The horned blacksmith

[Drache]

Arudara

Wooden wheels rumbled and rattled over the cold road, creaking and creeping doggedly forward under a sturdy cart, heavily laden. At one point the vehicle had been part of a gyspy caravan, but it had been repurposed and fortified, partially rebuilt so that it could withstand a long journey far from its summerlands. Someone with a more militaristic mindset had gotten their hands on it, and the large windows were barred so as to give no clues as to what might be packed inside. The colourful paint peeled but the ironworks were fresh.

Two towering draft mules with dark chocolate fur and pale lines around their eyes plodded steafastly onwards, their thick leather collars barely registering on their broad shoulders. Their tack jingled and jangled until at last they were guided off the beaten road into the yard in front of the tavern by the hulking figure in the driver's seat.

Eight massive hooves shifted restlessly in the dirt. The beasts could smell the fresh hay that surely waited for them in the stables just ahead. Their thick tails swished and their breath billowed visibly and the dark hulking creature in the driver's seat swung down and landed in the crisp dirt with a thud that rivalled the steps of the draft team.

Two extra hooves, both of them massive and cloven, trod heavily towards the stable. The stableboy, who had first got begrudgingly up to do his job, now cowered back slightly in surprise and fear. The person coming towards him was eight feet tall at least, not counting the set of thick proud horns that sprouted from his head. He was covered in fur that was short, but shaggier around the elbows and hocks, and was so black it was blue in the high, cold sunshine. He had a heavy bovine face with a wide flat nose and dark round eyes. Long oval ears drooped down towards his shoulders and his left was pierced with a single golden hoop. The massive horns where white and they angled out and then up, and they were decorated with engraved bands that had been their so long they were permanently beaten in to the smooth living keratin. The pictograms were foreign, but seemed to describe violent duals.

He wore a brown wool tunic underneath a leather breastplate and matching warskirt. The getup was old and shiny from many long years of use, the rivets ringed with rust. There was some discolouration across the back of his leather armour where a massive greataxe had once been slung. Thick ropey scars interrupted the dark fur across his shoulders, arms, and legs. A minotaur he was, and appeared just as rippling with muscles and brutish of demeanor as legends of his race tended to say. But he wore no symbols of rank or loyalty other than the bands around his horns. And there was the barest hint of grizzling around his muzzle.

"Get two stalls ready," he instructed bluntly, his voice deep and low. He tossed a small battered coinpurse at the boy, but it just fell in the dirt. "And close your mouth."

It took long minutes to get the draft team unharnessed and settled in their temporary lodgings. They were not passive animals at all.

Seeing that his cart was secured for a time, the massive minotaur plodded heavily up onto the tavern's porch and went inside to see about a room.