The Billowing Forge

[Lark 2227]

 

Midnight...The town of Kralta sleeps quietly and peacefully under

the moonlit sky, those before them look down upon their legacy,

twinkling in pride and joy.

 

Crickets chirp by the river bank side and moths flutter about the only light source in the

sleepy village, the blacksmith's forge grumbles quietly within the workshop.

The fire licks the sides of the stones, scorching them black as the hair of the smith

who stokes the flames.

 

Sitting in the illuminated smithy is a weary and old man. Eyes once full of warmth and fire now sit cold and vacant stare down a pitch black bottle labeled 'Carrion'. Along the table lie many more bottles, strewn about, the smithy lets loose an empty sigh as his gaze shifts around the room.

 

The blacksmith sighs once more and runs a thick, calloused hand over the woodwork,

taking in a breath as he thinks of every weapon made on this workbench, every design

drawn, every conversation had while the billowing forge heated the workshop.

 

The blacksmith turns to his, a small fire sits on a throne of ashes and coals

Gazing into the flame, orange and red dance in his vision

bringing him back to times of war

times of hope

times of happiness

and times of change.

 

These times were again drawing close, and the old blacksmith felt it in his very being.

He closed his eyes and stroked a black beard, streaked with age.

Taking in all that he had done, all that he had accomplished in his life

 

Riding a very pissed off dragon back when Baile still stood.

The blacksmith rests his hairy chin on his hands, closing his eyes and remembering

the thrill and terror of hopping on the back of a flying dragon and holding on for

dear life, the feeling of flight was wondrous and terrifying, the arrows being

shot at the dragon and whizzing past his head were just terrifying.

 

 

Fighting in the Blackmont-Teuton War,

The sounds of Crow Beats Cross and catapults sending rocks soaring across the skies echo in his head. The barking of the Blackmont Officers for the sally and how the day was one, but the

Dreadfort was lost. He hums the war chants and songs as he reclines in his seat.

 

Defeating a Harbinger and claiming his weapon as his own

The clash of metal on metal, Man vs Magic, the blacksmith chuckles

as he remembers beating down the Harbinger quickly and with grandoise.

 

Creating a weapon of flame and destruction

The joy that filled him as he and Orlik ran tore through Ager, setting it ablaze.

The hilarity that ensued when it was blamed on the dwarves. The blacksmith

lets loose another chuckle and downs another bottle of Carrion Black.

 

His drunken antics in his younger years when he first came to Kralta

The laughter, the merriment, and the hangovers that ensued back in Salvus with the strelts.

Running a hand through his long black hair, the blacksmith looks to a picture of a woman

in her mid thirties, brown hair and green eyes, looking quite bookish, but beautiful. He sighs

in loneliness and curiosity, wondering where this woman has gone.

 

Forging new metals, and naming another from Heaven.

The blacksmith's gaze falls on a bag by the door, metal winks back at

him as it rests in the sack, awaiting its journey.

 

Selling a talking sword and getting stiffed on a golem from the Archmage

The blacksmith grumbles as he remembers the debt as he looks down at a piece of paper

in his hand, he scribbles something down on it and sets it on the workbench.

 

Becoming the Commissar of the Abresi Guard

The blacksmith massages his temples as he thinks of what Abresi has become now,

what the guard has degenerated to, what all his work has become.

He sighs and softly facedesks at the thought.

 

Temporarily Exiled from Kralta for attacking Ostromier

The old blacksmith lets loose a snort as he plays with his Crow's Feather, digging into the wood of

his desk, recalling drawing his sword along with Orlik

on the night of Ostromier's usurping of the Horen throne.

 

Repairing a Dreadknight

Shivering a bit, the blacksmith thinks about the time Dreadknights abducted him and

forced him to repair one of their one. He chuckles as he remembers they didn't

have the best forge, but made do and repaired the Dread Knight to brand new standards.

 

Raising Nobody

 The blacksmith grins warmly as he thinks back to a young boy

They both sought and found each other

Their lives intertwined forever.

 

Becoming a Blacksmith

The old man rises from his seat and coughs, checking the contents

of his bottle of brew and sighs, not finding any. He tosses it away and glances

at the forge once more, remembering how he came to own this place, how Seigmund gave

him one chance to prove his novice skills. The blacksmith closes his eyes and grins,

thinking to all that he had learned, all that he had created, the flames and metal

that kneeled before HIS hands. Before HIS thoughts. No magician could

do that. He strokes his beard and chuckles, glancing at the sack of weapons

once more. His final pieces of work.

 

His claim on this world and the next.

 

 

 

 

The old blacksmith rises from his seat in the workshop, the wood and

man groaning in need of rest. He takes a look around his workshop

and smiles. He thought of his two sons, all his friends and family.

Nodding in happiness and fulfillment, the blacksmith begins to make his exit.

 

The bottle tossed away hits the ground and rolls around the floor, dripping

the remainder of its hidden contents all over the wooden workshop floor. The

forge gives another grumble, as if a warning as the stray liquid approaches.

The blacksmith puts a hand on the doorknob and as he turns it,

a crow flies from the Church and into the Crow's Perch graveyard 

 

Bits and pieces of wood rain from the sky as the blacksmith lies in smouldering ruins.

 Tired strelts make their way out of their homes and hovels, rubbing their eyes as they

behold the lone billowing forge amongst the rubble. 

 

So ends the story

of Lark Steelwall.

 

He died as he lived,

Happy

Fulfilled

A Blacksmith.

~

Now a new chapter begins,

The young Steelwalls roam,

A young man in Red groans,

A High Elf studies and loans,

The pages keep on turning,

But the story remains the same,

But it is up to us,

to play the game.

~

- Lark Steelwall

 

 

OOC:

First off, I'd like to thank everyone who I've RP'd with on Lark, every conversation, every encounter, every shenanigan has shaped Lark and added another page in his book. Lark was my first character on my return to LotC and is by far my most cherished. I've been planning Lark's death for awhile, just didn't know how to go about it. So I figured something deep would reflect Lark's personality and nature in his death. Lark Steelwall as a character is about as dynamic as I could get with a character and one I left totally to chance. Whatever happened with Lark happened, and I couldn't be more happy at how he turned out. My gentle giant turned into one of the most renowned blacksmiths in Anthos, led a guild, stole an island, and a bunch of other cool stuff I never expected to happen. The Carrion Crew, you guys helped make Lark who he is. I don't think I could have asked to be apart of a better group of roleplayers like you guys. While my strelt is dead, that doesn't mean this is the end of our adventures. Lark had a good run and I'm looking forward to having fun on my next character. Lets see where he goes!

 
 

[Heff 2460]

Bod lays awake in his bed, plagued by nightmares. He will visit Lark... or Lark's body... soon

[Vanir 693]

Ser Abner Rahl, whenever he finally hears the news of Lark's death, would turn his head away to let a solitary tear slide down his face.

[SodaiKamikaze 652]

A sudden shiver runs down Dared's spine, chilling his very soul as he lets go of his hammer, it clattering against the ground noisely.  He bends down to pick the hammer up, wiping it gently against his pantleg. "..." He stands straight as he glances about the room, feeling something amiss. His eyes finally rest upon an anvil, a sinister crack zig-zagging through the iron work. His eye widens. "Yemekar's beard..!" He runs his fingers along the destroyed areas on the anvil, shaking his head slowly. "... A bad omen.. 'as come.."

[Kanrath 190]

*Walking through Kralta, the sudden explosion and rain of shrapnel stops Tenshar in his tracks. Slowly he turns to the source of the event, only to see the smoking ruin of the old smithy. Shuddering under his heavy furs, he moves assist in dealing with the disaster, joining others as they grab buckets of water to put out the smoldering ruin and other smaller fires started by flying pieces of wood. As the smoke and wreckage settles the group lays their eyes onto the body of the Blacksmith, limp under the rubble. Having never met the man Tenshar stands back with the rest of the crowd as a few approach others his body.*

 

"Let us hope he finds peace."

[Heff 2460]

Bod, upon hearing of Lark's death breaks down in tears. Entering a depression he begins to slit his arms, blood dribbling down onto his clean suit. He begins to rip the suit up, tears violently dropping everywhere. He kicks over a lamp, blood dripping onto the carpet. Quickly he dawns on his old ripped cloaked and delves into the night, his anger being taken out on the people wandering the dark.

[BegginLena 135]

Orlik opens his eyes in bed as he hears the explosion...... "Lark" he mutters before rushing outside for the first time in weeks. "My borsa"

[Kickstarted and Running 965]

Fujiwara broke his vow of silence, he would remember Lark, and give him the greatest gift one could in his culture: a Katana

 

He wept tears in the forge, and into the blade, he folded it over and over, he laughed quietly as he remember jokes and small talk. It wasn't a long friendship, but it was something for sure, probably the only friend Fujiwara ever had.

 

He finished his work, he had done it alone, and it was his finest work yet.

 

In the end he held up the sword in the light "Goodbye."

 

A katana would be planted in the dirt and rubble and ash of the ruin, a name gilded on the sheathe 

 

 

"Lark Steelwall"

[dude 230]

 

Lorik Edain sits by the Kraltan river, staring at his reflection. He sees an old man, appearing to be strong, but fragile inside. Lorik gets up and walks to Lark's workshop. He runs his hand down the exterior wall, smiling. He recalls when Lark first took over the smithing business back when they were both mere young adults. Lorik enters the workshop. A tear runs down his cheek, causing him to exit the workshop. He sprints to his home, rummaging through his belongings.

 

"Got you.." he pulls out a portrait of Lark, Lorik, Hogvir, and Orlik.

 

Lorik then walks back to the shop, and hangs the painting up. All of his memories flash before him. It is all too much..

 

Lorik begins crying, dropping to his knees. He stares at the portrait of his friends, the cold floor full of sorrow grasping him.

 

"Lark.."

 

"My friend.."

 

"My brother.."

[Aengoth 2890]

Aengoth would go into a fit of rage upon hearing of Lark's demise. With his hammer he smashed about near everything within his reach, metal screeching as it is bent and twisted from the uncaring strikes of a hammer, glass and alcohol strewn about the room, furniture smashed to nothing more. As his fury abates he stands in the midst of his room catching his breath. A disappointed sigh let out.

"Now all I got left tah work wif' is fokin' Dared.." 

He lets out a groan as he walks out of his home, off to find some unlucky beardling, or Dared, to sucker into fixing up his mess.

[Nathan_Barnett36 1564]

Bajko Murdock runs out of Krelmstad as he notices Lark is missing in battle. He attaches a cloth around his mouth and news and starts to head down the steps. Bajko battles the servants of Setherine until he approaches Lark's workshop. He looks in to see several withers surronding him as he lays on the floor. Bajko looks down to the floor as he feels a pain from within, he falls to the ground in sadness as wood continues to pelt his armour. He looks to Larks corpse and grips his sword tighter. He sees a harbinger above the church, it starting to fly off. Bajko throws his sword heading to the harbinger in rage. The corruption and terror roles over Kralta as he goes to grab Lark's body to take him to Kralta. "This is teh 'nd of a good man!" he says angrily.

 

Bajko turns to the door griping his sword going to storm out of the room, while he walks memories of Lark and the kraltians having fun in the tavern. He shouts "IM COMIN' F'ER YA!" The kraltians look at Bajko as he mounts of his horse from Krelmstad stables, he trots off on his horse to fight the corruption and servants of Setherine.

[Dyrr 137]

 I'l nvr forgit larkie

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.