KvsW- Read this while watching this

Since pastebin doesnt allow me to put a link as the title, the title is "Read while watching this: http://a.pomf.cat/wlnzjv.webm"
Since pastebin doesnt allow me to put a link as the title, the title is "Read while watching this: http://a.pomf.cat/wlnzjv.webm"
Since pastebin doesnt allow me to put a link as the title, the title is "Read while watching this: http://a.pomf.cat/wlnzjv.webm"




In a solitary little workshop in the countryside, an old man practiced his time-honored craft. His old hands were calloused, but retained a dexterity unmarred by his advanced age. The skill his fingers displayed was one honed over the course of decades of experience, and when he picked up his tools, they became extensions of his own body, working in perfect harmony as he went about his work.

Boring and filing out metal.. bluing and polishing it to a mirror sheen... etching intricate designs by hand... carving expertly selected cuts of wood... sanding them down until they were smooth to the touch... staining and finishing it all... every action was deliberate, tantalizingly slow, but made without error, and with the utmost care and love. The old man treated each piece he worked on as its own little work of art, each one given the care and attention one would give their magnum opus. This was the trade and craft that belonged to his father, and his grandfather, and their forefathers that preceded. The old man took great pride in it, and it very much showed.

As each part was completed, he took a few momments to sit back and admire the work, the sheer beauty each one held. He ran his fingers along each part, already envisioning the final product. And then he would gently set it aside, and set to work on the next piece.

Eventually, after many days of laboring and toiling, all of the components were crafted and complete, and all that was left to do was assemble them. With a steady hand and careful pace, he pushed in bolts and secured every bit into its rightful place. Twisting and locking, sliding and squeezing, hammering and tamping... ever so slowly it all came together.

When it was all done, he sat back in his chair, with his work of art laying on the desk before him. He cracked open a bottle of fine brandy, and poured two fingers into a glass, which he slowly sipped in silent celebration.
He ran his old hands over the length of the weapon he had forged with is own two hands. From the dark oak wood of the stock, to the polished breech with all its etchings and carvings, all the way down to the ends of the two barrels, perfectly smooth.

On one side, in elegant script, there was a name etched into the metal, the name the old man had given her before he'd even begun his work.

Aurora.

"Aurora," he said under his breath, almost inaudible.

In an instant, the weapon disappeared, a young woman now sitting upright in its place.

Curly flaxen hair that hung loosely around her shoulders. Pale skin untouched by harsh sunlight. Rosy cheeks free from any hints of marks or defects. Deep blue eyes, like staring into the depths of a placid sea. Lips that were full, light pink and a bit glossy, pursed in conservative manner. A button nose, perfectly proportioned among the rest of her features.

She wore an airy yellow sundress that fluttered with the breeze coming in through an open window, and her head was topped with a felt beret, with a flower pinned to it. A pair of dark wool socks covered her ankles, and she wore a pair of black Mary Janes for her footwear.

She looked slightly confused, but the old man was not confused or surprised in the slightest. He took in and admired her beauty while she looked about, trying to gain her bearings.

"Aurora," he repeated a bit louder, causing her to cease looking about his work shop and focus on him.

He set his glass down to the side and cupped her cheeks in his old, weather hands. He leaned forward, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"My daughter," he said, his eyes and smile kind and warm as he regarded her. "Welcome."