Eofryth's workshop was in a rare state of disorder. Normally clean, stately, fitting the pride that the Eorling blacksmith took in his work, the benches were currently covered in soot. A black smokiness hung in the air, which was thick and hot in a way that the open windows and doors weren't helping. Throughout the smithy, blades were lying on the floor, propped against benches and walls.
Eofryth's arms ached with the rigorous work of his hammer and anvil, and while he'd been working from sunset nearly into sunrise, this wasnt' the cause of the bruises which had formed along his shoulders and ran down his broad arms. Through rigorous practice, and no small amount of resolve, his daughter Ferawyn had been steadily improving in the use of her blade. To the point that Eofryth could no longer drag his feet on what would come next.
The Rohirrim sighed as he looked at the blades scattered about his workshop, each one finished and still in the process of testing. He'd spent a good long time working on this batch, and there wasn't a one of them that wouldn't serve well enough for those who had commissioned them. Since arriving here in the north, Eofryth had been helping to maintain his and his daughter's modest homestead by plying his knowledge of weaponsmithing. It brought money, but more importantly it gave him a stronger sense of purpose in this strange land. He found the people of Bree-town to be good at heart, though woefully unprepared for the war that stalked at their backs.
This particular order, in fact, had been commissioned by a small militia that patrolled the lands outside of the town of Combe. They'd come to Eofryth gratefully, paid him as handsomely as they could with their meager means, and his heart ached at the thought of putting swords in their hands. Each of them was barely of age to start a family, had never seen war or hardship before the recent troubles that had brought brigands and even orcs down on their heads. Yet here they were, asking him to put blades in their thin, unscarred hands. So different from his own youth, raised with an intimate knowledge of riding and combat in a harsh land, where the threat of violence and death was an accepted part of life. He'd practically been raised for warfare, while these young men had it dropped on their heads at the very cusp of adulthood. He couldn't keep the war from them, but he felt a creeping guilt, when he considered the trust they put in him.
Still, as Eofryth gathered up the blades, testing each one with a few basic swings against a makeshift dummy he'd set up in the shop, he looked for something in each of them. Something to stand out, a noticeable cut above the rest in quality. He'd put hard work into each of weapon he made, of course, but he had a higher purpose in mind, as well. As much as he may dread it, Eofryth knew the day was coming closer that the Eorlingas would make the journey back to their homelands, back to their people. He knew that, as much as a part of him wanted to keep his daughter away from hardship and war, that wasn't the world they lived in. Besides, he grinned to himself, feeling the bruises that had been forming across his arms with every swing of every blade, Ferawyn was every bit an Eorling. Eofryth knew he had far less cause to worry than most fathers ...
Lost in his thoughts for a moment, Eofryth was caught by surprise when the blade in his hand, feeling far lighter yet still sturdy in his grip, had cut a solid gash through the dummy. It pulled out easily enough, and, holding it to the light, hadn't lost it's edge. Eofryth turned the weapon over in his hands; sharp and light at the tip, yet solidly weighted at the base, the blade seemed perfect for quick strikes or solid parries. The handle felt comfortable in his hands, as he hoped it would in his daughter's.
For a moment, Eofryth remembered his first night with a blade. He'd stood among the more seasoned men, huddled around a campfire in the dark of night, listening to the howling wargs of the Westfold. It had been mid-winter, Eofryth's first turn on night watch, with the threat of wargs a looming presence outside his village for weeks. The wind had sent chills through his body, and through the night the howling had taken on an unreal, ethereal quality. But Eofryth remembered how firm and resolute that sword had felt, in his hand.
Eofryth hung the sword back on the wall, before bundling the others together for delivery. There'd be a bit more work to do. Fresh leather would need to be cut for the handle. There was a small handful of settings and gems Eofryth had been saving for a worthy pommel. The weapon could do for a bit of polish, as well. He turned over names, in his head. More than the weight, more than the steel, Eofryth knew that meaning, was the strength of a blade.
