cog monologue

Nobody really questioned the fellow in the wide-brimmed hat when he entered the warehouse.  He just said he was with the guild, said he needed some space in the back, and they let him have it.  Someone mentioned he was a warforged but even that couldn't quite be placed.

Sure, he became a regular sight to the other workers, but they left him alone.  It was a big warehouse, after all -- the sound of clanking metal and grinding wood wasn't entirely out of place, and the tall boxes meant nobody went to go bother the stranger.  He worked day in, day out, and nobody said a word.  They knew better than to ask questions with all these adventurers around.  And so he continued his work uninterrupted and unobserved.

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Two lifeless, empty, dull eyes stare up from the table as two bright blue ones gaze back.  The hammer rings out through the whole warehouse, then the much quieter sound of the whittling knife; then sparks fly as the metal is struck once more.  And all the while, the lifeless gaze, staring upwards.  It sees nothing.  But its blue eyed-creator sees everything.

He sees the workshop where he made his first sword:  An aged dwarf, one with white hair and a whiter beard, handing him his first set of tools.  A smith's hammer, the emblem of their clan and the craft carried down through the ages.  He sees the way the dwarf swung the hammer, the strength and precision -- the clumsiness as he tried to follow suit... but also the pride in the dwarf's eyes, watching him just try.

He sees the longsword straight from the forge, his first-ever creation, the weapon perfectly formed and shiny and ready to be sharpened -- but when he turned it over there was a gob of misshapen metal on the flat of the blade.  A stupid mistake, he remembered; his hand had slipped when he poured the last bit of metal into the mold.  But when he brought the sword before his master, the dwarf looked it over with a stern gaze -- then smiled and patted the young craftsman on the back.  It was a start on the path forward, and that was all that mattered.

He sees the smile on his master's face, and the sorrow in the dwarf's eyes as he bid the young man farewell.  The dwarf removing his cloak and handing it over, the intricately embroidered coat of arms on top.  The way the red glinted off of his face.  He feels the softness of the fabric, pulling it over his shoulders -- and he feels it become even more comfortable when turned inside-out.  Plus, this way the clan crest would be against his back, touching his skin, forever.

The craftsman gazes down at the lifeless eyes on the table before turning his creation over.  He raises a chisel that's been sharpened to a point, the tip superheated by his own magical energies.  Lifting up a panel, he begins to write in Dwarvish...

> *As it was decreed:  May Moradin guide my hand, let my hammer strike true and my anvil ring to the high heavens.  From nothing, I bestow upon thee true physical form, brought forth by divine artifice.  May you craft what I cannot craft, slay what I cannot slay, and do what I cannot do.*

Then, after a bit of space, he continues...

> *May Yarilo guide your soul in life, and Morana forever after.  You are my brothers in arms, however brief our time may be.  We live for our duty and we die for our duty.  We are Warforged.*

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Lifting his creation off of the table, the craftsman walks over and places it inside the crate -- where there are now four others, motionless, lifeless bodies of wood and metal, standing perfectly straight and still.  He places their new brother next to them, and as he positions the arms and head just so, he can see one last thing in his mind's eye:  Light flooding his vision for the first time, lying on a table and staring up at a ceiling, with a red-cloaked dwarf smiling down at him.