Songs of Steel
15th of Kuthona 4707 A.R. (Absalom Reckoning)
It's a rare honor to see one of the sky-folk forge sage steel, but you are nonetheless invited. So is Gorok and Mina, he dwarves do not know enough to invite Sirim for his own sake, but that is just how the shade likes it, and with some hesitation Cob as well. Down by the shore on the south side of the city, where the stout squat houses suddenly sprout tall fluted chimneys of unfamiliar orange stone ferried in from the south at great cost, smiths in sturdy aprons of alchemically treated leather and masks made to resemble the heads of dragons and fiends move between troughs and anvil, molds and files, and blades with edges sharp to work a metal no man has known the secret of since the Age of Darkness. They huff and they puff and they shake their heads at being asked to make an elf blade, though they agree to it in the end. A breastplate they know how to make, though they ask more than once if Gorok wouldn't rather have a sturdier armor to see him in battle. Finally, at Cob's request, Gorok also asks for slurk barding and tusk caps for Warty.
"Think that's an even harder pitch than the sword," Mina whispers in the tongue of the People that none here but you and her speak, but you rather think she's wrong from the way the smiths are bustling about with a spring in their step. Unless you are much mistaken...
A dwarf as bald as an egg with creases that almost resemble stone at the top of his head, his beard adorned with silver tassels and thrice passes through his belt, emerges from one of the upper levels of the forge and almost trips over Cob before giving him a
very thorough look before huffing and turning to you.
"Well then, let's see the big lugger!"
Mina takes out the statuette and dismisses the spell with a whisper to reveal a very curious Warty. Said curiosity is proven when he tries to taste the elderly dwarf who, with a speed that belies his appearance, dodges the tongue.
"Been a while since I worked with a slurk, it has. You take care of him, you hear? Never wise to antagonize one of them in reach of their tusks, and even less so when they're wrapped in sage steel."
"'Course we take care of Warty!"
The dwarf seems caught between approval of Cob's reaction and a desire not to approve of goblins in general, but in the end the former wins out enough for a grudging nod.
Hammers ring and bellows breathe, fire burns so hot it coils and it twists like the bodies of dragons while hurling breathes of smoke whistle into the air, like a warning to the city. The dwarves are at their craft. The metal ingots burn at first red hot upon the anvil that is altar of Torag, then hotter still, as bright as magegfire and as blinding as the sun. The dwarves begin to sing, voices deep and made to echo down long and winding tunnels that remind you of home even after all these many, many
centuries. Though they had walked under the sun for almost as long as your own kin dwelt in Nar Voth their words still recall the roots of the world, and all the foes and all the beasts that dwell there.
You watch in shock as the metal goes from hot enough to blind to the cold of the blackest heavens and yet remains subtle enough for the forging. The smith's hammer then erupts into flame and blow by blow the warmth is put back into the metal, but it is different somehow, gold instead of red as it takes shape and purpose: the blade, the armor, the tusk caps, and finally the daggers that can cut even magic. Not yet touched by magic, a lesser blade even than the one you earned in Cauldron, and yet... the last time one of your blood held a weapon like this the High Realm might still have been standing.
Maybe its time to remind these Taldans that they are not alone as the heirs of Old Azlant...
How do you greet the Governor?
[] The Shadow Seer: The same way you had greeted every noble you ever met, in cloack of false seeming and armor of slik
[] The Heir of the Lost: See is there is a tailor who can bring to life the flowing robes and crossed sashes of your dreams
[] Write in
OOC: Enjoy. 
