| Forging The Blade pt. 2 |
| How long he worked at this, he did not know, days, weeks, it made no difference, for he was beyond intelligent thought, focoused only on the task at hand. He ate and drank when he thought about it, which wasnt often, and rarely slept. He moved as in a trance. His body was numb, his hands and arms blistered, his face burned scarlet from the heat. He had forgotten to fashon protection for himself, and on more than one occasion, been left bleeding. He had merely dripped the blood into the emerging blade. At some point, the thing seemed to come alive and whisper to him, urging him on, faster, faster, as if it understood its purpose, and now welcomed its new shape. AT LAST!!!!!!!!! It was time for the final quenching. Argyyle wiped his face, though he had long ceased to sweat, his dehydrated body having no more water to spare. He poured the blood into the wood trough, and prayed it would be enough. Argyyle took the newly fashoned blade, and held it high screaming as he did so. The skys darkened as he plunged the thing into the blood, and it sizzled and bubbled, a foul stench rising from the putrid liquid. He laughed, unaware of how crazed he sounded, and it seemed to him that the sword laughed gleefully with him, revelling in its first true taste of blood. I am the Bloody Talon it shrieked in his mind. He held it aloft once more, the clouds breaking, rain pouring around him, and he collapsed, sleeping the sleep of the dead. Argyyle woke slowly, as if rising to the surface of some murkey swamp. His first thought was of his sword. He looked for it, and found a dark strip of metal, blackened and charred. His heart fell, but he took the weapon to his anvil, staggering, for he could not remember the last time he had truly filled his belly. He set the sword on the anvil, and picked up a small peice of metal laying nearby. With this, Argyyle tapped at the sword, and roared in triumph as the carbon from the blood chipped and flaked off, revealing a mottled pattern to the blade, similar to the stripes on the hide of the beast whos talons had gone into the making. The edge was crude, slightly wavy, not straight, but he hoped he could find something that could fix that. Argyyle touched the blade, and immediately jerked his finger back as it was cut nearly to the bone. He sucked on his finger, his side aching where the nearly healed claw marks were. Beautiful, yet not. It was perfect. Argyyle swung the blade by its haft, and sank it halfway through the wooden trough he had used to quench it. Magnificent. He used the edge to slice the remainder of the seat into very thin strips, tying them together to form long cord. This he used to wrap the haft, working hours, wrapping and rewrapping untill he figured out how to pull the knot to hold it all together under the winding. When he finished, he marveled at the blade. It was perfect for him. Light, but with a solid heft. Its balance left something to be desired, but that could be fixed when....no, if, he returned to his fathers house. Taking his new weapon, his stomache reminding him of more immediate needs, Argyyle went hunting. |