In my time, lad...we didn't have so many blacksmith around the land. We had so few, select ones who we could trust our steel with. So few, yet so unique...so rare. Gifted people, as we used to say in my time. And, their hammers...were NOT an ordinary one. Never. Even that thick voice coming out everytime they were hit, it was as if we were that steel.
Those hammers had a weird grip, the part where they are held was of a material something between Clay and Leather.. Weird, aye? It was said, that hammers were melting its clay inside itself everytime they were hit to the steel down to its sharpest form. And the leather was for the wielder to not burn his hand, as the heat must be outstanding otherwise. But, don't you fool yourself thinking any of the things I just told to you was normal that time, I am talking about a Forge with thousands of degrees inside, burning like a Calamourn itself. Yet, smiths worked there all the time. That leather never deformed and that clay covering around the hammer never emptied. I don't even need to mention about the smith not burning like a Fiarelor while inside of that burning pot. That was the good ol' yet weird times.
I bet those smiths still lie somewhere around my childhood town, perhaps still there to serve people their fine art. As, the Southernmor Steel never dries, neither dies. Just like its makers...
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