A Sea of Sorrows

[Tobias Stalt]

Moaning winds washed over the canvas tent, the patter of raindrops playing a staccato drumbeat. The wild orchestra of elements gave way as Tobias slipped into the small tent and pulled back his soaked hood. The amber of his eyes glowed in low firelight, and he glanced about for the merchant he had heard whispers of.

It had not been easy finding this place, swallowed as it was by a maelstrom of stormy weather. The journey had taken him into the furthest reaches of Corone, and well away from anyone who might save him if the situation went awry. The hot and familiar smell of a forge absolved his fears quickly, though, and he realized he was in the right place.

Squishing shoes stepped across ornate carpet, and Tobias kicked away the offensive coverings out of respect. He had brought the blade purchased in Alerar with him, in hopes of a proper trade agreement. This man's workings were almost legendary from what little the soldier had learned. The trip here may well have paled in comparison to the daunting task of finding a reasonable price for the work that Tobias wanted done.

"Hello," he called out uncertainly, "I've come to find the Sage of Blades." It was a name not well known outside the circles of elite swordsmen; a man who spent his life learning the way of the sword could go a lifetime never seeing the quality Tobias anticipated. Sweat beaded on his brow as the scent of desert rose wafted across his senses, and he blinked. It was not uncommon for a man sequestered away from the world to take pleasure in incense, but that particular variety sent a chill down Stalt's spine.

It reminded him distinctly of "woman." Not just any woman, but a beautiful, seductive and perilous woman. He instinctively folded his arms across his chest and took a few breathes to calm his heightened nerves. It would not do to conduct business while frustrated.

[Otto]

"Have you, now."

There was movement in the shadows, beyond the hearth. A tall, lanky form unfolded from its seat and approached from the other side of the tent. Tobias could make out a ragged white beard clinging to a grizzled old face, like lichen to a gnarled oak... but the eyes were sharp enough, and glimmered in the firelight. The man wore a simple tunic and breeches, but had evidently not been at work when Tobias had entered, since he lacked the standard protective gear of the trade.

"Seek you a sword, perhaps? No truer symbol of a knight be there. Maybe an axe; a simpler weapon, and without pretensions." The old man stopped just before the hearth, now, and Tobias could see that one of his eyes was a uniform pearly white. "A gavel by which to pass judgement the unrighteous? Or, do you desire a spear? There is nowt finer by which to pierce the hides of mighty beats... they are a favourite of mine, in fact. Whatever you might have thought from that name you bandy about."

The man's foot lashed out with serpentine speed. Tobias heard it connect with something else in the murk, and another fuzzy shape stirred from its rest. "Get up, lad, and fetch something for our guest," the old fellow hissed. The huddled form grunted and, slowly before Tobias' eyes, became a stout, hulking brute of a man, similar in face to the first but noticeably younger. He looked about to say something, but when he met his elder's stern gaze, thought better of it, and ambled out of the tent.

The old man watched him go, then turned back to Tobias. "Good lad with a hammer," he said, "but not too sharp. Speaking of which - I believe you were looking for me?"

[Tobias Stalt]

"I, uh," Tobias faltered. The thought that a half blind old man could have been a legendary weaponsmith paled behind the hilarity of the withered husk kicking a fat oaf. The soldier stifled his swollen urge to guffaw, then snorted unbidden. "I'm sorry," he finally managed to state, "I'd expected... erm... something more grandiose, I suppose. A moment, if you please."

Tobias turned his gaze away from the counter and rolled his eyes. The rhythmic beat of raindrops sent a discomfort through his bones, and he found himself almost irate. He had come all this way to find a man worthy of the masterpiece he sought, only to find this bumbling duo. He huffed his frustration out and twisted to face the old man once more, and Tobias conjured his most believable smile. "I've come seeking more than a simple blade," he told the man, "and I was led to believe this was the place for such things."

He dared to take a step forward, cradled his own sword in both hands and rested it on the countertop. "This weapon has been a faithful companion," he told the elder, "but it's weight does not match what is in my heart. I seek a blade that can match my conviction."

Tobias' golden gaze looked up to match the single eye of the smithy. "I want Dehlar," he added, "a blade that defies the Tap itself. I want a blade that is a burden to bear and a weapon to wield." His hands pressed the Dwarven steel across the table, and he narrowed his gaze. "A weapon should carry weight," he stated plainly, "so that it is not idly swung."

For moments, there was silence. Then, Tobias asked, "can you help me?"

[Otto]

The man took the weapon from Tobias hands, glared at it, then ran a sole, appraising eye up and down Tobias' physique.

"Methinks you'd have trouble enough swinging a blade, idly or not." His pearly whites shone in the light as the fellow smiled. "And dehlar-forged, at that? Why, it would test even me to make one which did not turn you from a warrior to a fool... supposing the difference is not that great to begin with."

Before Tobias could reply, the tent flap whipped back and the burly apprentice returned, a small cask huddled in the nook of one elbow and a trio of mugs clasped in his other hand. While he set them down on a small table and began to pour out the ale, the old sage got back to business.

"A short blade, then," he said, staring at the sword once more. "At least you'll be somewhat used to handling it. That's if I decide to forge it for you. Boy!"

The big man looked up, bemusedly. "Leave the drinks for now," the old man told him. "Hammer out, lad. Let's see if this 'un's up to scratch."

While his apprentice took off his stout belt and hefted a short-handled hammer, the old man turned to Tobias and tossed him back his sword. "Let's go outside, shall we? Not enough room in here for our little bout. Not to be rude, but I don't make weapons for brankie little gits just so's they can get lost on the field."

[Tobias Stalt]

The younger man returned with drink and mugs in hand, and Tobias almost reached for a drink when he heard the command. Certainly, he was used to being berated for his small size and relative incompetence (notably a favorite of Smiths he had visited), but "hammer out" was a new addition. He glanced toward the elder man's apprentice and blinked. A battle in the middle of a storm, no less.

His fingers fumbled over the hilt of his sword, but Tobias did not object. He had come this far, so to brave the elements and an eclectic old man's tests was not the worst case scenario. He gripped the Dwarven steel blade and recalled it's familiar weight, and he stepped out into the torrential rain. The soldier let out a soft gasp at the cold, but he did not waver. He would not back down.

"Not for nothing," he called through the bark of thunder, and he ran a hand through his soaked hair. "But this is one brankie git who may just surprise you." His trademark smirk lit up in the flash of lightning that streaked through the dark sky. Tobias curled each finger around the grip of his weapon, and he closed his eyes to concentrate. The world around him seemed to slip away.

The sword master he had drilled with in Alerar had taught him that. The world was a distraction, and Tobias had come to see it as such. Where the rain fell was of no consequence. His blade would move with or without the sky above or earth below. Only Tobias and the man at odds with him remained.

He looked across the flat of his weapon toward the other man, and Tobias gave a slight nod. He was ready.

[Otto]

The sage emerged from the tent, now draping a rough cloak about his shoulders and shielding his face from the elements with a wide-brimmed hat. He stepped aside into the lee of the tent, as sheltered from the pelting rain as it was possible to be, and waited. Tobias' challenger slipped through soon after, bare-chested and unfazed by the weather. He didn't even deign to stoop his head or squint against the lash of wind and water, but just set his calm eyes on the soldier and approached.

Before Tobias could register what had happened, the veil of white had been removed from his eyes as quickly as it had appeared. Then, barely more than a second after that, his ears were overwhelmed by the savage scream of thunder. But it was more than that - the percussive blast resounded through his body with near enough force to send him staggering.

His opponent lifted his eyes to the sky for a moment. The man's stout fingers played across the haft of his hammer while he stared, but soon enough, he had returned his attention to Tobias. He then spoke the first words Tobias had heard him say thus far.

"Don't fash yourself about the storm," he rumbled, in a voice which matched the echoing thunderclaps. "We've nowt to fear."

He looked back questioningly at the sage. The old man had been studying Tobias up to that point, but he slowly turned his head to his apprentice, and nodded. Tobias found himself staring back at the big fellow's cloud-grey eyes.

Lightning struck again. No sooner had the purple after-images begun dancing across Tobias' retinas, than he saw the large man charging across the sodden turf towards him.

[Tobias Stalt]

Thunderous steps closed the distance between them. One man towered above the other, and his hammer swept out. Beneath the giant, a lesser man would have turned and fled. Tobias stood his ground. Both his feet rooted to the dirt and his blade ripped upward to meet the blunt weapon.

The impact tore through Tobias as though he had been hit by the lightning himself. The sword and hammer shivered above his head only for a moment before his opponent had cocked back for another swing. Numbness stole through the young man as the needle pain began to dissolve. One knee had bent beneath the blow, but he managed to remain standing.

"Gods below," he murmured, one hand pressed to the ground for balance. Most enemies could be handled with a direct offensive, and his defiance displayed a regular knowledge of how to hold the line. But before him, Tobias found a beast that could not be stayed by normal swordplay.

The roar of his opponent as the hammer swung again deafened Tobias. Thought was a hindrance, and the Tactician found himself at a loss. The next blow came as much a shock as the first.

Tobias hefted his weapon groggily, as though he had just woke. The daze that the concussive force sent through his body felt unnatural. The Dwarven steel chipped this time when the larger weapon met it, and Tobias' amber orbs flickered to the weapon he had kept through so many battles. There was a pain in his heart that he had faltered so, to have failed a companion so true in such a complete way.

The apprentice refused to relent. The backswing had taken its toll, and now a downward stroke sought to finish the beleaguered boy. Tobias staggered forward to meet the strike. His body shook with tremendous effort.

"Piss it," he cursed.

His face was a mask of rainwater and plastered hair. Both eyes were red and his breaths were ragged. The hammer fell like a meteor, and Tobias rose to the challenge. The crash that came startled even his opponent. Tobias shook terribly beneath the crushing weight of the hammer as it bore down, but his blade held the weapon aloft. Near the hilt, and just beneath the head of the hammer.

Cracks had spider-webbed along the surface of the steel, but it retained most of the integrity it's maker had promised. The weapon bespoke the spirit of it's smith, and Tobias could just hear the Dwarf in his ear about how he had been reckless with it. "Sorry," he murmured weakly, "I could have been a better swordsman."

Whether he spoke to the weapon, it's maker, the apprentice, or no one at all was uncertain. Tobias stared in disbelief at the two weapons, entangled still. The slate gray eyes of his opponent seemed transfixed by the defiance of his opponent's blade. "It held," the younger of two smiths seemed shocked, at least for once.

Tobias drew back, slipped his sword free. He ran his hand along it's edge, and he sighed. "Ruined," he said in annoyance. "It won't be a fair trade for anything now," he called over to the elder smith.

The weapon had several strokes left in it, however. "Round two?" He asked, as a smirk played at his lips. The fingers of his right hand dragged across the faults in the weapon, and Tobias took the imperfections to heart. Like all things, even the most beautiful tales came to an end. For his Dwarven sword, it would be glorious.

[Otto]

The big man stepped away and gave his master another questioning look. Through the sheets of rain, both warriors saw the sage's hat bobbed down and up in a nod.

"The steel is still good," he called back. "The trade will be fair enough."

Tobias' opponent shrugged and turned back around. There was more lightning, though this time the other fellow waited for it to recede before he moved again. Rather than pound in at another charge, he approached slowly and steadily, and with caution. It was not a matter of brute strength any more but of finesse and skill.

Tobias could feel the sage's single eye on him, peering dark and crow-like out from between the fold of his cloak and the brim of his hat, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that the man was measuring him up for much more than just a sword...

[Tobias Stalt]

"Right then." Tobias slipped into a comfortable stance with both hands on the grip of his sword. His legs were a bit more than shoulder width apart, and his knees were only slightly bent. The cracked sword shivered violently in his grasp, as if the wind had taken firm hold of the blade and tugged mercilessly. Water trickled down the weapon as Tobias fought to keep it steady. His gaze locked with the larger man's restlessly.

Between them, countless eons elapsed in every heartbeat. It was the song of every swordsman since time began; defiance and doubt, expectation and honor, and the razor's edge between life and death. In each breath they took, a new thought blossomed and a plan unresolved ebbed into darkness. This was the art Tobias had chosen for himself, and his blade had become his brush.

The apprentice sauntered forward at a controlled pace, and Tobias stepped forward to meet him. The hammer spun skillfully in his hand, and Tobias watched carefully for any sign that the attack would come. The inevitable jerk of his opponent's arm alerted Tobias, and he shot forward.

Before the arm swung in, Tobias had thrown himself into the path of not only the weapon, but its owner. The apprentice took a staggered step backward, surprised by the weight of Tobias as it barreled into him. The soldier had struck shoulder first, which made it impossible to swing round with his weapon. There was no bloody mess. The apprentice gazed up in a daze.

Tobias did not relent. The hammer hit the ground with a thud just after the apprentice, and the gray eyed man used it to push himself upright. The soldier spun for his opponent, and his blade whipped round, a loud crack from the heavens to accompany it. He saw the hammer as it rose, and knew the smith-in-training meant to bash his blade away.

With a fast jerk, Tobias reneged his arc. The blade and hammer kissed for but a moment, and sparks scattered. Stalt spun at wicked speed, spurred on by the momentum of his sword, and he pushed the weapon through in a blur. The apprentice stared dumbly at him, and he tried to get the hammer up in time.

It was almost too late.

The water at his feet had slicked the ground, and Tobias slipped with a stupid look on his face. The steel sword clattered to the ground, and he cried out, "Fuck!" His head made a sound like a hand beating against a bongo drum, but he simply rubbed at it and winced.

The apprentice stared blankly at the scene, still uncertain what to make of the miracle he had witnessed. "Quick," he said quietly, "and full of ideas." His murmurs were appreciative of the swordplay he had seen, but also incredulous at the fact he still had a head.

Tobias picked himself up gracelessly. "You win, I think," Tobias drawled, "I forgot to mind my surroundings. That's a bloody sin in the world of swordsmen." The admission pained him, but Tobias was glad he had made the mistake. To kill a man over a weapon was exactly the sort of thing he hoped to avoid. Meaningless death was an empty, horrific thing.

He went to pick up the steel sword, but Tobias could only gape at what he saw. Splintered by the slightest impact, the sword had scattered like shrapnel at the touch of their weapons. Fragments of steel littered the rocky ground at their feet. Two large sections of his former weapon lay several feet apart from each other. "Bloody hell, what is that hammer made of?" Tobias turned, and he glared at the weapon in the apprentice's hand.

He took hold of his broken weapon's hilt, and he held it out to the Sage. "This," he sighed, and he shook his head, "is the measure of my worth. You were right to test me." He glanced sidelong at the apprentice, and he offered the larger man a smile. "It would seem I'm years from the swordsman I'd like to be."

[Otto]

The sage bowed his head, and was silent for a moment. It seemed a delicate silence, as the still-befuddled apprentice took a few cautious steps back and held his own tongue. At last, the old man looked up and to Tobias through the relentless rain.

"Well, what are we standing out here, for?" he growled. "There's ale and a fire inside.

And with that, he swept back through the tent flap.

The apprentice gave Tobias a sheepish little smile. "Good fight," was all he said, before following in the older man's footsteps.

The fug inside was as thick and cloying as before, but Tobias embraced the warmth as a welcome respite from the weather. The others were already bustling about, although at the moment they were concerned more about having a drink than preparing the forge. The apprentice was seated at a little trestle table, measuring out the drink into the mugs, while his master stood in front of his own chair. He beckoned Tobias to take a place at a third, empty seat, huddled around the little table.

"We drink first," said the old smith. "We're owed one."

The apprentice set a mug down in front of Tobias, and the sage raised his to a toast.

"Skål," was all he said, before downing the draught.

"Skål," the apprentice echoed, and followed suit.

Tobias muttered something which approached the sound of the word, then upended his own mug. What hit his tongue was thick, almost syrupy, and strong enough for beer that it took him by surprise. It tasted like it had been fermented from tree sap, and had about the same texture. The apprentice caught his eye, and leaned in.

"Barley wine," he murmured appreciatively. "Strong drink for strong weather."

"And now we work," the old man stated.

Tobias blinked. "When should I come back?" he asked.

Master and apprentice looked at each other, then at Tobias. The old man in particular seemed to scowl.

"Is it to be your sword, or not?" he asked. "If it is, then you stay here and help make it."

Now Tobias was really confused. "But - I don't know how to work a forge-"

"You know how to follow orders, though, don't you?" the man pressed, to which Tobias nodded warily. "Then you can help me craft it. And so it will be just as fine a blade as you deserve."

[Tobias Stalt]

As I deserve? Tobias considered the words as the other two men prepared the forge. He felt awkward, stupid, and in the way. The Sage had instructed him to stay, however, so Tobias watched carefully and tried to glean some sort of clue to what he ought to do. This will be my first time working a forge, he thought, and he realized he was excited.

"Come over here," the Sage called. Tobias moved over to the indicated spot, and he glanced down. There were a myriad of materials spread out through the back area of the tent. It was a deceptively large space; Tobias could see weapons, different varieties of animal hide, some bones, and refined ore. "Here we have Dehlar," the old man muttered as his hand came to rest on a large hunk of stone. "We're certainly not going to use the entire stock," he told Tobias, then pressed a chisel into the boy's hand. "Carve out a decent sized chunk while I stoke the flames."

The apprentice held his hammer out to Tobias, and he offered a kind smile. "Use this," the large man mumbled, but when Tobias took hold of it, he almost fell over. Tobias blinked. "Careful," the apprentice chuckled, "it's heavy."

Disbelief at the weight in his hand left Tobias bereft of questions; there would be too many to ask, and he knew he would never get all the answers. The youth placed chisel to stone, and he hefted the hammer to strike. The first thunderous blow shook him to the core. "What the-" Tobias heard the Dehlar crack beneath the hammer's force, but it resisted.

"Again!" The Sage called. Tobias lifted the hammer for a second time, and he found it had gotten no lighter. This time when he struck the chisel, it gouged deeper into the Dehlar. "Once more!" Tobias struggled beneath the weight of the hammer and his muscles cried out for relief, but he managed to follow through. He was rewarded with a large portion of Dehlar that tore away from the large stock.

The apprentice took his hammer and the chisel quietly from Tobias, and the Sage gestured to the Dehlar. "Bring that over here," he instructed. Tobias bent down and grabbed the stone, and he grunted with effort as he hefted it. "Gods below," Tobias bellowed, and a breath escaped his open lips. Sweat poured down his forehead and stung his eyes as he hurried toward the Sage.

The older Smith let out a laugh. "Dehlar is heavy," he told Tobias, "I thought you knew that!"

"I know it far better now than before," the soldier admitted. The Dehlar was in place and ready to be shaped, but Tobias was at a loss. "What will we craft the hilt from?" The words escaped him before he could think of the probable repercussions; he was far too tired to slay a dragon for its tooth, after all.

The Sage looked at him with a smile.

[Otto]

"What do you think?" the old man said. "It's dehlar all the way, else the hilt will be far too light. Can you imagine the balance on that thing otherwise?"

The man now wore a stout leather apron and long, heavy gloves. He scattered a few more coals on the little hearth, and pressed the bellows with his foot until they had caught. A fresh wave of heat washed over Tobias, who emitted a pained groan; the simple transaction he had anticipated was turning out to be a much, much more of an ordeal. The apprentice, who Tobias had seen leave the tent a moment ago, came back in with another cask, which he used to fill the mugs again. He took one over to Tobias, along with another apron and set of gloves, then took the lump of dehlar from him.

"Just water," he told Tobias, pressing the cup into his hand. The warrior took a long, grateful draught, then quickly donned the protective equipment.

The sage stirred. "Come here, boy," he said.

It took a second for Tobias to realise that the fellow was talking to him, and not the apprentice. He ambled over, whereupon a set of tongs were thrust into his hand. The apprentice held out the dehlar block for him to grasp with the tool, and then nodded towards the hearth. The meaning was fairly obvious.

"Hold it a little way above the coals," the sage murmured, as Tobias swung it around to the smouldering hearth. "Good, good... hold it, let the heat penetrate to the core, else it might shatter when we hammer it out... turn it a bit, heat it evenly around..."

More sweat beaded on Tobias' brow. His arms began to quake with the strain of keeping the nugget aloft.

"Hold it, hold it - now! Over to the anvil, quickly!"

Tobias turned clumsily about and, in his fatigued state, barely avoided ramming the glowing lump of metal into the apprentice's chest. The soldier mumbled an apology as he loped off, and set it down on the hardened surface of the anvil.

The sage moved like lightning. His hammer flurried away against the metal, drawing it out into a relatively straight line.

"Chisel!" he barked.

The apprentice handed such a wide-headed tool to his master, who deftly placed it about one eighth of the way along the bar. A few more blows with the hammer separated the metal, and he repeated this again, about one quarter of the way along the larger piece. The apprentice took the smallest piece in another set of tongs, and returned it to the stockpile.

The sage, meanwhile, lightly tapped the larger of the two remaining workpieces with his hammer. "This should be enough for you to handle," he explained to Tobias. "Just enough for a short blade. We'll make most of the weapon from this, and the rest," he continued, now tapping the smaller piece, "we'll add a thing or two and use it for the edge. Hmm."

The apprentice reappeared, and the old man turned to him. "What do you think? Hand and a half for the hilt?"

The apprentice nodded.

"Good thing this one isn't dwarf-forged then," the old man replied with a smirk. Tobias saw the younger smith scowl for a moment, though the joke wasn't apparent to him. Then the sage went on to his apprentice: "Go get some sand, then, and work on the edge piece. This young fellow and I will continue with the rest."

As the apprentice lumbered off, Tobias looked at his master enquiringly. "Sand?" he asked. "What's that for?"

"To put in the metal. We shan't need much."

Tobias was no smith, but he had some passing knowledge of metalworking. "Won't that make it brittle?"

The sage was silent for a moment, his hammer stroking along the lines of the remaining workpiece. Then he gestured for Tobias to pick it up again, and led them back to the hearth. While they worked, he spoke.

"Are you familiar with Akashima?" the old man asked.

Tobias nodded. "I know of it, yes."

"Then you would have heard of their legendary swords, able to cut an armoured knight in half with one stroke."

"I always took that to be something of a myth," Tobias replied, warily. The sage chuckled.

"And it is, it is. But it's true that the sharpness of their blades is unmatched. And you know why?"

Tobias, his teeth grit with the effort of holding up the nugget, just shook his head.

"Because they have terrible iron where they're from." The old smith seemed to delight in Tobias' confused expression, and let him stew before extrapolating. "It's full of impurities - like sand. They can't use the swords to block or parry, and they have to be careful to get the angle of the blow just right, else the swords bend or snap. Too brittle, as you said. But that's why they're so sharp - it's the sand. You know that there are wild tribe sin the Outlands that use knapped volcanic glass for their weapons? They're hundreds of times sharper than the keenest steel blade. And that's what we're going to use in this. Sand. Glass."

Tobias was silent while he pondered this. "But... just on the edge of the blade?" he asked. "So the rest of the sword is more structurally sound. That's why your son is working on that separate piece, is that right?"

The sage gave him a canny look. "You spotted that, did you?"

"Both parts, yes. The sword made sense once you explained it, and the family resemblance is strong enough between you two."

"Hmph. Alright, back to the anvil."

[Tobias Stalt]

Tobias held the misshapen metal as still as he could manage as the Sage hammered swiftly at it. With each stroke, the hot Dehlar stretched further. It spread across the anvil's center as it slowly began to take shape. It still glowed a brilliant orange as he adjusted his grip on it. "Steady!" The Sage chastised him, annoyed that Tobias let his grip go for even a moment. "You have to keep hold," the elder hissed.

"I just figured my hands would be in the way-"

"Don't figure! Leave that to me." The old man peered through his one good eye toward Tobias, and the youth hung his head. "You'll have plenty time for thinking when you're wielding the blade on a battlefield. For now, just follow directions. Can you handle that?"

"Aye," Tobias muttered. It was true; his tenure in Alerar had taught him much of how to deal with orders. Commands were like tantamount to scripture, in some circles. He renewed his tight grip, this time far more steadily. The hammer began to fall anew.

Several feet away, the apprentice laboriously toiled at his own task. Every strike he sent through the hot metal and sand rippled through the very floor. Slowly he folded the metal, focused on the proper distribution of sand and Dehlar. The edge of the blade made the weapon what it was. His task was just as important as the other, if not far more; without the Akashima styled keen edge, the Dehlar blade would be more like a club. The lithe, intricate edge he hammered at would be the teeth and claws of the beast.

Tobias stared as sweat poured down his face, sparks spewed from the beaten metal kissing his apron. The heat was unlike any Stalt had ever felt. "Take the hammer," the Sage commanded, and Tobias looked up dumbly. "Take it, I said!"

With a reticent hand, Tobias accepted the tool from the elder and managed to curl it against his chest. "Now, you beat it until it's straightened out," he commanded, and pointed at the oblong mass. "Can you see the blade's form within the ore?" The Sage inquired, though he could already see loss in Tobias' golden gaze.

"No," Tobias admitted, "I'm afraid I've not come that far yet."

"Not to worry," his instructor Smith encouraged, "I can see it." The Sage took the tongs and kept the Dehlar steady. Tobias caught the nod from his partner, and he swung the hammer as gracefully as could be managed. "Faster," the Sage cried, "it'll cool if you're too slow!"

For what seemed a lifetime, Tobias wailed at the shapeless mass, and the Sage poured a strange liquid over it. Tobias tilted his head between swings. "Flux?" He asked, and the Sage nodded.

"Keep hammering," and then, "flux will rid you off then excessive impurities. Help to keep the metal from corroding, make it more durable." He watched with approval as Tobias' toil began to take shape at last, and he smirked. "You catch on quickly," he praised.

"I'm a quick study," Tobias admitted, though he rarely accepted complements. Pride was was a sin the soldier felt he could do without. His breaths were much easier now, despite the fire and tremendous effort, and his body had begun to acclimate to the heavier weights. "What will I do when this is done?" Tobias asked, as he wanted to keep his pace steady.

[Otto]

"Just keep drawing it out for now. Not too thin, though. Turn it around to upset it if you do, and keep it hot!"

Tobias gave him a blank look. "Upset?" he asked, uncertain that he had heard correctly.

"Thicken, then. Keep at it."

The sage bustled off to the tool rack, where he began rummaging around. Tobias had to make one more trip to the hearth to heat the thing up, which was a torture in itself; heat and fatigue were joining forces to make him wish he were back outside in the cool, clean rain. Lost amidst the daydream, he had no time to react when a thick arm had reached in and seized the tongs from his hand. Tobias startled and looked up into the grey eyes of the apprentice.

"Here," said the man, proffering his belt. "It will help."

Tobias was in no state to argue. Instead, he simply took the thick girdle and fastened it about his waist. When the other man handed back the tongs, Tobias nearly flicked the glowing dehlar lump up and away; he'd expected it to drag his wearied limbs down, but the thing now felt little heavier than steel.

"It takes some getting used to," the burly fellow said. "Good thing I didn't wear it for our fight, no?"

Tobias was about to respond when the sage called out to him. "Hurry up, boy!"

The apprentice sent Tobias sprawling forward with a slap on the back, towards the scowling old smith. He saw now that a horizontal steel cylinder had been fixed to the anvil's hardy hole, and that the sage held another in his hand.

"Let's see it, now," the old man said. He 'um'd and 'ah'd over it, and tapped out a few apparent imperfections, before handing it back. He instructed Tobias on then drawing out the thinner tang, which constituted about another half-hour's work. The old man ran an expert eye over that, too, making minor adjustments as he saw fit. At long last, while Tobias was gulping down the umpteenth drink of water, the bladesmith called to him once more.

"This looks good enough. Now we weld the rest on. Boy!"

From the other side of the tent, the apprentice looked up.

"You done with that yet?" his master enquired.

The younger man nodded.

"Then bring it over." The sage turned back to Tobias. "Forge-welding's a delicate process. Pay close attention to my instructions."

Tobias nodded, and was led back to hearth, where both workpieces were heated to a bright orange over the coals. The sage then hustled them back to the anvil and instructed Tobias to align the two workpieces with one another, and to tap them together, without too much force. He worked his way up and around, progressing slowly along so that the encroaching weld joint pushed out flux and scale before it. It took some time, and several trips back to the hearth, but at last the two workpieces had been forged back together.

"And now," the sage went on, "we fuller it."

He had Tobias lay the workpiece lengthwise along the cylinder that had been inserted into the anvil. Then he put the hand-held one atop it, so that the workpiece was pincered between them. "These are the largest fullers we have. It'll still be heavy, there's no helping that, though. Now give the top one a few decent hits, nice and easy like."

Tobias obliged, swinging the hammer down onto the swage's flat end. The smith moved the workpiece along as they worked, so that the groove was slowly imprinted up along the blade. As they moved up, the blade took on dimensions more traditional for such a sword, and lost its resemblance to an oversized stiletto.

[Tobias Stalt]

Heat that permeated the room swept once more over Tobias, and he shivered as though he were chilled. The sweat bleeding from his pores offered a respite as the air washed over him, but relief was quickly stolen away as he dried up quickly. Another wash of water against his throat helped to abate the dehydration, but too much more would likely be too much.

He pressed the unfinished weapon into the fire once more, the flames focused on the forge welded area. It began to glow a deeper orange, then faint red. He had repeated the process several times now, enough to approximate the time and heat necessary to work. Satisfied, he withdrew the heavy object and placed it once again on the anvil. "Almost," he spoke softly, as though his words might upset the delicate order of things.

Again the hammer fell, and the steel tightened to the Dehlar. The cross-guard took shape slowly, but with each strike, it transformed. Tobias could almost see the shape he wanted through the sparks. He blinked. "I see it," he mumbled, dumbfounded. "I can see the shape."

"Good, boy," the Sage commended him, "now keep hammering! It's almost time!"

Tobias gave the weapon a handful more blows before the hand stopped his arm, and he glanced over. "Now," the Sage told him, "it's time to cool it down before adding the final touches." Tobias gaped, unable to fully understand what the Smith meant. Yes, he had helped to forge a blade of immense quality, but he was still lost on how he had done so. He knew how to follow orders, and he had learned well. Still, Tobias was but a fledgling Smith. "We've been at it for hours," the Sage continued, "but few blades are ever finished in a single day."

Tobias nodded slowly. "I see," he responded. The struggle was mapped out on his face. "Now...?"

"Now, we cool it. Slowly, so it does not corrode or wear down. The best things take time, I'm sure you've learned."

"Can't rush perfection, aye," Tobias smirked.

"Just so," the Sage winked with his one good eye. "Now, this way..."

He was led to a vault-like space where the Sage opened a door, and heat less considerable than the forge (but no less forgiving) spilled out onto him. Tobias grimaced. "Quickly now," the Sage barked, "waste no time. Place the blade within, and after that... you wait."

"I wait?" Tobias tilted his head, then rounded on the Sage. "You mean we wait, yes?"

"No," the older man grinned. "I mean you wait. This has been a long day, and I'm very tired. It's your sword, so you're going to stay up with it. Keep vigil, and if you see anything awry or hear off noises, check on the blade quickly. Also, be sure to keep the flames hot, and slowly lessen the heat."

Tobias stared blankly. "Well, at least I know how to work an oven," he spat, "easiest bloody task you've given me today."

"Goodnight!" The Sage replied, and he left no room for argument. Tobias threw his hands up as the old man left the room, then turned his gaze toward the Sage's son. "Is he always so impossible?"

"Try being related to him."

Tobias snorted, then shook his head at the unexpected reply. "Aye," he decided, "I suppose I'm the lucky one."

[Otto]

With the apprentice's help, Tobias loaded logs and kindling into the space below a squat, ugly oven formed from local river clay. They soon had a fire going, but the apprentice let it work its way to the thickest logs before he seemed satisfied. Once it had heated up adequately, and a steady burn had been acquired, he gestured at a wide iron panel which had been slotted into the clay above the firepit.

"It's ready," he remarked. "Put the blade in."

Tobias slid the panel up and inserted the near-completed weapon into the oven proper. Heat gushed out at him, searing and intense, though nothing quite like the forge hearth. He let the thick door fall back into place.

"Feel that temperature?" asked the apprentice. Tobias nodded. "Good. Keep it at that for the night. Dehlar is a stubborn metal. It will take some time."

"All night?"

The apprentice grinned. "All night. There's wood in the corner there, and more covered outside. Drink water if you thirst. Ale will make you drowsy." He paused, thinking for a moment, before continuing on. "We have no books. Maybe sing some songs if you wish to stay focused. But not too loud - he will be wanting his sleep."

Tobias also nodded. "Got it."

"Good work today. Keep an eye on the oven, and it won't be wasted."

With that, the large man ambled off. Tobias watched him leave, then sat himself down on the bare earth. He loosened his boots and struggled to take them off, waggling his sore toes gratefully when they fell away. Then he went and poured himself some more water, sat before the oven once again, and waited.



* * *


The old sage was sitting up in his bedroll when his son returned. The younger man took in his distant, contemplative expression. He wondered what the fellow was thinking about.

"It is looking to be a fine enough sword," said the apprentice.

His father was still and unresponsive. The apprentice decide to leave him to it, but as he disrobed and prepared to slip beneath his own sheets, the sage's low, gravelly voice finally replied.

"What do you make of it?"

The apprentice blinked. "The sword?"

"Of course the sword."

"Hmm." the young man scratched his head. "It will be sharp. Though stiff, it will bend before it breaks, and it will reclaim its shape. No magic will stand against it, and its weight will let it strike through the strongest armour."

But the old man seemed to have heard. He stared straight ahead, and sighed. "I have seen the fates of many men. Many men. I have seen them in the wind, the fall of blood, the raging skies, the dancing leaves. And today I saw it in a sword. In all my journeys, I have rarely seen a blade as black as that one."

The apprentice watched and waited, but more was not forthcoming. His father just sighed again, a sad little sound, and laid down. "Good night," he said.

"Good night," replied the son. He pinched out their lone candle, and laid down to sleep.

[Tobias Stalt]

In the flames, Tobias saw a heart pounding. It was not a heart in the true sense; what he saw was metal, dark and hot, and it pulsed to an unnatural beat. The hearth sang a sad, sinister song as Tobias gazed at the coals. His unborn blade called for him with an almost unholy urgency, but Tobias knew better. Some trick of the heat, perhaps, or his lack of sleep had caught up with him. He kept his hands from the kiln and pressed the door shut.

"Almost," he muttered, "it's almost dawn." The cock had not called out yet, but Tobias had been awake most of the night. The storm had passed and he had drunk more water than was probably healthy. Hints of sunlight trickled through dark clouds on the horizon. "Almost."

Tobias could see the beast. He felt the weight in his hands and along his arms, and the disembodied heartbeat resounded in his mind. There was more life in that darkness than he was comfortable with. "Magic that destroys magic," he mused aloud, "or is it something else entirely?"

There weye many secrets Tobias did not know; he was young, and he had seen many things. Still, Tobias had not seen everything. Dehlar was a mystery, but soon, it would be a part of him. Stalt stared dumbly down at his hands, and he considered the burden he was about to willfully accept.

The stir from another room told Tobias the others were awake, but he did not call for them. "Two hearts," he said as he ran fingers over his newly formed blisters. "My second heartbeat." Delusion had gripped the youth, he was certain. Still, what he heard and saw in that time watching over his weapon moved Tobias.

"Good morning, boy!" The Sage swept into the room loudly and caught Tobias as he edged toward the oven. "Are you ready for the beginning of the end?"

It sounded so ominous that Tobias had to glance uncertainly at the Smith. "Oh, come on, it's not as serious as all that," the Sage laughed. "I'm sure you're ready to be done."

"Tell me what to do," Tobias agreed with action instead of questions. He was on his feet in an instant, and in the next he had opened the oven. He pulled the tongs from their place beside the oven and reached in, and Tobias prepared to remove the heavy blade.

He hefted the weapon, easier than it had been the night before. He removed it slowly from the heat, and he gazed at the deep darkness with transfixed eyes. "I've never seen anything like it," he murmured. The apprentice grunted.

"Let's start cooling it," the Sage told Tobias, "slowly, now. It's going to take some time..."

[Otto]

"... so let's have some breakfast while we wait," concluded the sage. He took the tongs from Tobias' unresisting hands, and put the blade back into the oven. Then he picked up a slim log from the stack and nestled it in with the embers. "Let the fire die down a bit, just slow, like. We'll feed it less and less, and it should be fine to handle in a few hours. But now we eat."

The old man led Tobias back through the partition, where a few more coals had been ignited over the central hearth. The man's apprentice crossed to one of the various stockpiles hidden in the shadows, where he lifted a cast-iron pot from its hiding place and proceeded to set it over the fire. Tobias soon noticed the growing smell of oats and milk, which slowly cut through the strange, lingering scent of incense. But there was more to come; the smith and his son were hard-working men, with the massive appetites their labours warranted. A skillet was also procured, into which the apprentice rubbed some fat, then laid out thick rashers of bacon, eggs, and sliced onion. The sight and smell awakened Tobias' stomach, and he realised just how much the previous day's work had taxed him. Right now he was so hungry that even the sight of black pudding frying in the pan made his gut rumble ravenously.

The sage sat both of them down at the little trestle table, and poured out some small beer. Tobias had only gone through half his mug by the time that a plate of vascular-sealing fried goods was laid in front of him. His fork blurred as passed back and forth between his mouth and the crockery.

The apprentice scattered some salt, butter and honey into the oats, then took them off the heat after a few minutes and let them sit. He loaded his own plate from the skillet then took a seat, and he and the old man worked their way slowly through the first course without fuss.

When Tobias finished well ahead of the others, the sage gestured back towards the cooling oven.

"Give it a bit more fuel," he told the youth.

The log had been reduced to embers. Tobias took another, slightly slimmer length of wood, and nestled it in amongst the orange bed. When he returned, three steaming bowls of porridge had been laid out on the table. The sage and apprentice were already tucking into theirs. Tobias sat down, picked up a crude wooden spoon, and dipped it into the gruel. He could just see a faint sheen of liquefied butter floating on the surface of the glutinous, milky oats.

It tasted better than anything he could care to remember.

Several hours passed. Tobias helped the other men clean up, occasionally going back to check on the fire and prevent it from dying out too rapidly. He had stepped outside for half an hour or so, trying to let the wind's cold bite bring sharpen his weary mind, when the sage poked his head out of the tent and called to him. He turned around and looked into the old man's one good eye.

"It's ready," said the sage.

Tobias walked back inside to the oven. The thing still emanated heat, but it was faint, and Tobias could easily lay his hands upon the clay exterior. Even so, he used the tongs to extract the blade, though a couple of fingers held against the sword told him that while it was uncomfortably warm, the metal was not hot enough to actually hurt him. He took it back into the main section of the tent where the two other fellows were waiting for him. The apprentice had replaced the skillet and pot with a clay jar, heating rapidly atop the hearth. The sage was measuring out a spool of bright, silver wire.

The apprentice passed Tobias a set of shears and a length of some kind of leather. "Ray skin," he elaborated. "Bears up well against the rain."

Cutting out the appropriate length of leather was a simple enough task, but fixing it to the tang was somewhat more in-depth. The clay pot turned out to hold a strong resin, which the sage brushed onto the tang, before instructing Tobias on how to weave the strips of ray skin on in a chevron pattern, taking care to make sure to wrap it tight and exclude air bubbles. He urged him to work fast while the metal was still warm, so that the resin might not set so quickly, then he had the young man bind the silver wire tight about the grip's exterior so that the leather held fast to the tang.

They left it another couple of hours before returning to the blade. Tobias found the ridges of the leather weave to result in a most satisfactory and firm grip, and one not overly uncomfortable in his hand.

"There is but one thing left to do," the sage said.

[Tobias Stalt]

To hone a weapon was to give it life at last. In his hands, the blade felt like a body with no soul. The Sage's commands reverberated through his thoughts, but Tobias had fixated on the grindstone. Both hands carefully guided the blade, and within several minutes Tobias had begun a day's worth of sharpening.

"Let's leave him to it," the Sage said to his son, who lingered as the elder man disappeared through the flap of the tent. Sparks flew from the now cool, dark as night weapon. It was a terrible color to behold; it looked as though the gods had spilled ink across parchment and left the stain as a reminder that no matter where there is light and color, there was also darkness.

The younger of two Smith's thought he felt a shiver before he turned from the young man who sought to finish his blade. When he slipped out of the tent and joined his father, the sun had risen high in the sky. "it's an ill omen," he managed after a moment. "Scarce do blades reflect such darkness save in the hands of men with..."

"...black hearts," the Sage finished. "Yet, in this man, I see no such darkness."

"That is why I am troubled," the apprentice agreed. "What does this mean?" The sound of metal scraped against stone became louder for a moment, and they heard a grunt of effort, but it subsided just as quickly. "Poor boy; he'll sleep for a day, if not two. He's no Smith."

"But there is promise in his determination," the Sage reflected. He lifted a pipe from beneath his ragged robes to his lips and reached up to ignite it. "Some men are driven to greater things than simple crafting or soldiering." He stopped for a moment to inhale deeply, then exhaled a long plume of smoke. "We shall need to keep an eye on our young friend," the elder smiled. "I should like to see how his tale unfolds."

"Indeed," the young Smith allowed. "I suspect no foul intentions in him."

"I would never have allowed such a blade to exist," the Sage winked and drew from the pipe a second time, "if there were reason to believe it would cause calamity. I may be a salesman, but I can be selective in who I serve, and who I turn away."

The son peeked into the tent, where he observed Tobias as he firmly scraped the edge of his sword along the grindstone. Sweat poured from the youth, though only a matter of minutes had elapsed. The great weight had proven immense, and though Tobias was a bit more used to it, he was far from ready to wield it efficiently.

The apprentice smirked, and the flap fell back into place. "With some time, he could become an absolute nightmare." He recalled each swing of his hammer against the boy, and how Tobias had stood his ground firmly in the face of adversity. He imagined the struggle within Tobi as the young man held against a might far beyond his own, and though he gave ground, still persevered. The soldier within their tent was far from a master of swordsmanship, but he had a great advantage over his enemies.

"He doesn't know when to give up," the apprentice remarked.

"No," the Sage shook his head, "he knows when he ought to. He just chooses not to." Both men crossed their arms and stared out over the valley below, visible now by daylight after the storm had passed. There was a gentle mist blown away by the breeze, and beneath, they saw a lush and green plain stretch for miles. A pristine river cut a swath through the middle of the valley, and they could distinctly see a herd of antelope grazing in the distance. "He's like you that way." The Sage reached up and whacked his son on the head.

"Ow!" The son cried, "what was that for!?"

"Time to get back to work," the elder called out. They went back to their routine while Tobias honed his blade, and several hours passed like minutes.

Tobias stopped for a moment, then he lifted his glass to his lips and wet his tongue. "So," he said finally, and both Smith's looked up, startled. "Let's talk money, shall we? What do I owe you?"

[Otto]

"Let me take another look at it," asked the sage.

Tobias passed the sword over with his trembling arms. The ordeal would make him stronger in a few days, once his limbs had had a chance to recuperate, but now they were weakened and pained with exertion. The smith took the weapon in one hand with ease and angled it to the light.

"It's not as fine as had I made it myself, but this is a good blade nonetheless. Yes, I think it suits you."

Tobias' patience had also been worn thin by now, along with his strength. "How much?" he persisted.

"I'll have to think about it. I will have decided by the time I return."

He handed the weapon back, strode over to a couple of racks. Tobias watched the man retrieved a utilitarian-looking spear, his long cloak, and wide-brimmed hat. "You're heading out?" the soldier asked.

"Aye," replied the sage, fiddling with the brooch. "The weather has cleared, and there's game about. I think I shall go hunting. You may not yet be done by the time I return, though you're doing a fine enough job."

Tobias looked down at his sword, and let out a weary sigh. "The final stage has no business being so much work. I just wish it were done."

The sage shrugged. "Hard to polish, hard to notch. Few things of worth come easy. Boy! Step outside with me a moment."

The apprentice followed the old man back out through the tent flap, where they drew to a halt several paces from the entrance. The wet smell of rain was still all about them, a remnant of yesterday's storm and the lingering dew. Some straggling clouds still patched the sky, causing to the valley to become a shifting, mottled mosaic of amber and verdigris.

"I shall keep him fed and watered," the apprentice said, as they gazed out on the scene.

"Good. Should he finish before I come back, make him up a bed. I'm sure he could use a kip by now. And if he desired to just be on his way, then just give him a price and let him go."

The sturdy fellow looked at his father in surprise. "Let me handle the transaction? You always say I have no head for it."

"And you don't! But I believe the man will pay dearly enough in the near future." The sage fell quiet for a few moments, then added, "Perhaps I shall watch for him upon the field. Some day, when he has grown."

With that, the old man gathered his cloak about himself, and trudged down to the forest below the hill. His son watched until the figure blended into the treeline and disappeared from sight. Then he turned his back on the cool hills, and walked into the sweltering heat of the tent.


Thread finished. Please see judgement submission for spoils request.

[Lye]

Otto gets 1,170 EXP and has donated his GP towards Tobias's Spoils

Tobias gets 880 EXP and may purchase the blade at a discount of 120 GP.

Tobias, please PM me if you would like to complete this transaction so that I may deduct the gold from your account.

[Lye]

Transaction approved & completed. Tobias has been deducted 120 GP.