eachdraidh | Forge One

Entry tags:

Forge One - (Audio)

[The forge had echoed loudly from the sound of hammer on steel. Such had been the case for a week now, ever since Gendry had discovered the forge and learned he had the freedom to use it and its materials. He had fallen in love immediately. At the Crossroads, he had suffered a shambling forge that he'd had to largely put back together himself. The forge in Harrenhal had been better, but he was one of many who worked it. Tohbo Mott's own forge came close, but it lacked the size of this one. It was expertly crafted and spoke of a skill he could only imagine. His old master had talked of the forgs in Qohor and Volantis and how great they were. He could only imagine them being like this one.

And so Gendry had set to work. His half finished sword was completed. The blade was made sharp and glimmering. He did not bother himself with anything but the most basic of hilt and crossguard. Why should he? The sword had been forged from the only steel he could acquire. Now he had superior metal to work with and he imagined how he might forge himself a sword of the finest steel as could be found. And then, armor. A new helmet. Greaves, gauntlets, breastplate, pauldrons, and gorget. And why not? They were generous in their provisions and Gendry though to himself that when he had finished, he would look more a knight than even Ser Loras Tyrell. And then he would be more than just King Robert's bastard son born in Fleabottom. He would be a self made knight, secure and confident in his own armor.

A week in the forge. Drenched in sweat and smoke, with nothing but a damning heat as company. It suited him fine. He was hard at work creating a new helmet, after all. Indeed, he was so utterly devoted to his craft that he had not even returned to his bedchambers. He found the hard ground of more comfort than the feather soft bed provided to him and the distant heat of a cooling forge like a friendly reminder of home. And though he could not claim to have friends among his fellow arrivals, there were at least people of note that concerned him. Even if some, like Arya Stark, thought him as little more than a stranger.

And so he tried the locket.]

[Audio]

I found a forge. A good one. Better than any I've ever seen, at least. These fairy folk might be a queer sort, but they make for fine things. So I've been doing the same.

[He paused and wondered at his own message. Did he want to offer to craft armor and swords for others? No. And certainly not for charity. He only wanted to arm himself and make himself a knight. Once he had, he'd only need the forge to maintain what he already had or replace what might be damaged. So he keeps himself from offering something foolish.]

If there's other smiths about, you might find the place of use. [And then he lingers after that, unsure if more should be said. And so stupidly he can be heard lingering. Breathing.

And then it cuts out.]

[Afterwards, Gendry resumes his work at the forge, where he has discarded his shirt and set himself to the first steps of his new helmet.]

(ooc: prose and brackets are both welcome.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Celebrimbor has been in a funk, there is no other way to describe it. The news that Legolas had told him weighed him down, like a milestone slung about his neck, dragging him down.

He knew that he needed to snap himself out of it, that this black depression would pull him down without a trace.

So when he hears the announcement, that there is a forge and if anything can pull him out it'll be his work.

"A forge?" A bit of his old spark manages to reach his grey eyes. "And a good one you say? How large?"

"Very large. Bigger than any I've been in and I once worked in the largest in Westeros," Gendry answered with no small amount of pride to have had Tohbo Mott as his master. "Room plenty for others what might want to make use of it."

Westeros is once again a land that Celebrimbor has never heard of. He's almost getting used to the feeling. But if this man claims to have worked in one of the largest forges of his land then he should have at least some skill. His mouth almost curves up into a smile, and the spark in his eye sharpens.

"I would love to make use of it." Celebrimbor admits, with no small bit of longing in his voice, "It has been far too long since my hands gripped a hammer." He pauses, curious, and asks, "What sort of work is your specialty?"

So he was a smith. Gendry was glad of that. There was a kind of comradery one might have in sharing a craft. And if his life should come down merely to sharpening swords for knights, then he might at least share the burden with someone else.

"An armorer. It's how I was 'pprenticed. Only, I've done plenty other things as well. Tools, knives, even a few swords."

Celebrimbor reminds himself that men's lives are limited and thus what they can master is severely limited, often simply due to the passage of time.

"I too have much experience with both weapons and arms. But my true skill lies in gem work, or...objects of power." He pauses at the second mention, but his chin raises, as if defiant. He would be free of Ann-Sauron's influence, there was no need not to make use of the knowledge. He had done well with the elven rings after all, and his expression firms.

Gemwork was something Gendry did little of. He had applied ornamental jewels to weapons and armor before, but only rarely. Such expensive finery was left to Tohbo Mott, not only for fear the apprentice might steal them, but that his less skilled hands might damage the jewel. Regardless, Gendry had little interest in that sort of thing anyway.

"Objects of power? Like what?"

Here Celebrimbor paused, fingers stroking lightly over his chin as he struggled to explain what exactly he meant to someone who had probably never seen something like it.

"I suppose you would call them...magic objects." He says after a moment. "But that I think doesn't do them justice. You can have simpler things that are the closest to that, weapons that keep their edge, silver that doesn't tarnish, all that such and sundry. But a true object of power, that is something deeper, more subtle." His voice slows, deepens.

"It's putting your will into an object. Giving it strength and power and a life of it's own."

Gendry wasn't sure how you poured your will into an object. Or at least, he wasn't sure how it was different than what he did already, because he did just that on anything he made. But they were not magical and they still tarnished or lost their edge. He frowned.

"And you do that with a hammer?" Not only a hammer. But Gendry felt as though there had to be more to it than just wanting something to be magical.

"It's not just with the hammer, though that is undoubtedly part of it." A poor forged object would not take up the power; metal, stone and gem all seemed to know.

"The way the elves do it is through songs of power," Celebrimbor's voice keeps that same, low tone, "We sing our will and life into it, giving it the structure needed. A way to focus our fea, I suppose you could call it."

"... you sing to it?" Gendry asked skeptically, not at all capturing the more solemn tone of the conversation. It was absurd. Ridiculous. Certainly he liked to make the steel sing with the way it rang every time his hammer struck it. Maybe that's what the elf meant. "You mean the sound the steel makes, aye?"

Celebrimbor wondered for a moment if this man was particularly dim. "I don't mean that at all." Celebrimbor replied wryly. "I mean that I sing, and that song is a channel to imbue the object with power." His head tilted, "I suppose that where you come from magical objects aren't really commonplace."

"They don't exist at all. I don't see how singing at something ought to make it stronger. Though..." He frowned thoughtfully. "My master claimed to know the spells to work Valyrian steel. He never taught them to me, but we never had any to work on."

"If you've never seen a magical object, how could you possibly know if singing would change it or not?" Celebrimbor pointed out, dryly amused. He has never heard of Valyrian steel, but he continues on, his mouth twisting in a sharp sort of amusement, "Perhaps your master sung to his steel."

"... maybe he did," Gendry admitted. But he still did not believe it. Or at least, he didn't understand it. Too much was strange here to dismiss anything. "Could you show me?"

Celebrimbor pauses for a long, long moment as he considers the smith's words. "I...could show you the work I do." He said before the silence could stretch too painfully long. "But I don't know if I could show you how. There has never been any mortal men who could do as we elves did." Not to mention the fact that Celebrimbor did not take apprentices on lightly.

"I've never met elves before. Don't think there's anyone in all of Westeros who has. Might be you ain't yet met the right mortal men for it." Perhaps it was an ambitious statement. But even if he did not learn how to sing to metal, this man seemed a master smith regardless. Gendry was good, very good, but he was not so good as Tobho Mott. He'd like the chance to be.

Celebrimbor is getting quite used to people never seeing elves before, so he barely even blinks when Gendry mentions it. His mouth curls up at that response despite himself; he likes the boy's brashness at the very least.

"True indeed." He replies, head barely tilting, smile widening, "And do you think you'd be this man for the job?"

"I don't see no other men to take my place," he said boldly, sensing that he might have gained the elf's favor already. "And there's only this one forge besides."

"We shall see." Celebrimbor says, his voice quelling, but the smile doesn't diminish. "I can show you my work, and you will do the same." There is no question in that, just a simple assumption.

"I'll have some to show, before long."

He had a sword, forged from cheap steal collected at a country inn. He could and would do better and show his quality.

"I look forward to it. And I assume that I can come by the forge...whenever?" Celebrimbor asked.

"The forge don't belong to me. Anyone's free to come and go as they please."

Celebrimbor's mouth twists in appreciation of the sentiment. "That's good to know. Then...I will be seeing you soon I believe." He bows his head after a moment, remembering the courtesy.

And so, as Gendry said, he was at the forge. He'd been there hours already and working hard. But for the moment he was not working the anvil or even the bellows. He'd set a sword to cool in a basin of water and now sat outside the forge to cool off. A wet towel was draped over his bare shoulders. He didn't recognize the approaching elf, but he did watch him closely. Until now, Gendry had not met an elf in person and there was something... different that caught his attention.

The forge room was achingly familiar. The smell of char was overwhelming and Celebrimbor breathed in deep, pulling it deep into his lungs, the smell twining around oiled steel. The heat of the forge licked at his skin, heavy, oppressive, but once again familiar. A smile curved his lips.

Celebrimbor found himself look up into Gendry's eyes, a rarity when interacting with men. His eyes passed over the young man, bluntly appraising, noting the hard muscles that could only really come from swinging a hammer all day. His own blacksmith's apron was folded over his arm, the leather dark with age, heavily scarred.

"Well met. In person I mean." Celebrimbor added, his voice faintly wry. His gaze traveled over the place, the similar appraising look when he had looked at Gendry now applied to the room and equipment. "This is a good forge room." A pleased sort of surprise colored his voice.

Video

Video

Re: Video

Video

Video

Video

Video

Video

Video

Video

Video

Video

Re: Video

Video

Video

Video

Re: Video

Video

Video

Video

Video

Video

Re: Video

Action

Action