Open [Arms Gallery] The Mantra of Hammer and Anvil

[Cimmanil]

Cimmanil Coldforge The Mantra of Hammer and Anvil Timestamp: The Eighth Day Of Winter, 513 AV The Inarta are known for their extraordinary skill at glassworks, but they have also always been consummate miners and metalsmiths, producing some of the finest equipment in all Kalea. As the wilderness presents constant threats, the firey-haired people of Wind Reach favour of high-quality, strong steel and lots of it. The forges of the Gallery of Arms are ensconced in a large, high-ceilinged chamber near to a relatively stable volcanic vent, with the fires of deep Skyinarta powering the furnaces. The heat of the hall instantly raises a slick of sweat upon any who enter, and soot and embers dance upon the rising hot air. The Gallery was filled with the sound and heat of work. A shimmering broil floated steadily in the air like a fog of heat and soot, and the cacophony of the smiths echoed throughout the cavern; the clang of dozens of hammers upon anvil and ingot, the wheezing breath of bellows, the crackle of flames and deeper, low roar of the volcanic furnaces, the bark of the foremen and the deep baritone chant of the strikers as they labored to shape metal into blade and breastplate, spear and spade. The place held a powerful potpurri of soot and iron, sweat and sour ale. The smithing chambers snaked off this central gallery like fingers, with spaces where Inarta labourers worked hard and long hours to keep the metal supplies of the hunters and tools for the Dek flowing. Down one of these galleries, next an anvil nestled against the yawning maw of a glowering furnace, a towering redbearded Inarta worked alongside a single female Isur apprentice. The Isur was garbed in a plain strapless Vinati—it had at one time been white—soaked through with sweat, which exposed her exquisitely toned and muscular stomach. She was often covered in black soot and metal slivers, the remainder of her outfit being a pair of plain white Bryda. Her hair was as black as the iron she hammered, and was cropped boyishly short in a labourer’s style, mussed and slicked against her forehead. Sweat beaded upon her brow and the top of her chest, sizzling and evaporating upon the hall’s floor where it fell. The Isur girl’s black eyes held a furiously determined scowl, and she muttered beneath her breath as her hammer worked to malleate a lump of iron. The Inarta tapped his smithing hammer at precise points upon the red hot metal, and the Isur brought her sledge down upon each point with a resounding clang. Her sweat-slicked, corded arms raised the hammer high and brought it down again and again, her muscular left arm contrasted to her great metallic right arm, its swirling silvery veins standing out against the dusky steel-blue of her skin. In her head, each stroke of her hammer was as a period to the mantra of Izurdin. The Isur girl was in her element; the sweat and heat and soot all welcome prizes of the crafting she adored. She knew how to shape a raw ingot into a decent fighting axe, how steel could be folded until it would cut through stone, and she knew all the sacred forge-chants that held the mountain society of Sultros together. Izurdin held that the balance of precision, strength, and willpower required to forge the toughest metals the Isur wrenched from the guts of the earth was the balance that held the universe together, and the mantras that focused the mind upon these holy truths swam back through Cimmanil’s head as she worked. “Good! You have strength, my blue Yasi, this I already knew. Now. More charcoal. Bellows.” The big Inarta growled behind his fiery beard. “Yes, sir.” The Isur's voice was deep and gravelly for such a short woman, her words abrupt but respectful. Methodically the Isur worked, slipping her hammer into her belt and dashing to the charcoal stores, returning with an armful. The stuff covered her in a fine black dust, and the slivers of charcoal made her itch maddeningly, but she did not complain. She moved quickly to the bellows, and grunted as she pumped with measured, powerful blows. The piece of iron in the forge grew white hot and little white sparks occasionally rose from the fire as the iron started to burn. “Take it out for me.” Tekk grunted as he watched his apprentice work, his huge corded arms folded across his broad chest. Cimmanil walked around to face the fire again, reaching into the flames with her gem-hard cerulean arm to pull out the white hot metal and stack it back upon the anvil. As Tekk tapped the item, her sledge was in her hands almost instantly, and a rain of white sparks leaped from the anvil as she pounded it over and over again. The big Inarta bent the hot metal over the horn, fashioning it to his will. Finally he seemed content with the quality of the item, and thrust it into the cold water of the quench tank next to the workbench, steam bubbling up and engulfing both the Smith and his Isur striker in its hot vapours. After the metal had cooled, the Inarta handed Cimmanil a coarse ironfile, and she began filing, sending chips and silvers of iron flying about the workshop. She filed until the item, which was revealed to be a climbing hook, had flat, smooth facets, and the bevel was nice and crisp. Finally she polished the lance-point with oil to work it to a glistening, clean shine. Another tool done, perhaps the hunter that used this one would be able to climb the crags of Skyinarta to bring a decent sized game back to help alleviate the famine. Tekk examined the tool and nodded gruffly, then wordlessly strode out of the workshop. It was the end of a long day, together they had made hammers, chisels, and other tools for climbing, and Cimmanil had learned much. The Isur girl’s muscles ached and her skin itched from charcoal and sweat and soot. Cimmanil’s stomach was already growling, but she knew that the rations would not do much to help. Wordlessly, she meticulously cleaned her workspace, returning each tool to its specific home. It was not hers, to be correct, she was just an apprentice, and whoever had the next shift would find the place spotless and organized. After the floor had been swept, she hung her apron upon a hook in the workshop.