Heir of Clan Kyron
N A U R ' A L O R
Bloodforges, Tor Valum
Vara Rasha
Night had fallen over Kestri. Yet the Bloodforges did not rest. Diminished though they may be by a large number of metalsmiths who had left Kestri to smith aboard the ships of the Mythos Fleet, the fires of the Bloodforges roared hot as ever. That's where Thyr remained. The forges ran regular supply runs between the fleet and Kestri, exchanging newly-crafted items for materials seized and anything in need of repair that the fleet couldn't handle. That allowed Thyr to only spend cursory time with the Mythos Fleet. She far preferred Kestri's nip of cold, fresh air to the stale recycled oxygen and cramped environment of the fleet's ships. She worked better here.
Thyr had been at the blade for three hours. Beskar demanded patience that lesser metals didn't, and she'd learned long ago not to rush it. A beskad, long and single-edged, the kind of commission that didn't come through often anymore. She moved it from the coals to the anvil, hammer rising and falling in a rhythm older than she could remember learning. Beskar didn't sing the way other metals did. It rang. Clean and low, each strike resonated up through the haft and into her palm like the metal was answering her. She paused, tilting the blade toward the forge light. There was a shadow in the steel, deep near the spine. She exhaled slowly through her nose. Back to the flame jets, then. Her beskar smithing could not have any impurities.