Chandaea, Year of Severus, 15, I.R., the 34th day of Fall, Arenfall

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The dwarf stared at the glistening blade he stabbed into the ground. In their culture stabbing a blade in the ground was frowned upon. The dwarves believed that stabbing the blade on the ground disrespected the maker of that weapon.

The dwarf didn't care about that! After Lord Prestonheim gave him the blade, he felt something was off with its balance. The dagger had a heavier hilt compared to the blade, that indicated the exousia cannot properly spread all over the blade when activated. 

He detested the dagger but chose to accept it from Lord Prestonheim just so he can entertain himself with how ridiculously flawed the structure of the dagger was. He knew for certain it was made by a dwarf with lesser experience as he slowly observed the embroideries and sculpting of the hilt.

Being great blacksmiths as they are, Dwarves had always honed their craft to perfection to a point that even the elves would ask them to create weapons for their own clans. The dwarven blacksmiths took pride of their work and would prove to any other blacksmiths dwarven or otherwise, that their work is superior compared to others.

The dwarf was no exception. It was something that he stubbornly kept in his system, the pride of being a smith. He silently critiques the Principalian weapons whenever he sees them. Too big for a hilt, too narrow along edges of the blade, too unbalanced. Even if the blades were customized to fit the bearer's preference, the dwarf could still see the flaws in that weapon and would sometimes imagine fixing the problems to make it a better weapon for its owner. But that's just—a wishful thinking.

The flame roared and crackled inside the make-shift kiln. The dwarf reached out for the rune he conveniently drew just within his reach and released its magical function. With that rune, he was able to see the melting alloy inside the kiln without burning his face off.

The melting blades were slowly bubbling and deforming, a good sign that the flames inside the kiln was the ideal and optimal temperature of the Adamantite and aetherite alloys inside. Too hot and it could ruin the integrity of the alloy once you tried and take shape of it. Too cold and it might break once you start the tempering process. This was one of the complicated steps that the smith had to follow in working with the type of alloy he had been presented with.

The process took out almost the entire day to melt and cooldown the huge cube of alloy now inside the kiln. The sun was already shying away from the horizon by the time they took it out of the improvised kiln.

The dwarf lifted the ground where the cube rested with his magic and slowly placed it into a horse drawn wagon that Lord Prestonheim ordered his men to bring. The cube was heavy and dense, the wagon dipped a little bit as the big piece of alloy was placed there.  The dwarf and Adaloun had to cover it with damp cloth and proceeded to go back to the camp.

As the dwarf drove back to the camp, he recalled that most of the escorting knights looked at him and Adaloun with a look of dread and disgust. Well, he can't blame them for that, they just broke one of the taboos of the Arterian Society, pillaging the dead.  He just wished that the knights could look at Lord Prestonheim with the same look that they did with them.

The Arterian Empire who always pride themselves of their fairness towards their citizens was nothing more than a visage to the rotten institution that it really is. Faerfolk, slaves, and other races had never been treated equally in the empire and it was very obvious at that time too.

The prejudice in the eyes of those knight escorts were visible and piercing. The dwarf felt uncomfortable as their eyes stabbed him. He put his head down as he tried to calm himself from bursting out of anger. He was too tired and hungry for that, but he's nearing the point of his annoyance.

"Men, if you want someone to blame for this, blame it on me." Lord Prestonheim spoke out nowhere. "They are just the collateral for our quest to greatness. So, if you want to be disgusted at someone, be disgusted with me." The Commander's somber and heavy voice deterred the knights from daring to look at them again.

The dwarf glared at the knights before putting his hood on and gave the reins to Adaloun.

"Lad, wouldya tek the reins, please?" He handed it over to Adaloun. "Tis a bit drowsy, I might drove us to a cliff or somewhere."

Adaloun cracked a smile on his somber face and gladly took the reins from him. The dwarf smiled back and took a good nap the rest of the way. By the time he woke up, the darkness had completely filled the sky and they were already inside the camp's gigantic wooden gates.

The dwarf stretched his arms and felt his stiff muscles expand as he did his best to wake his body up.  The elf and the beastman approached them immediately. They were eagerly waiting by the gates and was anxious about the task he gave them.

Yesterday afternoon, all four of them were called by Lord Prestonheim inside his tent. The Commander instructed them tasks like the ones that they did today. As for the elf and the beastman, they were ordered to set up a tent at back end of the woods while Lord Prestonheim's ward, Tristam was asked to inquire for the extra anvil the smith master had on display inside the camp.

The dwarf didn't like the idea of borrowing the anvil from the smith master inside the camp. Not only was it inappropriate for one smith to use a borrowed tool, but it will also put them on the prejudiced eyes of some knights inside the camp.

"Tis like a husband askin' yeh fock 'is wife! Tis a blhndyhr!" He recalled spatting out during that brief meeting.

The beastman was all smiles as he approached them. The dwarf couldn't say what to think of it. The elf nodded to both of them and signed.

"We were lucky enough to have the tools you need ready just in time." She said with a gesture of relief.

"Did yah both hadda hard time with et?" The dwarf asked.

"Oh well…ummm…the master smith was understand—" The beastman tried to explain when suddenly out of nowhere someone butted in.

"Ah! You must be the dwarf! Well, met good Ser!" The burly man with handlebar mustache approached the dwarf. "How rude of me, I am the master smith, you can call me, Round." The master smith reached out for his hand and offered a handshake.

The dwarf took his hand and shook it, "Well met, Ser Ruund. 'Scuse me thick accent!"

The master smith laughed. "No insult taken! I would really love to talk to you some more, but duty calls. Feel free to visit my smithy, you know where it is and don't be shy, you are always welcome there!"

The dwarf nodded, "I will take yah up on dat!"

The master smith went back to his smithy. As for the rest of them, they drove the horse-drawn cart to where the make-shift smith was. The elf and the beastman guided them through the dark path until they reach the set-up tent.

It was truly distant from the camp just like what the dwarf asked. His reason for it, he didn't want to be bothered by anyone once he started creating the weapons. The dwarf passed through two big trees facing each other. He felt a slight tingle as he went forward from the tree.

"Lass," He called the elf. " Hafta put some wards 'round 'ere?" He asked.

The elf nodded.

"Dear me, thoz were strong 'uns!" He smiled.

The elf smiled back and pointed the tent.

"We have arrived!" The beastman jollily announced. "Welcome to your smithy!"

Adaloun looked at him at the dwarf and smiled, "That's a fairly small smithy. But, not bad."

The dwarf looked back at Adaloun, "Dey did der best tah make it look the part." He smiled back.

He went down from the wagon and excitedly walked into the tent. As expected, there was nothing around. There were no hooks hanging on the wall, and the kiln was yet to be made. It was not like the hot and sweaty forges he used to work at Vridian Mountains, but he liked it, nonetheless.

"Oh! By the way, the smith master also wants you to have this." The beastman gave him the blacksmith's tools wrapped in fine leather with a dwarven insignia scorched on front.

"Tis a dwyrvyn mark!" The dwarf exclaimed. "How?"

"He said his master was a dwarf and gave it to him before he died." The elf answered.

The dwarf unwrapped the leather and saw the beautiful tools underneath. The hammer was embroidered with art from the Mystbrykyr clan.

The dwarf sighed. As a dwarf they were never allowed to use another tool other than what they made. But this wasn't the time to complain about it. He had no materials to build one himself and he had no ample time to create one even if he had the materials to do it.

"Mhy thy spyryts fyrgyv mhyn yntrysn. (Spirits forgive my intrusion)" He mumbled. He looked at everyone and asked them to go back to the camp.

"Don't you need our help?" Adaloun asked.

"I do need yer help, but I need to cleanse the place and these items too." He answered. "Tis a tradition of uurs. Tis I need tah do."

Everyone nodded and went back to the camp. Now the dwarf was alone, it was time for him to dedicate the camp to his goddess and pray for their success in the upcoming campaign—back to that hellhole.