It was dark.

That's just the way it had to be, though. Two candles, one set by the anvil, the other set by the quenching barrels, were the only source of illumination in the Dragon's Breath for the moment. Jodiah Ayreg had to spin quite the yarn to make his gnomish coworkers leave for as long as it took, but he had no other resources with which to ply this foul trade.

The gnomes were off looking for the docks, at a supposed ship that had their name on it. That should keep them busy for hours, as the Rhy'Din city port was a busy place at even the slowest of times.

Probably had something to do with all the pirate ships moored there.

The sharp whistle of steam erupted from the barrel of Tetronus' angelic blood, and the final quench was made. A sword unlike any other he had even heard of it, though it was no complete. The gnomes helped considerably -- their knowledge of tinkering and the ways of joints and rivets allowed the unique daggerwhips (as he had come to call them) to function as they were intended to, and it was Dohick the Gnome's idea to use the finger-actioned lever to release them.

Pulling the length of the sword out of the barrel of angel blood, and sliding his fingers once across the fist-and-heart icon of the Truthbringer, the death knight nodded. Blistering white truesilver blade was now coated in inky black of soulsteel. It took only a single block of soulstock -- about what he predicted -- to give Tara's sword the coating it required. While it would not be as inherently powerful as a sword crafted in its entirety from soulstock, it would do the trick nicely. A wound would not cause instant death, but death would still come on swift wings to a normal, mortal human with the slightest of cuts. He estimated a day, maybe two, and the poor slag would die.

Horribly.

Longer for the supernatural, of course, but the effects of death would be the same. Complete and utter Oblivion. A fate worse than death, he knew, because there was still a life (of sorts) on the far side of mortal death. Oblivion was the absolute ceasing to exist, where all you have strove to live for and work for and try for becomes for naught.

Even the Infernal, for which this blade was originally commisioned, had right cause to fear this blade. There would be no Abyss waiting for them when their physical form was finally annihilated.

Just Oblivion.

The poor soul which made the crafting of this blade possible was quiet, for now. In time, though, it would begin to grow... well, insane. Blood begets blood, as they say, and the soulforged weaponry of Stygia was certainly no exception. A few decades of constant use would have it start to whisper to its wielder, and after a hundred or more years would nearly be able to dominate the will of the bearer completly, turning them into little more than a vicious, brutal murderer.

Thankfully, Jodiah Ayreg would long be dust by the time this blade got to that level.

Setting it aside carefully, he wrapped it in the shipping paper the Dragon's Breath uses for the delivery of manufactured goods. He considered briefly summoning a courier, or even conscripting Christopher -- that man in the RDS Uniform that helmed that ungainly large, brown... beast he called a truck.

In the end, he left it there on the shelf. This weapon would require personal delivery, despite his and Tara's building animosity toward each other. He was a man of his word, after all.

Another brick of soulsteel was taken from the enchanted furnace they were heating in, and tapped lightly against the anvil. It seemed to groan. Hefting the hammer again, Jodiah Ayreg began to pound away at the soulstock, flattening and broadening it. Magic was not one of the death knight's strong suits, but he knew just a passing knowledge and familiarity with necromancy. The enchanting of the furnace to turn the soulsteel malleable again fell under the auspices of the death magic, though, and it was a procedure he was more than well-acquainted with.

The molds, the temper, the quench, the measurements.. everything was prepared. Now it was time to create his greatest work of art ever.

A suit of platemail, cast in solid soulsteel, for Alysia Skye - the Emperess of Rhilshen.

He smiled.

A craftsman takes pride in knowing his work is appreciated. If he was going to be any judge of armor, and any sort of judge of character, then Alysia should be quite appreciative of his work.

He leaned back, and set the narrow-bristled brush aside. The various pieces of this armor had been hammered, shaped, and tempered. Soulsteel turned deep black when fired, and it suit his purposes well. Trimmed in an icy-blue enamel, he considered it unique in both stylizations, as well as manufacture.

Oh, he was quite satisfied. A pity, he thought, that I will be giving away my best work. It was not a thought he entertained for long: Jodiah Ayreg was a man of his word; it was a point of pride for him, in fact, and when pride is all one has to live on, then that is what one defends.

Vehemently.

Beyond that, however, it wouldn't fit him anyway. The Emperess of Rhilshen might be matching him in height, but they certainly weren't built the same. There were, after all, inherent and obvious differences in the anatomy of a male's body and that of a female. For example--

He pushed the thought out of his head quickly.

Arrayed on what might pass for a manequin, he stepped back and looked over his work. The girdle had a solid enough buckle, and was the only piece of the armor to really have adornments: it was plated in gold. Engraved (and then filled with enamel) was the crest of the Skye clan. A crimson eight-pointed star, with a snake coiled in the center in the shape of an "S." The breastplate itself was also engraved (and, again, filled with enamel) depicting the personal sigil of The Emperess -- a serpent wrapped around a scarlet circle, devouring itself.

It probably was not quite what she was wanting. She had commissioned a suit of plate armor, and that normally means to imply full-plate. Had he spent more time in the Shadowlands -- or dared to return -- he might have been able to get enough soulstock to make a suit of full-plate. However, given the materials he had to work with, the best he could hope to accomplish was half-plate. A pauldron, a breastplate, matching vambraces and bracers, the girdle, greaves, and plated boots.

Worn by itself it would have made an embarassing sight, perhaps, and not one fit for view in public. When worn over the proper clothing, and over that a suit of mail, then this armor would provide excellent protection while still (most certainly) declaring the Emperess of Rhilshen to be a woman.

That, in itself, could prove to be a valuable weapon with the coming conflict he is sure will engulf Rhilshen soon. Men sometimes had strange notions about women; especially strong ones. All women were weapons; some merely sharper than others.

Disconnecting the straps holding the soulforged armor to the manquin, Jodiah Ayreg began to pack them up, and prepare them for delivery.