[F]orging with the [A]rms of a [M]aster (Raven & Confrazzled)

Rotting Corpse Number of posts : 8 Registration date : 2009-01-03

Rixande gritted her teeth, struggling to scrub away the last of the crusty stew, her thick hazelwood braid thwapping lightly against her arm with each circular jerk. It never ceased to amaze her how the floury-rich paste worked its way into the grain of the Hogstead’s counters, even worn as they were by generations’ worth of tankards shoved roughly across the surface. This duty she didn’t mind so much today, because she was not forced to interact with the leering patrons, groping through her somewhat threadbare skirts to pinch at her bony rump, or her trying to thrust their hands down the neck of her drawstringed chemise. Today the crowd was a mite rowdier than usual, bolstered up by the playings of a bard. Not a particularly good bard, mind, but enough to earn his bowl of stew, something a full fare heartier than Rixande would be receiving that night, once her duties were done.

She didn’t mind either, to overhear the tales of an especial traveler, one perched on a bench not far away from her stubborn, gritty stain. “. . . this ain’t just any blade, mind, this is one o’ ’is. Ye ken, from o’er th’ way.”

This drew a few more listeners, away from the poor, keening bard and his too-melancholy ballad, and set them swarming about the traveller. He was only too pleased to draw the blade, elegantly wrought with what appeared to be alloyed oak leaves folded about the hilt, a sizeable acorn at its butt. The whole blade irridesced with a vaguely amber sheen, and Rixande’s breath caught in her throat, her hand pausing in its fervent rubbings. Such a beautiful blade, she’d rarely seen the like . . . and she had always had an eye for such a thing. Ever since she’d been small, and her father taught her that a merc’s sword was his bread and butter—the better the sword, the better the coin passed across the palm of the innkeep. Rixande quick learned to disregard this bit of information as useless chaff, but she kept her eye to the sword irregardless, always picking out the characteristics of a blade . . .

Well, not so much that she would like to wield. That sort of thing was best left to other folks, who weren’t scrawny third-daughters of innkeeps.

So focused, nearly hypnotized by the blade was she that Rixande scarce heard the traveller’s next words, nor noted his toothy grin. “This ‘un be laced with Earth’s magic. ‘Twill make ye stalwart as an old oak,’ ‘e promised. An’ then, ye know what ‘e said?” Of course his audience did not. The traveler enwrapped in his forest-green cloak was the one witness, the one telling the tale after all. “’E said ‘e’d be takin’ a lad-‘pprentice. What with keepin’ up t’ th’ demand. Canna cast ‘em as fast as they fly away, in th’ hands of travellers like m’self.”

Rixande’s heart lodged itself in her throat and she flushed, frozen, before she jolted back to life, scrubbing at the stain with renewed zeal. Noone, however, seemed to note the change passing over the girl, nor the new, determined fire blazing in her glittering garnet eyes. An apprentice. A lad-apprentice, no less, but . . . did she dare? For the rest of the evening, the alternative swam through her mind. Married off to some villager, maybe not married at all, a spinster helping out her brother Karl and her sisters at the inn for the rest of her life, hauling water, baking breads, stirring stews until her back gnarled and knotted and refused to take the yoke anymore. A gaggle of snot-nosed children plying at her skirts. Not the life for her.

The question danced in her head until late that night, taunting her as she tried to slip off to dreams. Did she dare?

Older form so young him down by 20 years

Fintan Sighed after a long day of finishing his weapons. He was glad that not many people asked his secret behind his weapons. He had a bit of make some basic spells behind his work to make the fire burn hotter as well as infusing the blades. He had sold only two today but there were orders to fill throughout the next few weeks. He was glad that the day for taking on an apprentice would soon come though it had not been for another few months. His ice blue eyes right now, though they seemed to change from day to day. They peered at the setting sun, the twenty year old male only able to do so much with his forge. He had surpassed his master at the ripe age of seventeen, and found a small town in need of one such as him. Weapons wasn't the only thing he did he could make anything needed by fire and steel. His swords were however the best, his trick was his and his alone, and it wasn't even the magic.

His strong arms a bit in pain from the smithing he had done in todays events. Having to burn down the metal into the mold and then letting to mold cool. After the mold he had to pound it into it's proper shape, and watch his work take life before his eyes. It was a wonderful site to behold as a master worked his craft, the perfection of creating something he considered to be his life's work. Time would only tell if this smith would be renowned enough to upgrade his forge, but the only thing that would require was a war, and that wasn't something he wanted.

Rotting Corpse Number of posts : 8 Registration date : 2009-01-03

Rixande shouldered her worn leather back, shuffling it higher on her back. It did not contain much, a rolled up cloak and an iron stewpot with a lid, a length of rope, some coins, and a single meal’s worth of two-day-old bread. Of course a tinderbox, and a tin fork and spoon, and one or two keepsakes, tucked way at the bottom. Some pretty shabby supplies, for all that she carried on her belt a plain but decently-weighted dagger, a gift from her brother and sisters one Birth’s Day, and the light changepurse jingling with coppers and silvers she’d pilfered from her father’s not-so-secret hidey hole beneath the loose hearthstone. With such a leavetaking, she could hardly return home to the Hogstead. Even so, the week’s journey overland had dragged her through the brackenest wildlands of the woods, and she was more than a little worse for the wear. But at least she smelled convincingly like a man, now, rather than merely looking the part, tunic-clad, already scant breasts bound, leather britches hoisted, and draped in the washed-out smoke-grey of the formerly-charcoal cloak. Her long hair still hung behind her, snarled and bound in a manly style with a leather thong. Perhaps insurance that she could return home, for all that Rixande would not admit this to anyone else, or even herself.

Now, though, after the nights of scant sleep under the lullabies of hooting owls and the keening of wolves, Rixande’s nerves jangled. Still, she stepped one doehide-boot-shod foot before the other, making her way towards the infamous town. Longchance. In a mere three years, it had already established itself as the surmounting location for armspurchase, Smith Fintan having established himself as the foremost smith in all of the region—perhaps all of the country—in a generation or more.

The forge, however, seemed far more modest than she expected it to. No gilded anvil, no wrought metal trinkets, just the usual chime of clanking to follow, the rhythmic beat driving her footsteps towards the beautiful sound. The usual showering spray of sparks erupting with each mighty whack of his hammer, and flash of his burly, sweat-glistening arm. And again, so close to her dream, Rixande’s heart caught in her throat, blocking her breath. A bare instant and she coughed it away, rousing his attention. She did not wish to disturb him, not in midst of such delicate work. A single misstrike could mar and inherently flaw a blade, creating a weak spot. Even she knew this.

She waited until he paused, plunging his work into the fire, turning a rod mindlessly. This, this she could interrupt “Hails,” she cried out. Voice too high. Surreptitiously, she deepened it, drawing herself up to herr full height. Rather tall for a seventeen-year-old woman, but not quite so much resembling anything else other than a gawky if somewhat pretty boy of fifteen. “Err, hails. I have, ah, heard that you seek an apprentice.” Speak up, boy! She urged herself. She licked her lips, spurring herself onwards, mounting the low fence and vaulting over it. “And I will be that apprentice, from this moment. Anything you wish of me, I will do. Any task you set, I will strive to complete. I only wish to make swords.” She didn’t mention that she would be grateful to make them half so well as he. That the beauty of blades had haunted her dreams since girlhood. That, if he refused her, she had no idea where she would sleep that night, and how she could return to the inn for surely her purse was far too slender for such a venture. "Rhys, at your service," she bowed.

Speak up boy was right, All Fintan could hear was the sizzling of the metal he had been working on. That was until he heard the sound of someone about five foot four inches, weighing about a hundred and fifteen pounds. landing on his property. The cobblestone of his walkway set up for him to hear anyone approaching. "A bit skinny aren't you boy?" He asked as he pulled the rod from the fire picking up the mallet again. The echo soon coming from the metal to metal banging before he looked up. "Well aren't you going to come in here so I can hear ya or are you just gawking to be gawking?"

His arm raised as his muscles tensed bringing the hammer down in one swift motion the recoil from his hit bouncing his arm back up into the air only to be brought back down just as strong. His technique made it to where his arm didn't absorb the recoil but instead used it to raise his arm back into the air so he could do it non stop with little ill effects on his arm. A true master at work using everything he had in his body to make each sword unique.

Rotting Corpse Number of posts : 8 Registration date : 2009-01-03

“Not gawking just to be gawking, sir,” she replied bluntly, keeping her tone loud and level, and as masculine as she felt that she could sustain convincingly. Sustain for what? How long would an such apprenticeship last?

Rixande-now-Rhys did not take this lightly, did not flinch as the hammer struck the orange glow of the molten metal. She hovered close, but not too close, not intruding on the master’s workspace. “My name is Rhys,” she reaffirmed, in between the beats of his hammer. “I may look scrawny, but I am used to real work. Anything your stable boy can do, and then some, besides. I’ve not been trained for else. But I only wish to be your apprentice and craft beautiful blades. I shall do anything, any task you set for me, and ungrudgingly.” A little less well-worded than her initial speech, she admitted, but the words came out more forcefully, more heartfelt, and rang out like a chant to the steady beat of the hammer. Garnet-browned eyes focused on his profile brimming with hope and eagerness, and she held her spine erect. Puffing her chest out with pride and nerves she waited for him to survey her, to assess her potential as an apprentice. “Where shall I commence, Master Fintan?”

"From where do you hail Rhys?" The boy looked as though he was starving and been on his own for a month. "I don't suppose you're the kinda kid that can go back are you? Nobody noticing your gone, or if you died on your own." He was judging by the looks of the boy and the outcome of sending him away wouldn't be good he set the rod into the cold water for it to chill then started walking around the boy sizing him up. He kicked the knees out from under the lad and grabbed a fistful of his hair. With his right hand he brought a blade he had finished the night before. He drew the boys head back forcing him to gaze upon the blade then brought it to his neck.

A smith had to be strong hardly any weaknesses if there was a sizable weakness in the smith there was one in the blade. "If you truly wish to be a smith then give me your hand." the main thing an apprentice needed to learn was to have faith and trust in ones master. The trust which meant their very lives would be on the line but no matter what they would listen. Fintan wanted strength someone who could surpass him if they had the will to do so. The unseen scars on his body were proof that this technique worked.

"You must learn pain so give me your hand." He repeated though his intention wouldn't be clear to the lad or on what he was going to do. He could have wanted to lobbed the boys hand off, but if he didn't listen he might have killed the boy. The question was which one was it. The boy said he would do anything to be the apprentice but what good was a smith without a hand? "What are you waiting for stick out your hand!" Fintan growled starting to become annoyed, maybe the boy hadn't wanted to be a smith after all.

Rotting Corpse Number of posts : 8 Registration date : 2009-01-03

Whacked to a kneel, the master smith had jarred the wind from her. But Rixande would be damned before she admitted it, before she allowed herself to reveal any of the throbbing-kneecapped, aching-shinned pain beyond a wince, as her breath fluttered back to her lungs. No cries. No squeals. “Something like that, yes. Hailing from Glenborough,” she lied once she trusted her newly lowered voice, naming the nearest town over to the Hogstead. Not her own, but close enough so that the slightly-lilting dialects matched. Once she trusted her elbow not to shake, she extended her hand, gazing levelly past the blade of the sword—and what a beautiful sword!—skimming so near to her fragile neck. She made no move to get up, just straightened her arm, locked it at the elbow, left palm facing skywards and calloused, chapped fingers splayed. Rixande certainly had no lady’s hands—they were the hands of common working folk, rough and simple.

She waited, eyes trained to his, trying to keep her arm from wavering. Did this mean . . . was he going to accept her? "I am ready for whatever training my master wishes." Fire in those words, the simmering intensity of long-burning embers, not the flaring spark easily extinguishable.

This lad had spirit and not a single fear of death with his current life. 'Good.' he thought to himself as he raised the lads long hair. In one swift motion he had pulled the sword away from his neck and cut the hair from the lads head displaying a unknown fact, one he had kept hidden from everyone in the town. "You will live here and do as I say when I say. You will learn to watch yourself and how to craft the trade items of a smith before you even get to touch a blade. If I see you even question me, in a way that isn't learning you will lose the most important thing for being a smith. Am I understood?" Without waiting for the lad to continue he spoke again making his rules perfectly clear.

"You are not your own person you are an extension of me and my work You may not play with others, you may not have a life besides that in which I give to you. It will be hard but if you can't agree to any of these leave now." He grabbed another tuffed of the lads hair Holding the sword at it waiting for his reply. "This is your last chance to back out, so think long and hard cause I can stand here all day."

Rotting Corpse Number of posts : 8 Registration date : 2009-01-03

The initial slice shocked Rixande, as locks of her hair floated down, falling raggedly, oddly against her cheekbone. All of her feminine sensibilities cried out against the action and she opened her mouth to scoff—until she recognized this as mostly instinct. This is what I wished for, after all, she reminded herself, gritting her teeth stubbornly. Everything I wanted. “You may keep your chance, then. Save it to gift another,” she stated firmly. No real hesitation. This was a decision she had made long ago—

Rixande had made up her mind well before she departed from her family’s inn. Sparked at her fascination for all blades, for their balances and craftsmanship, set to blaze in earnest at the ignition of the traveller’s tale. Her decision had been irrevocably set once she’d lifted the coins, set them to jingle in her pouch. Set for certain once she’d squandered them on male clothes, then selling her more meager, threadbare stock. This was no decision to be entered lightly, no refused once she stood at the precipice. “My decision is firm, Master. I can be counted on.”

Fintan cut the hair even shorter of the boy and released him. "Stand to your feet we begin tomorrow morning. As for right now you are to go into the house familiarize yourself with it, and clean yourself up. Dinner is at seven,." He pulled out a few coins. "Go to the tailors and tell him that your to get clothes as Master Fintan has instructed you." He straitened up and went back to work on the blade he was crafting. "Don't be late or you might find yourself heading back to where you came." He said bringing the hammer down.

Rotting Corpse Number of posts : 8 Registration date : 2009-01-03

Rixande’s set garnet eyes widened in shock, as he went over her head once more, lock by lock, hacking the hair away so that none of it measured longer than a thumbslength. At least, that was what she imagined, judging from the strands covering the ground, shed like fallen petals, and just as irrevocable. She must have looked a sight, but whatever it was a far sight better than an uncomely tavern wench. Lucky for Rixande, the smith’s hands were efficient, and made quick work of it.

The tailor’s hands, however, proved far more dawdling. It was nigh on two hours before Rixande-now-Rhys emerged from his shop, clad in a burgundy tunic bound with her initial belt, a leather apron, and pair of well-fitted leather greaves, in addition to her previous boots, and an undershift that she had vehemently refused to remove amidst great kafuffle in the shop. With a bundle of her other clothes and belongings tucked securely under her arm, strode back to the forge, just as the sun began to sink towards the horizon. The smith still hammered away at his latest commission, or creation, and Rixande felt her heart flutter at each clang of it. Soon, soon I will be forging, too . . . it infused a spring into her step, and she caught herself at it, hurriedly striving to squelch it, shape it into a new gait, something more masculine. Succeeded, mostly, by the time she reached the smith’s yard. She knew better than to interrupt him, just studied his every movement from a silent position, poised by the doorway. She licked her lips, looked on. She’d entirely forgotten that the smith had given her other instructions—the lure of the forge was simply that strong.

Belatedly, she remembered in a burst, and shamefaced, slipped out, into the darkening cottage.

While the lad was away Fintan had gone into the house and made up the room he was going to sleep in, though there were many rooms in the house for guests and what he had hoped for a future family. Though only one room had things in it. A bed that he had paid the local carpenter to make a few years back, during the last time he was looking for an apprentice. He hadn't found any he had liked the few years before but the bed was still in perfect shape. His hands continued to hold the hot metal as he hammered it into it's desired shape. This one far more special then anything he had ever made, this was for his old master. Someone he would take it to personally, though it was far from done, it was going to take some time for this blade to be complete.

Rotting Corpse Number of posts : 8 Registration date : 2009-01-03

Rixande found the cottage to be a lot larger than she had anticipated. Two floors, four (four!) ample bedrooms, and a kitchen hearth to rival the forge. Not to mention the dining room and parlour. Why, with a little more polish, a dancefloor, and an eccentric sign tacked above the door it could nearly have been an inn. She explored a little, into the two mostly-empty eventual bedrooms, draped mostly with sheets and used as storerooms. One, with a rougher-hewn bed seemed obviously intended as her own room. As Rhys’ room, she reminded herself. She had to get used to that, to her new name. She plunked the pack on the floor, near the foot of the bed, but did not set anything to rights for she did not wish to be redressed for her presumptuousness by Master Fintan. She did, however, take the opportunity to draw the curtains and readjust her breastbinding, winding it tighter as it had slipped somewhat through the course of the day. Having the tailor measure over top of it, and her tunic had been very awkward indeed. Many a time Rixande had to force her breath from catching in her throat, afeared as she was of her secret being discovered, so quickly, of her sacrifices coming to naught even before she had gleaned the slightest secret of the forge or blades. But it seemed that the nearsighted tailor noticed no such thing

There. She jerked the windings tight and tucked them into her back, before venturing into the rest of the house. In the kitchen, she borrowed some water from a jug to scrub her face mostly presentable, and at odd ends with her time took the liberty of filling both it and a water’s tub up from the well. And then, there was nothing to do but perch awkwardly on a kitchen stool and await Master Fintan’s return, as instructed.

He had completely forgotten about his new apprentice as he banged away on the sword. He had to keep his masters like's and dislikes in check of the sword. He wanted it to be perfect, light enough that a lad could handle it but strong enough to withstand a blow from anything bigger than it. His arm banged away at the blade until it was a good two feet in length. The blade was going to need to be contoured with a flow like motion, so it would have both balance and speed. It needed to be graceful and elegant but not gaudy or showy. A true challenge for his feats.

Rotting Corpse Number of posts : 8 Registration date : 2009-01-03

In the village square, the town clock tolled the hour, the only cue that time passed. Seven. Eight. Nine. And still Rixande sat, perch on the stool deepening to full slumping seat, gradually nodding off. She roused briefly at a later tolling, but could not manage to keep her groggy, fluttering eyes open for longer, for her ears to take in every bell. But her stubbornness would not permit her to abandon her post, and when Master Fintan entered the cottage at last.

The heat from the flames of the forge kept his masculine body warm as he continued to pound away with the steel. The blade nearly finished as the tower started to toll for the sixth hour of the morning. The sun was barely rising as were the people of the town. Everyone had gotten used to the late night sounds of metal to metal, as though a lullaby for those who'd listen. He places the new batch of metal ore into the fire letting it melt down into the cast iron like pot. The handles was going to we a rare gold the likes the world had barely seen. It was to be burned so hot it would lose it's golden color and turn white, pale as the elven skin tone.

» tutoring should be fun..right? (Foxxy_Mama and Raven)
» Arrr! Pirates! Kata+Raven
» Yes Mr. Thomas (continued (pony and raven))
» Stormy Is The Sea [Raven]
» Darkness will conquer you (Raven x ACH)