Closed Bang went the hammer. (Imass)

Khemkhaengawut takes Imass as a temporary apprentice just to brag.

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Known as the Celestial Seat, Nyka is a religious city in Northern Sylira. Ruled by four demigods and traversed by a large crevice, the monk-city is both mystical and dangerous. [Lore]

Bang went the hammer. (Imass)

Postby Khemkhaengawut on March 1st, 2016, 2:13 am

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42nd -Winter - 515AV


“Look here, fool. See all this junk floating? That’s dirt. I only craft with the most pure materials I can make. Otherwise, it’s all a waste.” The Chaktawe rolled his eyes, as if he was explaining how to breathe to a newborn. Despite his not quite relevant expertise on the matter, his ego didn’t allow him to show any sort of humble behavior. As the molten metal was still heated, a metallic tong came forth to swipe away the dark ‘ooze’ that was forming on top of the otherwise brightly shining molten metal. The material didn’t seem to be too dirty, as with just a couple of swipes it was all clear from imperfection. “Alright, lift it from the fire, goof.” He commanded to the Akalak, to whom he treated like an apprentice. Working alone with just a single hand in the crafting of a breastplate was virtually impossible – or at least it would be for a mere mortal. The legendarily exaggerated skills of Khemkhaengawut were, however, above all that. The object to move was a square pot like structure made of stone, which didn’t allow itself to be melted like the metal. It laid on a side of the humble forge fire, which throughout consistency and patience had eventually molten the ore. “Take it here and pour it over. Careful not to miss, Nomass.” The Chaktawe signaled towards a cast.

Meanwhile, Awut retrieved a heavy hammer which he would use to smash the material into shape once they had cooled down. The casted material would take a few chimes to be workable, time which the Chaktawe spent preparing the ball stake they would use afterwards. He waited until Imass’ pouring was complete before sighing as if the Akalak had messed up, and pointing back at the forge. “Good enough for a newbie. Leave that beside the forge, not inside.” Warming up his arm for the incoming heavy task, the one-handed smith recalled the events that lead to all this. Alija owned the shop, and she owed a favor to this Akalak. The Akalak promised some work, and here they were. As the Chaktawe’s behavior didn’t quite allow him to form a relationship or find a job in this somewhat bizarre city, his addiction for the craft of armor was to be satisfied with this task. Imass was definitely not a worthy apprentice, but nonetheless it was the only choice for the moment. The plan was to make a breastplate for the out of shape Akalak, but since the blue man’s lack of experience would hinder the result, Khemkhaengawut instead decided to go for a more simplistic design – coat of plates. A coat of plates was a simple bodice in which plates were either hung, sewn or hidden. It wasn’t as good as a breastplate, but it was very effective. Every novice knew how to craft one of those.

Once the ingots were hot enough, Awut took the tongs and brought them to the fire as he held the moderately hot ingot between those tong and let it regain the heat. The metal always had to be processed this way – first melted and cleaned, then casted and lastly warmed once again for shaping. Skipping those steps assured for an incompetent’s work. He let it rest in the fire while he went for another pair of tongs. “Grab some too, damn it. Stop looking and start helping. Put them all in the fire.” Unfortunately, there were only two tongs in the entire shop, which meant they would have to alter between one and the other. With a grunt, Awut took a hold of another of the small ingots to bring to the fire. It’s companion was slowly turning red. “Listen now, fatty. Take this hammer,” he said as he tossed it lightly towards the Akalak. “I bring you the ingot and you hit it with all of your pathetic strength. Make sure you hit it in the middle, understand? Otherwise you’ll ruin it. Ready?” Without warning, the Chaktawe wrapped his single hand around the tong’s handles, wrapping them both with his overgrown hand. The metal was indeed quite soft already, almost bending it with the tongs. Thankfully, it wasn’t thick enough to be damaged as he held the tongs in such a harsh grip. He brought it to the anvil, and deposited the piece vertically on top. “GO!” he’d yell, eager to hear the sound of a hammer hitting metal.

The best sound in the world for him.
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Khemkhaengawut
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Bang went the hammer. (Imass)

Postby Imass on March 1st, 2016, 5:20 am

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Imass stood near Khemkhaengawut with his arms folded and his feet wide on the floor. There was a frown on his face as the armor smith spoke; the words the exited out of the Chaktawe's resembled a flaming pile of horse dung. Griping the thongs, the Akalak remained silent and widened his eyes in disapproval.

The Knight was unwilling to let the man get the upper hand on him with jests by responding with violence. Picking up the crucible, he slowly transferred the molten liquid to the cast, "As you say, Kum-quat,"

Though Imass was new to smiting, he was dexterous and naturally strong in manual labor. Squeezing the thongs with two hands, he stared at the liquid as not to spill a single drop. Slowly he emptied the contents as the hot metal glowed on his blue face. Satisfied with his job, Imass took a step back and watched Khemkhaengawut work.

The Knight watched patiently, but need to be dictated everything step-by-step, as he knew nothing at all. Using the thongs, Imass followed the Chaktewe's instructions and placed the newly formed ingots in the fire. He did not understand the reasoning behind this, but he did not question it. All he wanted was armor, not a new trade.

Slowly they began to glow brighter and brighter. Being near all the heat of the shop was a new sensation to Imass. A bead of sweat dripped from his brow. His next task to was to beat the ingot. Finally, the one-armed brute maneuvered the thongs with one hand, picking up the ingot in a seemingly expert manner.

Gripping the hammer as he would the pommel of a sword: tightly. Imass set himself up directly in front of the anvil. He did not know the smiting technique, but rather only his own. Standing with one foot back, the Knight began to swing away. His Knightly training meant he was dexterous with manual tools; he hit the ingot dead center every time and the reverberations going up his arm was nothing knew to him. Each time he swung the hammer, he brought it well above his head, used the fulcrum in his elbow to aim, and the kinetic energy from his hips.

Bang... Bang... Bang... Bang..

Imass began to work up a sweat, as not conditioned to working in such a hot room. There was no way he would take a break though, not in front of Khemkhaengawut. He would rather die, then let the bastard see him fail.
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