Solo [The Knight's Armory] A Cutting Edge

Forging a shortsword, Baelin is stuck stewing on thoughts

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A lawless town of anarchists, built on the ruins of an ancient mining city. [Lore]

[The Knight's Armory] A Cutting Edge

Postby Baelin Holt on November 30th, 2019, 9:09 pm

22, Fall 519 AV

Baelin struck the edge of the stock steel, hammering down a taper into the bar’s tip. Eventually this would be a shortsword, but for now it was still just stock. With full face blows from his hammer, Baelin slowly worked the tip into square edges, framing the future shortsword’s cross-section. When the bar got a little trapezoidal, Baelin flipped it over and hammered the other side, moving quick to correct his earlier over-hammering on the one side.

As he worked, the width shrunk as the stock lengthened. Once the steel had cooled back to only the barest hint of red amongst its gray, Baelin took it back to the forge and rested it flat amongst the coals, with only the lengthening tip in the hot zone. While it heated, he went back to the anvil and brushed off flaked fire scale, trying to take advantage of the break to keep his work surface clear.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. Baelin frowned as he brushed wire against steel, the sound luring him back to the memory of his door rattling on its hinges: his neighbor’s half-assed attempt to break it open. Inhaling slowly, Baelin shook his head and tried to shove the memory aside. His neighbors were none of his business.

Once the base of his working area was heated back to a bright orange, Baelin pulled it out, scraped off forming scale with his wire brush, and rested the tip on the farthest edge of his anvil’s face. Getting the angle of the stock right was a trick that Baelin still wasn’t sure he had down yet. He raised his tongs a bit for a slight incline, then adjusted his grip on the hammer until its face matched the stock’s angle. With a bit more force than he used before, Baelin continued tapering the steel.

Hammer strike after hammer strike…thoughts kept invading what should have been the relaxing repetition of his work. Baelin could still hear it. The fleshy thud of fist on flesh. The bruises all up and down the neighbor’s kid.

A jarring sting raced up Baelin’s wrist and he winced, quick to readjust his grip so he was back to hammering at an angle. He’d lost the angle for a tick and the hammer’s edge had struck the anvil before the stock. Baelin shook his head and tried to focus on the work again.

I’m sorry he was bugging you, alright? Baelin inhaled sharply, the kid’s cracking voice still fresh in his mind. Why couldn’t he just let this go? What did he care if some kid he didn’t know was apologizing for shyke that his abusive father did? It didn’t concern him.

Baelin continued the process: heat, hit, draw out the taper, then heat, hit, draw out the taper. Over and over until he had the tang. And now this time, when he brought the stock back to the forge, Baelin shifted the region he was heating. With the tang more or less drawn out, it was time to work what would eventually be the base of the blade.

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Baelin Holt
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