"It's not every day someone hands you a strange stone you've never seen before," twisting it over in his hands, a little confused by what was there. Porous, partially metallic rock, but unlike any else in the world. It had cascading squared ridges that fell away in stairs or disappeared into tiny hallways. Parts of it looked like glass, while other parts were rough like pumice.

It had the usual detritus of something dug from the earth, or perhaps, fallen from the sky. Unwittingly, Etalis pricked a finger on a sharp edge while examining it, then stuck his thumb in his mouth to stop from bleeding all over it. His smudge of blood disappeared into the rock, the exact same color.

He gave a whistle, surprised. "Are you looking for a full blade, or a polished rock on the pommel? I suppose I could make a short-sword with this. Or, perhaps if I banded it and forged it alongside another metal, it could be larger."

"Whatever you must do," commented the man in a gruff voice. His hood wasn't the only thing that hid his features. A black mask covered the lower half of his face. Under one of his eyes there was some sort of tattoo that could barely be seen. "I trust that you can make something of it, but the edge of the blade must contain this metal for where it meets the intended recipient of the wielder's ire."

"Hah, right. The ire," Etalis stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Well. I'll need a couple days to see how this plays out in the forge and to experiment. How much time do you have?"

"Just get it done. Time is not the issue here."

"That's a relief. If it's all the same to you, I would charge half and half."

"Half and half?"

"A bit up front to cover the cost of materials. Not absolutely certain what I'm dealing with here," he said, placing the rock on the table. "The rest on pick-up after the sword has been completed."

The man stared at the rock for a moment, then looked at him, then drew a pouch and set it on the table. "Full. Completed sword. No deviance. There will be repercussions if you do not deliver on this. Am I understood?"

Etalis glanced at the pouch, eyeing it warily. This deal sure is dodgy, isn't it? "Surely there's another smith out there that's seen this. Are you sure you want me to forge the sword?"

"I chose you, smith. It is that simple," the words were biting, meant to close the conversation.

Used to that sort of customer tactic, he just blinked and shrugged, but he was completely off-put by the verbal shenanigans. "Etalis, if you please."

"Mord, for short." The man gestured at the bag of coins. "Well?"

Struggling against his gut feelings about the venture, he reached for the bag to pull open the drawstrings. A damned lot of money was in that bag. "Ah," he said, aghast, and feeling the blood drain from his face. "Yes. That's enough. I'll get started right away."

"Good. Discretion. If you please. I'd hate to hear about the poor little smith who couldn't keep his mouth shut ending up in the bottom of the east river."

"Oh, I'd hate that too," he grinned through the panic now seeping into his heart. "Understood."

The creature that was Mord nodded, his burly figure turning, tromping in an exact march, and exiting through the door to the shop.

Well, he thought. He grabbed the sign from by the door for special occasions like this and took it outside to hang from the hook. "Closed for Commission," it declared in bold red letters. He dusted his hands in a pretend fashion, his gaze rising to the shop sign.

Iron Soul Metalworks: Forged and Fired Custom Metals. Just below the lettering, there was a little ghost-like apparition which depicted his chosen mascot. It held a pair of tongs and hammered something red. "Ey there, Spud. If you're about, could use some assistance with this one."

Nothing answered him.

"Well. Didn't think so, but thought it was worth a shot."

He spent the next couple of hours spending a tiny portion of Mord's gold, procuring some special oil, lighting powders, metals, leathers, and scraps. He hadn't had a full run of the merchant's district in a long time. It was strange to pull some of the more expensive materials for a project.

With most of the shopping completed, and inside once more, he stoked the fires of his forge. He had started them early this morning to fight off the cold of the winter outside, but now he needed from them a little more. A thought struck him as he pushed the aged billows absentmindedly. "Did Mord pick me because I'm alone all the time?"

"Ah, that's paranoia, sir. Surely he picked you for your skill," he said, pretending to answer as Spud, in a goofy falsetto.

"Yes, but he's awfully or offly strange. Especially with the death threats." He pushed the heat. Intense and dramatic. That's what he needed. "You think. Is this a special kind of metal? Like the ones they say can kill Fae?"

"I don't think he worries about Fae, sir," he Spud'd to himself as he dropped the metal into a heating apparatus. "This looks like something to stab a dragon. Maybe an angel or devil. Gods?"

He laughed at himself then, waiting for the metal to turn to liquid.

"If not that, then what would a strange man like him need a strange sword like this for?"

"Cutting turnips for dinner."

"Ah, yes. That's it. He does look like the turnip sort."

He closed his eyes against the heat as he added more lighting agents, stoking the fire hotter.

Damned rock isn't melting.

Grimacing about it, he opened one of his special barrels of oil, and began to pour that into the fire through a safety spigot. The heat doubled in the interior of the building. Forgetful, he grabbed the shutters for all the upper windows of his shop. They were always shut these days, except for the one above the forge, but he ran about cracking each one. He sidestepped piles of tools, hanging farmer's equipment, and hopped over barrels in a mad scramble to get everything open before he passed out from the heat.

Finally, he returned, finding the metal had began to melt down. Slowly. I'm impressed, but I still won. Hah!

It reached the point where he could work, so he began with a steeled resolved, thick gloves, and a thicker apron, as he hammered away.

It took a few days. Mord checked in every now and again, but he apologized that the work was not yet completed and would show the flat piece of metal. Every time he needed to bend, flatten, or shape the metal he had to heat it to an absurd degree. Not only that, he had to develop a heated grindstone just to sharpen the thing. Mord didn't seem to mind, but he also didn't want to stand around while Etalis worked.

"I need a mule and a rotating platform with a few muscled rowers," he joked, gritting his teeth as he struggled against the wheel, sweat dripping from every pore. It felt like the inside of his mind was sweating. Is that a thing?

"No, you're just a little bitch," Spud answered in his typical falsetto.

They both laughed.

This day over, he let everything cool. He needed a break from the heat, feeling delusional, but he didn't want to leave the workshop. He hadn't since he'd started. The wooden cot in the corner was getting a lot of attention. He stared at the metal on his workshop table, with the piece cool. It still held some bit of rocky shape to it, somehow. The surface wasn't a perfect, honed piece yet, so maybe he was being too critical of the work.

He put his legs up, resting his heels on the surface. Absentmindedly, he rested a finger on the surface of the metal. Some superstition in him told him that the blade had requested it.

"Good evening," he addressed. A pulse of some kind felt in his finger, but he was sure he imagined that. "Guess you're going to be a fine tool someday. Any thoughts on where you see yourself in five years? Married? Kids?"

He took a sip of the bottle of ale he'd brought in from the market today, letting the sludgy drink breathe. He was about to pull his hand away, when a thought flashed in the back of his mind. It didn't feel like something he would normally think, either. It was a strange sort of greed. It tingled in him, eyes fixed on the metal.

"You are no ordinary piece of rock, are you?"

It remained silent.

Etalis made sure that the doors were shut and locked, then pulled the thick drapes over the windows, cutting out the light from the outdoors. With that done, he loosened the floorboards under his wooden cot, pulling out the nails and depositing them into a tin can. Untouched for years, the carved wooden box sat in the bottom of the pit where he'd left it.

The ashes of his wife and son.

He picked them up, carefully. "Hey Spud. Evening Sarai. Hope you two have been getting on okay. Sorry about the heat lately. I have been rather beside myself with work, you see," he offered, as he set them on the table beside the metal.

"That's okay, dad!" he pretended.

"Good, yeah. Sorry I never got to know you," he shut his eyes then, feeling them moisten. "Fuck." He cried then, harder, and threw the ale bottle against the wall, shattering it, and his calm. "I have this stupid, brazen idea, to help you live on forever," he said, whimpering. "I'm gonna do it."

And, the next day, he did. He reset his workstation and the heating and poured the ashes in with the metal of the blade, heating the forge to its absolute hottest. He worked from the moment he rose in the morning until the tail end of the night. Something in him had snapped. He was no longer the same Etalis that had started the project. A man driven by need, he let the spirits of inspiration guide his hands. By the end of the night, close to morning, he had completed it.

A sharp sword, blood red by the edge, fully tempered, utterly sharp, wrapped with gilded cording on the hilt, and swirling inlays that mimicked the fire it was forged in.

He held it, not like a weapon, but like a father. "I love you," he said, as he packed what belongings he cared to, and fled town before dawn struck, stealing his creation for himself and himself alone.