eachdraidh | Forge One

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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

"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.

In many ways, Gendry was reminded of Tobho Mott. Though it was plain this elf certainly had some features fitting a craftsman, he certainly wasn't the dirty and grimy kind like Gendry. This was a man, or elf, that held esteem. He wondered how many apprenticed Celebrimbor had for his own furnaces. Master Mott had more than a dozen and that was unusual for King's Landing.

"Well met," he agreed, if only tentatively. His eyes remained suspicious and he watched the elf as if expecting sudden treason at any moment. "The fairies say it was made by dwarfs." He paused. "... not dwarfs born of people like me, mind. Other sorts of dwarfs. Different dwarfs." He ended his explanation a bit exasperated, because he'd only just discovered there was even a difference.

Celebrimbor noticed the gaze upon him, but merely cocked an eyebrow before slinging the thick leather apron from his arm, slipping over his head, and tying it tight.

He had to laugh a little at Gendry explanation and obvious frustration, but instead of playing dumb and letting the young man flounder, he replied, "That would explain the quality. I had several close dwarven friends, much to the chagrin of some of my family." His slight smile turns tight, but the bitterness floods away almost as soon as it comes.

His eyes pass over the room once more, and he says, "You clearly have been hard at work here," His gaze lingers on the cooling sword, "May I take a look?"

Gendry did not reckon why dwarfs should make particularly good smiths, despite Kili claiming as much before. But it seemed a pointless sort of thing to argue, especially when he might make note of how nothing in the forge seemed to be below his reach.

But dutifully, Gendry took a pair of tongs to retrieve the sword from the water. Though the sword was cool, the water still seemed to steam from the heat. And so carefully he set the battered sword down on an empty space. It was close to completion, though. It was rough, showing where pieces had been joined, and lacked any true elegance. The metal itself was of cheap quality as well. But it demonstrated clearly that he knew his business.

"I started this sword," he explained, "At a small forge, outside an inn. Only had cheap steel to work with, though. I could make a better one, with what's here. But I ain't never abandoned my work once it was started."

Celebrimbor's eye turns heavily critical as he stares at the piece. It's clearly cobbled together, one didn't need the eyes of a smith to notice that. And, as Gendry had said the metal was cheap, but as Celebrimbor was swiftly piecing together, this boy did not have the best conditions to work with.

So Celebrimbor looked past the materials and outer appearance, and looked instead at the construction of the piece, the bones of the sword. Despite being cobbled together, the blade was straight, speaking of no little skill on Gendry's part, and the tang was full and deep, expertly fitted to the hilt.

"For what you had to work with, this is not bad." The words sounded as if they were only faint praise, but Celebrimbor was rarely effusive with such words. "Certainly a good foundation." The corner of his mouth twisted up at Gendry's last words, "One of the most important skills to have as a smith. It's good that you've learned it early." His eyes turned from the sword back to Gendry with that same, cool, critical look. "How long have you been apprenticed?"

He was pleased with the praise, for he knew there was not much to praise about a sword that would fetch little coin and would be considered scrap to his old master. But it would serve in battles to come, until he decided how he wanted to shape its replacement.

"Since I was about eight. Or nine. I'm eighteen now. Maybe nineteen." His mother had died before he truly had a reckoning of how old he was and so he could only really guess at his own age.

Celebrimbor has to remind himself that the normal length of time for his apprentices would eat away half the life or more of a mortal man. He eyed Gendry and supposed then that something like ten years would be a decent amount of time for a mortal man.

"An early age. Good. Did you always want to be a smith?"

Gendry shrugged. "I wanted to eat. Being 'pprenticed meant I was fed well enough. And my Master Mott said I was born to hold a hammer. So I figure it's as good as anything else I might do."

It was reason enough, Celebrimbor figured. "I was lucky enough that, in the beignning at least, food and clothing were never a problem. But I had always wanted to be a smith, for as long as I remembered. It ran in the family, after all. My grandfather was the greatest smith my world had ever known." A strange mix of bitterness and pride color Celebrimbor's voice, "And I wanted to surpass him."

Forge One - (Audio)

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