Beginning a sword was not a small task for Verigan. A lesser smith could turn out a dozen swords every day, every one of them identical, but for Verigan a sword was something more. When you came away from Verigan, your sword was an extension of your self. Even the fabled smith-mages of Atlantis had not understood that a GreatSword could not simply be quickened with a piece of its user’s soul. This creates a bond between sword and warrior to be sure, but for the bond to be perfect, the form of the sword had to be an extension of the man.
The Atlantean smiths had never even imagined the artistry that Verigan instilled in the least of his creations. And this could hardly be the least of his creations.
This sword had to be remembered for a thousand years. This sword had to be a legend, as the man who would wield it already was.
A hundred sketches and designs were created and discarded before Verigan found one that felt right. Then it had to be refined and perfected over a dozen more revisions before Verigan pushed his way from his desk and stepped up to his forge.
The fires roared, as if to welcome him.
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