The weapon gleams in the dull lighting. Three weeks of waiting and backbreaking work have finally given results. The old blacksmith looks up and smiles tiredly. “This is the best piece of work I’ve made in twenty years,” he says. “So what do you think?”
Thank you @Danny_Zou for the weekly prompt!
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The sharp winds howled outside as the blacksmith went to the back of his shop, his forge roaring in the corner, warming the inside of his smith. He grabbed the package he meticulously wrapped a few days ago. Slowly unwrapping it, he placed the weapon on the counter, which shone the reflection of the forge fires.
“So what do you think?”
The blacksmith wiped the sweat off his brow, looking at the client who requested the weapon that laid before them. He observed the cloaked figure’s eyes scanning the blade back and forth. She stepped forth, grasping the hilt of the sword firmly.
She exhaled, the fingers of frost escaping her lips. The blacksmith’s eyebrows furrowed. Did he imagine it, he asked himself, watching the vapor grow abnormally large and surround the blade’s length. Frost started to form all over the sword, crystalizing and encasing it in ice. The blacksmith took a wary step back.
His eyes met the woman’s, and what used to be a deep jade color was replaced with the winter itself, a sharp icy blue with what he swore was a blizzard trapped within them. Before he could say anything, she blinked and the frost subsided as fast as it formed. Her eyes slowly faded back to their original colour, and she gave the blacksmith a soft smile,
“How much?” She asked, taking the satchel that hung by her waist.
“Same price as we discussed,” the blacksmith muttered, brushing the remnants of frost that got tangled in his beard, “I heard about you wizards, never knew I’d be dealing with one.”
“Did you think I would just ask any old blacksmith to make this?” She smirked, “You have a particular way with metals, Sir Blacksmith.”
She handed over the satchel to the blacksmith’s outstretched hand, who mindlessly threw in under the counter. Her eyebrows shot up, “not going to count it?”
“I said I don’t deal with wizards, never said I don’t trust you kind. What do you mean I have a particular way, I’ve been a smith my entire life, born and raised by the forge!” He laughed.
“Let’s just say that all wizards have a calling to their magic.” She sheathed the weapon, whiskers of frost escaping as the sword met leather, “some just manifest it in a different form than usual.”
-Fin