ORIGIN

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They followed the Blacksmith over to the table, watching as the box was opened to reveal an assortment of daggers. They were all worn down, some rusted and others chipped or cracked. He wondered who these had been made for originally. And for what? Hunting? Battle? Or had they been made and unused? Worn down with the passage of time? It was most likely a combination of them all, he decided.

Onyx-Three tried out the daggers that stood out to him, testing the grip, then making experimental jabs in the air. For some, he knew rather immediately that it was unfitting, while for others he lingered upon making a decision. And then he found it. The dagger slid with a strange familiarity into his palm, as if this was a weapon he had used many times before. It made of iron in the shape of a cross. The blade started out thick, gradually narrowing into a sharp point. They held it up, watching the light of the forge glint in the parts that had not yet been touched by rust. "This one." He saw potential in the dagger, even if it was in desperate need of repair like all the others were.

"May I aid in reforging? I feel it is important to learn." Of course, this did not have to be immediate. Onyx-Three supposed it could be something done on his future visits as he would have to come to practice the usage of a bow anyways. They looked to their brother to see if he had anything else he may have wanted to say or ask for.

"Is there anything," he spoke up at last, trying to keep a confident tone (and it only trembled a little--he feared. Feared rejection, feared mockery, though no one had ever mocked him or rejected him). "...Ranged. Something small," he added, half-suppressing the disdainful sneer as he uncurled one arm from the other where it was folded across his chest, to gesture at the rusted old dagger Onyx-Three had chosen.

Was there such a thing..? It was probably foolish of me to even ask, he thought savagely, his own worst critic and it would have probably been comical if he hadn't been so damn cruel to himself all the time. He glowered at the Blacksmith after asking, and cut his gaze back to a dark corner somewhere, sure that he was about to be rebuked.

costume credit - big-ashb on flickr

The Blacksmith beamed.

Admittedly, yes... these were weapons. Tools of killing and death. Yet the artistry of a well-crafted weapon, and seeing it wielded like a new limb--an effortless extension--by its wielder; these held some satisfaction to one skilled in his craft. And the Blacksmith was most certainly skilled.

"I will gladly... teach you," he answered, pressing his palms together. "Now, or... if you wish to return... at another time. It will be," he went on, "a long lesson." He paused, thinking. "But not... very long, I think."

Contrary to Onyx-Two's expectations, there was no mockery in the Blacksmith's glance. Instead his head gently canted to one side as he considered. He then turned, shuffling off toward another crate, pondering aloud. "There are... small crossbows... handheld. These are... weak. Good for... hunting small game. Or... poisoned bolts. Or there are... slings, but they require... more skill." They were, of course, still powerful. "You are welcome to... try what I have, but... there are not many." His gaze ranged around the room, to the massive blades and armor that had generally been intended to be fitted to the bodies of Valkhounds--not held in the hands of bipeds.

Onyx-Three may choose to have a reforging lesson with the Blacksmith now, or offscreen, or in a later thread.

@V-Onyx-Three

He thought over the question, not wanting to hold them back here for too long. But the Sentinel did say they could stay here longer. There was really not much use for a dagger that was as rusted and chipped as this one was. If it could be repaired now, then he would be able to practice using it when he went back home.

He cast a glance towards Onyx-Two as he spoke up with another request for the Blacksmith. A small ranged weapon? Images of mini bows paired with mini arrows crossed his mind, but that was impractical. They wondered which of the listed possibilities their brother would choose. A sling could be interesting, even if it was harder to learn. Onyx-Three found himself favoring weapons that required time to master. He supposed it also meant that should an opponent get ahold of such a weapon, they would not be able to wield it with efficiency.

Since Onyx-Two was occupying himself with a secondary weapon, they decided it would be best to repair the dagger now. No point in coming back later. "I wish to learn now. I hope it is not too much of an inconvenience."

@V-Onyx-Two

V-Onyx-Two followed the Blacksmith with his stare, attention falling to the crates the old creature prodded at. When attention was once more taken by Onyx-Three, he pushed off the wall, flexed a wing with a grimace, and made his way over.

For the next few minutes he tried out the little crossbows, and the slings; it was clear he didn't really know their techniques, but he spent some time testing the weapons out nonetheless. The crossbow took some fiddling to load; it didn't have a long lever like a normal-sized weapon, not that he'd have recognized such a thing anyway. As it was, it took him time to figure the weapons out, and even longer--quite a few shoots-and-misses--to manage to hit one of the training targets.

"Seems easy enough," he said at last, with a casual arrogance that sounded like cruelty on his tongue.

He flipped up one of the smaller crossbows--something nondescript and dark--and studied it from the side, trying to learn how precisely its mechanics worked.

costume credit - big-ashb on flickr

While Onyx-Two went about his toying with ranged weaponry, the Blacksmith gathered up supplies.

He beckoned Onyx-Three over, and prepared the forge and anvil: clearing it off, pumping the bellows, and pouring water into the water trough. "Some take... oil, but... for this, water... will do," he murmured, not yet explaining what that meant.

"You might... all watch," he half-suggested, half-invited, before then getting started.

He led by example: picking out another ancient weapon, a thin shortblade, and showing Onyx-Three the process and how the tools worked before letting him try it out himself.

First, the sanding away of rust and dust, taking the weapon back to a decent shine, using sandpaper of a quite coarse grit.

Then, the heating of the weapon, the hammering out of any imperfections; there was no need, he noted, to re-smelt anything or add pieces, as 'rusted' was not really the same as 'broken' or 'missing shards.'

Third, the quenching: plunging, with deafening hiss and billowing steam, red-hot metal into water. (This, apparently, was the part that could use oil--depending on the metal.)

And lastly, almost an hour's long work in the brutal heat: the polishing. A finer grit sandpaper, then oil and cloth to shine, to bring the weapon back to near-perfection.

@V-Onyx-Three

As he patiently waited for the Blacksmith to gather up the required supplies for the reforging, Onyx-Three watched their brother investigate the ranged weaponry. It seemed he had a preference for the crossbow. Sort of like a sideways bow and arrow, though it functioned differently.

Their attention returned to the Blacksmith as they were beckoned over to anvil. "The oil from lessers and corruption can be used in reforging?" The assumption that it was this kind of oil, or any kind of oil at all, that could be used in reforging surprised him. He did not know anything about smithing at all, but the idea of oil still struck him as interesting. It was also important to know in the case that water was too scarce to be used in this fashion and oil was necessary as a replacement.

They turned the dagger over in their hand as they watched the Blacksmith go through the steps with a shortblade. There were several steps, but thankfully not so many as to overwhelm him as he memorized what needed to be done.

He almost immediately got stuck on the step that required sanding. The sandpaper just seemed to keep slipping out of his hand, and it was impossible to get into a rhythm. It simply wasn't working. For a novice, or someone who had no experience in any of these things, he simply didn't have the technique down or the muscle memory to do it all that well. But he didn't want to ask for help either- or maybe he should? Either way, it was obvious he was struggling.

@V-Onyx-Two

Despite the mistakes and missteps, the Blacksmith--watching closely from a respectful distance--offered only gentle support.

"A different sort... of oil. Oil can come from plants, and other things..." he explained, in his soft rasp. Whether he'd tried to forge in Oil-oil he left unsaid. "Very good. Hold the sandpaper... like this... to make it easier," he suggested, stepping in gently to correct the grip. "It comes... with time... with practice. Here."

He went back over several of the steps--anywhere Onyx-Three was having trouble--with a soft touch and careful guidance, repeating by example how precisely to perform them. "You are doing well... for one just beginning," he assured, and it sounded as though he bore a smile of encouragement.

The Sentinel drew closer once the lesson began. His interest, distant and alien as his mind might be, was piqued. Ghost-blue eyes studied each step with keen focus, committing it all to memory.

As Onyx-Three began to work, he turned and stalked in as near to silence as he could manage (so as not to interrupt, though the soft clicking of his armor was audible) along the weapon racks and armor. He eyed each piece, trying to compare what the Blacksmith was doing now to the final product. He tried to picture how each might have been formed: the process of the smithing, molding, hammering, quenching, polishing. They were all so different, but it was a fascinating thing.

"I have been formed a destroyer," he rasped abruptly, his tone thoughtful. "This is creation. New things, out of rock, stone." Pure ore, pulled from the cave walls, formed into things like his halberd: things with, in his mind, a personality and unique form of their own, worthy of names. His grip tightened around the haft of his own weapon, and he cast his gaze upon its single eye. "Do they have names," he mused aloud. "Mine... should have a name."

It was difficult, in the dim lava-lit workshop, to make out much of the crossbow's inner workings. Never mind that Onyx-Two hadn't a clue how such things worked, to begin with.

He lifted one hand, and gently snapped his fingers; there was a flare of light which coalesced, erupting into a glowing golden-white ball that floated beside him. He lifted the crossbow, lowering the light, and studied it more closely.

"Ahh. Of course," he sneered. "Simple." It was dumb luck, really--well, maybe a little bit of intellect, and his light certainly helped--but he thought he'd figured it out.

A moment later he was reloading, hauling on the stirrup, paying only half attention to the lesson going on to one side.

"Names? he echoed, absently. "Do our weapons have names-?" He glanced up, half a frown on his face, uncertain as to what one would even call a weapon.

Never mind that the Sentinel seemed to think that weapons--and not people--should bear names from day one.

costume credit - big-ashb on flickr

@V-Onyx-Three

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ORIGIN

V-Onyx-Three

Archon

Game Master Dark

V-Onyx-Three

Archon

Game Master Dark

V-Onyx-Three

Game Master Dark

The Sentinel

Archon