Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Deep inside of an old forge, we hear the sounds of hammer hitting steel over and over, rhythmically echoing off of the walls. Sitting in the corner of the room is Drewitt, War. The horseman watches as an old smith works on a red hot blade, molding it with his swings. “You know,” he says quietly, “When I first explored the levels, I wanted to learn everything I could. My journey brought me here, to this forge where we sit now.”
The old smith continues to work the steel as Drewitt muses to himself. “I had first arrived here in search of a knife, a tool that could perform most any task. I asked for the best steel the smith could find, something that was already strong, already perfected. Yet, the smith simply chuckled and told me that looking for something like that was a fruitless endeavor.”
Drewitt stands up, moving over and watching the smith work, the blade beneath him taking the shape of a large, powerful sword. “When it comes to steel, or any metal for that matter, the strength doesn’t come from the material itself. You could find the highest quality steel in Arcadia, but without a proper hand and expertise, even a seemingly infallible ingot was just that. An ingot. A shapeless hunk of raw ore.”
With a mighty groan, the smith brings down the hammer one last time, the blade itself still red hot but now fully formed. “For an ingot to reach it’s potential, you must stress it, work it, and apply pressure until it forms into something more than the sum of its parts.” The smith takes the blade, quenching it in oil, cooling it down in one swift motion.
“Gemini, Muerte, you are my allies, fellow soldiers in this war. When I saw we were facing one another, I was initially concerned. But, then I remembered this forge, and the lesson I learned. We aren’t so different from the steel in his hands. While we may be powerful on our own. Strong steel, well tanned leather? It isn’t until that steel is worked and stressed that we can reach our full potential.” Drewitt holds out his hand, the smith placing the massive blade in his palm. “Our battle in Olympus will not tear us apart. No, the war between us is simply the fire that will allow us to be molded into a perfect weapon of war.”
Drewitt slings the blade over his shoulder, nodding to the smith as he does. “The blood we shed, the blows we trade, they exist simply to make us stronger. When the dust clears and our thirst for combat is quenched, we will come out a perfect tool for our crusade.” He begins to take his leave, walking down the hall away from the forge itself.
“Apokalypsis. A powerful blade for OSW to cleave through the Uprising. Forged in fire, quenched in blood, we shall stand tall, a weapon ready for war.”
“And War? War never changes.”