Coals drew in long deep breathes from black bellows, grinning back teeth made of hot wicked embers. The Prospector and weapons master plucked the blade from its forge, setting its end upon the anvil and swinging his hammer malevolently against the tip as though a man drowning. Fighting for his last gasps of air, trying to beat back inevitable death.
The two foes Maker and Metal, sparred for what seemed an eternity but at a languid pace, the steel began to withdraw, and its bevels slowly appeared. Having finally accepted defeat, the blade reluctantly took the shape that its master so vehemently commanded.
Duramarth lay the unfinished blade to rest, grabbing a greasy rag and wiping the sweat from his brow. The man’s capability for weapon forging was a rare gift. One could argue his skills matched that of the great Dwarven smiths of the second age. Unlike the Dwarves however, Duramarth’s skill did not come naturally but rather from an unnatural stubbornness and determination to mold and breathe life into his own desires.
His technique was peculiar, and it weakened him. The smith would need to rest before continuing his work.
He would try again tomorrow.
