Tweet
The fires of the forge could be seen radiating smoke into the day at the edge of the Viridale forest, in a large clearing as to make sure the fire did not reach any of the trees or bushes. A makeshift smithy was set up: crude and yet elegant in its design. It had all the necessary tools, and the flames roared up into the night like some angry fire elemental.
A one eyed elf stood in the midst of this barely controlled chaos, his hammer in one hand and an ingot of silver steel in the other. Madness danced across his face, a joy of life that comes only with smithing and only to him. He grinned like a small child as he heated the silver metal, making grow white hot with the fury and the passion of a smith dedicated to his life's work.
He began to work the metal with his hammer, a muscled arm coming down again and again on the metal as he chipped away something that was imperfect into something that was. He molded, shaped, forced the metal to bend to his will as the day wore on. Only the sweltering heat and the boiling sun stood testament to this elf as he kept the flames high and the even metal hotter. The animals of the forest ran away from the sounds, fearful of the ringing that seemed to vibrate within their very bones.
Indeed, every time the hammer hit it sent a small shockwave through his arm, making its way through his whole body. His ears tingled with nothing but the sound of the hammer. His arm felt the shock of every hit. His bones quivered with excitement at every new angle. And finally his eyes were filled with nothing but sparks. Beautiful, deadly sparks that danced around his work like so many mephits or fairies. It was the sparks that kept him alive, kept him sane through the time of his curse.
Whenever things had seemed the most lonely, the most empty. He remembered the sparks, and the sparks that had turned into his love's eyes and her smile. This was the image that kept him going. This is what kept him sane.
The sun was beginning to set, dusk. Twilight, his favorite time of the evening. He stood, wiping the sweat and grime of a day's work from his face, and dipping the breastplate into the water barrel. He chiseled the symbol of the Legion into the side, as he knew what he stood for should also be present in his work. He lifted up the mithril armor, holding it up the setting sun. He held the mithril high, letting the last of the sun's rays caress the silver steel before he let it down. He smiled wearily, and spoke softly.
"For my light."
A one eyed elf stood in the midst of this barely controlled chaos, his hammer in one hand and an ingot of silver steel in the other. Madness danced across his face, a joy of life that comes only with smithing and only to him. He grinned like a small child as he heated the silver metal, making grow white hot with the fury and the passion of a smith dedicated to his life's work.
He began to work the metal with his hammer, a muscled arm coming down again and again on the metal as he chipped away something that was imperfect into something that was. He molded, shaped, forced the metal to bend to his will as the day wore on. Only the sweltering heat and the boiling sun stood testament to this elf as he kept the flames high and the even metal hotter. The animals of the forest ran away from the sounds, fearful of the ringing that seemed to vibrate within their very bones.
Indeed, every time the hammer hit it sent a small shockwave through his arm, making its way through his whole body. His ears tingled with nothing but the sound of the hammer. His arm felt the shock of every hit. His bones quivered with excitement at every new angle. And finally his eyes were filled with nothing but sparks. Beautiful, deadly sparks that danced around his work like so many mephits or fairies. It was the sparks that kept him alive, kept him sane through the time of his curse.
Whenever things had seemed the most lonely, the most empty. He remembered the sparks, and the sparks that had turned into his love's eyes and her smile. This was the image that kept him going. This is what kept him sane.
The sun was beginning to set, dusk. Twilight, his favorite time of the evening. He stood, wiping the sweat and grime of a day's work from his face, and dipping the breastplate into the water barrel. He chiseled the symbol of the Legion into the side, as he knew what he stood for should also be present in his work. He lifted up the mithril armor, holding it up the setting sun. He held the mithril high, letting the last of the sun's rays caress the silver steel before he let it down. He smiled wearily, and spoke softly.
"For my light."