Receiving sword/brief test

Bastelthal stood in the training grounds, a long, length cloth covering a blade at his belt. A black mask covered his face and hair. It was made of steel; big glass walls for eyes, a large, metal jaw with a series of breathing vents lining the chin. His mechanical arms were crossed, awaiting to deliver the blade he'd promised a man named Ultor ages ago. His head turned, spotting the man as he walked by the training grounds.

He raised a hand, waving over to the man. His anticipation was heavy... He'd waited ages to give this man the sword he'd spent hours and hours forging at his request. His very first commission was indeed one of finesse and heart; though, the amount of heart and finesse was up to this man. He held the cloth steady, making sure to not reveal the work just yet.

"You're a tough man to find I'd say, Ultor." he said with a chuckle, extending his steel right hand to shake with him. "How've you been?" he inquired, letting the man speak before he would give his obvious reply to his own question. "I've been quite alright. Getting married in the next couple of years I believe. The Ebonwings have moved to the Isthmus, so I've been quite occupied for awhile. But I'm sure you're pretty eager past the niceties, no?" Bastelthal said cheekily.

He raised the cloth mass up, undoing the worn leather strap around it. It dropped to the ground, kicking dust up as it landed. A blue-golden blade glimmered in the sun, mixed perfectly of the two on the blade. Its edges looked so sharp it felt as though they'd cut the very air you were staring at. There were extremely fine and detailed patterns strewn across the blade itself, adding to the sense of royalty it exuded. Three small indents were layed in the lower end blade for any gems the man may feel interested in putting in. The handle and crossguard of the blade was even detailed moreso than the blade; it oozed detail and care, very clearly given hours and hours of work. The crossguard was a golden color of pure blood copper, curved outward with smoothed edges to catch any blade to pull from its enemies with the proper technique. The handle was an even deeper blue than the blade itself, rounded with a wavy edge going vertically for a nice grip. A pomel of similar color to the crossguard as at the end, bearing a small engraving of "BAST. GELG." on the bottom of it.

Letting the man bear witness to his creation, he held the blade with both hands horizontally. "Go ahead, Give it a few swings, let me know if you like it." Bastelthal said, eager for feedback.
(Bastelthal Gelgan)





The Adept sits in his office within Melym Tower, taking a break from the stressful duties of filing paperwork. Opting to take a brief walk, handing his stamp of approval off to a young squire before he heads on his way.

He walks through the streets, admiring the pond out front of Melym Tower, before making his way eastward, waving hello to the shop owners as he passes them by.

Now nearing the field, he sees a rather peculiar, yet familiar face. B, the man charged with forging his sword.. One that he had not yet picked up yet, despite being in formed of it's completion. The fault lying with the recently appointed Adept, taking to his new workload with haste, he had no time to go and meet with B upon it's completion sadly.

Approaching the man, he would see him extend his hand in greetings, remarking on the Glacium's rather noteworthy accomplishments in regards to never being where he was sought out. "I'm well, thank you for asking." Extending his own hand, the black leather glove brushing against the metallic appendage of the Smith.

He shakes, listening to B go on about recent events, marriage apparently on the horizon for the man, as well as news of the Wings moving positions to the Isthmus; a statement that comes as a surprise to the Adept. He wonders what could have caused that sudden development.

"It seems congratulations are in order for you then, my Friend.. We must get together, all of us, you, the wings, our wives. We'll make a spectacle out of the night." Offering his wishes, and even attempting to plan an event in the near future hopefully, a token of his appreciation for the Smith's time spent on his weapon, and even holding it for him after all this time.

It is at this point that the young Glacium is overcome with shock. The Smith removes the binding on a dingy looking leather strap. A rather vibrant looking blade sprouts forth, dropping tot he ground with a noticeable thud.

Looking to the weapon, then to B. Brow cocking slightly, the sun reflecting off the blue of the sword, the golden edges shining against the dirt below. It was quite the sight.. such a beautiful sword. "Ah.. Is this..?" He pauses, his question answered by the Smith, he beckons for the Adept to pick up the weapon, give it a few swings he says.

Kneeling down for a moment, he grabs for the grip, letting himself take note of the finer details for a moment. The cross-guard reflecting the color of the blood copper perfectly, it melds with the color of the mythril upon the blade, in a odd way.

Rising with the blade in tow, he holds it up above his head, looking to the guard, noting it's pointed edges facing away from his hand.. He can only assume that this  is intentional, perhaps meant to ward of incoming attacks, it would suffice well for parrying an enemies strikes if one were to time their movements.

Turning the blade over, he now examines the grip more intently, noting the darker shade of blue upon it, in comparison to the blade itself. Eyes trailing down, towards the pommel, he would now twist the blade upside down, a smile forming upon his face as he finds a small engraving bearing the name of the Smith who made such a marvel of a weapon.

"Ah, so B. stands for Bast I see.. It's a name to be proud of." Paying the Smith a compliment, he looks towards him, a toothy grin dotting his face.

Averting his attention briefly afterwards, he looks to the blade again.. Suddenly, he springs forth, with a flick of his wrist, he would cause the blade to spin, turning upright, he steps forward, right leg leading, he brings the mythril blade down in a horizontal motion, arcing across the grass.

The movement causing a slight torrent of wind, parting on either side of the Adept and the weapon, he returns to his previous position, holding the blade up towards B.

"You've done a mighty fie job, B... What do I owe ya in return for this beauty?"
(Ultor)