reforging lethargy

[01:44] Weight.

Sin.

Much like when he originally carried his sin as a burden, as a meaningless existence his weapon had not reflected that inner growth. The ground beneath him splintering and those invisible chains pulling taut upon the psyche of all who may draw near. That which amplified his strength and power into untold levels of reality.

Naturally?

It was only right his weapon evolved as he would.

"Once upon a time I was burdened by chains. Bound in shackles and forced to endure hundreds of restless nights, before you allowed our mothers wings to spread above all of Esshar." No longer, one small twist of his hands pulling upon a random servants mind. Brought to their knees and just outside of their doors the sound of a body collapsing heard.

"Yet?

Now I can impart that feeling upon others on a whim. Now I have mastered this hubris of mankind, while my weapon still slows me." An audible clicking of his tongue as to show that sheer dissatisfaction. It swung with untold strength yet still burdened him and him alone, allowing his grace to falter.

"The essence of sin still burns within Lethargy, emboldened by my own. We need only fix this final detail and make it...

Perfect, Noel."
(Foster)
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[01:55] A fleeting memory of the very anecdote seems to wave over the Forgemaster. Sleepless nights, an empty shack, the world against them. To think, those years were behind them was almost nostalgic in a paganistic sense.

The towering maul of a chained staff unfurls its form, Noel already graced by its majesty once more. A reunion betwixt legend and maker.

"I was thinkin' the same thing," she opens. "The Nyeshk fillings... it was a good first idea, don't get me wrong here..."

The passing damage, the fights won by the thing, the lives sundered, and the souls offered unto Naysien. Lethargy was more than an effective weapon, it had been a renowned danger upon those that defy Naysien's will.

To think that the Therian had devised a path to further enhance it was simply a terrifying ideal.

"I'm sure your stash has been growin' as good as the years we've thrived. Hence I offer the thought to you," she chimes. "Arcanium to replace everythin' upon the staff. We replace the Nyeshk spikes with ore that we baptize in the dragonforge's magma."

"What do y'say?"
(Noel Serpente)
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[02:00] "... We were young and in a rush to make something grand. To forge something in her name." One small touch of his hand allowing this weapon he's long since wielded to react on whim alone. Placed before Noel and screaming with all manner of depraved makings - The original weapon of sin which bore into the minds of each which stood before it.

Lethargy.

Their eulogy to lassitude.

"Your genius was one which allowed us to create something as grand as this. However, I'll soon be facing Claramonde and... There could be no greater time to return to your first legend." He spoke aloud as the metalmancer allowed it to break from his hands since he originally wielded it so. Once more returned to Noel as the flame of Naysien burned within his soul.

Just one more.

Just one more act and he could stand as the strongest.

"You'll hear no objections from me. This was originally your genius, your mind and your cunning which forged this terrifying weapon I wield. I'll follow your lead and directions until the very end."

Just as both had all those years ago.
(Foster)
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[02:14] "Well then..." Her head jerks, hands immediate in cradling the sin forged weapon once more. "...looks like we meet at the forge again, old friend."

A hand gracing the immediate head of the weapon, almost longingly. Not one does it harm nor prick the hand of its creator. As if it had recognized it just by the essence alone, like a child would to its mother.

Though her capabilities had finally joined that of her fellow sectmates in dragonhood, the conjoined essence of two Dragoons would surely be grander than that of a single one.

Above the forge, her hand rises before its dormant embers, still regaining momentum from its creation of Godender. "Foster, if y'please. I'd like we start this forge as one." A conjoined effort. Its handler and creator in unison in activating to tool to its ascension.

Without further ado, Noel's fingers dig deep upon her flesh. The trickles of blood dripping as time seems to dilute itsessence into a concentrated form. It drips onto the dragonforge, practically flaring it to life as the winds seems to billow in a sudden concordance of heat.
(Noel Serpente)
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[02:17] Wordless.

No hand moved nor mana conjured as his own gaze watched silently as Noel raised hers upwards. Just for a second allowing his presence to linger on with a moment of peace in mind, drawing a single breath inwards and reaching for that flame still ever ablaze where his heart should be beating.

His final failure.

"... Of course." Stretching out his palm as seconds sprawled into minutes, careful and methodical in all he acted upon. Slicing open his hand a pool of blade would burn as black as that flame within his chest. Each drop spilling from his palm, cloaked in that same ebon flame.

Her strength ever prominent.

Her vision one which they would see through.

"And... May Naysien bless us in our eternal hunt and strive for greatness. May she see that my weapon of sin and destruction cleave through Claramonde whole." Another rush of sinful mana which burned existence itself, cleaving just that much deeper into his palm.

"May she grant us a tool of death once more."
(Foster)
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[02:29] What had been once predominantly Garljing's blessed forge, now running rampant upon its veins lie the blood of his daughter. Its reverence to her growing with each craft, and in each blessing imparts more and more of her essence onto the forge.

Perhaps it was why her presence above the Coat almost amplifies the surge of power before the dormant flames.

"In Naysien, we trust; and in my hand shall I forge a weapon befittin' one of her Dragoon's might." Her hand whips to the side, whisks of sanguine excretions evaporating at the touch of the stone pavement. A burning passion ignited before them as Noel begins work.

Immediately, their hoard of Arcanium was put to good use. The more common and rough of the bunch found itself dunked into the flames. Cooked to an ideal temperature in preparation to its forging.

Meanwhile, crawls wrap around the hammer as what was once Nysehk spikes are slowly ejected from their tried and true placements. The heat of the forge melts the binding used as, one-by-one, the sound of heavy clanging and the scattering of spikes signify the beginning stages of Lethargy's transformation.

The removal was far too easy. Yet it had been the following act that made to be the integral notion.

As the Arcanium grows ripe for the hammer, the Forgemaster sends it out before a tray. A gloved hand moves to handle the god-made ore as each node is used to recreate the same spikes that had scoured the surface of Lethargy's head.

And it was only upon the completion of the first few that Noel would poke upon Foster's participation. If she hadn't he would have likely remained an observer.

"Okay, with these spikes, I can't simply forge them into a completed weapon," she opens. "Hence, y'come in... I need your help to meld these new spikes onto Lethargy, and I don't think anyone else can do the job up here but you."

Perhaps it had been a bluff, but surely the most available set of helping hands were already here.
(Noel Serpente)
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[02:29] * You have been awarded 1 Roleplay Points! *
[02:36] Silence.

Watching as a master began her work, weaving her hands across this forge like painting a canvas. Where others would struggle to handle that absurd heat and materials which screamed with all manner of difficulties, Noel was someone who continually worked and showed her excellence above all others.

She who may not have been the most powerful or threatening of their sect, may not have wielded power in all forms of battle when it came to opposing her fellow man.

Yet, she was a legend in her own right when stood before flame and steel. One who had ascended far beyond what any craftsman before her could have dreamed of creating.

"I figured this would be more difficult, though I suppose it is just interchanging old parts." One small twist of his hand was all he needed. One small touch of his mana upon this weapon which knew him above all others. Much like a trust between father and child, it reacted without much a single complaint or aversion tothis man.

"Take what is yours."

He spoke as metal bound upon that head and spikes were laced anew with that ore touched by the heavens. Weaving its way into this staff as though it had been there since the beginning, falling perfectly into every nook and cranny left by that nyeshk ore from long ago.

Just...

Perfect.
(Foster)
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[02:51] Amidst the plinking sounds of arcanium spikes forming to its eventual final resting place upon the weapon, Noel would stride to the other side of the forge, another task befalling her hands.

Two piece of arcanium seems to jut out.

One claimed during their excursion against the bunker of an Achyon loyalist, eventually doomed to death by Noel's own hands. The other, a prize gifted unto them by the Elder Dragons that had bestowed the title of Forgemaster unto Noel.

Clearly, two prized items. Brought into the fray for a united purpose.

With a practiced hand and the utmost patience, the chips of an old forgoted Therian jewel cutting style is imposed by the drakanite. Its crystalline form shifting into that of a gem-like substance befitting of a brooch.

Its general disposition seems to have been carved into an insignia most notably depicting that of Naysien's sect.

Furthermore, the Arc of the Covenant it sent into the furnace at a much higher temperature. One that seemed to bring the very ore itself into a melting point, creating a viscous liquid of molten arcanium before the poised Stone of Tureol.

Through it, liquid arcanium is poured into a cast, one containing the gemstone as it begins to set. All it takes is the swift manipulation of time and a constant breeze of a steady cooling wind to almost instantaneously solidify and finalize a brooch.

One befitting for the center-point of the staff.

Eyes gaze over the handiwork imposed on the lighter, and more potent, spikes. A clear presence of improvement. "This... is beginnin' to look ideal," she comments, moving to place the final piece of a brooch before the staff. "Now then... if you can do he honors of embeddin' the final piece... I can reconnect the runes after."
(Noel Serpente)
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[03:04] "... Hm."

Just as she demanded, his work would be one without pause. One hand outstretched a binding of metals which shifted and moved without threat of the unknown, snapping and breaking out that which once embedded itself as the very core of his weapon. Willing to bring pain upon itself, this weapon willing to entrust itself fully into those which brought forth its rebirth.

Just as Naysien would soon be reborn, just as her wings loomed above all and threatened an eternal chill. So too would his weapon be given that same purpose, that same poise and glory.

For a moment he watched as her hands moved about with jewels clutched within. Priceless artifacts some would even dare so call grand in their own right, now being utilized and woven into Lethargy as Noel continued in silence. Needing only move upon her words, needing only act when she demanded as her own runic weavings were brushed off to the side.

"Of course."

Again metal would move and take hold of this small brooch. Reaching like hundreds of small hands, all aiming to take hold of that which Noel had to offer. The forgemaster and her work devoured as though gluttonous in its intent, just for a moment desiring nothing more than to assure a swift and promising completion.

"And... Do you believe I'll be able to best Claramonde with this?"

He could only wonder as that doubt was beginning to set in.
(Foster)
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[03:10] As the slots of the brooch seems to mold and become one with the weapon, the very essence of the cut gem seems to glimmer with a faint shine of ebony.

The conjoined presence of the devotion-powered arcanium and the gemstone seems to shiver with an odd foreboding sense.

It was as if the very being of the Ebon Goddess thrives from the piety implored unto the weapon itself. After all, this was an act of praise. To praise her name and to instigate further paths for vengeance.

Nothing more but to please Her.

"I don't think it'll just beat her," she replies, hands swift in reconnecting the servers runes with the new extensions on the weapon. A simple enough job for an experienced runewriter of course. "Anyone that crosses blades with you... they ain't gonna come out alive."

She smiles, gleeful in the outcome that had been done.
(Noel Serpente)
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[03:18] "... I see."

Pride was never a sin of which he carried an immense amount of. Consumed by oneself and willing to strike at those which sought their necks, he was no valiant warrior which could bring down monoliths of power long since established. So he would like to believe, upon his own he was no more than a man which had stood atop this mountain for far too long.

Beneath her wings.

Carrying weapons forged of legend and flame.

"You're ever the confidence boost as when we were young. Naturally, you have my thanks for all you do for us, Noel Serpente." His words accompanied by a twist of his hand. Stone once again splitting and this weapon of sinful creation returned to soil once more, their final act as the drums of war threaten them so close by.

Just one more.

Just one more victory.

"And... I can rest, soon."

No applause followed with his weapons final completion, no grand viewing of which Lianne had been afforded. Just this single act in the dead of night, a moment shared between roommates and companions of an era reaching its climax.

"Shall we be off then, Forgemaster?"
(Foster)