Daja stood before the anvil, welcoming the comforting rhythm and patterns of smith craft. It had been almost half a year since they had returned from Namorn, but she still found her eyes drawn northward at the slightest bit of memory. A smell or a sound, or the feel of a particularly soft bit of fabric and part of her mind was back there. There was a part of her that dared to hope that some day she would see her again, even though the sensible part of her knew that that would never happen and that dreaming about it only made the pain worse. She welcomed the normalcy of iron, solid and welcoming. And nails. She'd once complained about making nails, saying she dreamed of forging wondrous things instead of plain and simple ones. Now, the motions were so ingrained in her that she could make them even as she sobbed silently in her forge, the clang-tink of the hammer as the only sound she heard. Part of her knew that she could never have stayed in Namorn, and part of her knew that she could never have left. And as the silent tears fell on the anvil, Daja Kisubo mourned what never could have been.