Clang.
The air within the foundry was sweltering. The entire atmosphere was uncomfortable, almost unbearably so. The heat bore down upon the entire forge, creating a zone of irrefutable anguish.
Clang.
The hammer smashed with great force against the anvil, like a beastmaster whipping a predator into submission. Yet no matter how many times the coil lashed out at the beast, it would not break. The wild soul of the animal was feral to its molten core.
Clang. Clang.
Lifting his mask for a moment, Flakk wiped the sweat from his brow, placing his dripping hand over the anvil, watching the fruits of his labour drip onto the creation, enjoying the fizzing of his sweat upon the bloodforged steel for a moment before snapping his mask back on, lifting his great hammer to set about taming the monster. And yet, it was his own indomitable hatred that fuelled the resistance of the blade. He was not using 'Old Faithful' to create this weapon. No...he would not allow an immovable object to meet an irresistible force this time. Instead, he was using a Boar Iron hammer he had created himself, its constitution as stubborn as it sounded. But it was expendable, and the blade that rested upon the anvil glowered in defiance as it was pounded again underneath the force of its creator. It had survived flame, bludgeoning, even the insults of its maker. With one final blow to be struck, Flakk raised the Boar Iron hammer for the last time.
KRRRRSH
The sword vibrated angrily, shattering the hammer into pieces, leaving only the cracked handle in Flakk's giant fist. He had poured his defiance, his anger, his untamed, feral spirit into the sword that had shattered his hammer. Yes...it was complete. It was perfectly symmetrical, forged from a single piece of Bloodforged Kroshium, a metal created through the combination of rare alloys and his own loathing for all life. The pommel in itself was dangerous, sporting a six-sided star of blades, a furious red jewel in the centre. The handle had been wound in Void Stone, protecting whoever would hold it from the seething hatred contained within the blade to an extent; even touching the handle would make a weak soul scream in agony. It was the great blade, however, that was the true threat. It was an impressive 47 inches long, tapered to a wicked point that could pierce the heart of a mountain. The cutting edges were double sided and keen, steam rising from their furious, lusting edges, causing the very air to weep from the agony. All of the anguish of Flakk's existence had been poured into this creation, and as such, it contained his immeasurable hatred, hubris and indomitability. He named it 'Hatebrand', for it was both forged from a brand of his own hatred, and would brand those who opposed it with extreme prejudice. The magical properties would allow it to draw upon the anger of its wielder and, in exchange for inflicting pain upon its wielder, could skip through stone as if it were water. However, it was a demanding gift; show weakness, and the handle would become white-hot, biting the 'master' with jaws of flame.
Flakk lifted Hatebrand, and while it would not fully submit to anyone, he asserted his dominance, his hatred flowing through the blade. With a single sweep, he sliced through one of his small, iron anvils with great ease, the newly molten metal hissing and seething.
The question was: would anyone else be worthy of such a gift?
The air within the foundry was sweltering. The entire atmosphere was uncomfortable, almost unbearably so. The heat bore down upon the entire forge, creating a zone of irrefutable anguish.
Clang.
The hammer smashed with great force against the anvil, like a beastmaster whipping a predator into submission. Yet no matter how many times the coil lashed out at the beast, it would not break. The wild soul of the animal was feral to its molten core.
Clang. Clang.
Lifting his mask for a moment, Flakk wiped the sweat from his brow, placing his dripping hand over the anvil, watching the fruits of his labour drip onto the creation, enjoying the fizzing of his sweat upon the bloodforged steel for a moment before snapping his mask back on, lifting his great hammer to set about taming the monster. And yet, it was his own indomitable hatred that fuelled the resistance of the blade. He was not using 'Old Faithful' to create this weapon. No...he would not allow an immovable object to meet an irresistible force this time. Instead, he was using a Boar Iron hammer he had created himself, its constitution as stubborn as it sounded. But it was expendable, and the blade that rested upon the anvil glowered in defiance as it was pounded again underneath the force of its creator. It had survived flame, bludgeoning, even the insults of its maker. With one final blow to be struck, Flakk raised the Boar Iron hammer for the last time.
KRRRRSH
The sword vibrated angrily, shattering the hammer into pieces, leaving only the cracked handle in Flakk's giant fist. He had poured his defiance, his anger, his untamed, feral spirit into the sword that had shattered his hammer. Yes...it was complete. It was perfectly symmetrical, forged from a single piece of Bloodforged Kroshium, a metal created through the combination of rare alloys and his own loathing for all life. The pommel in itself was dangerous, sporting a six-sided star of blades, a furious red jewel in the centre. The handle had been wound in Void Stone, protecting whoever would hold it from the seething hatred contained within the blade to an extent; even touching the handle would make a weak soul scream in agony. It was the great blade, however, that was the true threat. It was an impressive 47 inches long, tapered to a wicked point that could pierce the heart of a mountain. The cutting edges were double sided and keen, steam rising from their furious, lusting edges, causing the very air to weep from the agony. All of the anguish of Flakk's existence had been poured into this creation, and as such, it contained his immeasurable hatred, hubris and indomitability. He named it 'Hatebrand', for it was both forged from a brand of his own hatred, and would brand those who opposed it with extreme prejudice. The magical properties would allow it to draw upon the anger of its wielder and, in exchange for inflicting pain upon its wielder, could skip through stone as if it were water. However, it was a demanding gift; show weakness, and the handle would become white-hot, biting the 'master' with jaws of flame.
Flakk lifted Hatebrand, and while it would not fully submit to anyone, he asserted his dominance, his hatred flowing through the blade. With a single sweep, he sliced through one of his small, iron anvils with great ease, the newly molten metal hissing and seething.
The question was: would anyone else be worthy of such a gift?
