That was the thing about Anville, aside from the road and the very occasional sign, there weren't any landmarks save trees, trees, and more trees. It was a very secluded community, with very few outsiders visiting save the occasional peddler or trader. They'd felt blessed when a young blacksmith had wandered into town right when the old smith was becoming too old to continue his work.
That same young blacksmith had been providing a steady rhythm of hammer blows throughout the daylight hours almost every day since his arrival. Ironically perhaps that sound was the best landmark. Once one heard it, they could easily follow the metal heartbeat to the forge sitting at the edge of the small town.
Wolfram hammered even the most stubborn pieces of iron and steal into submission, forcing them to bend into the desired shapes with a precise balance between force and heat. The forge was always burning hot during the day, summer or winter did not matter. It was likely the heavy metallic and burning scents that masked the scent of another wolf approaching the town, treading on land that, aside from the humans it was shared with, Wolfram considered to be his.
