The steady bang of the hammer on anvil was lost amidst the same noise resonating around him. The pits in the Bloodsands always played host to a number of smiths working on repairing what arms and armor had been used beyond safe limits, crude iron and fine steel alike mended and repaired to play their parts. It was the unending unlife of a weapon made to threaten lives; Even when the parts had finally given out and the strength of the metal depleted, there was always someone there to find the pieces, reforge it and send it back. Despite cracks in the armor, sometimes pieces torn clean asunder, despite being torn to shreds and leaving shattered parts of themselves in the dust and the blood, there was always another blow of the hammer to set things right. Weapons and armor, condemned to march on forever, killing and being killed again and again.
Does a shattered sword love the hammer or fear it?
--
Warren's eyes were open. The first thing he was aware of was the soft throbbing pain in his neck and he absentmindedly touched to it; Tender flesh cried out slightly under his fingertips before a small mind of comfort set in. He woke alone and reasoned that Howl was already back at his toolkit, working out a fine spool of delicate wiring or perhaps cutting a gem for fastening. His fingers turned to the fine mythril loops in his ears and he smiled. They were finely made, but more importantly they were his. Creation bred meaning into things, Warren believed, and there was little more important to him now than that bond.
Returning to the ground floor, Warren's eyes turned to the table that served as the sole eating surface in the main room. His desk was still covered in ledgers and paperwork, documents pertaining to the upkeep and incoming costs and expenditures, but the table was covered in empty bottles. With nothing else on his plate until later that afternoon, he collected them all and began lugging a crate full of empties back to town. Though not required, Warren always felt returning bottles was a courtesy that needed to be upheld.
The sun was bright and the air warm, bordering hot as it always was, but a cool breeze permeated that made things seem cooler than mercury would tell. Warren considered his predicament as his feet carried him along the pathways, his attention diverted while his mind wandered.
He'd been wounded moons ago, and his estimation was that it had been mortal. His heart had been torn from his chest cavity while still beating and for days he lumbered along, refusing to die but unable to be whole again. The thought of it still caused his chest to ache, his neck echoing the sensation, and despite the distance from the attack he could still feel it. Powerless to stop the thing he feared most from coming to life and making off with the only thing in the world he considered true, he stared his monsters in the face and could only witness his world erode and fall away.
Howl had found him among the dust. It was happenstance, but Warren wondered about that. The man was unshakeable in his beliefs and his affections, and Warren knew in the empty spot his heart belonged that Howl would follow him to the ends of the world and into the depths of hell. He was a true companion, through thick and thin, and Warren couldn't express how grateful that made him. With Howl's help he was able to staunch the wound, stuffing cotton and straw and plants and mud into the hole. Howl gave selflessly to insure Warren's recovery, but there was more to it than that.
He owed him.
Does a shattered sword love the hammer or fear it?
--
Warren's eyes were open. The first thing he was aware of was the soft throbbing pain in his neck and he absentmindedly touched to it; Tender flesh cried out slightly under his fingertips before a small mind of comfort set in. He woke alone and reasoned that Howl was already back at his toolkit, working out a fine spool of delicate wiring or perhaps cutting a gem for fastening. His fingers turned to the fine mythril loops in his ears and he smiled. They were finely made, but more importantly they were his. Creation bred meaning into things, Warren believed, and there was little more important to him now than that bond.
Returning to the ground floor, Warren's eyes turned to the table that served as the sole eating surface in the main room. His desk was still covered in ledgers and paperwork, documents pertaining to the upkeep and incoming costs and expenditures, but the table was covered in empty bottles. With nothing else on his plate until later that afternoon, he collected them all and began lugging a crate full of empties back to town. Though not required, Warren always felt returning bottles was a courtesy that needed to be upheld.
The sun was bright and the air warm, bordering hot as it always was, but a cool breeze permeated that made things seem cooler than mercury would tell. Warren considered his predicament as his feet carried him along the pathways, his attention diverted while his mind wandered.
He'd been wounded moons ago, and his estimation was that it had been mortal. His heart had been torn from his chest cavity while still beating and for days he lumbered along, refusing to die but unable to be whole again. The thought of it still caused his chest to ache, his neck echoing the sensation, and despite the distance from the attack he could still feel it. Powerless to stop the thing he feared most from coming to life and making off with the only thing in the world he considered true, he stared his monsters in the face and could only witness his world erode and fall away.
Howl had found him among the dust. It was happenstance, but Warren wondered about that. The man was unshakeable in his beliefs and his affections, and Warren knew in the empty spot his heart belonged that Howl would follow him to the ends of the world and into the depths of hell. He was a true companion, through thick and thin, and Warren couldn't express how grateful that made him. With Howl's help he was able to staunch the wound, stuffing cotton and straw and plants and mud into the hole. Howl gave selflessly to insure Warren's recovery, but there was more to it than that.
He owed him.