It wasn’t just the people, or their culture - Burnish had come to realise that even the air was different in the north. It was light and breezy here, free of the dry heat of Sultar, or the close warmth that plagued the distant east. Yet as much as he could breathe easier in this climate, the aged Numasai found he missed the oppressive heat of his homeland. There was a strange honesty to it, something that focused the mind to the task at hand, like working next to the sweltering forge. Enduring sweat had been no problem, but here he found the clean air distracting.

He knew he’d have to adapt until the late season regardless, until the caravans turned south and crossed the border into Indar. It would still be a long way from the familiar coastlines of his homeland, but the humid jungle terrain would be a step in the right direction at least. If he wanted a good night’s sleep before then he’d just have to bed down next to a hearth in the workshop.

Still, Burnish was glad he’d made the step into the world of Guild Ball. It beat working his fingers to the bone for the military – or dealing with the ungrateful oafs that led them. All too often he’d forced himself to bite down a retort at their impossible requests, given limited timeframe or lack of materials. It had been easier during the war, when everyone’s backs had been against the wall, and they were united against a common foe. In the aftermath, with no enemy to fight, it had all just seemed pointless. Petty politicking and bureaucracy ruled the day, no matter how poorly that sat with him.

But the game was urgent, vibrant even, and a man could find a sense of purpose and duty on the field.

Although Burnish was long a master, he wasn’t fool enough to think he could advance himself through Guild Ball. He was old, and had no backer amongst the Guild officials besides, an arrangement he was entirely comfortable with. The Numasai knew he was no captain, something better left to more capable figures like Anvil or Ferrite. He didn’t even like the lads acknowledging his title. Out on the pitch he was just another man on the team, covering the others with his Dragonthrower. Off the field?

A simple Smithy, nothing more. He knew his place in the world, and it wasn’t being called “sir”.