Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on Feb 4, 2021 22:51:13 GMT
The stone wall runs most of the length of the street, though this far out, at the western fringes of Low Daring (the slightly unkind name given to the sprawl of structures outside the city walls), there are few neighbours to speak of.
A good thing, perhaps thinks Varis as he walks through the open gates and into the bustling yard.
As though in defiance of the frigid eastern wind whipping across the Dawnlands this morning, the huge stone structure directly ahead of him gives off waves of heat. Occasional squalls of rain have left its slate tiled roof steaming - a rather alarming phenomenon to the casual observer.
Around the cobbled yard, a series of sturdy outbuildings hold stacks of raw materials, charcoal kilns, stables for draught animals and stores of tools. Nodding politely to a few workers who raise hands in greeting, he makes his way into the main structure through the huge open doors that take up a considerable portion of the front of the building.
The air inside roils with heat, and the cavernous space is lit with a dim red glow. High gantries surround three enormous clay furnaces, each being fed lumps of russet ore and a rough, chalky powder by several workers. Huge, horse-driven bellows pump air into the bottom, expelling gouts of flame and sparks from the open top. Chutes run from the great egg-shaped constructions at different levels, disgorging molten metal and blackened slag. The pure iron is then collected in lidded crucibles, mixed with powdered charcoal and heated again. The sound, heat and fumes are an assault on his senses.
For a moment, he is back in the lower planes, the ferocious heat of Bel’s workshop crisping his skin as he trades blows with the disgraced arch-fiend’s slave smiths. With a shudder, he pushes the memory aside and focuses on the task at hand.
The person he is seeking seems to mind neither the heat nor the gloom. They turn as he approaches, the dim light glinting off thick vermillion scales and a long, reptilian jaw. Their left eye is milky white, that side of the face bisected from crown to jaw by a vicious scar. Their hands and arms, bare from the shoulder, show a collection of smaller marks that rivals any soldier Varis has ever met.
“Matri, well met. How goes the work?”
His dark tunic is already heavy with sweat, the heat of the great workshop making the skin of his face prickle, but the dragonborn seems unfazed. He notices with amusement that they seem to have taken a quantitative approach to gaining the favour of the gods - around their neck dangle pendants and charms to every forge deity he has ever heard of, and several he hasn’t. The flaming sword of Surtur, god of the fire giants clicks against the silver hammer and anvil of Moradin, the four-spoked cog of Gond and something that looks alarmingly like a miniature gnomish skull.
“Just in time, Master Nailo, just in time. Here-” a scarred and scaled hand gestures towards a small brick forge in a nearby corner, an anvil standing before it. Next to the huge furnaces that fill the room it seems almost childish. In the orange coals sits an ingot, glowing dimly “see for yourself.”
A dwarven woman hands him a pair of thick leather gloves and he pulls them on, taking a pair of long-handled tongs and a hammer a moment later as he steps up to the anvil. Looking to Matri for some clue as to what they expect, he meets only the blank, reptilian gaze. With a shrug he turns back to the anvil, and begins to work the steel.
It has been some time since he put to use his training at Master Samed’s forge, but the rhythm and flow of the work comes back to him quickly, and he loses himself in the dull ringing of hot metal.
The steel is firm but flexible, and he has no trouble drawing it out, folding and shaping it into something useful, something solid. When he finally quenches the long, curved blade, Matri looks at him in something approaching surprise.
“I took you for a soldier, Master Nailo, through and through. Yet when I place the first bar of Crimson Steel before you, it is ploughshares you make of it.”
“Does this bother you, Matri?”
The dragonborn engineer tilts their head to one side, considering for a moment his question.
“No,” they reply. “It puzzles me. I do not like things I do not understand.”
They fall silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought as their gaze wanders over the towering clay furnaces, then snaps back to Varis.
“So, what do you think? Is it not as I promised? Strong, flexible, ductile and remarkably light. Short of actual sorcery this is surely the finest steel on the continent, perhaps in all of Toril.”
The pale half elf suppresses a small small smile, letting the dragonborn espouse the virtues of their craft a little longer before interjecting politely.
“It is fine work, Matri, very fine - all that you promised and more, as far as I can tell. But you must forgive me - I am, as you said, a soldier. I know how to swing a sword much better than I know how to swing a hammer.”
The dragonborn’s eyes flick down to the ploughshare still steaming on the anvil, but they make no comment. After waiting a moment longer for them to speak, Varis shakes his head ruefully and pushes on.
“I need a second opinion.”
Benerith Hotspur is a hulking bear of a man, his body shaped by long days at the forge and long years in the field. It’s almost impossible to discern his age, with his bald head and eyebrows long since singed off, and the man himself offers no clues, asserting merely that his “glory days are behind him”. Regardless, as “Old Ben” rumbles out of the forge at the Crimson Fist compound, Varis is sure he can read a look of pleased surprise on the huge man’s face. He quirks an eyebrow questioningly.
“Hmph” says Ben.
The Grandmaster smiles. High praise indeed. After a moment, the Order’s Master of the Forge continues.
“It’s good. Maybe even as good as they said it was. You’ll have every idiot with a hammer and a belows knocking down your door once this gets out.”
Varis gives a nod, clapping the big man on the shoulder.
“Alright. I’ll tell them to go ahead. Then, I suppose, I’d better make a few social calls…”
A good thing, perhaps thinks Varis as he walks through the open gates and into the bustling yard.
As though in defiance of the frigid eastern wind whipping across the Dawnlands this morning, the huge stone structure directly ahead of him gives off waves of heat. Occasional squalls of rain have left its slate tiled roof steaming - a rather alarming phenomenon to the casual observer.
Around the cobbled yard, a series of sturdy outbuildings hold stacks of raw materials, charcoal kilns, stables for draught animals and stores of tools. Nodding politely to a few workers who raise hands in greeting, he makes his way into the main structure through the huge open doors that take up a considerable portion of the front of the building.
The air inside roils with heat, and the cavernous space is lit with a dim red glow. High gantries surround three enormous clay furnaces, each being fed lumps of russet ore and a rough, chalky powder by several workers. Huge, horse-driven bellows pump air into the bottom, expelling gouts of flame and sparks from the open top. Chutes run from the great egg-shaped constructions at different levels, disgorging molten metal and blackened slag. The pure iron is then collected in lidded crucibles, mixed with powdered charcoal and heated again. The sound, heat and fumes are an assault on his senses.
For a moment, he is back in the lower planes, the ferocious heat of Bel’s workshop crisping his skin as he trades blows with the disgraced arch-fiend’s slave smiths. With a shudder, he pushes the memory aside and focuses on the task at hand.
The person he is seeking seems to mind neither the heat nor the gloom. They turn as he approaches, the dim light glinting off thick vermillion scales and a long, reptilian jaw. Their left eye is milky white, that side of the face bisected from crown to jaw by a vicious scar. Their hands and arms, bare from the shoulder, show a collection of smaller marks that rivals any soldier Varis has ever met.
“Matri, well met. How goes the work?”
His dark tunic is already heavy with sweat, the heat of the great workshop making the skin of his face prickle, but the dragonborn seems unfazed. He notices with amusement that they seem to have taken a quantitative approach to gaining the favour of the gods - around their neck dangle pendants and charms to every forge deity he has ever heard of, and several he hasn’t. The flaming sword of Surtur, god of the fire giants clicks against the silver hammer and anvil of Moradin, the four-spoked cog of Gond and something that looks alarmingly like a miniature gnomish skull.
“Just in time, Master Nailo, just in time. Here-” a scarred and scaled hand gestures towards a small brick forge in a nearby corner, an anvil standing before it. Next to the huge furnaces that fill the room it seems almost childish. In the orange coals sits an ingot, glowing dimly “see for yourself.”
A dwarven woman hands him a pair of thick leather gloves and he pulls them on, taking a pair of long-handled tongs and a hammer a moment later as he steps up to the anvil. Looking to Matri for some clue as to what they expect, he meets only the blank, reptilian gaze. With a shrug he turns back to the anvil, and begins to work the steel.
It has been some time since he put to use his training at Master Samed’s forge, but the rhythm and flow of the work comes back to him quickly, and he loses himself in the dull ringing of hot metal.
The steel is firm but flexible, and he has no trouble drawing it out, folding and shaping it into something useful, something solid. When he finally quenches the long, curved blade, Matri looks at him in something approaching surprise.
“I took you for a soldier, Master Nailo, through and through. Yet when I place the first bar of Crimson Steel before you, it is ploughshares you make of it.”
“Does this bother you, Matri?”
The dragonborn engineer tilts their head to one side, considering for a moment his question.
“No,” they reply. “It puzzles me. I do not like things I do not understand.”
They fall silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought as their gaze wanders over the towering clay furnaces, then snaps back to Varis.
“So, what do you think? Is it not as I promised? Strong, flexible, ductile and remarkably light. Short of actual sorcery this is surely the finest steel on the continent, perhaps in all of Toril.”
The pale half elf suppresses a small small smile, letting the dragonborn espouse the virtues of their craft a little longer before interjecting politely.
“It is fine work, Matri, very fine - all that you promised and more, as far as I can tell. But you must forgive me - I am, as you said, a soldier. I know how to swing a sword much better than I know how to swing a hammer.”
The dragonborn’s eyes flick down to the ploughshare still steaming on the anvil, but they make no comment. After waiting a moment longer for them to speak, Varis shakes his head ruefully and pushes on.
“I need a second opinion.”
***
Benerith Hotspur is a hulking bear of a man, his body shaped by long days at the forge and long years in the field. It’s almost impossible to discern his age, with his bald head and eyebrows long since singed off, and the man himself offers no clues, asserting merely that his “glory days are behind him”. Regardless, as “Old Ben” rumbles out of the forge at the Crimson Fist compound, Varis is sure he can read a look of pleased surprise on the huge man’s face. He quirks an eyebrow questioningly.
“Hmph” says Ben.
The Grandmaster smiles. High praise indeed. After a moment, the Order’s Master of the Forge continues.
“It’s good. Maybe even as good as they said it was. You’ll have every idiot with a hammer and a belows knocking down your door once this gets out.”
Varis gives a nod, clapping the big man on the shoulder.
“Alright. I’ll tell them to go ahead. Then, I suppose, I’d better make a few social calls…”