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The roar of the forge filled the night as Peridan's hammer rang against the anvil, a broken blade on it. Sweat dripped from Peridan's brow and his eyepatch removed as he focused on the weapon before him. The metal, the fire, and the hammer were the only things in his liquid gold eye as he hit the steel again and again. This was the fifteenth weapon he had repaired that night, a pile of gleaming weaponry to the side of the smithy can attest. Shadows moved around the smithy as the fire crackled and danced in the night, making all kinds of shapes on the walls and the ruined remains of Peridan's right eye.
Again the hammer hit, and again. There's something in smith work that is like music to Peridan. He feels it in his bones every time he strikes, he lavishes in its heat as he heats the steel. Magic in its purest sense and being is present in the smithy as he creates something from nothing. This right was orginally reserved only for the gods, but was given to elves by Corellon himself. He taught them how to create, to mend, and to shape bit by bit. Even now, in the front lines with the screams of Leigonairres moving with the wind into Arbiter's stand the music is there, in a war march.
Sinews stretched to their utmost, breath labored, Peridan forged the sword back to its original shape. He hadn't reveried for days and the toll can be seen clearly under his eye and in his face. But he continued on. The soldiers need their weapons and armor, true. He does this for them. People need protection from the horrors in the night, this is also true. So he does this for the children in the streets of Sundren city and elsewhere, and the women who fear for their men. But even truth can be overshadowed by a greater truth, a complete truth. And for Peridan, the complete truth is simply that he loved the sparks of the flames and the music of the hammer and the clanging of the steel. That's it.
He stopped suddenly, laying his worn hammer on the anvil. He gripped the newly created blade, born again. It glimmered in the firelight, and an observer would have said that Peridan looked like an ancient elven smith himself, forging some marvel for the world to see and stand in awe.
But then Peridan threw the blade into the pile, picked up a cracked breastplate, and began again.
The fire continued late into the night, only the shadows keeping Peridan company.
Again the hammer hit, and again. There's something in smith work that is like music to Peridan. He feels it in his bones every time he strikes, he lavishes in its heat as he heats the steel. Magic in its purest sense and being is present in the smithy as he creates something from nothing. This right was orginally reserved only for the gods, but was given to elves by Corellon himself. He taught them how to create, to mend, and to shape bit by bit. Even now, in the front lines with the screams of Leigonairres moving with the wind into Arbiter's stand the music is there, in a war march.
Sinews stretched to their utmost, breath labored, Peridan forged the sword back to its original shape. He hadn't reveried for days and the toll can be seen clearly under his eye and in his face. But he continued on. The soldiers need their weapons and armor, true. He does this for them. People need protection from the horrors in the night, this is also true. So he does this for the children in the streets of Sundren city and elsewhere, and the women who fear for their men. But even truth can be overshadowed by a greater truth, a complete truth. And for Peridan, the complete truth is simply that he loved the sparks of the flames and the music of the hammer and the clanging of the steel. That's it.
He stopped suddenly, laying his worn hammer on the anvil. He gripped the newly created blade, born again. It glimmered in the firelight, and an observer would have said that Peridan looked like an ancient elven smith himself, forging some marvel for the world to see and stand in awe.
But then Peridan threw the blade into the pile, picked up a cracked breastplate, and began again.
The fire continued late into the night, only the shadows keeping Peridan company.