TheTiniestDragon

The Hammer Falls Surely does the hammer fall, heavy against the shimmering heat of the forge. There works a smith: stooped over the anvil, beating his echoing rhythm in time with the whispered hiss of the blazing coals. Upon his anvil sits a length of steel, unformed, malleable in its fiery glow. With everlasting patience, the smith begins to work – slowly tapering, lengthening, forming the metal with each ringing strike. Elend Morilim stands in the courtyard of Providence city. The sun beats down on his iron helm, lopsided on his head, ISA uniform poorly fit to his thin frame. He looks around wondrously at the bustling life of city, the searching, wandering gaze of a child recently run away from home. A rapier hangs at the skinny teen’s side, shoddily crafted – a first attempt at smithing himself a weapon. He straightens his shoulders, face set stony with flickering embers of determination. In a great plume of steam, red-hot metal meets frigid water, ringing like a great bell as it cools. The smith inspects the blade, scrutinized with a practiced eye, running worn leather gloves along its length. Scale crumbles off, tumbling, dancing to the ground in flakes borne wildly upon the warm Western winds. The smith gazes upon his work for a moment, simply considering, before setting aside the weapon-yet-to-be. Elend Morilim Odinson brushes past the twisted foliage of the Voidal Hollow, hunting. Beside him, a dwarf and a human, a friend and a brother. As the howl of some fetid beast rips through the broken landscape, Elend looks upon his companions. For now, finally, he has found family. How strange it is, the feeling of love! To call someone his brother, his father – a silent tear runs down the face of the young man, hissing into nonexistence against the cursed dirt of the Hollow. With a small smile set on his face, gleaming sword in hand, he strides ever onwards. A hilt takes shape, now, in a rain of flecks of wood. From a piece of hard oak, as resolute and stubborn as the smith himself, a carving knife works its way by. Soft is the grasp of the thin leather ‘round the handle, set firmly in place with a nail. Brightly, then, shines the gem set into the pommel, catching the light in a brilliant explosion of azure. The smith sits back, affixing the hilt upon the blade, watching that gem-refracted light play lazily upon the ancient, soot-stained walls. He lets out a slow sigh, for the smithing is done. In a beautiful Western city, bedecked in flowers and laughter and song, Elend Morilim Odinson sinks to one knee, resting against warm ground. In the cup of his hands sits a ring, wrought of gleaming Starsteel, shining with all the concentrated light of the heavens in the gentle afternoon sun. Elend offers it with a tremulous smile to the woman before him – his maylu, his soulmate, his flame. The sun runs dappled golden rays across the faces of the couple, dipping below the trees. Elend’s love burns, though, a second sun, alighting the future in rays of joy. But the weapon is not yet complete. With a groan, the smith rises, and hovers his hands over the sword. In a rhythm that seems to echo with the soul, all at once esoteric and fundamental, the smith begins to incant. Silver mist, as bright and holy as the stars, leaps into brilliant existence, dancing along the length of the newly-forged blade. The weapon takes on a gentle sheen, radiant with absorbed power. Elend Morilim Odinson stands upon a battlefield, golden spear in hand. Stubble touches his chin, and the lines of age draw tight the skin about his eyes. But his gaze is ever sharp, piercing, as silver lightning sparks among his fingers. A javelin of such light crackles into existence and is hurled, sending the horrific Darkness stumbling backwards. Later, Elend stoops beneath the brick towers of the cities of the icy North. His silver mist, gentle as a summer’s breeze, heals the wounds of the beaten and the souls of the terrified, a weary smile upon his face. With a resonating crack, ripping violently across the shadowed battlefield, the strained metal of the sword tears in half. The warrior kneels upon the bloodied ground, damp with the tears and screams of the fallen, gazing at the shattered weapon in his hand. It had had a long life, guided by a steady hand. But now, with a dulled edge and worn-leather grip, perhaps, it was time for the great sword to rest. Elend Morilim Odinson drops to one knee, breath ripping ragged through the unnatural calm of the forest clearing. Bloodied wounds stain his gleaming armour, creeping crimson sashes of terrible pain. But within himself, the holy knight feels his ember, bright. It drives him upwards, lightning in his veins, crackling and arcing into the air with unstable power. His spear burns with light – silver so bright it is almost white, blinding. And he surges forwards, those claws of the Dark find his chest, tearing flesh from sinew and bone. But the Light flows ever-strong, and Elend brings his spear down upon the head of the Darkspawn. With a roll of resonant thunder and the bitter hiss of lightning, the corrupted skull gives way, the body before him dropping to the ground. Elend collapses, now, too – the Light coursing through him fizzling as his strength wanes. But hand clutching his spear, empty silver eyes gazing skyward, there remains ever a smile on his face. ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– To my friends, family, and beloved ones: If you’re reading this, I am no longer with you. Perhaps I have fallen in battle, or of old age – but in truth, it doesn’t matter. This letter is my last will and testament, to let those I care about continue strong after I am gone. To Adrian, my friend: To Immeral, my son: To Radvan, my brother: To Astrid, my wife, my flame, and the light of my life: And to all those that have journeyed with me, for whom I have no more to give, I thank you. To live among such incredible people made life a pleasure, and I shall see you all again in the next. –Elend Morilim Odinson ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– OOC:

A human, with a face surprisingly youthful for his middling age, sighs heavily. He stops his forge-work to read the missive, massaging his forehead. "I hope you know what you're getting yourself into, brother."

Shhnk. Shhnk. A whetstone scrapes on tired metal, sharpening, honing a new edge from a war-weary weapon. Elend Odinson looks up as Iolas' signature parrot flutters in, illuminated by the thin shaft of sunlight falling through the smithy's small window. The methodic scraping of the whetstone stops as he reads the letter, and all seems to fall silent a moment. The smith hangs his head, watching his reflection in the polished blade in his lap. "Another one gone." his low voice breaks the silence, and he returns to his work. Sharpening, polishing, readying, with a new fervour.

Elend Morilim Odinson would smile, eyes gleaming with excitement, grin touched by mischief. He hefts his smith's hammer, drawing from a chest a metal ingot that glows with a radiance akin to that of the stars and moon. "Let's give them a show, eh?"

OOC: ((MC Name: TiniestDragon)) ((Discord: TheTiniestDragon#4010)) ((Timezone: PST (EST-3) )) IN-CHARACTER What is your name? Elend Morilim Odinson What arts, if any, do you currently practice? I practice blacksmithing at a very high level, and I have the most basic knowledge of fire evocation. Why seek membership to the Mages Guild? What I seek is twofold – First, in my mere beginnings of fire evocation, I've seen the wondrous potential that magic holds, and the potential for a truly new understanding of the relationship between the Material and Voidal. I wish to further this understanding by continuing my fire evocation training. Second, I wish to gain the knowledge to advance my blacksmithing talents, through Arcane Engineering and enchantment. What position do you desire to attain upon acceptance? I desire only to be admitted as a Practicus, from where I could further my fire evocation training and eventually enter the Artificum. When should you be contacted for an interview? As soon as possible. I am most always reachable by bird, in Elysium.

Elend Morilim Odinson lies, crumpled upon the podium, the dark, fresh blood mixed with bitter saltwater tears. Sobs rack his body, and a scream to shatter the frozen night rips from his raw throat. Pulled, raised as if by string 'round his head, he rises. Emerald eyes rimmed red, burning with anguish and hate, stare over the audience, assembled there – sinners all. Words incomprehensible tear themselves from choked lips, cursing these people and their God. The moon, overhead, has slipped behind a cloud, as his damnations spiral into the uncaring dark and the ashamed sinners, gathered there. Behind him, some murmur if they should kill him too. He cares not. In the end, they will suffer, he knows. A spark of flame flickers between two of Elend's fingers, but a futile glimmer of light in the night of this city that he despised. They will suffer. Elend Morilim Odinson rises, as the hastily constructed gallows being to be taken down. Soul as torn as his tattered clothes, he staggers off into the night.

Elend Morilim looks at the letter, considering the vacancy of the Deputy Mayor position with great interest.

Elend Morilim reads the missive with a salute and a firm nod.

JOB APPLICATION FORM Name: Elend Morilim Age: 21 Sex: Male Interests: [ X ] Leadership [ X ] State Relations [ X ] Counterterrorism [ X ] Other - Fill in: Foreign information gathering, spying, and other like activities. Experience: I worked in Foreign Affairs for a while as a diplomat. I am currently an ISA Private. I have sufficient connections in other nations that I could easily talk my way into the palace of almost any nation. Additionally, I have many skills in negotiating, persuasion, and carefully talking around issues from my work as a diplomat. Aside, I have training as a fighter from my time in the ISA. Comments: I am very interested in working here, including anything involving information gathering and leadership.