The dirt road south was always poorly kept this time of year, especially with the onset of winter rains. Aryn sat firm on the back of his old horse as it trotted down the muddy pathway, each hoof clopping down into a brand new puddle that had washed away a portion of the road. The horse seemed to not have a problem with it, and from all other appearances, neither did its rider. He bit down into the last portions of the apple held in his left hand, chewing on it thoughtfully as he rode through the thicket and toward the smithy he knew was somewhere down this way. The last town was more than a few miles behind him.
Eventually the trees began thinning out, and the man knew that he neared his destination. He sat up a bit straighter in the saddle and took a peek down at the prosthesis attached to the stump of his right arm. The iron of it had began to slightly rust some weeks back, and one of the fingers had been snapped off. The dents were also beginning to pile on, making the thing seem altogether unbalanced and clunky. Fortunately, he had plenty of coin to pay the smith for a brand new arm, if not just a repair.
As he spied the small smoke trail in the distance that signalled the smithy, he heard a loud crack in the bushes to his left. He tugged the reins and stopped his horse in its tracks, but a quick search of the wilderness beyond the treeline yielded nothing but more trees.
"Hmm," he muttered under his breath, but paid the sound no more attention as he gently dug his heels into his horse's side. They continued to trot along until finally the smithy came into full view. Its winged proprietor was already standing in its doorway, looking very much the way he always did: tired of visitors. The thought elicited a wide grin from the Ironhand.
"My good friend! It's your favourite customer, back for more!" he half-shouted to the doorway. He'd been here only once, maybe twice, before, and quite some time ago. He doubted that the smith would recognize him. But just for good measure, he gave the smith an exaggerated wave with his prosthetic arm, the dull metallic sheen of it glimmering in what afternoon light penetrated the foliage above.
