Ashan 90, Arc 709 AV
"Hold'er steady there son," his father commanded as he raised his hammer. Jonathan braced and tightened his grip on the tongs, brows furrowed as he held the long piece of steel across the face of the anvil. His father drove the hammer down in a series of rapid swings, sending a shower of sparks flying from the contact with hot metal. The clashing echoed through the shop and out into the street, and then there was silence as the metal began to cool and lose its glow.
"Alright, back in it goes."
Jon stabbed the drawn out ingot back into the coals, rummaging around to bury it deep, then started pumping the bellows to give their fire more air. They both watched intently, waiting for the perfect time. It took longer than iron, but too long and it would begin to melt just the same.
"Now," his father commanded, but the young man had already grabbed the tongs to fish the metal back out. It gleamed a bright, molten orange immediately out of the coals but was already beginning to cool now that it was exposed to the air again. They both moved quickly, Jonathan laying the thicker end of the ingot back across the anvil's face and his father pounding away with the broad-headed hammer, drawing the metal out and elongating its shape into a narrower, thinner piece.
They repeated this process several times. Back into the coals, work the bellows, retrieve the metal and draw it out some more. Do it all over again. Then fold the ingot to increase strength, draw it out some more, reheat, draw, fold, flip to keep from warping, tip on edge to taper, again and again. After about half a break they seemed to have it where they wanted it. Jon released his hold with the tongs and simply let it cool on the anvil. It was beginning to resemble a small blade somewhere between a large dagger or off-hand shortsword.
The Baron—Victor Warrick, he remembered his father specifying—hadn't been horribly specific and thus effectively let the two of them have some creative freedom with this little project; a birthtrial blade for one of the nephews. In such a small hand this would end up being a sizable enough practice blade.
"Go ahead and start on that crossguard while I straighten this a bit more."
"Aye," Jon rumbled absently, pulling off his gloves and moving over to their scrap piles. He ran a dirty hand over his stubbled chin, eyeing the different pieces of metal arranged in buckets, barrels, and on the floor.