Alandris
24-04-2008, 07:28
And strike... strike... twist and strike... the hot metal gleams with heat, slowly yielding into the shape the hammer makes it into... strike... strike... turn and strike...
Strike... strike... turn and strike... the blade of the chisel lands on the silver plaque, cutting away excess, forming elegant lines, lines becoming letters, letters becoming words... strike... strike... position and strike...
Cut... cut... cut and twist... soft leather strip folds around the hilt... cut... cut again...
Swing... another swing... swing and sheathe... the weapon is ready. Slightly curved, well balanced, sharpened, with intricate lines of silver etched into the metal of the blade, with carved elm handle, tightly wrapped into fine leather. The elf holding the sheathed blade draws it again with his right hand. One long fluid swing, shimmering trail in the air. The elf stops and examines his work once more. Then, he goes to the weapon stand, and takes another blade into his left hand, then holds the two blades together in front of him. Perfect... the balance... the design... two identical blades are held together.
Apprentice approaches, passing a few words to the elf. The elf nods, a shadow of anger crosses his face, but passes quickly. With polite nod, the apprentice is dismissed. A few moments later, elf's eyes close briefly, he breathes in, and lets out... eyes open, with new steely glint within.
Few more minutes pass, and the elf is seen making his way swiftly up the valley trail, up to the hills, holding two drawn blades in each hand.
Swing... turn... twist and slash... snowflakes dance around grey whirlwind of blades. There goes the arm, leaving a trail of black blood and agonising screech... there flies the head, grimace of hatred mixed with surprise... there black blade tip lands into the snowy ground, severed from the rest of the cruel orcish sword... turn... strike... position and kill...
Severed orch bodies lie around the elf, black blood drops slowly drippling from drawn blades. Few hundred feet away, more bodies are scattered. Men. And women. And children... all dead.
The elf was too late.
Strike... strike... turn and strike... the blade of the chisel lands on the silver plaque, cutting away excess, forming elegant lines, lines becoming letters, letters becoming words... strike... strike... position and strike...
Cut... cut... cut and twist... soft leather strip folds around the hilt... cut... cut again...
Swing... another swing... swing and sheathe... the weapon is ready. Slightly curved, well balanced, sharpened, with intricate lines of silver etched into the metal of the blade, with carved elm handle, tightly wrapped into fine leather. The elf holding the sheathed blade draws it again with his right hand. One long fluid swing, shimmering trail in the air. The elf stops and examines his work once more. Then, he goes to the weapon stand, and takes another blade into his left hand, then holds the two blades together in front of him. Perfect... the balance... the design... two identical blades are held together.
Apprentice approaches, passing a few words to the elf. The elf nods, a shadow of anger crosses his face, but passes quickly. With polite nod, the apprentice is dismissed. A few moments later, elf's eyes close briefly, he breathes in, and lets out... eyes open, with new steely glint within.
Few more minutes pass, and the elf is seen making his way swiftly up the valley trail, up to the hills, holding two drawn blades in each hand.
Swing... turn... twist and slash... snowflakes dance around grey whirlwind of blades. There goes the arm, leaving a trail of black blood and agonising screech... there flies the head, grimace of hatred mixed with surprise... there black blade tip lands into the snowy ground, severed from the rest of the cruel orcish sword... turn... strike... position and kill...
Severed orch bodies lie around the elf, black blood drops slowly drippling from drawn blades. Few hundred feet away, more bodies are scattered. Men. And women. And children... all dead.
The elf was too late.