scowling sunset - Printable Version

As Sam didn't really know anything about life yet, it was fair to say he was learning a lot here with the Blacksmith. Heat can be dangerous. It could crack the stone. For a moment, he felt his heart jump to his throat—no! Don't crack the stone! That's... that's Sam! That's him! But the Blacksmith implied it would be ok, because they were waiting to put the stone in. That settled in his brain. A new core memory.

His head tilted back so that he could see the chimney, and tucked the information away that the fire was a wild thing, it loved to eat and run free but it also had its bite. Sam didn't fully understand—not the the way the Blacksmith had intended, as a metaphor—but his eyes flashed with a knowing light. So fire was cool but dangerous... like a crazy little creature. Got it!

When the Blacksmith was done showing him the mold and got back to work, Sam plopped back down onto his bottom and sat as he did before, with his legs and tail straight out, holding the goggles with his paws. He nodded as he listened, although he wasn't sure he'd be using clamps or anything like that anytime soon; but he did like the line: we all need support, sometimes. It made him smile. But falling, molten metal was a less comforting idea. His lips pulled back slightly in a grimace. Eesh. Sounded awful.

And seeing said molten metal as the Blacksmith poured it into the mold only solidified his understanding of that. Was that the sword, the red goopy string?? His mouth formed an 'O' shape as he watched—carefully, from his safe distance and with his eye protection—as the Blacksmith worked. It was way cooler than he thought it might be, but he hadn't known what to expect! When the smithy had settled the pieces together, Sam felt his stiff little tail squirming behind him. Maybe he could do stuff like that someday! But probably not. The stuff all looked super heavy and Sam was probably six feet too short.

The Blacksmith said it would take a few moments, so Sam relaxed a little bit. When he was asked why he chose the blade, however, he stiffened again. He blinked up at the Blacksmith through his goggles and pondered the questions. Why the blade, instead of something else?

"Umm," he started, glancing around at the other things; but his answer was simply that the blade looked cool... Well, he shouldn't lie, right? It felt like he shouldn't, not to the Blacksmith.

"It looks cool... strong, like it can protect itself, like a big tooth!" he explained, spreading his arms wide to show the Blacksmith what big was—and his goggles fell. He gasped and fumbled with his paws, righting the goggles and putting them back up to his face as quickly as possible. Whew, safe! Sam almost lost his eyeballs!! How scary!

"Um," he started again, tapping his little toes against the glass of his eye wear. "Well this is a secret, but you feel very safe so I will tell you," he said, pushing up from his position to waddle over to where the Blacksmith stood, keeping a weary eye on the forge. He spread the toes of one paw across the middle of the goggles, and brought the other down to his mouth to cup around his words: "Actually my name is Sam, but I want to be strong! So I call myself Wolfwood! And," his eyes shifted to the mold for a moment, "and... the blade, it looks like what I think of when I think of someone strong..."

He felt himself frowning. It was all part of his facade. Would he ever truly be Wolfwood, strong and brave, protector of the weak?

"What... other things would you have chosen? Instead of a blade?" he decided to ask.

What a fascinating little creature this Sam was proving to be. The Blacksmith listened, rapt, at his alien (little) logic, at his adorable (little) fumbling for his goggles. It came from a world so unlike his own, and yet it was part and parcel of what he would have built, if it had been up to him. But wasn't this his world, now-? Wolfwood's, and the rest? As he had built a forest, a garden, so these creatures could shape their own lives.

This thought lingered with him, but for a moment, Sam's explanation of the sword pleased him. It was good reasoning, was it not-? "It does... look cool," he agreed, uncertain of the meaning of this word in context, but trying it out nonetheless. He leaned thoughtfully against the wall behind the forge, fingers tapping his own elbow. Cool. He'd have to use that one more. "Strength is... admirable. And it comes in... many forms. Some metals are... strong, but brittle. They can break other things... but they shatter easily. Others can be struck... many times, without a scratch. It is like... strength of self... which also comes... in many forms," and here he waxed a tad poetic. "Strength of... mind... courage. Will... body."

So Wolfwood wanted to be strong-? The Blacksmith's mind flicked back to the idea of shaping one's own world, and he considered, smiling beneath his mask. It was an admirable goal, and somehow, he wanted to reassure the little one. He had no doubt that even the small could become truly mighty, given time and bravery. Though, it was a dangerous world, out there. "No one can... choose your name, but you. If you... wish to be Wolfwood... then you can be Wolfwood..." But if he felt he needed to earn it, well, that was up to him, too. "Only you can... shape who you become." His mind drifted off to metaphors of metals and molds, and forges--but oh-!

He'd nearly forgotten the actual blade.

The Blacksmith pushed off from the wall, preparing his tongs. Then he paused, and pondered, gaze flicking between his two options. It was a tungsten-steel alloy, and it was small. The best bet for its strength (both durability and a strong, straight edge) was simply to air-cool it. He spoke, as he worked, to answer the marten's question. It primed his own imagination, making him wonder: what would he have chosen-? "I know so many stories... of cursed blades... enchanted ones. Legends, now... I think... I would want something beautiful. Something... its creator... put their heart... their love... into. It shows... it is a treasure, on its own," he went on. Nimble hands pushed aside the trough, readied the tongs. But what would he have chosen-? A rainbow cloak that shimmered in bright light? An invisible shield, to protect others nearby? A collar, perhaps, for the cruelty of his brother? Perhaps steel wings, enchanted to let him fly-... Oh! "I think... for me... a hammer is enough. To let me... work my craft... to make more treasures... for others."

A smile filled him. He was glad the child had asked this question! It was a good one. It had made him think, and he felt better for it. (But he was forgetting his work, again!)

"Wolfwood," he said, with a thoughtful tone, "Can you... go to the bellows... just here? And work them... it will mean pressing them, up and down," he added, turning the bellows to face his clamp.

Then, careful, he removed the vise from the mold; he set this on his anvil. He pulled the mold apart. With tongs he drew the poured blade from its mold, and--very carefully--clamped it tight between the vice's arms. "This will keep it... from warping," he explained. The metal was much cooler, now--certainly not liquid--but it still held a dim, red glow. "We need to push air... over it. There are ways to do it... with water, with oil... but for this metal... and this small... simple air is best. It will be very tough... very hard to break. But the edge, the surface... it may scratch more easily." This type of metal always did, though, really; and to make it more scratch-resistant would make it less tough, overall.

"The air, now," he added, and stepped to one side, so that the bellows--if pumped--would blow air across the blade. It wouldn't be much, but it would help the process along, even though it might take Wolfwood's whole body to do it.