*****
Gorbel Metallon disappeared from the face of Derisma for two-hundred years. Without a whisper to his family or friends, Gorbel found an underground cavern that had been uninhabited for a century or better, brought his anvil and hammers, fire-builder, and other necessary tools of his trade to their new home. He spent weeks ensuring he would not be bothered, took time to build warnings and traps so that curious travelers would turn away.
His name fell from the lips of those who knew him. His legacies changed hands and became highly prized treasures. Few believed him alive, and those that did could find no proof.
Knowing what was happening without having to see it, Gorbel found he did not much care about the material world anymore. He had one last thing to do here on Derisma. He was determined to finish this treasure and discover what truly lay beyond the physical realm.
From the moment he opened the skin pouch and poured its contents onto his bench, Gorbel began talking to the Smokesteel. He spoke of being a dwarf at first, the basic tenets one learned as a child about honor, family, and tradition. He spoke of his choice to become a blacksmith despite his father having been a well-renowned jewel specialist. He spoke of his mother, of her tenacity and how he, Gorbel, picked up that characteristic virtue from her because he thought that was what it meant to be a dwarf in the first place.
Later Gorbel began to look inward, speaking to the Smokesteel of things he might have done differently had he not been so young and blind. Perhaps he would have married the young dwarf girl he met two-hundred thirty years prior; but he had just come into his own as a blacksmith and wanted to enjoy the success as a bachelor, at least for a while. He wondered aloud how his mother and father were doing now, having lost their son to less than a whisper.
Gorbel never felt that he was dying during the two centuries he molded, folded, and hammered his final work. Never until the end, as he was firing the Smokesteel for the final time. The heat of the fire reaches through the alloy and bites deep into his skin. To Gorbel, it feels as though sharp fangs have sunk into his hand and refuse to let go. Blood seeps from his veins and begins to color the gray of the Smokesteel with a tinge of deep red and purple. Eventually the fangs loosen, and Gorbel begins his work again.
This is the final day, Gorbel realizes, the last day I stand by my own accord. A part of him mourns, wanting to extend the day as long as possible. He wants to see the sun as it sets, wants a last look at his tools in their own beauty. He wants to do it all again one last time. A bigger part of him wants it done and over, finishing this work, delivering it, and then discovering all the secrets that lay beyond his current grasp. This is what drives Gorbel Metallon forward, what keeps him striking the blade sitting idly on his forge.
Then, it is over. The blade, impeccably formed, folded a thousand times on itself and then hammered back down. Its edge is razor sharp; Gorbel tests it himself, and yelps when it cuts to the bone. The Smokesteel soaks up the blood spilled on its surface. Lifting the blade with his other hand, Gorbel finds it holds flawless balance between blade and handle. Swinging the blade, he hears the air sizzle as the sword he is literally spending his life on displaces it.
Worthy. The only word in the dwarf language that suggests perfection. This weapon will hold his name and soul, just as Purge had told him it would. Gorbel looks over the carvings in the blade. He finds a speck of shaving he missed before and brushes it off with an irate hand. Finding nothing else wrong on the blade, he looks over the handle.
Three skeletal fingers reach up either side of the blackened blade, made of a mixture of the Smokesteel and pure ivory from an elephant’s tusk. The fingers melt into a skeletal hand as the handle. In the space between, a specter stands with a sickle, inviting the viewer to join him, one bony hand extended.
Deciding on a name for the blade, Gorbel sets the blade down and finds the appropriate letter molds. Pouring the last of the Smokesteel into these, Gorbel does not wait for them to fully cool in the molds; he waits only for them to form, then he dumps them onto the forge and throws each letter directly into his forge fire. When they have turned bright red, Gorbel grabs them, knowing his hands are burning and blistering, but caring none. One by one, Gorbel places the letters carefully in the center of the black blade. Each letter melds easily into the blade without disappearing. Finished, Gorbel picks the weapon up, takes a final look at his cooling chamber, and then shoves the entire thing into the waiting water. Steam rises up immediately, burning his face, arms, and chest.
Gorbel merely smiles. His last blade is finished. His body goes limp, and he falls to the floor, the blade still sizzling in the cooling chamber. He thinks he can feel his head smacking the floor, but he is not sure. He thinks he may be dead, but his mind seems too abuzz for this to be true.
Trying to move his fingers, Gorbel finds he no longer controls that function. Toes and head follow, with similar results. Finally, his legs find their way underneath him, though he gives no order to stand. Rising, Gorbel tries to shake his head but cannot. Instead, he stares at the blade in the water before him. An order is given to his feet to step toward it. Gorbel hears it but knows it was not his demand. Realizing he cannot fight this power, Gorbel gives in, and things begin to move smoothly.