Redcap
06-27-2007, 08:28 AM
Redcap slammed the pick into the earth time and again, metal he must have metal!
Riding from mine to mine he searches for the materials for his blades, weeks are spent searching over old maps looking for lost or abandoned mines. If he finds one being used and its being used by Vermin a quick introduction to his blades is usually enough to have another mark on his tally, more ore and a new location.
After weeks of riding on the two continents he rides into a noisy, hot, hellhole. Inside the sounds of ringing, of hammer blows, of hisses, steam, and other strange noises lead the Blood Elf to believe he has passed from the mortal realm to one inhabited by demons.
Looking through the hellish place he sights the creature he has been looking for. Walking towards the sweating, red eyed, smith Redcap wonders what it is this time he will demand for his labors, will it be a sack of goblin eyes, a delicate flute last played by a maiden in moonlight, the eyelashes of a hellbeast. Redcap knows that magic is required in making his blades and the strength and skill in the hulking Orc’s hands.
Carrying his sacks of ores gathered all over Azeroth he waits until the Smith notices him. The red eyed smith glares at him and what Redcap is sure is a smile, or at least hopes it is, asks “Redcap did you bring me the ores we spoke of?”
Redcap shakes the sacks in his hand, with a effort seemingly impossible from his slender frame he holds out the bulging bags to the smith. “Durfang, I have gathered what ye said was required, do ye need anything else? Will I be travelin to the coast for murlock pasties, to the mountains for the tears of a newborn harpy?”
Durfang looks at the Blood Elf and grimaces, his hands tighten on his hammer. “No, you did that part, you have brought the metals. I will forge for you two blades, twin blades, hell blades, this will be my finest work, with these if you meet a god, then that god will be cut.”
Durfang took the ore to his kiln and started the process of turning the ore and bars into a more usable form. Pointing to the Elf and then to the bellows they began to heat the metal.
Slowly with the Elf stripped to his breeches, pulling on the handles like he was trying to fly, the metal heats up, it runs a brilliant white as the impurities are burned off. Durfang speaks the words that call forth his own personal magic’s, calling forth from the metal its strength, its purity, calling for the spirit of war that exists in the smithies of The Grim, bits of cloth, icons, tabards, arrowheads, axes, splintered shield, all things gathered by the Blood Elf and his companions on the fields of battle against the vermin, placed in the crucible they burn up with a strange glow, they seem to shimmer and move into the metal being formed below.
The Orc points to a stunning Blood Elf dressed in the Robes of a Priestess, she to is Grim. Cwen's Words bring forth to mind sweet whispers of rain on a open field, the bright light of the morning with a loved one.
Grunting to another Blood Elf who begins chanting to a strange counter point to the Priestess Mintche brings forth the Sun that burns away the mists of confusion, the sound of steel on steel, the power of the sun harnessed to a task few mortals can comprehend.
Looking to his right he motions to the grandly looking Warlock to begin his summons. Genrok barks out in a hideous tongue meant to never be heard by mortals much less spoken by one. His words bring twisting darkness and slime covered darkness.
Durfang, like the master smith he is, seems to pluck the rain, the sun and the hellborn light from the air and begins weaving it into the metal. He looks down at the strangely glowing metal and seems to look far away for a moment, motioning to the Redcap to hold out his hand.
Redcap looks at the Chorus of creation and wonders what he will be required to give, so much of his life has been spent lately trying to get the ores for his blades that he thought that was all that would be required. Redcap knew he had no magics like the rest of the people in this room, he felt like his sweat would be his last labor on this task. He holds out his hand to the Smith.
Durfang, faster than the eye can discern, draws a silver knife and slashes cruelly at Redcap, the blood seems to flow like a river. Grasping Redcap by the arms he plunges the Blood Elfs arm deep into the metal.
Redcap who had never suspected his friend and sometimes Vanguard to every attack him or try and harm his is unprepared for the screaming agony that shoots through his system. His arm feels like it is melting, his heart is beating so fast and so hard its like a hammer he heard earlier in the foundry. As he starts to pull back his arms he feel the power of rain, sunshine and hell wash over him and he knows that his part in this forging could very well be his life.
Just as he was loosing sight and the world started to glimmer power shot through his body. Redcap was hurled from the forge and lost consciousness. Laying in a jumbled heap a slamming noise invaded his mind.
The Smiths hammer rung on the Anvil
*Doom*
The hammer whistled through the air.
**Doom**
Again the hammer was swung back, it tore the the air, its passing sounding like the wailing of lost souls as it shimmered with the strength and purpose of the Smith's task.
***DOOM***
Riding from mine to mine he searches for the materials for his blades, weeks are spent searching over old maps looking for lost or abandoned mines. If he finds one being used and its being used by Vermin a quick introduction to his blades is usually enough to have another mark on his tally, more ore and a new location.
After weeks of riding on the two continents he rides into a noisy, hot, hellhole. Inside the sounds of ringing, of hammer blows, of hisses, steam, and other strange noises lead the Blood Elf to believe he has passed from the mortal realm to one inhabited by demons.
Looking through the hellish place he sights the creature he has been looking for. Walking towards the sweating, red eyed, smith Redcap wonders what it is this time he will demand for his labors, will it be a sack of goblin eyes, a delicate flute last played by a maiden in moonlight, the eyelashes of a hellbeast. Redcap knows that magic is required in making his blades and the strength and skill in the hulking Orc’s hands.
Carrying his sacks of ores gathered all over Azeroth he waits until the Smith notices him. The red eyed smith glares at him and what Redcap is sure is a smile, or at least hopes it is, asks “Redcap did you bring me the ores we spoke of?”
Redcap shakes the sacks in his hand, with a effort seemingly impossible from his slender frame he holds out the bulging bags to the smith. “Durfang, I have gathered what ye said was required, do ye need anything else? Will I be travelin to the coast for murlock pasties, to the mountains for the tears of a newborn harpy?”
Durfang looks at the Blood Elf and grimaces, his hands tighten on his hammer. “No, you did that part, you have brought the metals. I will forge for you two blades, twin blades, hell blades, this will be my finest work, with these if you meet a god, then that god will be cut.”
Durfang took the ore to his kiln and started the process of turning the ore and bars into a more usable form. Pointing to the Elf and then to the bellows they began to heat the metal.
Slowly with the Elf stripped to his breeches, pulling on the handles like he was trying to fly, the metal heats up, it runs a brilliant white as the impurities are burned off. Durfang speaks the words that call forth his own personal magic’s, calling forth from the metal its strength, its purity, calling for the spirit of war that exists in the smithies of The Grim, bits of cloth, icons, tabards, arrowheads, axes, splintered shield, all things gathered by the Blood Elf and his companions on the fields of battle against the vermin, placed in the crucible they burn up with a strange glow, they seem to shimmer and move into the metal being formed below.
The Orc points to a stunning Blood Elf dressed in the Robes of a Priestess, she to is Grim. Cwen's Words bring forth to mind sweet whispers of rain on a open field, the bright light of the morning with a loved one.
Grunting to another Blood Elf who begins chanting to a strange counter point to the Priestess Mintche brings forth the Sun that burns away the mists of confusion, the sound of steel on steel, the power of the sun harnessed to a task few mortals can comprehend.
Looking to his right he motions to the grandly looking Warlock to begin his summons. Genrok barks out in a hideous tongue meant to never be heard by mortals much less spoken by one. His words bring twisting darkness and slime covered darkness.
Durfang, like the master smith he is, seems to pluck the rain, the sun and the hellborn light from the air and begins weaving it into the metal. He looks down at the strangely glowing metal and seems to look far away for a moment, motioning to the Redcap to hold out his hand.
Redcap looks at the Chorus of creation and wonders what he will be required to give, so much of his life has been spent lately trying to get the ores for his blades that he thought that was all that would be required. Redcap knew he had no magics like the rest of the people in this room, he felt like his sweat would be his last labor on this task. He holds out his hand to the Smith.
Durfang, faster than the eye can discern, draws a silver knife and slashes cruelly at Redcap, the blood seems to flow like a river. Grasping Redcap by the arms he plunges the Blood Elfs arm deep into the metal.
Redcap who had never suspected his friend and sometimes Vanguard to every attack him or try and harm his is unprepared for the screaming agony that shoots through his system. His arm feels like it is melting, his heart is beating so fast and so hard its like a hammer he heard earlier in the foundry. As he starts to pull back his arms he feel the power of rain, sunshine and hell wash over him and he knows that his part in this forging could very well be his life.
Just as he was loosing sight and the world started to glimmer power shot through his body. Redcap was hurled from the forge and lost consciousness. Laying in a jumbled heap a slamming noise invaded his mind.
The Smiths hammer rung on the Anvil
*Doom*
The hammer whistled through the air.
**Doom**
Again the hammer was swung back, it tore the the air, its passing sounding like the wailing of lost souls as it shimmered with the strength and purpose of the Smith's task.
***DOOM***