The hammer rings as Weland sings
his spells into the blade.
Of words never written, in a tongue long forgotten.
Blood and fire and legends to be made.
The forge bellows blow, the hot charcoals glow.
Fire sprites writhe, as the blade takes the heat.
Carressed by the furnace, the steel turns red
as the lifesblood and souls it shall eat.
The anvil rings as Weland's arm swings.
A shower of stars fall at each strike.
A deadly edge appears, of power and fear.
A dragon's tooth brought to life.
Tempered even and slow in water melted from snow.
Given hilt, polished, and sharpened.
Meandering lines, marbled and fine.
The steel like wood grained and patterned.
A sword forged like no other, spellwoven death giver.
Weland a sorceror of steel.
Finely balanced and sharp for a warrior's grasp.
An heirloom for generations to wield.
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Thank you Sherry-Dow.
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