May

Issue 32

     A thousand thousand songs were sung in a world where the air was filled with a vibrant energy that the heart of a sun might have envied, and the ground was smooth as crystal.  Praises rang out as music, as well as, in smaller amount, wordless expressions of sheer joy, and to an even lesser extent still, respectful supplications, beseeching humbly for the strength to do whatever needed to be done at that moment in time.  It was a world, not of clashing sounds, but of harmonious melodies.

     But in one place, it was different.
    
     In one tiny, humble little corner of this world, there was a workshop.  And in that workshop there was no song.  Only silence.  Quiet.  But not the quiet of tranquility and peace.  Rather, it was a very purposeful quiet.  Anyone lingering would be inclined to think they could almost feel it humming and buzzing in their ears like a swarm of bees.  Few people came here, but it was not a malicious or dangerous place.  It was merely... serious.

     Inside, this day, as it was every day, the weaponsmith Steelrest went through his routine.

     Fifty swords a day.

     Every day, till the Last Battle was upon them.