Hammers smite the anvils. White-hot forge fires roar. Cool waters sizzle in anger whenever they come in contact with next glowing piece of great Ñoldorin craftsmanship. Both Elves present have always loved this music of creation far more than any song that is sung up in the halls of light and white marble.
The master of this workplace dunks his creation, the head of a pick-axe, into the water. He leaves it at the bottom of the bucket and doesn't take it out, even when the clouds of steam have subsided.
The other lowers her hammer. "What is it, Lord?"
