[Solo] The Forge of a Student

[Mazirion]

Timestamp: 18th Day of Fall; AV 511 Mazirion stared into the fires of his forge, his pulse slowing as he breathed deeply the scent of the burning coal. He mentally prepared himself to forge another child for Izurdin. A flawless, perfect gem of metalcraft, worthy of praise in the songs of men down the ages. Without taking his eyes off the flame, he reached his right hand out and grasped a rod of iron. Soon enough, it would take form, and take flight into the world on horseback, or even on foot, made use of by the greatest of warriors or the lowliest of men. Mazirion didn't care - if someone lived another day by way of one of his blades, he cared not of their character. For as long as he was paid, he could create blades that would care not if they were used for good or evil. Without speaking to the people browsing the swordsmith's wares or the shop's owner, he lifted the rod reverentially into the fire, repeating in his head his father's mantra; What I forge today, May it glory in Izurdin In his patience and his skill And his everholy might.

[Mazirion]

Timestamp: 18th Day of Fall, AV 511; Evening Several minutes later, something clicked in the back of his mind. Turning his attentions from the flame to the iron therein, he drew it out and watched the glow. It was almost white with the intense heat of his forge. It was ready. Bringing it to his anvil, he began to flatten it with his bare fist. The heat roared off both the blade-to-be and his sweat-beaded face, momentarily one in their exquisite sensation. If only this sword was his to use, for it would be his finest work. The iron rod flattened, he began shearing off an edge to the falchion it would become. Not only would this humble rod become a great sword, it would also be a work of art - he relished the thought of the golden designs he would weld into the hilt and blade, Izuril's mark on the world, now and forever, until the blade should break. The metal plate now shaped roughly, he chipped a curve into the creation and quenched it in water. Tomorrow was the day he would make the hilt - for now, it was late and he had not the time. Leaving the smith's with a nod to the owner and a promise to finish what he had started in the morning, he headed for home. Entering his windowless apartment, he donned his cloak to get warm, started a fire in his hearth with one of the torches outside and fell asleep, dreaming of the possibilities tomorrow would bring, of seclusion and of a purpose, however temporary, in forging his masterful blade...

[Mazirion]

Timestamp: 19th of Fall, AV 511; Morning Mazirion woke up with the sunlight streaming through his window... Then he remembered he didn't have a window, and that it was most likely the torchlight streaming through his door. Getting out of bed, he put on his jacket under his cloak and headed for his forge. The blade he had forged yesterday needed a hilt. Arriving at his place of work, he swiftly removed his jacket and cloak and swept his hair around his neck. The he got ready to work. Once again, he donned a reverential air and prepared himself for the fires. He looked down at the newborn edge hanging from the wall at his waist level, and envisioned the perfect hilt, one that would suit it to every possible specification. But the human who commissioned it wanted a certain type of hilt. He sighed, and got to work. Taking another ingot, he heated it in the fires until it glowed. Once again, he hammered it into shape - this time a cross, fit to be held by a human hand and also to keep one safe. He chiseled the edges the human wanted in it, the angular shape already showing even as it glowed white with blinding heat. The strange crucifix continued to puzzle him - he had no idea why anyone would want a hilt that could slice the wielder's hand off in battle. Still, it was not his place to question, only to create. Quenching the hilt, he prepared to apply the gold tracery that his evidently vain customer wanted.

[Mazirion]

Timestamp: 19th of Fall, AV 511; Morning Mazirion stood in front of his forge with a pot of liquid gold in the embers, dribbling it onto the sword as delicately as he could. Which wasn't very delicately - he might be an Isur, but metalsmithing is hard to do when your body is built for heavy lifting. The swirling patterns fell into place, glowing like angel tears, though they were about three hundred times as hot. It was far more beautiful like this, when the patterns were still glowing and bringing light to the world, but they would not be for long. Allowing them to cool, as quenching them would ruin the pattern, he turned his attention to the blade. With a chisel and a steady hand, he notched away at the handle end of the blade and created a hook-shaped attacher for the blade to fit into the hilt. A somewhat unorthodox method, but welding would render the blade firm and unbreakable. The blade thusly completed, he polished it while he waited for the gold tracery to finish the boring process of cooling.

[Mazirion]

Timestamp: 19th Day of Fall, AV 511; Afternoon Mazirion looked at the finished blade, while he waited for an iron ingot to melt so he could weld the blade into place. The dimensions were all wrong, the hilt itself was designed for a completely different sword, and the only thing it would ever be good for is chopping heads off particularly small rats. The saddening thing is, that was the exact specifications of the buyer. He didn't know it, but he'd signed his own death warrant, and the date was whenever he tried to use this sword. To hell with it, Mazirion thought to himself. It's on my head if someone misuses a sword I forged, and I'm not going to let them screw my career up. I still have so much to learn. Picking up the sword, he gently removed the blade. That could go in the finished sword - it was a falchion blade and the customer had asked for a falchion. Taking the hilt, he swept the tracery off of it while it was still brittle and left it on top of the gold he had yet to use. Next time it was melted, it would rejoin the larger quantity. The hilt itself he dumped in the forge. The pommel would have to be much smaller and the actual handle much longer if the man who used it was to not die. He set to work on the new hilt...

[Mazirion]

Timestamp: 19th Day of Fall, AV 511; Evening It had taken hours of work. In fact, Mazirion wasn't entirely sure it was worth the work. But here it was - a proper sword. It was thoroughly patched-together, and the hilt's golden pattern was somewhat... cut short... by the size of the actual, useable hilt. But it was useable, and that was the important thing. Handing it to the smith, he stood in place while his employer patiently explained to him, in a very loud voice, why this wasn't what the customer asked for. When the smithy was done talking, Mazirion made his contribution. "What the customer asked for was a falchion, perfectly balanced. He then demanded that the hilt be too heavy to lift, if the blade were to be of balanced weight. Tell him we made adjustments, and I'm sure he'll accept it for the functional weapon it is," he suggested, quietly. At closing time, he left the smith knowing that that man wouldn't die now because of the craftsmanship of his sword, at least. With that much he would have to be satisfied.

[Paragon]

Mazirion : Mazirion Skill XP Reward Metalsmithing +1 Meditation +1 Weaponsmithing +3 Lore: The Customer isn't Always Right, Hilt Dimensions, Saving Lives with a Sword Other: N/A Great thread, just what a solo should be, short, sweet, and to the point - if you have ANY questions or concerns about this grading, don't hesitate to PM me.