Some folk don’t like scars. Looks like you’re one of them - or are you just afraid of mine? Aye, it’s a right nasty burn for a pathetic start. Sit yourself down, don’t be all nervous-like. Have yourself an ale, I’ll get your shield repaired in a zip.
   You got a question? Ah, how’d I get it! My uncle would say an accident; I say youthful enthusiasm and carelessness. Learned right quick after I got burned. Slow and steady, mate, caution and patience.
   I was born a headstrong lass to the Snowheight Vaols, making, breaking and fixing shite from the start. Managed to make journeyman smith at twenty two – fair early just twixt you and me. I’d always had the curiosity and drive to match my growing skill. When tempered with wisdom, it was a finely balanced blade; when tempered solely with enthusiasm, well, it became a rivet destined to burst under too much pressure.
   You know how Snowheight blades are ‘edged in frost?’ It’s all tricky chemistry kept in the clan, and I figured out the formula young. In my sixteenth winter I helped kill a frostshrike that attacked our clanstead, earning my share to a portion of the beast’s remains; I wanted to make good use of the vital essences before they went bad.
   The first rays of morning were not yet rising over the mountain peaks as I crept into the forge to do my work. We had used our successful defense as an excuse to party; thus almost everyone was too drunk, passed out, or suffering a right wicked hangover to care.
   I selected my metal stock and set it in the flames. Even as I patiently watched it grow from a dull grey to a blistering orange, there was something nagging the back of my noggin about it. The steel was of fine enough quality, I had made sure of that with a tuning fork and perhaps a bit too much patience. Still, maybe I should have gone with silver, or even adamantium. But then again, adamantium was a warlord’s preferred, and silver was something idiot ladies and noblemen liked. No, steel was stalwart, reliable. It was what I needed.
   The hair on my neck prickled in anticipation. If I could pull this off and make a frost blade this young on my own, my name would go down in the clan history and I’d make a fortune in the long run. After all, that’s how it goes for skilled folk, ain’t it? Show up my brother, impress my Dad… Prove to them this wee girl could run with the rest of them.
   I glanced at my porridge pot resting in some faded, if still warm, embers. Breakfast for after I finished… Returning my attention to the glow of hot metal, I tested it with the tongs. I couldn’t help but smile at the results. The steel was ready.
   I pulled it from the coals with my tongs, placed it on the anvil. I was only aiming to make a dagger, something small which I could finish within a couple hours and present to my Dad and uncles as the drunken stupor left them. Already I could see their stunned faces in my mind’s eye, and I beat the hot metal with a gleeful grin.
   The blade took shape beneath my hammer. Note that - shape, not edge. A fine edge is the whetstone’s son – a fine shape is the hammer and smith’s. And what a fine shape it was. I felt like I was in a trance as the work flew by quick and flawless.
   I was already floating on an artisan’s high as it came time for the first folding of the steel. Into the fold went additives we use to strengthen the steel and bind reagents. Into the coals once more, again heating my excitement and keeping the steel malleable. To the second fold went the first drip of essences.
   Worse than any drake ever spied in the mountains, the hot metal hissed and spat as the frosty liquid dripped onto it. I quickly set the flask down on the edge of the furnace hearth and returned to the folding. There was a vague sense of unease quickly brushed aside; I still had work to do.
   Light crept over the horizon as my work drew to a close. Seven times more I folded clan additives into the metal, seven times more I folded the essences, all precise amounts. I tell you now my form and technique weren’t perfect, but they were damned good. My spirits soared even higher as I neared completion of my task. Another fine piece made…
   In adding fuel to the flames earlier my movement had dislodged pieces of kindling from the stack. They lay on the floor nearby, undisturbed as I had no reason to step more than two feet from my post. No good reason to, I thought. It was all right there.
   The no-good reason came as I was preparing to dunk my blade into the water trough. So intent on my craft was I that Erasmus’ query from the smithy door startled me. “Oi, Hammy girl, what’cha doing?”
   The sudden intrusion sparked a chain-reaction, and every time I recall the event it seems like slow motion. I squawked in alarm, turning as I did. One foot came down on a piece of kindling. I flailed and grabbed at the hearthstones. One hand went into the coals, recoiled. The other flailed for a hold despite the tongs still in its grasp. The unfinished blade skittered across the floor, still glowing hot, while the tongs went straight for my poor porridge pot. Breakfast flew to say ‘hello!’ to my face.
   Then everything sped up. I hollered and flailed like a demon, face and hand burning. As soon as he had dumped water on the fallen blade, Erasmus ran to my side. My cousin helped me out of the forge into the snowy white for some rudimentary first aid.
   The family scolded me for working alone without word to anyone, and for letting things lay about hazard-like; they softened the chiding with praise for my blade and lots of drunken singing. Dad said I learned my lesson and left it at that. I was downright ashamed for my carelessness but determined to not repeat yon sloppy mishaps in the future. After all, I’d made something fantastic, achieved it on my own for the first time. I couldn’t give up.
   I suppose that’s why I- well, why all sort of folk latch onto these sort of things. You know, find that one thing we want to pursue with all our soul, making those bloody daft mistakes as we need but never letting them keep us back. We keep going, learning from them. If we don’t learn better and just give up on it, then what’ve we got? Got nothing to speak of, and we lose what moves us most. Just can’t do that.
   That can’t be it? Of course it- oh, right, the rest of my face. Aye, drunken brawl buggered it up the rest of the way. That's ain't no unusual story, though.