Anvil

With ore and stone, the mountains bring up from the deeps. The hard veins of the earth make clubs look hallow.

By forge and anvil, we craft for thy king, for thy lord and for thy neighbour. From the vast plains of Rohan to the Lonely Mountain's Peak, no work surpasses those of old. Mithril, though lovely you gloom and reflect the light as a mirror where ever you roam.

The night was clear, but the moon was at its lowest point, so only keen eyes could penetrate the darkness of the wood as Seraile passed through it, like a shadow, his foot landing hitting the ground, making as much noise as if on a bed of feathers, his body melting into the darkness around it, the stench he could smell was unbearable, the sulphurous sweet smell of rotting flesh, and there he saw it, a hulking figure, taller than a man, its muscles knotted beneath its dark skin, it’s hair hanging around it’s wide shoulder in greasy knots, a large cruel barbed b