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The heat of the forge made Magnhildr’s pale skin blush red, and beads of sweat to come down from her blonde hair. Her blue eyes were focused on the metal of the anvil, while her strong arms worked her craft. The clank of the hammer on the red hot metal as she worked on it was as familiar to her as the clash of swords on shields, of spears on flesh, of axes on skulls. It was a related song, she realized – but while those were the music of death and destruction, this was the one creation which begets the other one.
As she worked in a rhythmic fashion, her mouth moved. She was vocalizing a poem, something she learned a lifetime ago when she first took the smith hammer. It was a poem about forging, about hitting metal, about the fire that molded it until it got the desired shape. She vocalized the song because the rhythm helped her coordinate the hammer strikes. The smith that gave her a job – the only one that didn’t care about hiring a woman, which was horrifyingly rare in her opinion – asked her once about what it meant. It took her a bit to find the correct translation, but it went something like this: "Forge metal, be born, metal, be born in the hot fire, forge metal, metal rise from the ground, be born in the bosoms of luonnotar...”, though she didn’t have enough knowledge to tell him who the Iunnotar were, so she quickly said it meant ‘maiden’, which earned her an odd look. It was the same odd look when she told her she was a dwarf; she wanted to say that she forged, fought and drank like one, but the smith, a bit shorter than her, looked up and thought she was trying to be ironic.
The metal was beginning to take shape. The flat, short shape of an axe head; one that could work for cutting wood or limbs in equal measure. It was almost ready, she realized, though there were some final touches she needed to take care of…
When Magnhildr began working on Greek bronze for the first time, she realized something: the metal from her homeland and this new land were quite different. In her opinion, the metal from the North was stronger, more durable, in general better… but that metal couldn’t be found here. There was also the forging method – back in her homeland, the smiths would mix the bones of animals with the metal. That gave them the blessing of the gods, making them stronger… and you couldn’t do that with Greek bronze.
She wondered if that meant her gods abandoned her when she headed south. Those thoughts made her unable to sleep at night… but she comforted herself by gripping her necklace, shaped like a hammer, made with the metal of her homeland, and thought that as long as she had that one, her gods would watch over her.
Magnhildr noticed that the axe had a good shape, fit to her standards. But she was not done. Putting the pliers and hammer at a side, she took a smaller hammer and a chisel and began to do another small, yet important detail. All the weapons she forged for herself were inscribed by the runes of the language of her homeland. And with that, she made sure that the gods would be with her. That gave her comfort in the heat of battle.
With the pliers, she dipped the bronze in oil for the quench. The flames rose, and once it stopped, she took it off it and looked for straightness. The shape was perfect, and she knew that moment that her new axe would be a formidable killing machine, once she attached a handle and sharpened it properly.
She then decided to take a break and stretch her sore arms, and to take a beer to satiate her thirst. Her skin was now a reddish hue, and she pondered about a cold bath… perhaps later in the day, when she’s done working.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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The heat of the forge made Magnhildr’s pale skin blush red, and beads of sweat to come down from her blonde hair. Her blue eyes were focused on the metal of the anvil, while her strong arms worked her craft. The clank of the hammer on the red hot metal as she worked on it was as familiar to her as the clash of swords on shields, of spears on flesh, of axes on skulls. It was a related song, she realized – but while those were the music of death and destruction, this was the one creation which begets the other one.
As she worked in a rhythmic fashion, her mouth moved. She was vocalizing a poem, something she learned a lifetime ago when she first took the smith hammer. It was a poem about forging, about hitting metal, about the fire that molded it until it got the desired shape. She vocalized the song because the rhythm helped her coordinate the hammer strikes. The smith that gave her a job – the only one that didn’t care about hiring a woman, which was horrifyingly rare in her opinion – asked her once about what it meant. It took her a bit to find the correct translation, but it went something like this: "Forge metal, be born, metal, be born in the hot fire, forge metal, metal rise from the ground, be born in the bosoms of luonnotar...”, though she didn’t have enough knowledge to tell him who the Iunnotar were, so she quickly said it meant ‘maiden’, which earned her an odd look. It was the same odd look when she told her she was a dwarf; she wanted to say that she forged, fought and drank like one, but the smith, a bit shorter than her, looked up and thought she was trying to be ironic.
The metal was beginning to take shape. The flat, short shape of an axe head; one that could work for cutting wood or limbs in equal measure. It was almost ready, she realized, though there were some final touches she needed to take care of…
When Magnhildr began working on Greek bronze for the first time, she realized something: the metal from her homeland and this new land were quite different. In her opinion, the metal from the North was stronger, more durable, in general better… but that metal couldn’t be found here. There was also the forging method – back in her homeland, the smiths would mix the bones of animals with the metal. That gave them the blessing of the gods, making them stronger… and you couldn’t do that with Greek bronze.
She wondered if that meant her gods abandoned her when she headed south. Those thoughts made her unable to sleep at night… but she comforted herself by gripping her necklace, shaped like a hammer, made with the metal of her homeland, and thought that as long as she had that one, her gods would watch over her.
Magnhildr noticed that the axe had a good shape, fit to her standards. But she was not done. Putting the pliers and hammer at a side, she took a smaller hammer and a chisel and began to do another small, yet important detail. All the weapons she forged for herself were inscribed by the runes of the language of her homeland. And with that, she made sure that the gods would be with her. That gave her comfort in the heat of battle.
With the pliers, she dipped the bronze in oil for the quench. The flames rose, and once it stopped, she took it off it and looked for straightness. The shape was perfect, and she knew that moment that her new axe would be a formidable killing machine, once she attached a handle and sharpened it properly.
She then decided to take a break and stretch her sore arms, and to take a beer to satiate her thirst. Her skin was now a reddish hue, and she pondered about a cold bath… perhaps later in the day, when she’s done working.
The heat of the forge made Magnhildr’s pale skin blush red, and beads of sweat to come down from her blonde hair. Her blue eyes were focused on the metal of the anvil, while her strong arms worked her craft. The clank of the hammer on the red hot metal as she worked on it was as familiar to her as the clash of swords on shields, of spears on flesh, of axes on skulls. It was a related song, she realized – but while those were the music of death and destruction, this was the one creation which begets the other one.
As she worked in a rhythmic fashion, her mouth moved. She was vocalizing a poem, something she learned a lifetime ago when she first took the smith hammer. It was a poem about forging, about hitting metal, about the fire that molded it until it got the desired shape. She vocalized the song because the rhythm helped her coordinate the hammer strikes. The smith that gave her a job – the only one that didn’t care about hiring a woman, which was horrifyingly rare in her opinion – asked her once about what it meant. It took her a bit to find the correct translation, but it went something like this: "Forge metal, be born, metal, be born in the hot fire, forge metal, metal rise from the ground, be born in the bosoms of luonnotar...”, though she didn’t have enough knowledge to tell him who the Iunnotar were, so she quickly said it meant ‘maiden’, which earned her an odd look. It was the same odd look when she told her she was a dwarf; she wanted to say that she forged, fought and drank like one, but the smith, a bit shorter than her, looked up and thought she was trying to be ironic.
The metal was beginning to take shape. The flat, short shape of an axe head; one that could work for cutting wood or limbs in equal measure. It was almost ready, she realized, though there were some final touches she needed to take care of…
When Magnhildr began working on Greek bronze for the first time, she realized something: the metal from her homeland and this new land were quite different. In her opinion, the metal from the North was stronger, more durable, in general better… but that metal couldn’t be found here. There was also the forging method – back in her homeland, the smiths would mix the bones of animals with the metal. That gave them the blessing of the gods, making them stronger… and you couldn’t do that with Greek bronze.
She wondered if that meant her gods abandoned her when she headed south. Those thoughts made her unable to sleep at night… but she comforted herself by gripping her necklace, shaped like a hammer, made with the metal of her homeland, and thought that as long as she had that one, her gods would watch over her.
Magnhildr noticed that the axe had a good shape, fit to her standards. But she was not done. Putting the pliers and hammer at a side, she took a smaller hammer and a chisel and began to do another small, yet important detail. All the weapons she forged for herself were inscribed by the runes of the language of her homeland. And with that, she made sure that the gods would be with her. That gave her comfort in the heat of battle.
With the pliers, she dipped the bronze in oil for the quench. The flames rose, and once it stopped, she took it off it and looked for straightness. The shape was perfect, and she knew that moment that her new axe would be a formidable killing machine, once she attached a handle and sharpened it properly.
She then decided to take a break and stretch her sore arms, and to take a beer to satiate her thirst. Her skin was now a reddish hue, and she pondered about a cold bath… perhaps later in the day, when she’s done working.