(#00404 - A039)

Rael briefly considered the effort that all that would take. “So… you think you may be in love with Hwell Barrow?”

She boggled at him. “Ye think I swallowed

“If you’re falling off a cliff you may as well try to fly, you’ve got nothing to lose.” - John Sheridan (Babylon 5) c/- RecklessPrudence

Douglas Adams once said that flying is the art of throwing oneself at the ground and missing. J. M. Barrie thought that flight required pixie dust and happy thoughts.

The truth is far more complicated. Especially when traveling at terminal velocity towards impending doom.

“Can’t you shadow-jump

Ahh, the eternal paradox: A quick wit is best accompanied by quick reflexes, but a dull wit is best complemented by a sharp blade. – RecklessPrudence

“Ey up. Here’s trouble.”

Rael followed her line of sight. There were two of them. A big, burly lump of a biped who, because he wore grey clothes meant to wear hard, had to be the enforcement. Accompanying the cogniscent mountain was a smaller, lither being who, despite being reptilian, could only