Deep in a cave within the western mountains of Symphony, an out-of-luck miner dug a chewed-up pickaxe into a wall. He could barely afford the mining writ he'd bought from the central resource office, but he had a feeling.
He knew, somehow, that this is the place where he could finally find a packet of ore. It didn't have to be a lot, just enough for him to eat some soup and, if he was lucky, a slice of bread. Beer was too much for him, but a clean glass of water would do wonders for his health. So he slammed the pickaxe into the wall, over and over again, failed shavings of rock falling beside him. He worked for hours, the rancid smell of him already blending with the sweat the work was producing. Until it happened.
A dark ore appeared in his vision with the latest shavings striking the floor. It was a dark grey so deep it may as well be called black. He crowed to the sky with a hop and outright fist. At last, he could have a real supper. He swung his tool into the ore and it peeled away from the wall. He didn't have a lot of knowledge in mining, as if he did, he would know that the ore shouldn't fall off of the rock so easily, nor should it be so light and easily placed within the wheelbarrow he had brought just in case of luck finally blessing him. All things were balanced in Symphony, and he knew deep down he didn't deserve a break, but here it was.
Without thinking about it, he wheeled the barrow down to the local village blacksmith. He excitedly told him about his find, showing his full wheelbarrow with pride. The smith nodded a few times to encourage the man to get to the point of sale, but the miner kept exclaiming about his luck and the local tavern's food. Finally, after what felt like entirely too long to the smith and not long enough to the miner, they broached the sale and it was complete. The smith had only paid the miner a small amount because the ore was light and likely soft, but the miner didn't care about that. They placed the ore in a barrel nearby and the miner left. He had his price and he went off to the tavern, whistling a tune out of sync with the world.
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The smith was buried in debt from poor choices, especially the one that had placed him in this village where nothing ever seemed to happen. His education was too low to understand just how bad of an idea it was to set up a smithy in a village that only saw a dozen visitors a year. He looks at the ore again and sighs before going off on a diatribe, not against the world, but against himself, wondering if he'll even get a customer to buy what he was selling. The words he used were colorful and expansive, disparaging his own mother, absentee father, and a further 3 generations before her.
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It was a bastard of an idea to buy that ore, cheap as it was. With that thought, he knew what he was going to make. He pulled out his old master's plans and heated up the forge. He placed the ore in a grinder while he waited, and crushed it to remove any impurities, the color deepening to a pitch-black. Once the forge was heated enough, he smelt it with a primary agent to make the metal burn at the right temperature, then he added air to provide further strength and the burning of impurities. He used an ability that allowed him to remove any excess and adjust the heat further, then he placed it in a mold he had prepared but hadn't used in many years. He kept the now steel hot and shaped it into what it was meant to be, a bastard sword. It took him quite a bit of time to get the shape just right as he was out of practice on making swords. Once he had the main shape done, he added a fuller, or groove, to lighten the weight as well as allow liquids to escape upon its use. Then he quenched it, used his ability in connection with the forge to further remove impurities and add more heat, then quenched again, continuing to do so multiple times to increase its toughness. Finally, he started his final heat, forcing his ability to increase the temperature in the forge so high that his sweat didn't have time to bead before drying up. Once it was hot enough, he set it aside to cool naturally and remove any brittleness. He had used most of the materials from the miner to create this but still had enough left over for the crossguard. While the larger blade cooled down, he worked on that, repeating the process but in a much faster manner due to having less material to work with.
While he waited for both to cool down, he decided to create the hilt out of leather and wire, then ate his lunch. He had a sparse meal as he didn't want to go to the tavern today and further have to deal with the miner, saying a few choice words about his mother as well. While he was chewing a small sandwich he had quickly made, he watched the blade cool and saw that its color was a dark black, not the bright silver of steel. It was unusual and he wasn't sure what was happening, but he wouldn't find out until he finished and brought it to an identifier. The closest one was five miles away. His mother got it too.
He wiped his mouth with a spare towel he always had lying around, the stains of previous meals still vacationing on it, and approached the end of the project. The smith connected the two metal pieces, then wrapped the hilt to the bottom just below the crossguard. He secured it all, opting to use rivets rather than pins as they held it better. He was a proud man, and even though he had made the poor choice of being born at all, he wouldn't let his work suffer. Once it was assembled, he sharpened the sword on a wheelstone, then oiled the blade to a nice, dark, shine. When he finished, he looked at his work. It was beautiful. Not a masterwork certainly, but still quite fine. He walked toward his forge to clean up his work after placing it on a rack for viewing. While he did so, something curious happened. The sword had a thought.
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"What?"