Moulded to his will the iron beneath his hammer cried a resounding clang with every swift stroke of his fists bashing and beating onto the iron, until it finally gave way to his relentless assault. Molten fire burned earth into iron that funnelled into the crevice of a large lump of rock to then be shaped into a tool of war.
The beginning of a new generation, Vakhanor used his previous master’s work worn tools to start his own path to becoming an artisan of his trade. Driven by the goal of survival, Vakhanor was adamant to make at least two swords and few horseshoes before stopping for the evening. Smithing was a slow process that required a lot of care and attention, in order to make up for the fact that he was newer to the trade he had to be even more careful as well as balance his time with raising a child with nobody to help him.
Focus had stolen Vakhanor from the world and with every ear shattering sound of clashing metal, the gears continued to circle in his mind as he paid close attention the intricacies of his work, trying not to burn himself as much possible. Inspired by the man who came before him Vakhanor took the time to make his own mould of sword by slowly chipping at thick stone until he had came up with a shape he liked. Unfortunately untrained in the ways of working with stone, the result was poor and he had to use Oberyk's old one until he could find a mason willing to carve into the stone. He'd had a little bit of luck at least and despite not being the most complex of designs in Idalos, there was a simple elegance in Vakhanor’s work that made the blades both efficient and attractive to the eye. During the time he would wait for one blade to cool inside of the older mould, he would often use the rest of the time to decorate one of the already finished blades by etching small swirls and patterns on either side of the blade.
Sweat dripped from his brow and every moment turned into a century as he remembered the face of a little girl holding her father’s hand, a soldier fighting in the war that was stupid enough to put his life on the line and risk the welfare of his family. There was honour in fighting, but there was also pain. Anger fuelled his conquest when the memory shifted to the crying eyes of Bjorn’s friend hung over a corpse, wishing that her father was alive. This what he worked for, to give the men fighting a god damned chance to win the wars they fought and to keep the protected from both themselves and the enemy swords they wished to fell.
Shaped to his desire Vakhanor lifted the sword to check its balance, when it was not quite done he returned to the metal back into the pit from hence it came for a few short bits until it was hot enough to shape again. Half a break of unyielding strength and determination went by until the process was finally complete and he could lay down the freshly forged weapon to cool.
“Alright there Bjorn?” he asked, shifting his attention down toward his little brother who had found some daisies and was weaving them into little flower crowns “What ya got there?”
“My teacher said if you tie a thousand daisies together you will get good luck!” the kid exclaimed excitedly, with the same focus that Vakhanor held when doing his work.
“I know how boring this is for you kiddo, we’ll get some honey on the way back okay?” Vakhanor said, watching the intense frown on the child’s face light up with excitement. Due to being poor the smith could do little in the way of buying Bjorn treats and instead did what he could by giving the boy apple and honey.
A moment of brief understanding passed across the child’s face as its eyes dropped down to the second sword he had just finished “Are you done yet?” the kid asked hopefully.
“A little while yet. We’ll go before the sun falls,” Vakhanor replied with the hint of a smile, proud of how well Bjorn was behaving.
The beginning of a new generation, Vakhanor used his previous master’s work worn tools to start his own path to becoming an artisan of his trade. Driven by the goal of survival, Vakhanor was adamant to make at least two swords and few horseshoes before stopping for the evening. Smithing was a slow process that required a lot of care and attention, in order to make up for the fact that he was newer to the trade he had to be even more careful as well as balance his time with raising a child with nobody to help him.
Focus had stolen Vakhanor from the world and with every ear shattering sound of clashing metal, the gears continued to circle in his mind as he paid close attention the intricacies of his work, trying not to burn himself as much possible. Inspired by the man who came before him Vakhanor took the time to make his own mould of sword by slowly chipping at thick stone until he had came up with a shape he liked. Unfortunately untrained in the ways of working with stone, the result was poor and he had to use Oberyk's old one until he could find a mason willing to carve into the stone. He'd had a little bit of luck at least and despite not being the most complex of designs in Idalos, there was a simple elegance in Vakhanor’s work that made the blades both efficient and attractive to the eye. During the time he would wait for one blade to cool inside of the older mould, he would often use the rest of the time to decorate one of the already finished blades by etching small swirls and patterns on either side of the blade.
Sweat dripped from his brow and every moment turned into a century as he remembered the face of a little girl holding her father’s hand, a soldier fighting in the war that was stupid enough to put his life on the line and risk the welfare of his family. There was honour in fighting, but there was also pain. Anger fuelled his conquest when the memory shifted to the crying eyes of Bjorn’s friend hung over a corpse, wishing that her father was alive. This what he worked for, to give the men fighting a god damned chance to win the wars they fought and to keep the protected from both themselves and the enemy swords they wished to fell.
Shaped to his desire Vakhanor lifted the sword to check its balance, when it was not quite done he returned to the metal back into the pit from hence it came for a few short bits until it was hot enough to shape again. Half a break of unyielding strength and determination went by until the process was finally complete and he could lay down the freshly forged weapon to cool.
“Alright there Bjorn?” he asked, shifting his attention down toward his little brother who had found some daisies and was weaving them into little flower crowns “What ya got there?”
“My teacher said if you tie a thousand daisies together you will get good luck!” the kid exclaimed excitedly, with the same focus that Vakhanor held when doing his work.
“I know how boring this is for you kiddo, we’ll get some honey on the way back okay?” Vakhanor said, watching the intense frown on the child’s face light up with excitement. Due to being poor the smith could do little in the way of buying Bjorn treats and instead did what he could by giving the boy apple and honey.
A moment of brief understanding passed across the child’s face as its eyes dropped down to the second sword he had just finished “Are you done yet?” the kid asked hopefully.
“A little while yet. We’ll go before the sun falls,” Vakhanor replied with the hint of a smile, proud of how well Bjorn was behaving.
