Melon sighed heavily as he sifted through the bin of scraps. His messy blonde hair was tied back into a loose ponytail, falling several inches past his shoulders. He was wearing a loose linen shirt, one which had been white at some point... He'd worn it so much that it almost resembled the color of sand. His pants were loose around his waist--they had been his father's once upon a time, and Melon never liked to throw things out when they were perfectly usable. He simply had to keep them belted tightly around his painfully thin frame.<br/><br/>There wasn't a lot of money in ranching these days, but there sure was a lot in making swords. Dull-edged blades no one would use to really stab someone; too many boys wanted to be heros. Too  many wanted to jump and dance and play and boast their theatrics as<i>real</i>heroism. He shook his head at the thought of the young boys warring in the fields, or even in the town square, their mothers hushing and scolding and dragging home for dinner whenever they started. Melon smiled lightly as he picked up the largest chunk of metal he could find, carrying it over towards the fires.<br/><br/>He smiled because he could remember those days. More than ten years ago, wasn't it? The last time he'd played those games and made a fool of himself, bedsheet tied 'round his neck to make him look stupendous in the afternoon sun sinking over Hyrule field, chasing other boys with sticks and rocks that never would be thrown, because heros never hurt anyone else. That wasn't their job. Their job was saving beautiful girls and triumphing over evil-doers.<br/><br/>The fire hissed at him like an angry snake, coiling around the metal he'd thrust into it. His hands gripped heavy metal tongs, thick and old and rusted, which grasped the metal he was heating desperately. His brow beaded with sweat as he waited, close enough to the fires that one slip would find him singed. But he was used to this--he was a blacksmith, after all. He had the rough hands and the thick muscles, toned chest, the slight scruff on his jaw; most importantly, he had the skills. He had the skills and he worked with them for his little sister's sake, and for his mother.<br/><br/>As he watched the metal go red, he thought of home. Only a day's walk, if that--but he couldn't go home. There was no going home until the end of the month. And then he would be enveloped in the delicious warmth of his mother's arms, his sister's nagging pleas for play time, or riding lessons--and of course he would indulge her. Elinor was the light of his world. He couldn't say no to her.<br/><br/>Melon snapped himself out of his daze as he remembered the weight in his hands and the fire licking at his heavy metal tongs. A disapproving 'tsh' escaped him and he quickly lifted it to his anvil, grabbing the hammer. Perhaps, he though, it was a good idea to have two people in the shop at once... but no. He was fine by himself, he didn't need anyone else there keeping an eye on him. Once the hot metal was against his anvil, he reached up and wiped the sweat of his brow on the back of his hand. Sweet relief. The itch of stray sweat slowly dripping down one's forehead was a most detested sensation for the young man.<br/><br/>Expert hands pounded at the metal. It was brought back and forth from the fire no less than four times until it had been forced into a respectable blade, no less than six until it was a fair one. The blade was finished by late afternoon, and so Melon tossed it into a large tub of water, which hissed and bubbled and quickly transformed into a gas, steam escaping through the shackled roof of the smithy.<br/><br/>Once again wiping his brow, Melon set his tongs on his anvil, accompanied by his hammer. He had done enough that day. It was time to go home--at least, to what he considered his house. Home was in his mother's arms and on a horse with his little sister, no matter where that was. His apartment was just a house.<br/><br/>As he left his workplace, he locked the door with a key that jingled from his belt. It rested next to another key of similar size and shape, which opened the door to his apartment. When he walked into the sunlit square, he glanced over at the vendors; did he need anything? Perhaps something fresh... He recounted the rupees in his pocket, then sighed and shook his head. No, nothing fresh tonight. Maybe another day. The scene at the stands was avoided as he made his way across he square, towards the building, only glancing at one person in the square. Such a strange man, with fins and the Gerudo look about him. But he shrugged and turned away, towards his house, pushing some stray hair out of his eyes.<br/><br/>Just another day...