Fired in the forge, its fires burning for an eternity, the hammer rings as it strikes the blade.
Submerged in oil and heated again it is hammered into shape under the watchful eye of the Myrmidon.
Steel rests on the anvil, shaped and beaten by the hammer. The hammer seeks its balance, its beauty, its harmony with the Myrmidon’s approval.
The tool to form a weapon rests not in the iron of its head, nor the wood of its handle. It is not found in the fire of the forge, or in the quench of the oil. The tool is in the mind of the smith, in the swing of his arm, and the approval of the Myrmidon.
This blade is more than a piece of wood and iron; it is a calculating master of its wielder’s destiny.
It is made to cut and to stab. It is made to hack and to slash. It is made to serve and protect.
Forever under the weight of the hammer, forever taking a part of the maker's soul into its very essence. In the realm of justice it will swing swift and mercifully, never bending or breaking.
The Myrmidon watches from eye sockets as cold as the northern ice.
He is forever watching. He is forever seeking. He is forever judging.
As the warrior wreaks his vengeance in the screams of evil men and defends hearth and home from all enemies foreign and domestic. His steel made for one purpose and one purpose only, salvation.
The Myrmidon watches.
Written By: Mike Searson