Gruttle's Forge

[Crewe]

The old man looked at the fine parchment in his hands.

Dear Gruttle,
I have heard of your great works and I msut admit I am impressed. The elves have very few things that compare. I believe we will need your services at some point, and if we do, please present this letter to the guards and they will welcome you.
Sincerely, Queen Ginevair of Linsameer

Gruttle snorted and tossed it onto his desk. "Tupid Effins." He muttered, then walked over to his anvil.

[Crewe]

He picked up a bar of steel. He then looked deeper, closing his eyes, and saw a sword in it. His eyes flew open. He hadn't made a sword for years... But nevertheless he place the steel in the fire to heat it. "A tord... I havit maked a tord fer 'ears..."

[Crewe]

When the metal was heated, he pulled it out and swung his hammer. Again and again he swung it, pounding the metal. He put the steel in the fire when needed, then oulled it out and worked some more. He moved carefully. In the past, he ahd made some of the finest swords in all of Asteria. But as the Growlers moved in, the steel stopped speaking to him. He continued to try, but all he saw was steel, occasionally a hammer. He made horseshoes, and plows, and other tools, and was fame dfor them. But he hadn't made a sword in years... this blade had to be perfect, for it was special.

[Crewe]

When the sword was finished, he placed in with extreme caution in the barrel. The steam rose and he stood carefulyl away, watching. Then he picked up another bar and looked at it. Nothing. He sighed. What now? He thought about it for a bit, then picked up his hammer. He wouldn't make a sword from something not meant to be a sword, so he began shaping a hammer.

[Crewe]

A small elf rode up to the forge. His blakc stallion tossed its mane and whinnied. He calmed him with a few quiet Asterian words and dismounted. He walked into the forge.

Gruttle looked up sharply at th soft sounds of footsteps. He relaxed when he saw who it was and motioned for him to sit down. The elf sat on a stool by the anvil, whiel Gruttle leaned on the block itself. "'Ello effin. Ovn't tean ya fer a wale." The elf smiled. "Hello Gruttle," he said in a fluting voice, speaking perfect English. "I haven't had reason to come, and truly I still don't. I've come to... see." Gruttle nodded. "Aye. 'Al den, ya on't beh dispointed. Foller meh." He led the elf to the barrel where the blade was resting. It glowed a faint green. The elf looked at in awe. "May I?" he asked. Gruttle nodded and the elf drew the sword out of the barrel. He looked at it, turning it over. "You still need the hilt, but it's a beautiful blade, Gruttle. As fine as they ever were." He placed the sword on the table. "Aye Kilsoin, 'ood ad dey eva was." He stroked the blade with one finger. "Da 'teel talked ta meh. It oven't talked fer a 'ood long time, it oven't." The elf, Kilsoin, nodded. "It hasn't has it?" He stroked the blade as well, smiling. "Have you named it yet?" The blacksmith grunted. "Not 'amed a blade fer a wale. 'Ut dis one, dis one speshal, it is." He turned to the elf. "Ya name it. Ti 'ight beh yer blade, 'ight be." The elf shook his head. "It's an elf blade, no doubt, but no, I don't fight with swords. I never was meant to." He fingered the bow on his shoulder. "But I'll name it..." He thought. "Ronj Omn," he said. The blade glowed faintly.

Strong Arm.