Crafting the crown

[17:54] It was far from comfortable.

A sudden, jarring shift of landscape as their feet vanished out from underneath them. For a moment, weightlessness as the horrid sensation of walking through the tear would fill the duo, Dylerun used to such a heavy sensation. Then a sudden blast of heat as they stepped out, furnace winds whipping towards them, feet underneath stepping not on soft grass and murky moss but hard brimstone and ash.

"Watch your step."

The walkway was small, both sides a red precipice with molten magma bubbling underneath. Already sweat would begin to drip, and be evaporated instantly as they stepped forward. It was a common thing, the Forgemaster making it look almost casual as he walked forward towards a decrepit anvil, its half-melted and ruined and runed form on a small plateau on the heart of the volcano.

"Theres delicate magic here, Atro Gwyn. I've told many people this, as I tell you now. Heart of the island, all civilization, here. Without it, there would be nothing. And because of it, with a snap of its fingers, we could all die." Silver eyes flashed as he rest the arcanium on the anvil, brushing away ash. A small divot carved into the iron, intricate runework inscribed acrossed it, keeping its form somewhat distinguished.

"A simple crown. You want me to make it. I can do that." A hand would brush against the side, finding- ah, there it was. A small leather satchel would be lifted, a variety of tools being set forward onto the anvil. "But nothing I make is simple. Allow it to roll through you, and anything can be done." A smithing hammer, fat and heavy, would be flipped in his palm andheld out towards the Elsyrean.

"Strike when and where I tell you, and everything will be fine. Understand?"
(Dylerun Grauhimmel)
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[18:00] The fires of Agartha burned, the beak of the volcano where heat showed the most upon the proclaimed land of first magic; elevations contrast in cold mattered not, the volcano's flames could overwhelm an average human.

And the wince of stepping through a rift didn't help with his condition.

From grass to ash, the rocky surface of the Volcano greets Atro's feet, his features contorting as the heat presses against his flesh; sweat instantly running from his pores.

But he didn't care about his own well-being, there was a purpose...

And he's given instructions, ones he couldn't refuse, briefly digging nails into his flesh out of spite. "Fine." he simply replies as he steps towards the peculiar forge crafted from the volcano itself.

He takes the offered hammer, glancing it over skeptically, "Right, I hope this is done well." doubt hint in his words. "But I'll follow, so let's have this done."
(Atro Gwyn)
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[18:09] "You asked for my help. It'll be a bit more than 'done well.'" Pride leaking through as the mans eyes flashed brighter, before bursting into gray-white flames. They licked up the side of his head, though they didn't burn as his skin seemed to harden, a wash of exorcism off of him. Arcanium would be lifted, squeezed in strong hands. Any normal blacksmith would put it into a magically heated forge, allowing it to form into an ingot. They would remove it, work it, heat it, and the process would continue.

Dylerun would not do that. The touched metals would be scooped into the molten magma, the heart and heat of Agartha herself heating the valuable arcanium instantly beyond what any normal forge could. A light hiss escaped his lips, arms sustaining yet pain seeping through as the metal would be lifted, excess molten rock shaken off, before the now melted piece of arcanium would be set ontothe anvil.

"Keep pace."

A hammer, covered in its own intricate runes, would be lifted over shoulder before slamming into the metal. Green sparks flying acrossed as flecks of excess arcanium were shed. Energy, mana, seemed to well into the air, an almost physical presence as another blow would be struck into the metal. Each strike would flatten the metal a little bit more, and below, the anvil would begin to glow. A dark blue, energy coalescing within it, a collection of the kinetic energy so that none was lost within the process.

Hammer would shape, form, beat metal, before he would nod towards Atro, urging him to begin his own process. "Don't stop striking until I tell you to, and not a moment before."
(Dylerun Grauhimmel)
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[18:17] A gray flame put Atro off for a moment, unknowing of what it was, yet putting it off quickly. He needed to focus, it wasn't for himself, it was for the one he devoted himself too.

There was no place for straying and impurities.

So this time, he places his faith in Dylerun's capabilities, and even odd techniques with the arcanium. To see it smelted by Agartha itself... for a moment thinking it wise to craft the special forge.

Yet once again the thoughts are put off as he's instructed to strike. The hammer's runes able to bend the arcanium and work with the heat, sparks fly as the metal is struck, continuously flattening the epitome of metals.

Fascination took over briefly, but not hindering the work. There's care and precision to it, and he follows what he's told to do. Hardly noticing anything else, until he's told to stop.
(Atro Gwyn)
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[18:30] For once, having such a willing assistant was a Godsend. As Dyleruns hands quietly shifted the metal, Atros hammerblows would strike. It was far from delicate work, more exhausting than anything, yet as the mans armored hands still briefly glowing shifted the metal around, a shape would begin to form. Each hammerblow made it a bit more and more like less of a mass of glowing metal, and more of a piece of art that the Forgemaster of Avalon was known for.

A quick turn here and Atro would strike, a sudden shift in the metal. The man unafraid of another striking a hammer mere inches away from his fingers as he shifted the metal once more, metal flattening. Strong hands would squeeze, widening the circle where the head would rest as the Elsyrean struck once more, pace being met, rhythm being kept. Perhaps, he would have to bug the man at a later date to help him. Doubtful.

Hopeful, yet horribly doubtful.

"Pause."

Its shape was formed, made, and so Dylerun would remove the crown from the anvil. A thin crown, a dark green yet still briefly glowing in the molten light, forming it almost an orange tinge. Dylerun would lift it, fingers kneading into it, armored thumbs putting small indentations in the front. Placement for the crystals that they so fervently would want, though the man didn't agree with it. But then, he didn't agree with many things.

"Whoever does the runework will have enough metal to work with, but tell them not to punch through the metal." Scribing work was delicate, one he had once been horribly too familiar with. The still cooling shape would be held out towards Atro, not to be taken, but so he could at least look at the work. The blacksmiths chest heaved lightly, though there would be no sweat. It was far too hot for that.

"Well, it'll be a hell of a gift. I'll give you that. This your idea, or hers?"
(Dylerun Grauhimmel)
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[18:37] Work, work, work.

He strikes in accord, he strikes with rhythm, finding one with Dylerun as he works his own craft and Atro does some labor. Continuous striking, tedious, retitive, but Atro had a goal in mind.

The boredom or tiredness matter not, for it was not for himself, and so he pushed through the awful heat, the sweat and lethargy that tries to take hold.

A crown shapes with the beats, Dylerun still doing more of the work than Atro, giving it shape, perfecting the form- 'pause' Atro abruptly stops, as if confused, blinking and taking some heavy breaths as his part ends.

The last, indents, to view on the brimming metal in orange and green hue, his eyes can across the structure. "It's my idea." He admits bluntly, extending his hands for the metal to be placed. "And I'd only think the best for her." The words are strict and fierce. "So while there is not a spire shard, I'll work with what I have."
(Atro Gwyn)
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[18:45] "They're overrated. Spire shards." Dylerun would hold the crown for a few moments more, watching it, waiting for it to cool, before he would place it into the hands of Atro. "Everyone thinks them necessary. My best work didn't come close to needing one. This won't either." Skin would begin to shift back towards its dark tone, flashing eyes shifting back to their normal silver hues as he blinked.

An idle hand gestured towards the crown as the man rest a hand on his hip, before fingers would flicker outward. The beginnings of a rift forming. "Your...no. It isn't my place." Words would be lost as his concentration shifted, portal forming infront of them. Work on the volcano was seemingly done as Dylerun stepped forward towards it, casting a glance towards the blonde haired Elsyrean.

"...Yes. She'll like it." First a ring, now a crown. It seemed that everything he had planned to do, someone was a slight step ahead of him. Dylerun would gesture forward, urging Atro to step through the rift, the man likely close behind him.
(Dylerun Grauhimmel)