*Alassënto wipes his brow for the fourteenth time in the hour, exerted to exhaustion. His smithing hammer striking a resounding chord "Thunk!" with every rear and descent of his arm. With an abrupt expression of joy; half a snort and half a chuckle he labors at his craft. His mind is blank, for concentration is key. His ambition cannot warrant any mistakes. "Clunk", an off key strike. He pauses... A few moments pass, the moments turning to minutes. The minutes turning to an hour. He stands there, staring, waiting. Treading as if he was teetering on the edge of a great chasm. Anticipation builds within, he can feel his heart hammering within his chest as he feels something rearing, roaring inside of himself. It is so distinct yet he cannot quite place it. Something is wrong...*
*"Clunk!" an eerie, somewhat surreal flash suddenly flares in a dazzling, blinding display before him. Alassënto's eyes widen in pure apprehension upon what he was witnessing. Was it good? Was it bad? It had to play out, there was no going back. The display of pure, potent energy being unleashed before him was enough to force him to crane his neck back, squint his mind's eye and narrow his focus, lest he totally lose control of his "anchoring" of his will onto the Tengwar scripture. A few moments pass and the perceived light dims. Fading like starlight enshrouding by deep, dense clouds. "Ai..." A distinct scowl adorns his features, his gloved hand that was enclosed around the smithing tongs that held the tang of the Blade he was tempering pulls back, another success. The blazing Tengwar scripture that had seemingly caused the blinding flash to his mind's eye was set to the natural red hue of the red hot Elven-steel Blade. Alassënto knew that he had once more succeeded. Yet his success was bittersweet.*
*Taking up the tang of the blade once more within the tongs, he veers it towards the engorged, reinforced barrel of water situated nearby. Situating himself ready, he inhales deeply and begins to lower the blade into the depths of the clear water. "Sssssssssssssssssss", the steam that arises from the sudden submergence of such temperatures forces Alassënto to veer back a step. Yet his hand is steady, the descent of the blade into the water is a vital variable. It must not be rushed and it must not lag beyond necessity. With the blade submerged and with his release of the tang he steps away. Once more wiping his brow with the heel of his palm. Stepping towards a small table nearby, laden with a pitcher and a goblet. He pours himself a drink and finds his mind turn to a particularly unusual yet recent happening:*
"So it is. The Order of the Pillar of Vanimar have unearthed that of what we thought was long lost. Armaments of the highest order; tempered and honed with both virtue and true intent. Imbued within hallowed walls long lost to the eons of time, under tides and rampant currents, wisps of our true natures emboldened by will and desire. Weapons... The word leaves a sour taste in my mouth, for what is a weapon apart from a tool of death? Is it not considered one of the most grievous of Sins to take what is not given willingly? What of another being's life? Is that not at total odds to our purpose within Arda?"
"Ever has it been that we, the Elda have excelled at crafting tools of death. For we have been pitted against horrors impossible for even the younger generations of our Kindred to fathom. By such a drive, such a need to protect, it was imposed upon us that we learn how. We suffered, how we suffered... But we learned. We learned upon great battlefields; the scope of which perplex my senses even now. We learned upon the great victories, the great losses; performed by the greatest among us."
"A scream is wrought with a purity so rich in depth and density when it torn from the throat of a creature that has been sundered from his flesh or loved ones unwillingly. Once heard, nothing supersedes such a keening wail of sorrow. It doesn't merely haunt. It etches, it hacks and it chips at what was once empathy. It is blackness. For what is strength if not empathy? Is such sorrow contagious? Is this why my kindred so oft wallow and well within its deepening, spiraling folds? It must not be so. For we are Light, we are that of what is Joy. We are grace an-... We are flawed. Yet through through flaws we have learned. We have learned much and so we grew, we grew as a sapling grows into a mighty Mallorn or as a cub to a Bear. Mistakes that were made shall never be repeated, never again."
"For all that was worth protecting did our craft reap its bloody bounty upon both soil and sea. I suppose it was inevitable that we would seek to perfect the dealing of death. Yet life is especially precious to the Elda. Is this not at total odds to our purpose within Arda?.."
*He once more looks towards the forge, his features deadpan. He must write a letter to both Tingruviel and Danel of the Pillar. He has a few things he needs answers too, that only his own eyes will truly be able to validate. And if his hunch is correct... "Will Vanimar have the means to see what should be done fulfilled? Are they Elda of true craft and lore? Perhaps they would be worthy of what they might possess?"*
*Treading back over towards the barrel of water, he makes a note of how the water level had progressed down to two fifths of what it was originally. Proceeding to regard the blade within its now murky and somewhat foamy depths, he takes up the tongs once more and maneuvers himself to take the blade out of the water. Pulling the still somewhat hot, yet not red hot blade towards his features. He allows his gaze to assess the final product of his labor. With a distinct frown of distaste he takes his forge working gloved hand up and traces the pad of his fore-finger across the surface of the Tengwar inscribed onto the blade. His mind's eye catches an incredibly subtle and brief flicker across the surface of the blade itself, as if light danced upon it for the briefest of moments and reflected a distinct, deep blue hue from the Elven Steel even though it had yet to be cleaned after the tempering process. Peering around his person, he makes a note that the only light present within the hall he was situated within emanated from the still live forge itself and sighs. The wry smile on his face truly looks bittersweet.*
((Danel and Tingruviel will receive letters in the Mail that will lead directly to the first "chapter" of the roleplay storyline in proper. The chapter is called "True Relics unearthed".))
