Cold Feet, Molten Core

 {LONG DISTANCE TO: Duniya Vartuul}: Dear Duniya,

How time flies and is swallowed by the abyss. Feels like only yesterday we discussed the creation of a true reaver legend, and all of a sudden a year and change has passed within the blink of an eye.

But for once in my life, things are all going according to plan. Everything has been gathered; I await at the location of our dishonor duel with the forgeworks of shadow prepared to create a legend of a living weapon.

When you arrive, our accursed work will ring out in dark symphony.

Fondly,
Captain Reave, the last remaining.

Slowly, Duniya makes her way up the long, winding path toward the Dragon's Gauntlet.

She could have flown, but for one reason or another, the slow trudging through the snow was preferred. Eventually her feet found there rest beside Maertock Reave, in accordance to his own request.

"...And what a long year it has been."
(Duniya Vartuul)
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Maertock Reave would appear to have been waiting content;y by the lava side; the Captain of the Deep Company gesturing with jagged digits as threads of blackness trialed forth across thbe dancing shadows of the flickering lava; stretching and morphing them to his own satisfaction as he'd offer a polite tip of his accursed tricorn hat to the forgemistress.

"A long two decades, frankly. Our generation is a dying breed; few and less remember the spark and tinder that ignited the bloody conflict of these cursed lands."

A long drag w ould be taken by the shadow shark as minty smoke rose from his dry, reddened gills, a raking sound emanating forth from the black leathers of his side as old Saltspite's cutlass was drawn forth with a flourish.

"Just means we make good use of the time we've got left 'fore the flame flickers for good."

A snap of the towering shark's fingers as a literal sea of shadows would begin to flow forth like a river's roaring torrent into the pools of lava that surrounded Garljing's coat. Swirling and twisting as they compressed to form nightmarish tools absent entirely of light.

Two massive crucibles capable of baring separate alloys; an anvil carved out of midnight itself; and what appeared to be a flowing foundry manifested of ramps that defied gradvity and suctioned burning, superheated liquid forth throughout the expanse of the makeshift, dread workshop in an assembly even an Achyonite wouldn't turn their nose up at.

Probably. If they didn't want to lose it.

"We will begin in a moment. But what has your year been like, old Dun?"
(Maertock Reave)
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 Duniya was quiet for quite a time. Observing as he brought the forge he promised out from the lava. Made purely of shadows.

Maertock Reave always had a penchant for theatrics, or at least he had as long as she had known him. Which, by now, was several years. They'd both reached their middle ages at this point. She was nearly old enough to be a grandmother.

Finally growing into that robust title she'd taken for herself.

"My year has been relatively uneventful. I wait for my Fireblooded to return from this... dreadful academy.

Though, I suppose there is my daughter's wedding coming up. Something to plan for and prepare."

Her eyes remained transfixed on those crucibles. The anvil as well. What they were making was going to serve quite the ill purpose. She knew that better than anyone... but the world needed more warfare in it. Peace is stagnation.

"And yours, Reave?"
(Duniya Vartuul)
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 Time had taken its toll on all of them, in the end. Duniya had grown into her mantle as a matron with the aging of whiskey. Bitter, but strong. Maertock too had changed over the years; regardless of the particular façade of the day he manifested for entertainment.

There had once been the completely mad young reaver that had caused chaos in the Grimmore's meeting with the Fireblooded for the sheer sake of it. For the spirit of piracy and the freedom to do exactly as one pleased.

What remained was more monster than merman. Viscous black tentacles ambled forth with dripping, deep occultic ink as they slithered through the confines of his malleable form. Progressively, two neat packages of differing weights; a bundle three nyeshk and three arcanium ingots respectives, were lifted with equal ease and precision into the unheated crucibles of shadow, obviously not intending to try and do the master's work at the end of the day.

"Well, I've been doing my best to mold Murtock's sons into worthy inheritors of the Deep Company. I've hired an ogre to prey upon them relentlessly in particular; swarthy fellow that one."

Maertock would chuckle softly at that.

"I've also had my former mentors join my crew out of spite for Achyon and Matryona's demands. She did word particularly I had no permission of learning further, I figured why not just steal the source."

The shadow shark would cackle at that, flowing eyes opening and closing with glossy, black sclera upon the lengths of the various shadow tentacles that emanated forth about the black foundry to serve as assistance for Duniya's efforts.

The mote of dreadful, horrificly inky soul steel was split evenly between the two.

"As the matron of the Fireblooded, the honors are yours naturally to smelt the two alloys of dread nyeshk and ashen arcanium for the occasion. Made up the names on the spot, bahahahahahah!"

Somehow, horrifyling, it seemed like the tentacles were also laughing. They had no mouths.
(Maertock Reave)
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Duniya listened to him. There were a few intriguing stories told. His hiring of an ogre to prey upon his own nephews, as well as his pilfering of prior mentors from Achyon. Maertock was a crafty one, that was for certain. A man not to be trusted. But she did not need to trust someone, in order to make use of them. That was the terms of her Dishonor Duel with the captain, after all.

She was confident she still held the power to keep any potential dissidence in line... and he knew that there would be nothing to gain from earning her ire, hopefully.

"Very well. It shall be done."

The den-mother's hands rose into the air, and a foul mixture of blackness and some of the hottest flames one would ever have the displeasure of feeling arose along with them. The black flames ensnared the metals, and they were separated into two different columns, each erupting with similar heat and ferocity.

Before long, everything was condensed inward... collapsing in on itself not too dissimilar to a dying star... until each of them was a floating sphere in the sky, crackling with dark energy, passively. Each sphere radiated an intense occult decay.

"Done..."

The orbs were lowered, and soon dissipated above a crucible. Each of them mixed together in tandem, forming a molten alloy that could soon be used for whatever purpose they needed.

"Dread nyeshk and ashen arcanium… combined into one."
(Duniya Vartuul)
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 Maertock was a crafty one indeed. Allowing Duniya to work effectively in her impressive display of occultic power. The matron of the Fireblooded's darkness was far hotter, more burning with intensity in stark comparison to his deep sorcery. His was a frigid, lifeless fog where all light was swallowed in its beckon.

Their might, together, would from two foul sources of depraved spellcraft manifest one accursed blade renewed after hundreds of years. Dread Saltspite.

As the master smith conjoined the two collapsed stars of foul alloy into one, his shadowy tentacles and sifting, living crucible would work quickly to allow small amounts of each trace alloy to empower the separate batches with minute enough traces to maintain their purity alongside the advantageous benefit of a more resilient alloy.

Flowing forth with haunting swiftness almost like serpents of flowing, ichorous metal, two canisters would rise amongst the black anvil as a stairway of shadows beckoned forth to the anvil of midnight.

"I have properly allocated the batches after their brief intermingling. First shall be the more....difficult part, in truth. The dread nyeshk strengthened by a small amount of arcanium will take immense heat to work as the first layer that will coat the old blade of Saltspite."