Snippet #2451507

Through the market, the sound of a hammer striking metal rang like music. The rhythm of the strikes echoed like that of a drum.

The being who was striking the red hot metal was not what most outsiders would expect. It was a skinny man, no more than 24, with eyes the color of ice, and hair that could barely be seen. His arms and face showed evidence of many burns, to which many who knew little about him often speculated their cause.

The small smithery that he stood in was no larger than three normal shops. The large smelter gave off a distinct glow of heat, while the forge, little more than an open pit of coals, kept many unformed blades red. In a trough, on the opposite side of the exposed room, was water in which many blades were cooled. Next to the trough was the anvil, where the man was crafting the weapon. On the walls not far from the forge, yet enough to be bearable, was the weapons which the smith sold. All had something novel about them. Some were curved blades, some attached on the forearm, some did both. And with each weapon came a tag that showed its price, reasonable, but a bit on the low side.

The blade formed slowly in the man's grasp, having been worked on since little after midnight. It was an armblade, with a distinct, and difficult to make, talon-like tip to it. Once the final parts of the talon were finished, the red blade met water to release a horde of steam. Next was a piece of leather to act as the bracer to hold the piece on. At that, the smith stood proud, his creation simple and sturdy. Only thing left to do with it was sharpen the blade.