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It is hot in the forge, so hot that the few precious droplets of sweat that bead out evaporate as quickly as they wick from the skin of the man. He has strong arms, soot covered and thick leather gloves to the elbow. He is wearing a red leather face mask, over his mouth to keep the fumes from burning the inside of his mouth and nose. His apron was made of thick untreated hide, sewn onto a canvas flap. Drops of metal formed on the hide, like ice on a cold lake.
He reached in to the forge and pulled a small square bar of steel from the coals with a pair of old and beat tongs. The ingot was laid down on the anvil and his right arm came down in a rapid series of blows showering the room with sparks and turning the white hot mass into a slightly out of shape mass.
Heating the steal again, he twisted the bottom into a rod, and the top into a crud flat blade. More heat and more banging and the dagger revealed itself in the steel. He bent it slightly, so the blade would curve. Heating and folding the steel created layers of metal, giving the weapon more strength than it’s form might other wise suggest.
More hammer blows and then it was quenched in the water, cooling it rapidly to give the metal hardness. He set the blade into a finely crafted copper and gold hilt, and set it in with a hammer blow. A foot powered grinding wheel gave the knife it’s edge, grinding layer after layer off until the dagger was as sharp as a wolf’s claw.
Etrin tested the dagger by sticking it into a roll of hay and watching as the rolls were set free. Then he put it on the table, and took off his gloves. A jar of fresh cold water was there, and he drank deeply of the cup, and washed the soot and dirt from his face.

Muscled arms covered in soot pushed the bellows as the fire blew hot. The blade of a sword rested between two cast iron props, allowing the air to get under and bring the temperature upwards of a thousand degrees. Etrin pulled the blade out, and set it on the anvil, the thing was white hot, and ashes rained down from the metal where dust snapped against it. The blade was slightly curved, like an elven blade, but thicker the way the humans made them. The metal was his own alloy, the regular coke, charcoal, nickle and magnesium was infused with A specially prepared solution of herbs and struck with raw stones that harness magic.

He took his copper hammer, and pulled his leather mask and goggles over his face, and slammed the steel down over and over again, folding the metal to give it strength and to work down the size of the grain. The more he worked, the smaller the grains of steel, and the stronger and stouter the blade would be. All the better to take an edge.

Etrin heated it up once more, pushing on the bellows, sending huge gouts of white flame up the flue. The sounds of hot air rushing through the flue was like that a ten galloping horses. Droplets of swept dribbled over his hands, which he wiped off on a soot stained towel tucked into his apron. When the blade had taken it’s last fold, he took it over to the quench. Some smiths use water, but Etrin was a alchemist, as as such, he colored his water with a tincture of unknown flowers and herbs. The smell was ripe and fragrant, like a Guthrie's bathroom, and he drove the blade into the cloudy water.

The liquid boiled, and steamed as the metal quick cool. He pulled out the blade, now a dark gray color and smiled. It wasn’t much to look at now, but after it was sharpened and polished, this would be a special blade, a special sword for a special person. He set it in the cradle, and went to work on it.

There's a certain magic to it all, Alice thought as she watched the man from a distance. She could practically feel the heat from the forge where she stood, every ring of the copper hammer and the clang of steel giving her chills.

She was reminded of when she was a child, watching the Elven Craftsmen shaping and molding raw earthen materials into masterpieces of copper, steel, silver, and gold. She learned the trade from these masters of art, these men whose innate magic seemed to guide their hands and infuse their creations with their own powers.

It was beautiful then...and it was beautiful now.

"I'm not familiar with weapons. Before I came here, I made pots and horseshoes. But, I am getting the hang of it." Etrin says, his face covered in soot.

"I'm Etrin."

Squeaking softly when he acknowledges her "spying" on him, Alice moves from out the shadows of the brush and bramble and comes slightly closer, unsure of who this man is and whether he is safe. "I--I didn't mean to spy," she says apologetically, "It's just, I'm a Crafter too."

Smiling kindly, she introduced herself, "I'm Alice, the Healer. I don't normally work on weapons. I only just completed my first building last moon."

Swallowing hard, she added, "The first sword I ever made was my greatest work yet. And I've made several swords since then. I was 15, and the Knight who wielded it took it to his grave, rather than be parted with it."

“My father was a blacksmith in the fishing village. He made hooks, nails, and the likes. He died before he could teach me to make weapons, and to be honest, before the elves came, I didn’t think I would ever need to make them.” Etrin says, touching the burn mark on the right hand side of his face. “But I think there is more call for that now.”

Etrin finishes polishing the sword, and now that it has taken an edge gleams like the light of the sun, sparkling and twinkling in the firelight.

“We have to stick together, the crafters anyway. We are the wheel that makes this place turn.So what brings you here?” Etrin asks, pulling a steel flask from his belt and drink a long sip of graff from it.

Horrified by the man's mention of how he got his scars--specifically, who gave them to him--she stared at his work in silence. When the sword finally gleamed, reflecting the sun in her green eyes and making them all the more vivid, he spoke. At his mentioning of Crafters needing to stick together, she nodded in agreement. When he asked what brought her here, she sighed, unsure where to begin.

"My twin and I found ourselves homeless and in the lands known as Winter Haven. Two moons ago, my sister left on a quest and has yet to return. She made me promise that I would stay alive until she came back. This past moon, Winter Haven fell. To keep my vow to my sister, I fled those lands, hoping that others would do the same. Many of my friends who survived have been here before. That's how I knew that it was safe...but I do not know these lands very well."

Her focus shifted once more to the man's face, "Are you from here?"

“I lived in the fishing village my whole life. I never had a really hard time of it, not like some. But when the elves came, it was awful. But thank goodness for Queen Esmeralda. With out her, we wouldn’t have made it. “ Etrin said.

“My father died when I was ten of Consumption, and left me. So I might not be the best blacksmith in town, I’m the most grateful. Being seperated from your family must be hard yah?”

Alice's eyes softened considerably that the mention of his hardships and losing his father. She nodded in reply. "My sister and I lost our entire family and the men we loved to a war that was never ours to begin with. I know all too well how much suffering war can bring."

She sighed, steadying the dull throbbing ache in her heart. Then, she continued, "Being my twin, Terra is like the other half of my soul. Being without her, especially now that we've lost everything we knew and loved, is almost unbearable." She smiled softly, attempting to show her courage in all this, "But I know that I will see her again. She's far too stubborn to die without seeing me again."

"Its good that you can be that certain of her survival. Makes it easier to keep going, when you have something or someone to live for." Etrin says.