A gruff voice, raspy yet strangely familiar, sliced through the lingering haze of John's unconsciousness. "Are you gonna lay there all day, lad? Get ya ass up and follow me already!"
With a groan, John slowly pushed himself up. His head throbbed, a dull ache that resonated with the unsettling shift from oblivion to awareness. He found himself sprawled on a carpet of damp moss and fallen leaves, within the shadowy embrace of a dense forest. Towering, ancient trees formed a verdant canopy overhead, filtering the sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor. A short distance ahead, nestled amongst the gnarled roots, stood a small, unassuming hut, its wooden walls weathered and almost camouflaged by the surrounding foliage.
"What, can ya really not remember this place? Jeez, get ya lazy ass in gear and get here now, Laddy. I aint gonna say it again." The voice, undeniably Scottish, carried an edge of impatience now.
Still disoriented, John pushed past the lingering fuzziness in his mind and forced himself to his feet. The earthy scent of pine and damp soil filled his nostrils as he trudged towards the hut. Its exterior was deceptive, hinting at a cramped, humble dwelling. But upon stepping inside, John found it to be far larger, impossibly so, than it had appeared from the outside.
The air within was a rich tapestry of scents: the metallic tang of iron, the woody aroma of freshly carved timber and the faint, sweet perfume of pipe tobacco. In the right-back corner, a small furnace pulsed with a vibrant, warm orange glow, its embers casting dancing shadows across the packed earth floor. All manner of iron tools—hammers, tongs, chisels and carpentry knives lay scattered purposefully, hinting at diligent labour. To the left, a familiar wooden workbench, well-worn and deeply scarred, held a collection of carving tools and delicate wood shavings. Above it, a small shelf displayed a fascinating array of precisely carved figures: mythical creatures, fierce beasts and ethereal beings each captured with astonishing detail and life. John felt a flicker of recognition as he gazed at them, a whisper of a forgotten memory that stirred in the depths of his mind.
"Finally remember this place, lad? Gotta say I didn't think I'd see ya for many years to come, but here ya are. Oh and congrats for getting drugged and knocked out, hahahaha."
Turning towards the booming voice, John saw the source of the pronouncement. Slumped on a sturdy stool by a small, grimy window, sat a figure he had only encountered once before – a vision of raw, untamed power. The old man was immense, his frame a testament to years of arduous physical labour. Rippling muscles tightened beneath weathered, sun-beaten skin, crisscrossed by numerous scars that told tales of countless battles. A long, intricately braided beard, singed at the ends, cascaded down his chest, while a mane of wild, grey hair fell down his back. He wore nothing but a pair of rugged shorts, his exposed skin radiating an almost primal strength. An ornate, dark-wood pipe was clutched in one gnarled hand and mirth practically shone in his eyes, which were as black and deep as coal. He let out another booming laugh, a sound like shifting rocks and repeated, "So, lad, finally remember this place do ya? Hahaha, good."
John rubbed his temples, the lingering headache a dull reminder of his abrupt arrival. "So, I'm dreaming, huh? Oddly didn't think I'd be back here after last time, if I'm to be honest. And you didn't tell me your name last time either, just that you're supposed to be some kind of spirit guide or something. Thing is, I don't remember you ever actually giving me any guidance. Also, what do you mean getting drugged?" John's voice conveyed a mixture of disbelief and mild irritation. He was less amused and mostly confused about what he was expected to do in this dreamscape. Usually, his dreams fell into four distinct categories: the mundane, where he lived an entirely different and ordinary life; the supernatural, chaotic realms where magic and apocalyptic events frequently occurred; true lucid dreams, fantastical and conscious experiences where he felt in control; and dreams like this, where he interacted with enigmatic others who guided or challenged him dependant on their mood.
The old man huffed, a cloud of pipe smoke momentarily obscuring his face. "Huh, I didn't? Then when ya came here after that nightmare and I taught ya that carving of the monsters from ya nightmare only to see them burn after having ya toss it into a fire? Wasn't that helping you get over it and feel better? Lad, I'm not gonna to hold ya hand the entire way. Ya got to stand on yer own two feet and learn by doing. Use yer damn head, Lad," the old man retorted, a clear note of frustration coloring his tone. He conspicuously skipped over John's question about being drugged, as if it were a trivial detail not worth his time.
"Now, from what I can tell, yer entire world has changed. I could feel it all the way here, lad. The fabric of reality is thinner than a spider's silk and practically vibrating now. So we've gotta make the most of it while ya can," he continued, a growing impatience etched on his craggy face. With a sudden burst of energy, he got up, crossed the room and without a word, rapped John over the head with his pipe, a surprisingly firm but not painful thwack. He sighed deeply. "Lad, yer world and the others running parallel to it are far closer and practically overlapping each other now! Heaven, hell, Valhalla, Hades and anything else ya can imagine have worlds running next to yours, even ghosts. The supernatural is no longer hidden and the overlapping has made them stronger even if they keep restrained fer now and out yer world. Now, use ya damn brain. If things are like that, what about this place?" The old man said in exasperation, seeing John still giving him a bewildered look.
John blinked, rubbing the spot on his head. The implications of the old man's words slowly began to sink in, turning his confusion into a dawning sense of awe and apprehension. His world, profoundly altered? Supernatural phenomena unleashed? And this place... this dream forged from his subconscious, yet so real, so tangible. If other realms were bleeding into his reality, what did that mean for the boundaries of his own mind? It was a dizzying thought.
"Ya can train here and it should carry over now as more than just a dream. So, I'm gonna teach ya some carving and smithing. Don't disregard it. Carving should help keep yer hand steady, sharpen your observation and smithing will help build some strength and resistance. I'll try to teach ya as best I can. Don't disregard it, though. Just because they aren't fighting skills doesn't mean they won't be useful to ya. Being able to capture the image of what yer facing means ya can try to imagine and figure out how they will move," the old man instructed, his tone shifting from gruff to gravely serious. He picked up a carving of a snarling wolf, frozen in mid-pounce, its muscles taut, its fangs bared in a silent snarl.
"Take this as an example: a wolf's back legs are stronger than their front. They can give em a burst of speed. Their teeth are sharp and pointed, able ta rip and puncture their prey. But due to their anatomy, they are unable to stand on two legs. They can't defend their sides and if ya get above them, ya can hit their spine a bit easier than with a human opponent. I can tell ya all that due ta having faced some before and then making a carving. Each time after facing a wolf, I'd make a new, more detailed one. Then, from the carvings, I can picture where to strike next time and learn more about them. It can work on any opponent, so I'll be teaching you what I know about that. Smithing will increase your resistance and toughen yer skin. It will teach ya how to create things with fire and steel, along with how to use a hammer. I'll try, at least. We never really know how much time we've got, so I'll have to put ya through a crash course, lad," the old man explained with a wide grin on his face, gripping John's shoulder and, without giving him a chance to protest, dragged him over to the small smithy corner.
"First, we're going to teach ya some hammering for about three hours right next to the fire. Then I'm gonna make ya carve wooden figures of those nightmare creatures from last time for the remainder of yer time here. So, yer in for a real crash course this time. And make sure ya keep practicing even when ya return home." And with that, what followed was a lot of swearing, sweating and regular beatings of the pipe while John learned to hammer. The rhythmic clang of metal on metal filled the small hut, punctuated by John's grunts of effort and the occasional, sharp rap of the old man's pipe against his knuckles as a reminder to adjust his grip or posture.
After the initial three hours, the old man was visibly surprised by how quickly John got the hang of it, his form improving with each focused swing. The switch to carving led to him cutting himself often due to the blade slipping, but just like with the hammer, he surprised the old man by mastering the basic movements and gaining control after only a few hours. John's fierce determination to learn, combined with the old man's unconventional, no-nonsense teaching methods, blended into an odd, productive harmony. Each thunderous strike of the hammer and each delicate slip of the carving knife drew John deeper into the venerable world of crafting.
The old man offered quick, precise demonstrations, his powerful hands moving with an unexpected grace, highlighting the nuances of each technique. John emulated his movements, finding a rhythm in the hammer strikes, his growing muscles aching but responsive and discovering the delicate grace required to shape the wood. As the old man explained, his voice a low rumble, "Smithing, lad, is about more than just pounding metal. It's about understanding how materials bend, how they respond ta heat, how they transform under your will. It's about honing yer sense of touch and listening ta the metal's voice as it bends to yer will." With each lesson, John learned to feel the intense heat radiating from the forge, to sense the iron yielding to his strikes and to recognize the subtle, fleeting changes in colour that indicated the metal's readiness.
As for carving, the old man guided John's hands, his scarred fingers gently adjusting John's grip, showing him the optimal angle of the blade, the precise pressure to exert and the delicate dance between raw force and precise finesse. "A blade, Laddy, is like a partner in a dance. Ya need to guide it, but ya must also let it flow with the grain. Feel the very breath of the wood, the resistance it offers and adjust yer movements accordingly. It's a conversation." John marvelled at how a slight shift in pressure or angle could create vastly different results, just as in combat, a slight shift in stance or a fraction of a second could determine victory or defeat.
Throughout the lessons, the old man's presence was a compelling mixture of strict instructor and encouraging mentor. He constantly challenged John's assumptions, pushed him to experiment, adapt and persist through discomfort. When John's hands were covered in blisters and his muscles screamed in protest, the old man offered a gruff but undeniably supportive pat on the back. "Strength isn't just muscles, lad. It's determination and resilience. Forge yer body and ya will in tandem."
With each passing hour, John felt himself becoming more attuned to the materials and tools. The heavy hammer felt less like a cumbersome weight and more like an extension of his arm, its impact precise and controlled. The carving knife, initially awkward and dangerous, now felt like an instrument of precision, capable of coaxing intricate forms from resistant wood. He found himself lost in the repetitive motions, the intense heat of the forge warming his body and the profound satisfaction of creating something tangible fuelling his spirit. He looked at the half-finished, crude carving of a nightmare creature, its jagged teeth and grotesque form slowly taking shape under his hand and felt a strange sense of power.
As the final hours of their training approached, the old man began to impart more intricate techniques. He explained how to shape curves that echoed the fluidity of a living creature's movement in heated metal and how to coax intricate, beautiful patterns from the inherent grain of the wood. "Remember, Laddy, each piece of metal and every block of wood has its own character, its own spirit. It's yer job to bring that character to life, to honour the material and its history, to tell its story through ya hands."
The old man's guidance went beyond the physical techniques; it extended into a profound philosophy of craftsmanship and existence. John absorbed his teachings, recognizing how the skills he was acquiring weren't merely about carving wood or forging metal for their own sake. They were a reflection of his own personal journey—of growth, adaptation and resilience in the face of the unknown. Just as each piece he shaped told a unique story, so too did his experiences and his new-found skills shape the evolving narrative of his life.
In the quiet heart of that hidden hut, a sanctuary whispered into existence by dreams, John hammered and carved, his hands slowly transforming from uncertain instruments into extensions of his will. The air, thick with the scent of charcoal and smouldering wood, hummed with the rhythmic clang of steel on steel and the soft, rasping whisper of a carving knife against timber. He discovered that smithing wasn't merely about forcing metal into shape but about understanding the fiery crucible of transformation, the art of bending stubborn will to purpose and the delicate dance of adaptation. Similarly, carving transcended the mere fashioning of figures; it was about coaxing hidden life from inert wood, revealing the spirit within each grain and knot. Every strike, every cut, felt like an awakening, a profound connection to ancient crafts.
"Lad, how the heck did you learn both carving and smithing dat fast? You still have a long way to go mind you, but at least a got the swing of the hammer right and the carving knife works well enough ta make some simple, recognizable figures," the old man grumbled, a hint of grudging admiration in his voice. He ran a calloused thumb over a newly carved bird, its simple form surprisingly lifelike. "Now, I've got no idea when yer going to wake from here and time is a tricky thing in this place. So come with me; I'll show ya how to make a hammer and a carving knife. When ya head back, maybe ya can make yer own. Should also remember things a bit better now when ya wake, as the barriers between here and that world are thinner than ever. Not like before, when anything ya learned would fade too fast to recall or be blocked away by some external force." He sighed, a sound like rustling leaves. "If I was any good at mystic stuff, I'd have tried to teach you how to make a gate or somethin ta bridge to those dreams. That would have been rather useful. But for now, I suppose yer going to need to keep it to ya dreams unless ya magically find a person who can dimensionally travel or something. Hahahahaha, but that's less likely from what I've noticed while ya were busy." His tone, though ending in a sarcastic chuckle, shifted abruptly to a graver, almost bitter edge.
"What do you mean by that? What have you noticed?" John couldn't help but ask, his voice hoarse and tired. He felt a deep weariness settling into his bones, a stiff ache radiating from every muscle. The relentless physical exertion of learning two demanding trades, even in a dream, had taken a significant toll. He didn't even try to fight the old man, lacking the energy for any resistance.
"Don't ya worry about that. Just meant that whatever is behind that world's change wouldn't risk giving out the ability to reach em easily. And if they did, it would be heavily restricted or controlled. Can't risk a person like ya being able to reach those ya have in yer dreams After all," the old man spat on the ground next to him, the gesture thick with contempt. A loud crack of thunder sounded outside the window, not a natural one but a sharp, defiant clap. Instead of a bright flash of lightning, the small, lamplit room went utterly black for a brief, unsettling moment that plunged them into a void before the light flickered back. The old man scowled, his gaze piercing the rain-streaked window as if attempting to stare down an unseen adversary. A cold, unseen presence seemed to press in, making the air crackle with unspoken tension.
"Damn cowardly bastards. Always listening, always interfering when they should just fuck off." he muttered, shaking his head. "But I won't talk any further about them right now. Here, watch what I do and how to do it. I'll show ya how to make a hammer and then how to make a carving knife. Even if ya can't get it down now after waking, spend at least two hours a day practicing – one hour for hammering, the other for carving lad." He stoked the forge's fire with a furious pump of the bellows, the flames roaring to life, casting dancing shadows across the hut. He forced John to watch his every move, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the bellows and the fierce hiss of the fire a soundtrack to his simmering frustration and anger, visibly worked out on the glowing steel.
"But what makes you think I'd even be able to find a forge when I wake up?" John retorted, a growing wave of annoyance washing over him. The expectation to replicate these intricate, demanding skills in his own world, with presumably no resources, felt utterly preposterous, adding to his exhaustion.
"Be resourceful or something! I don't care; figure something out! Find a hammer ya can use, one that has decent weight, until ya can build even a little forge. From there, make yer own hammer. Now, keep watching and when I'm done ya can inspect the broken one I keep out back. I'll give ya a few tips on trying to make yer own temporary one to forge that hammer and knife. It won't be pretty, but it'll get the job done if ya prove ta be determined enough." The old man's hands moved with practiced grace despite his gruffness, shaping the hot metal with precise, powerful blows. Sparks flew like golden insects, illuminating the intensity in his eyes. "Oh and get some kind of tongs. Yer hands are way too soft and babyish to do it like this," he finished, completing the hammering and shaping of a small, elegant carving knife. He used a thick, gloved hand to grab it, then plunged it into a bucket of water next to him, sending up a dramatic hiss and cloud of steam. He then brought it over to a thick, rough stone, beginning the meticulous process of shaping and sharpening its edge. As he worked, a shimmering, translucent quality began to creep into his form, a subtle fading at the edges of his being. He sighed, a sound of resignation.
As the final moments of his training drew near, the old man's fading presence signalling the dream's inexorable end, John's hands, once soft and uncertain, bore the rough, tangible marks of effort and discovery. The faint sweat on his brow and the nascent calluses on his palms were not just physical reminders, but badges of his commitment to these newfound crafts. In those fleeting seconds, as the old man's voice waned, almost carried away by the dissolving dreamscape, he whispered, "Remember, Lad, the forge and the carving bench are more than mere tools. They're mirrors, reflecting the flames of ya spirit. Keep them lit, no matter how the world is when ya wake."
And with those enigmatic words echoing in his mind, fading like a distant chime, John felt the dream world slip away, dissolving into a soft, insistent pull. He was left not with mere exhaustion, but with a newfound resolve, a quiet determination and a deep, unsettling understanding that his journey, both in dreams and in his waking reality, was far from over. The world he would return to might be changed, but he, too, had been irrevocably altered.