FFXIV Write: 03 – Temper
noun
Metallurgy.
the degree of hardness and strength imparted to a metal, as by quenching, heat treatment, or cold working.
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Tiny embers rose like molten fireflies, stoked into being as calloused hands stirred the coals of the kiln. Eyes filled with the knowledge of a craft passed down from generation to generation watched with an impatient zeal, eager to begin the process of shaping metal into something more through sheer will and strength. Tongs withdrew from the burning heart of the coke, bringing forth the red-hot brick of raw steel. Glowing orange limned in bright yellow, the piece of superheated metal was moved to the broad, flat expanse of the anvil and held there like a sacrifice upon the altar of Byregot.
Clang! The first drawing strike was made, sending sparks flying akimbo. Then another, and another as hammer drew out the steel to give it length over width for the nonce. One fulm, two, three — onward and onward the metal stretched, thinning out as more of it was spun out across the flat of the anvil’s back until it was just over five fulms long. Only then was it time to upset the metal; narrowing it toward the tip and the end, but leaving it a good three to four ilms wide near the center.
The blade must be near the width of the tang. The hammer set to work, ensuring that the end of the working blade was only half an ilm narrower than the broader center. The length of this, the tang, a good seven and a half ilms in length.
Dawn gave way to midday, afternoon gave way to twilight; the sun rose and the sun set. For the better part of a sennight, there was only the perspiration that cascaded from her brow warmed by the heat of the forge and her body’s own labors. Her ears knew nothing but the clang of the hammer. The air redolent with the smell of smoldering steel, burning coke, drying sweat, and scorched leather. Metal lingered on the air so heavily that one could almost taste it upon the tongue.
Out of raw metal, mastery was wrought as the length of an stylized rapier took shape. The quillon wrapped protectively around the ecusson and the ricasso, forming an elaborate weave of thin metal arcs to create the basket that would protect the wielder’s hand sword hand from direct attack. The fuller was not just a channel wrought along the blade’s length, but etched with unique runes that had been provided by a certain Chantress to be imbued later with whatever blessings of Power and Strength she might bestow upon her champion.
It took time and patience to coax the life from the metal, but she was no stranger to hard work and lengthy labor. If her father had taught her anything, it was that the craft was an art ever-so-much as a painter draws forth color upon canvas to create beautiful illustrations.
Heated metal hissed as she plunged the near-finished work into the quenching bath of lamb’s fat. Fat, her father preferred for tempering, as it left fewer imperfections in the metal compared to water, which tended to bubble and froth when heated. Fat did not do so as readily, making it an ideal bath for such a delicate and vital project. Once the heat died down, soft cloth was used to wipe away the boiled fat, leaving the blade shining like a sliver of moonlight upon the workbench. It was, perhaps, her finest work.
Picking up a heavy metal stamp, she set the face of it to the ricasso and slammed the end of it with a weighted hammer until her the Maker’s Mark of her familial smithy was embossed into the metal. A stylized sun; the House of Lightfaith.
“It’s done then?” came the voice of her adopted sibling and once-ward, as the raven-haired beauty leaned against the doorjamb of the smithy, admiring her sister’s work.
“It is…” The smith replied with a sigh of both pride and relief. She hadn’t been certain she’d be up to the task, certainly not to her familial standard, but the blade was everything she’d hoped it would be. All that remained was for her sister to put her mark upon it as well. As part of the family, it was their newest tradition to include the Chantress and her runic blessings whenever possible. “It falls to you now.”
Nodding, the sorceress stepped forward to take the rapier into both hands with a reverence that bespoke of the seriousness with which she conducted this rite of blessing. “I will take it now, as the full moon rises. I will return at dawn.”
With that, the blade was gone, destined to undergo a new kind of tempering. One of magic and faith, but one that she had no doubt would stand up to the test. It had been forged from her very heart and soul, her greatest work. And now it was entrusted to her greatest friend and sister. It would be a marvel.