The tiny shovel, forged from soft iron, felt surprisingly light in the hand. Its head, no larger than a child's palm, was a gentle curve of dull, almost pewter-grey metal, etched with the faintest suggestion of swirling patterns – perhaps the unintentional artistry of the blacksmith's hammer. The shaft, slender and equally soft, was a dark, almost black iron, polished smooth by use, though still bearing the faintest impressions of its original forging. It lacked the sharp, biting edge of a tool meant for heavy digging; instead, its lip was rounded and slightly blunted, more suited to gentle excavation than forceful extraction. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of woodsmoke and earth clung to the metal, a testament to its use in turning rich soil or perhaps sifting through the delicate roots of ancient, whispering trees. The shovel felt almost… fragile, a delicate instrument for a task requiring patience and care, rather than brute strength. Its very softness hinted at a purpose beyond mere practicality; perhaps it was meant for uncovering hidden treasures, or for tending to something precious and delicate, something that required a gentler touch than a common tool could provide. The iron, though soft, held a certain warmth, as if imbued with the lingering energy of the earth itself.