Siglos stepped into the forge, instantly feeling some of the tension in his body disappear. The familiar smells of soot and ash wafting through him. He took a deep breath, simply enjoying the sensations. No matter where he went…a forge was always a forge. The tools differed, the materials changed…but they all felt…like home.
Slowly, he took off his cloak, wrapping it around his waist. He tipped off his hat, the clothing falling gently into his bag. From the same bag he pulled two, thick gloves, the material perfectly weaved to fit his slender hands. Gingerly, he slipped them onto his hands, glancing around the forge as he examined the available material. In he found a large, rough heap of metal. A soft smile appeared on his face, as he grabbed and walked towards it, already preparing to get to work.
…..
BANG
30 minutes later, Siglos's hammer slammed into the heated metal, sparks flying from where it had impacted the malleable materials. He could have easily used magic, making the entire process more efficient...but refused. His telekinesis wasn't as precise as the human hand, and he wouldn't settle for a rushed job.
Again and again, he slammed the hammer against the heap, the sword slowly taking shape before his eyes. His swings weren't strong, he didn't have anywhere near the muscle mass of even the average human blacksmith...but what he lacked in strength, he made up for in technique. Each swing was perfectly timed, and perfectly placed. He was like a surgeon, operating on the metal with such precision that would put even experienced smiths to shame.
He smoothed the metal, carefully beginning to form the edges. His strike became lightly, Siglos swapping to a smaller hammer as he slowly began to work on greater detail. His face was blank, staring at the metal with utmost concentration. Even if someone had interrupted him, he wouldn’t have heard them; it was as if the entire world melted away, replaced by nothing but himself and the blade. In that moment…he forgot about the armies and about Cain. He even forgot about his past. His entire life…was the hammer, and the metal.
Sweat poured from his brow, gently dripping onto the floor. His untrained muscles strained and ached, his body trembling. He wasn’t built for something like this; it was obvious to anyone who saw him…yet he kept working. The intricate designs and patterns slowly took shape as he got closer and closer to completion.
…
Sometime later…Siglos collapsed onto the wall, breathing heavily. In front of him, stood a large greatsword, the metal slowly cooling after several cycles of reheating and forging. Patterns and shapes covered the sides of the thick weapon, displaying the abstract forms of flying doves, slowly stretching from the end of the blade up to its tip. But...it was clear to anyone who knew weapons that that sword was far more than just aesthetically pleasing, the large weapon sharp enough to easily cleave through armor, if wielded by a sufficiently strong warrior.
Once the blade had finished cooling, Siglos slowly began to sharpen it further, breathing heavily as he worked the grindstone. Afterward, Siglos, with great effort, lifted the greatsword, his hands trembling as he grasped the heavyweight, slowly slipping it into a matching sheathe he had crafted, the thick leather possessing a similar amount of decoration as the sword itself. He placed the sheathed sword onto a nearby table and sat down, resting his head on the table. He was tired...yet a wide smile appeared on his face. He stayed their for a long while, gently drifting to sleep...
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