Gundr Bronnson sat staring at the foul blackened demon horn as it cooled from Holy Purging. The tenth attempt of the day had survived the forge and bent to his will, and he was weary from the efforts. He had a head ache, and he felt generally sour. The only thing that cut through his nagging discomfort was the ringing of his Forge Master's hammer as he purified weapons that had rubbed the taint of the World Wound for too long. These experiments with the demon horn were wasting his time. The only thing he had wrung out of it was the ability to add chaos to a spell. There was no benefit to creating chaos. Chaos was not of Torag. He threw the horns, and all remaing components into the forge, to be consumed. He felt better, headache dissipating as the horn hissed into ash. He smiled and observed his newly appointed Forge Master.
Maximillian Reaverstone finally felt like his 200 years had led him to his path. Always in his crafting he had felt an invisible pressure to make perfection his goal. The heat, the peal of the hammer upon anvil, the honest ache of both shoulder and grip, these were his sacraments. He had throughout his life heard a voice in his dreams, a voice instructing, a voice teaching, a voice calling. He had long ago connected that voice to what he thought Torag would sound like. When the call came from the Lords that a forge priest was needed, Max was certain that only he could answer the call. It wasn't until the end of the first day of tutelage under Sir Gundr Bronsson, just as he mastered the feat of crafting magical rings, that he realized it ; the voice in his dreams matched Sir Gundr's and no one else's.
