LORE STORIES 2: The Blood Storm - Master Smith
By: Laochan
*** Author's Note: In an attempt to bring the lore to life, I have decided to write (hopefully a few) stories from the different eras in the rift timeline from a commoner's viewpoint. ***
Blain's hammer sparked on the anvil in front of him and he lost himself in the rhythm of the bellows. The metal of the future sword bent and melted beneath his trained hand and his muscles ached in a way that always made him smile. In the background, he could hear the voice of the master drone on and on to the northman students. The voices of the dwarven leaders had been clear when they called to teach the humans of the north their crafts, but Blain didn't get into the politics of it all, he just wanted a good hammer, anvil, and some metal to form for hours: the location did not matter.
Humans of all ages marveled at the rhythmic sounds and the way the metal moved under the hands of the smith and the master fielded many questions and pointed out many techniques long into the evening. Blain was happy when the lessons were all done and the men made their way back to their huts. He had time to be alone with the newly created swords. He inspected each one carefully and then picked two out which he would use for tomorrow's lessons.
The next morning and throughout the day, the men watched in awe as he chiseled the runic designs which would serve as the base for the runic magic which would be placed into this pair of swords. The knot work that wove into itself confused the eyes of the onlookers until at last the whole design was done: to the students the rune seemed to be alive. The master turned once or twice in his lectures to point out a curve here or a depth mark there, but Blain was far too into his work to really notice or even hear. By dusk that evening, the swords were crafted and taken to be infused with dwarven magic by a more trained crafter. Blain watched them go, longingly wishing he had the knowledge to imbue them.
Blain was still thinking of the blades when he stepped into the hot bath to unwind his tight muscles from the days of forging. He smiled thinking himself like the hot metal swords he had dowsed in water earlier. He let the hot water seep into his tired bones and closed his eyes and listened to the stories of the northmen who talked near the distant firelight. He often missed the great halls of Hammerknell and the stories around the dinner tables there, but did like the crisp open air of the night here in the north. His thoughts wondered to the stories he had heard both in Hammerknell and now here among the men. The dragon gods, who had long meddled with the Eth of the south, were becoming more troublesome. Their cults were everywhere and always fighting among each other. Many Eth had taken sides to try to gain favor, but some fought on great war machines against the dreaded dragons. The dragons moved to take over the southland in order to claim Telara for their own. They rose up to try to stand against their leader, Regulos, fearing he wanted to destroy Telara while they wanted to rule it. The sands of the Eth were red with blood and the skies filled with the wings of dragons. Blain didn't know what to make of the stories, but he knew if they turned out to be true then he would need to become a master smith soon to be able to help protect Hammerknell. The northmen seemed equally concerned.
It was not until weeks later, when a ragged band of southerner nomads came into the camp with the blood of their comrades still on their robes that Blain began to understand just how true the stories were. The nomads spoke of the battles, the trickery of one cult against another, and the might of their warmachines, but also of their need of help from others.
Days later, Blain was called upon to fix the armors of the southerners while they healed and the dwarves met with the northmen and elves of the forest. As he hammered metal smooth and fixed the broken swords and maces, he could almost hear the cries of the men who had died on the blades. This war would not be good for the dwarves. He could feel it: the metal cried out as he hit it. It wanted to rest and he loathed reforming it, but the armaments were far from the end of their use. He twisted and turned them under his hammer and the sparks they gave off seemed like tears. When at last he stood back and looked at his work he could not help but push them out of his sight. They were not like the swords he had made for the master: they were filled with rage and sorrow.
In the months which passed, Blain worked many nights making weapon and armor for the newly formed army of the north. Each dwarf and human and elf willing to fight the dragons was to be suited with the armaments needed for battle. Blain wondered if all his work was worth it. No sooner were the pieces made then they left his side. There were very few finishes, it was all a rush. He longed for the days when he could take his time with the metal and learn its nature and feel its feelings. He often thought of the last time he had really be able to call his work his own: back to the pair of swords that would (unbeknownst to him) be his one and only masterwork. For the pair of swords which Blain had crafted earlier that year had made their way into the hands of a young northman by the name of Mathos. In the northman's hands, those very blades would help to seal many dragons away and drive Regulos back to his plane of death saving Telara but also dooming Blain's beloved home of Hammerknell.