Previous installment in this storyline, as written by Turuviel: Growing Stronger Claws: Prologue
Smelted bars of dark steel and a few pieces of wood and leather lay by the worktable where Earnio sat and sketched upon a piece of paper, drawing up different designs of blades and hilts that would be the huntress' new tools in the field. The metal tip of his pen scratched back and forth, eager to please the hand who held it, and upon this piece of paper were designs that he almost liked, that he had discarded, and those that were somewhere in-between - neither good nor bad. His eyebrows creased and wrinkled upon his forehead, and he shook his head. "No, no... this isn't good enough for her." He quickly scratched a few lines across the latest design, laid down the pen and slumped back in his chair. Her chosen names for the daggers were Areyello and Loriambe - “the triumph call of the day” and “the shout in the night”. And upon the pommels there would be the images of sun and moon, but that was all his thoughts could muster for the moment. The inspiration today was scarce in the midst of all the other work he had upon his list. There were various keys to forge for Manadhlaer before their journey to the dwarven halls, new iron grates to the hearths in the Hall of Fire and many other things, and nothing he had drawn felt perfect for the young, bold huntress who had ordered them. He was indeed a toolmaker and knifemaker by trade, but strong weapons of battle were more of a forgotten passion that lingered in his memory, and the years had passed swiftly by since last he had forged such. Carving knives, skinning knives, butcher knives, scalpels for Manadhlaer’s house of healing - those were the blades he was used to create in recent years. He needed to rethink the design, to make them both stronger and durable. The blades had to be sharp as a scalpel, but tough and durable as a hammer. His thoughts wandered back to the forges of Duillond, where he once practiced his trade for a few seasons when they lacked a smith in the area.
Turuviel was young then, and eager to show the world what she was made of. To prove herself upon the fields, to make herself known, to be as strong and proud as one of them: the formidable lords of the Noldor. A ray of sunshine she had been still, always glad to help but also a serious threat to any that stood in her way, whether it be beast or orc. A few years later she vanished, and it was said that she had taken leave for Imladris - the ultimate destination for a young, growing elleth who seeks to join and be a part of something greater. And now, years later, she was someone entirely different. What had happened to her during these years, he wondered? And of the ring she carried and wanted to use its silver to decorate the knives; he knew what it was, and yet he did not dare to ask who had returned it to her. The ring still held it’s silvery beauty, polished and shining, though he could sense the dreaded aura of lost love that surrounded it. She had been through much pain to grow like this, he thought... and she deserved something far greater than that which never came to be. His eyes wandered to the dark steel again, and his fingers gripped the pen and drew images upon the paper; images that he barely glanced at, until they were finished. And upon that piece of paper, there he saw it. The daggers that would be hers; the weapons that would strike fear in any enemy that came in their way; the tools she'd need to become more than she already is. A pair of knives that would be no less than fit for the finest of Noldor blood, indeed. Slim and strong were the blades; vaguely curved were the handles for a nimble grip and the pommels hard and menacing, yet beautiful with silver inlays in the shape of sun and moon. The hammer called and his hand yearned for it, the anvil sang with the ringing of bells, and the fire in the forge sparkled in the evening light. His work was laid out before him.
She would be pleased.
The storyline continues here by Turuviel: Black Iron (Chapter 1)
