Ring of the Anvil.

Sparks scatter across the stone walkway with every strike. A one eyed shirtless altmer hammers away at a U shaped piece of steel. Ting, Ting, Ting, Scherk. A crackling sound follows as the hot steel is plunged into the water. "Sod it all... Another cracked piece. Damned quench is too uneven.. Need a copper bucket." The Mer hurls the steel u at the nearby rock face. It shatters upon impact, fragments splay out in every direction. Just one of many like it, all strewn around the rock that was getting notably smaller with each thrown piece. "I really should clean those up...She'll be furious when she sees it. Might provide a bit of entertainment now that I think of it." He smiles contemplating the inevitable fight coming his way. He pulls another rod of steel from a nearby pile and sets it into the orange flames of the forge.

Seeming impaitent he puts a hand forward and flames erupt from his hand in a whirling fashion. Magical flames lick the surface of the steel. Forgetting, he keeps the flames on it for too long. The steel glows bright white when he pulls it from the forge and sets to working it with the hammer. White hot sparks fly from the near molten metal.
Ting, Ting, Ting, Hiss. Startled, the smith leaps back dropping the steel and hammer on the stone below. He swats at his chest. "Shit, shit, shit! That stings like oblivion, burned right through my barrier? Guess I do need to invest in a proper apron afterall... How much coin ave I?" He reaches over to a satchel hanging on a tree nearby. Pulling out a Light looking coin purse he counts. "3... I have three drakes. Lets see. What can I sell? Not much... I could always. No, no, I'm done with that work."


Sighing, and grabbing the tongs and hammer. He retrieves the steel and puts it back to the forge. Some time later he comes back to the quench, taking a deep breath he plunges the new u shaped steel into the water. Hisss. A breath of relief emmanates from the smith. "Finally. No cracks. Now to scribe the runes and take these to that stableboy." Wandering away from the forge, he makes his way around a large house and down the walkway to a tower. Ascending the stairs of the tower, he opens the hatch to be greated by a Lumbering angry looking storm atronach. A bright smile on his face he pats the atronach on the head and cheerily greets the daedra. "Hello arthur! Lovely day innit? Got to set to scribing these runes here. What do you think I should scribe?" The atronach makes not a sound, it simply stares. The smith flashes another smile to it, exlaiming. "I knew you'd agree!" He pulls a set of files and emery cloth from a bag near the table and he sets to work.

Ting, Ting, Ting. The hammer falls heavy on the rod of steel. Glowing white hot as the smith pours some powder into a slit that had been cut holding a darker piece of steel. The smith returns the combination to the fires of the forge. He waits. "I keep fightin my self an others. Feh...Better not let the steel get too hot this time." He pulls the rod/plate combination from the fire, and pours more mystery powder on the slit with the plate. Then he sets to hitting the white/yellow hot steel on the side closing the gap and sending glassy spatters of matieral from the metal. Tink Tink Tink Tink. Rapid strikes sputter the glassy red hot substance onto the ground. He raises the steel to his eye and looks it over smiling. "Aye that should do nicely." He returns more of the powder to the split again, and again setting it to heat.


A few more repetitions of this he begins to hammer out the shape. Heavy swing after heavy swing forms the shape of this blade. Again another return to the heat for the steel now shaped like a cleaver. The heat reaches critical temp for the metal and the smith dunks it into the quench.. When the piece had cooled significantly he takes a glob of clay, putting it right on the edge of the cleaver where the two pieces of metal would have been connected. Then returns the piece to the forge letting it anneal without comprimising the covered bits hardness. The steel that formed the body went through various color changes, blue, purple, brown, straw, stop. The smith pulls the piece from the forge and lets it air cool in a vice.

While the piece cooled he swapped out grinding wheels, opting for a convex inner wheel over a flat. "This is going to be a magnificant piece. Have you ever seen one made with such love an care arthur? The atronach just stares flatly, silently. "I knew you'd say that!" Retrieving the piece, the smith sets to grinding the edge into place and setting the angle just right. He fastens a handle after a few hours of finer and finer stones grinding away enough metal that some would consider wasteful. The handle was made of scale shaped iron, with a fair ergonomic grip. When all was said and done it was a beautiful cleaver.

The smith turns to test the tool. Setting up a thick naval dock rope on a tree limb. He takes one swing, two, three, and the rope is severed. "Tis sharp. Could be sharper, but ah. Needs ta be strong an last longer than what the fella paying for it is lookin for. A small gift fer a loyal client. Don't ya think?" There was no one else around him now, the Atronach had gone back to patroling the grounds.

He makes his way to the tower and begins polishing the metal, giving it a nice oiled coat. "Thirst won't go away... Not half as strong as I was... Can hardly smell shite... At least things taste good again. Fuckin terrified of the cost. Dunno how this is gonna feel in a month. But I cant well up nearly as much magicka as I once could... Tires me out faster..." The altmer snarled as he finished the thought. "Afta train harder... More often...Afta sleep...Can't drink aff as much...Fuckin frustratin....Was this worth it? Was it worth giving up my personal power for a child who doesn't know who I am?" In this rage he incinerates the polishing rag, burning his hand. The smith snarls again slamming his heavy fist into the table as the sun draws down casting orange and pink glows across the horizion.

The smith takes a hammer head up into the tower, he sits at his desk under pale moonlight, bags set deep under his eyes. Head of the hammer in one hand, handle in the other he sets the head on the handle then with another hammer and a few scraps of metal he drives them straight down into the two point, expanding the wood and securing the head in place to the handle. He takes a few swings with it to ensure its shakes not the least. Satisfied he sets the hammer down on the table and starts working on a pair of springs.

"Al's a good fellow don't you think Arthur? No..No you can't hurt him. He's a friend of mine, so leave it be. No you can't hurt me either, thats why you're bound." Rotating the spring idly rolling along his knuckles he stares at the table. "Life is odd. You are born, you live, you die, you undie, then you live again. And eventually you die. Well, you don't die per say, you just go back to the void and reform." Arthur stares at him uttering just a bit of sound as two stones connect.

"Thats the weirdest thing you have ever said... Do me a favor, don't talk." He stops rolling the spring and hucks it out the balcony and into the pond. "Ta what did I goin do that for? I needed that....Faffin...Now I have ta make another one. Sodit I am tired. Everytime I close my eyes to try an sleep, all I can see is red and I hear screams. Odd, when a assassin is haunted by the screams of my victims. I tink the vampirism affected me in a different way than before. Then again, most my targets died fairly quietly. Or exploded in a fantastic fashion. Frozen and shattered.... Normally I'm not bothered by it. But now, that I think back on it with all things considered. I was or am a monster. No no no.... My minds going with the lack of sleep." Standing rather rapidly the atronach goes on the defensive and scans the horizion in response.

The smith wanders over to the hatch and pats the atronach on the face. It doesn't respond. Sprinting down the stairs, he heads into the house and lays down on the couch. Closes his eye and lies awake until the next day.

"...Such is the way the world was divined. And such is that the gods had died. My love for the grey maybe, mundus, nirn, the world and its consequences. Stripped of my immortality for a chance at peace. Redemption be thy name. NO! Not... Not redemption. I do not judge the darkness, nor do I praise the light."

A few more long strides and the smith comes to a stone and steel gate. The gate slides open with a small push and a Storm atronach rushes the mer. A single hand held up and the atronach stops dead, it idly stares at him for a few moment's then it returns to its rounds along the grounds. Smith face arranged in a snarl, marches into the tower, and stops dead, taken aback. He stare's all around taking in every detail.

"Did she do all of this? These walls, this rug? The cozy looking couch? The second desk, the book shelf...She even put the painting of skyrim in here... Is this for me? Considerate of her. Well it is a nice night, guess I'll write down a few more names, huff nammus drug and go to sleep. This time use a cloth..."

With a minute of leisurely strolling he makes his way into the manse. And he cuts his way into the second floor open study. Grabs the small vial of fern extract, a rag, book, ink, and quill. Returning to the tower he pops his head in to the kitchen and sees that its void of food. Before too long he heads back to the tower. Once at the top, he spends a quater glass cutting more names into the partchment with the quill. When he is done he stares at the list of names for more and more minutes as if to try and commit them soley to paper. Dissatisfied he slams the book shut and puts a rag to the bottle of extract. Lays in bed and puts it to his face taking one sharp inhale. And he passes out with no effort.

Now we find the smith in the markets of Rawl'Kha, he seems to be strolling along the stalls observing each of the vendors wares. He stops at what looks to be things marketed toward children. The Elderly Khajiit female stands and offers a warm smile to him. "Bright moons walker, how may this one assist you?" The smith thinks for a moment and states. "I am looking for a doll, and the brave little scrib childs book. Something of a gift for my daughter." He offers a friendly smile back in turn. And the Khajiit holds one paw up and ducks behind her stall the sound of rummaging audible in the din of the market.

With a bit of excitement the Khajiit pops her head up a small burlap doll in one hand a the book in another. "These are the best this one has currently. Will the walker take them?" He ponders for a moment, tapping his chin then pipes up with a simple one word question. "Cost?" With a mild decline in her attitude the Khajiit seems apprehensive at first but then allows her self to speak. "Sixteen drakes." Nodding the smith fishes out the coin and the two make the trade. Satisfied the smith heads to the edge of the town, and whistles for his -horse-.

A few minutes later the smith is wandering the grounds of his home again. Gifts firmly hidden in the satchel. "My father always said, 'If you must chose between prestige and family choose the former.' He was a right proper bastard. Fetchers dead, died in his cell to a shiv." A grim smile grew steadily on his face. After making his way into the home he scans around. Seeing no one he takes the oppurtunity to place the items on the small bed on the second floor.

"Thanks Keys hope this bringsa smile to her face."

The smith is standing in the courtyard of his estate, runes cut into every inch of stone and sand in a 8 meter diameter. He stands in the center of this circle. Dressed in naught but a pair of pants he begins his ritual. Swirling blood red mist fills his immediate surroundings, drawing deeper and deeper on his own well of emotion and magicka, the runes and sigils begin to glow. Soul gems laid at 3 irregular points rise from laying flat to standing erect. They begin to glow the same sickly color of the mist.

He finally speaks. "Daudslynge, Jag får'nt vissja den lille. Ska du bli så, grym att du tar mig, rädsla för att ta mig." His voice grows quieter with each pause, He hears a click from the house as the main door closes. A small child with guardian in tow stumbles out. Pointing at everything he can just barely overhere words like rock, and tree, she shouts it with excitement. A smile grows on his face and he stops the ritual. The mist dissapates and the gems lay flat once more, he shuffles his feet around the circle to destroy the runes in the sand.

A brief moment later he is dismissing the guardian telling her to go home. He doesn't know if she leaves or not, he doesn't care. With a smile and large hand extended out to the little one he states, "Come silver, lets go feed some ducks." The child makes quacking noises in response. The smile on the smiths face gets a little bigger.

Seated in his study the smith is pouring over a book filled with strange symbols. There are a few sheets of paper scattered on his desk with letters written under the symbols. He stops and takes a sharp breath. Wincing as his left hand cramps while his write arm is limp to the side. Leaning back in the chair he stares upward at the ceiling. He begins to talk to the walls in his ritualistic fashion. "If I can find time to come home so can... Breathe, you know not all things can always be smooth sailing. Even a shallow river has rapids. Rel may be right. I do seem to have a casual disregard for life. Maybe that is what is creating the gap. Am I what's wrong here? Am I letting my arrogance get the best of me? We need to go to auridon. Get well away from the politics, the foolishness." Sighing the smith gets back to work writing out more letters to the code he was working on.

Papers strewn about the desk the smith is finally done. He looks at the code and the message inside it with a worried expression. "Cursed bastards. If I'm right... Tides guide me to the right path." The smith rose, and made his way to the main bedroom, stopping just for a moment to look at a small bed with the silver haired child fast asleep. The frustration on his face seems to melt away into a smile. "Aside from my hair you look a lot like your mother, ya know that? Shame when girl doesn't know who her papa is. Is she ever going to tell you?" Even while grinding his teeth he keeps smiling. "Wish that she were here. Wish that serum never happend. Wish I could keep my stupid mouth shut..."

With a sharp inhale and a look of frustration the smith crawls into the larger bed and stares at the ceiling, then to the empty spot next to his self. He shuts his eye and struggles into another restless nightmare ridden sleep.

Now the smith is swinging the hammer with the left hand, right arm limp while he uses his legs to keep the tongs in place. Ting, Ting, Ting, Ting, Crack The tongs slipped and smacked him square in the nethers. Inhaling sharply and letting out a whimper the smith collapses onto the ground, hand covering his sensitive bits. His voice is stuck in a high tone, as if he inhaled helium. "hughfsh...That rang me bells..." The smith lays there for what seems like an hour before he finally rises, recovers the tongs and the piece, then gives it a look over.

"This ain't gonna do. How can I sell shite like this...Looks like an apprentice faffed it up." He grunts, tosses the piece into the fire, and repeats his steps save for the slipping and smacking of his own bits. Hammering resounds as steel meets steel. At the end of this toil one last heat to red, then a dip in the oil. The worked steel, makes tiny crackling sounds like nails being dropped to stone. The smith draws the piece from the quench and stares in utter disbelief. "Dammit! Another piece I ave ta melt down again... Where in blivion is me helpers?" He drops the piece into the scrap bin nearby, and tossed the tongs off to the side haphazardly. Making his way through the grounds toward town.

A rucksack filled to the brim with steel and sand sits near the entrance to the home. Our smith is standing in the doorway, waiting, watching. A look of Resentment displayed on his features, hands clenched firmly into fists, legs spaced apart one foot infront of the other. A stance of aggression, one aimed at the gate to the grounds. A stubby toddler of gray hair and flame kissed eyes waddles her way up to his leg patting him with one hand, a book in the other. She holds the book up at him. The smith looks down to the impaitent toddler and with one bandaged hand takes the book while the other scruffs her hair. Shutting the door he shoos her up the stairs to the childs bed, he takes a seat nearby and begins to read the book aloud for her.

When the child fell asleep he closed the book and covered the girl with the blanket. And he in turn heads to the larger bed across the room, blowing out candles here and there along the way. Sitting on the bed, he sets to changing the bandages and aloe salve on his right arm, then his left. Eyeing the burns with a mild look of contempt. "More added to my collection." He then changes the bandage on his foot. Same look of contempt played out though his face. Just barely covering the swelling rage in his chest. "Were I not the fool I am." He says in a hushed and tired tone. Laying back flat to the bed one leg hanging free, he takes short breaths staring at the ceiling. The short breaths become frustrated gasps, it is the sound of fighting back a torrent of emotions. A struggle to remain in control.

Now the smith is still, the house, darkened, few sounds come from the building. The guardian shuffles too and fro, demonstrating the occasional skittish action. Murmurs come from the smith as he stares into the fire pit. "I am not a monster." Repeating this over and over, as if it is a mantra, or as if he needs to be reminded. He stirs and rises from his trance, striding out the door over strewn books, hefting the rucksack filled with steel and sand onto his back. He sets to his morning routine of exercises, both physical and magical. Starting with running laps around the manse. Up and down stairs to the tower, and back to more laps. He runs till he collapses, turning his fall into pushups, and again goes until collapse.

Rising shakily, face beet red, sweat pouring from every part of him. "Punish the body...For the minds failures... When the body fails....The mind is forgiven." As he states this frost begins to form between his hands out in front of him, expanding and contracting, melting and refreezing. The small ball of ice steadily grows clearer and clearer until the smith now drenched in sweat, lets go of the magicka, the sphere drops and shatters on the stone it fell to. The smith collapses again. Falling flat to the earth, and he lays there eye shut tight, breathing shallow and ragged.

"Lilinunta! Are you here?" The smith comes straight through the door of the foyer, and receives nothing in response. He grumbles and lets the saber cat cub down, easing the little predator onto the floor gently. The cub follows along occasionally getting mad at the bandage on its leg. As soon as the pair enter the kitchen, the smith spots a note on the counter. Reading the note his face makes very minute twitches. When he's finished reading the note, it is cast aside as he sets to work pricking the wineskin filled with milk for the cub. "Guess it's just you and me Hjalti. And Reliza too. But he's more like a ghost these days anyhow."

He begins to feed the cub from the hole riddled skin, to which the cub has latched onto with full force. "Hungry little fella ain't ya? Don't you worry Hjalti. I'll keep ya safe and healthy. And they're wrong. You don't gotta be a killer, just like I don't. It's a choice, and you ain't gotta be that way." The cub nurses on the skin looking quite happy in spite of the goats milk. A few moments later and the skin is drained. The cub, full and looking rather sleepy. The smith seems unsure of what to do with the little biter save for take him to his room and place him on the bed.

Hjalti gets a little second wind trying to play with the bed as he rolls around and tears up the linens. The smith trys to stop the little terror to no avail and bite marks. He sighs and lets the cat tucker out, almost admiring the destruction it caused. "We ain't defined by what we were born ta do." he pats the cub on the side now that hes slowed down. Smith takes a seat on the bed and lays back as the cub comes and cuddles up next to him, stealing his warmth.

The staccato rhythm of steel on stone echo's in the empty night covered streets of daggerfall. The smith is head to toe in Nordic styled armor, silver and blue. A heavy ruck sack held firm by the straps keeping it to his back. Stopping his march he looks to what seems to be a tavern and heads inside. Making way straight for the counter he drops a few coins on the bar for the keep to see. "I needs a room an a bottle o mead if ye have any." The keep nods and fetches a key and bottle. Handing both to the smith with a tepid demeanor. He takes both, gives a polite bow and makes his way to the room the barkeep pointed him to.

Once inside the room he drops the ruck to the side of the door, while shutting and locking it afterword. He removes his helm, revealing the face of a nord, pale, with blue eyes and no hair save for the beard he wore. The image shimmered and fell away, and the high elven smith pulls his long hair out of the tail he placed it at the start of his journey. He slumps down into the bed nearby, setting the bottle of mead on a nightstand. "Review the list in the morning. Then the hunt begins." He mutters to his self. A wry smile crosses his lips as the thought emptied out into the vacant space. Raucous laughter follows for a brief moment, and sleep soon claimed him.

The smith awakens chained to a wall, hands high, legs bound. He yanks and pulls upon realizing his bindings. Looking about the room he notices fine sand and stern walls, Ragada. He was caught in the ali'kir taken prisoner? Hostage? His illusion had failed, he hears the familiar trills and chirps of dunmeris coming from down the hall. "Well hello there my golden goose." A dunmeri magister type steps forward with a small retinue of guards in tow, she speaks with a cruel manner, one vintaged from years of malice. "You will make a fine addition to our collection, not often we take any Altmer alive." The smith rages against the chains in the wall, and quickly finds his self drained. So he attempts to muster up a spell, and nothing comes forth. Not lightning, not Frost, Not fire, not even light.

He hangs his head, and gives in to the sleep that follows the exertion.

The smith is bald, shaven, unrecognizable, and certianly not in his typical place. He is surrounded by greenery and white stone. He is standing near a forge, and for a moment seems peacful. Uptill he drops the hammer in his hand onto his foot. A chain of profanity erupts from his mouth, however there seems to be no one around to hear it. "Can't believe the manse is gone. On the drop of a pin." Grabbing the hammer in his right hand and a chisel in his left he sets to work on a large forge cleaning out slag and soot and scale buildup near the mouth of the bellows pipe.

"More and more writs and permits and paperwork... Gods does it ever end? At least I am on one of the isles once again. The wretched stench of the valenwood gone from my nostrils. I feel peace. The paperwork while numbing and annoying is required. How else will these folk have a good home? She was right. Welcome them. Find them jobs. Give them a place to call home." The smith rolls a few smooth stones about in his right hand as he reads papers in his left. "This is a good start." The stones fall to the table, and he grabs a spoon and places a bit of white and gold wax on it. Then he blasts it with a bit of heat from magical fire. The smith rolls one of the papers up into a tube and pours the wax on it, then with a stamp bearing the seal of the dominion places it on the wax to seal the letter. He then shoves it into a tube of leather and sets it aside.

"Thats enough work for the night I think. I wonder if the sphere has finished its melting. I should check on it before the week is out. Then I can try the ritual again." He rises from the table, and stuffs the leather covered scrolls into a sack. Then he grabs the stones up and heads out the door.

A portal rips wide open, our smith steps out looking haggard from his trial. Looking up to the floating stone sigil of his ancestors he give a faint smile. "I'm finally home." He looks about to the crumbling stone and mortal with fond recollection. "I will rebuild my home. I will give the name Alteronis meaning again." He scratches his bald head, then rolls his neck letting out a loud crack that echos off some of the architecture. With a clap of his hand and a draw of magicka he summons a few Dremora and banekin. "Get to work worms. Set the gardens right, remove pests, weeds, anything that would be an affront to my vision." The Daedra start off on their task. Ripping weeds out and scouring pests with flame.

The smith makes his way up the stairs and into the main hall. His warm smile turning to a dour frown. His fathers seat is gone, the tapestries gone, everything is gone. "Court must've claimed it all when I was declared dead. Cheap bastards."

The smith finishes adding a small sapphire to a bright blue incomplete sphere. With a small nudge of magic he alters the gems shape and it molds the sphere into completion. "Ah... And now to take it before the court." He wraps the sphere in a cloth and sets it into an ornate box. A dremora wearing Altmeri armor steps into the room and takes his helmet off. "Mortal scum have entered the grounds." He growls out in a harsh gurgling tone. The smith stands up and waves the daedra off. The daedra nods and returns his helm to cover his head and face.

A few moments later the smith and his visitor are sitting outside under a small awning. He offers the other wine. "I hadn't expected any visitors today. What is the occasion?" His visitor dressed in the shining adamantine armor, sets down the glass. The visitor speaks with a clean Alinor accent, her voice holding a tinge of disdain. "I was instructed to see to the completion of your return to the path of Alaxon. Have you completed your calian?" He simply nods. "It is complete. And locked away until my next appearance before the Ascendant Curate. I still fail to see why the divine prosecution is interested in coming here to see me of all people." The visitor shook her hands out and folded them on one knee. "I came here to ensure you are not engaging in the rumors your township is accused of."

The smith smiles putting in the effort to crinkle his eyes and squint slightly. "If I were there would be daedra roaming the grounds and crushing all of my gardens to dust. No I am quite strict in my keeping of law. Especially in the shadow of our glorious tower." The visitor doesn't seem to buy the smile. "I wan't to investigate your home. Make certain there is nothing dark occuring here." He keeps the smile going, even as he nods his head in deference. "Please, be my guest, stay a while? See that there is no strange going ons here." She seems hesitant at first but contemplative. "Fair. I will be watching you here. Go about your daily buisness." They rise and he shows her the way to the main house. "Try not to watch me when I sleep. Makes me terribly gassy." He laughs at his awful joke.