Ayreg listened. It seems she wanted him to design and construct a weapon for her. He sniffed, derisivly. "Why should I help you?" he almost sounded petulant, "and what even makes you think I'm capable of it?"

She, herself, was trying to be sultry. Dulcet tones rolled out from between her lips like a harp string's gentle melody. It was an absolutly scandalous outfit she wore, ending with a lacy garter around her thigh that she seemed to never be satisfied with, and constantly had to readjust. He knew this all too well -- beautiful women could always control the flow of negotiations with a smoldering look here, or an accidental wardrobe malfunction there. She even stroked his ego as she commented on how he was a competant blacksmith, and that, given his history in warfare and weaponry, would be the perfect one for the commission. She was trying to distract him.. to keep him occupied with lust and charm -- too dumb-struck to care what she was saying.

It is an old trick.

She went on to explain how the weapon would need to be designed specifically with the thought of slaying Hellspawn. Apparently, one molested Pix or something along those lines, and Tara had bloodlust in her eyes to rectify the situation and repair damaged spirits. Or something along those lines. Either way, it would be a weapon designed specifically to kill a demon; to drive his unholy soul strait into Oblivion, and not simply back down to the flames of the inferno. All the while as she explained, her arms pushed together, forcing her breasts to squeeze into perfectly cloven melons, half-peering out from the filmy outfit she was wearing that could barely be described as strips of cloth held together by string, her leg kicking up and slowly crossing over the other, her voice the very definition of vulnerability and sultry passion that most men find irresistable.

Also an old trick.. but, like the first, it is one that does not work on the cold-hearted.

"If you want this special weapon, Tara, you'll have to do it alone" he started, "I see no profit in it for me."

"Name your price, and I will double it." she replied.

He was almost surprised at how quickly she stated that. He thought for a moment, wondering exactly how many more silver crowns he needed to purchase his suit of full-plate, and perhaps a functional helmet.

"We will discuss my price later, if at all" he said, "understand that to make this weapon to be guarenteed, as you want it, to kill the demon permanently... it will require special materials."

"Name them."

He frowned, mildly annoyed. "Most of the materials are mundane. Sigils of a god of light, some root of the Heavenscent, holy water for temper, a priest to bless the quenching oil.." everything truly was mundane, as he rattled down the list of what it would take to banish the spirit of a demon to Oblivion. Until he got to the last item.

"Some soulstock, from one of the Soulforges of Stygia." Even Ayreg himself did not care to say it. It meant a return trip to the Shadowlands, and the risks posed therein. He was in no hurry to return to the grasp and reach of the Legions of Stygia, but if he was going to do this for her, it would be needed.

Fortunatly, it would be needed last. The rest of the weapon could be started immediatly. Or, at least, the next day when he got back to the blacksmith.

The rest of the night passed without prejudice. She said he needed to get out, taunting him yet again for his gruff attitude and how he would never find a woman to love him -- even though he insists that he isn't looking, she said quite flatly that she did not believe him. She even commented on the contents of Room 12 showcasing his reclusive lifestyle, and how easy the lock was to pick.

She went to get herself a drink, then, but Jodiah's mind turned, thinking back to the dream he had on midwinter's night. It was so vivid.. could it possibly have not been a dream at all, but Tara in his mind, trying to influence him?

When she returned, they talked of times past, again, showing off scars and telling war stories of Imari Stark, and Kain Locke, and Ayreg was introduced to one of Tara's friends by name of Obsidian. Oh, she requested to be called Sid, of course, but the woman -- who appeared to be an elf, and who was almost six inches taller than he was -- was friendly enough. As Tara excused herself, Ayreg left a message for her.

He was going to take up her commission.

He turned to leave, but remembered her taunting him about his lack of a warm body in his blankets to hold. He turned back to the tall she-elf, Obsidian. "Perhaps.. we could see each other again, soon" he said, half-heartedly. If she was going to taunt him about it, the least he could do was to get an offer of a warm body. Even if he had no interest in actually having one share his blankets.

If Obsidian responded, he didn't hear it. He merely turned, and Ayreg stalked away, his typical walk that looked so casual and refined, yet at the same time as dangerous as a coiled spring under pressure.

Jodiah Ayreg did not trust Tara Rynieyn as far as he could throw her. He was almost certain she was a spy for Longden sent to test him, or distract him, but for some reason.. he just felt compelled to help her.

Call it human nature.

The gnomes were running around making silly pirate noises, again. Even so, Jodiah noted, the ingenuity of gnomes could not be denied. Zorbenastrocalipermeneotullis (otherwise known as Bob) had designed a most ingenius weapon, and had even instructed Jodiah in the making of it. Still, the crafting of this weapon -- which seemed to combine traditional metalworking with gnomish tinkering -- was far above Ayreg's own personal skill, and so the gnarled little gnome was standing by to assist.

The two mithril blades themselves were easy enough to construct. They started thin -- the tangs nearly the width of the blades -- but began to expand on either side as they rose away from what would eventually be the hilt. The swords themselves were longer than even a typical hand-and-a-half sword, measuring almost at four feet in length themselves, with a broad triangular tip, and sharpened to a razor all around.

While Zorbenastrocalipermeneotullis (otherwise known as Bob) used the chisel to etch icons of the Truthbringer -- the god they finally decided to call upon in the dedication and blessings of the special sword -- into the blades, Ayreg crafted the hilt. The hilt itself was simple steel; it's edges were hard, and cold. In time, the pommel would have a grand image of a fist and heart etched onto its underside.. the symbol of the Truthbringer.

The top of the hilt was broad, though, coming out to well in excess of three inches across directly above the hand, and narrowing as it continued on. All things had their purpose. Due to the width of the tang, however, the hilt had to be constructed large. It gave the sword more stability with the expanded tang, true, but also made it slightly more unwieldy.

Not that it mattered, if one good strike was enough to fell your opponent.

As Ayreg hammered away at the second mithril blade, thinning it down to the width as described in the construction sheets Zorbenastrocalipermeneotullis (otherwise known as Bob) had written up and posted to the walls of the forge, the smithy himself walked in. Bushy mustache hiding most of his upper lip, he stormed into the forge like a hurricane.

"Wha' in t' name o' all tha's 'oly do ye' t'ink y'er doin', Ayreg?"

Jodiah stopped his work on the blade, looking up. One hand held the heavy, long-handled hammer. The other the tongs, wherein the white-hot stock of mithril was held to the anvil. "I'm working."

"No' on silver, y'er no'. Tha's y'er work 'ere, lad! Ge' back in t'ere an' git ta' work."

"I'm busy."

"Tha's it, Ayreg, Ah've 'ad enough o' y'er lip 'round 'ere. Git ou--"

Ayreg cut him off with a cold stare, and narrowed eyes. His teeth flashed in the threatening way they do, and his voice was stern, and hard as a boulder in the heart of winter. "It is so very important to your continued future, old man, that you do not finish that sentance."

The portly man who ran the smithy frowned, his lips working wordlessly. Suddenly he did not seem so imposing, Jodiah mused, as his chunky hands wrung themselves over and over, and the rolls of blubber jiggled. He was a large man, but also a very strong one -- no matter what one's physique was like, weak men without muscle did not make blacksmiths.

"Very well" he started, at last "jus' clean up when y'er done, Ayreg, and ye' better git all th' rest o' y'er work done in th' silver shop."

He turned and quickly left. Ayreg sneered after him, nodding once to Zorbenastrocalipermeneotullis (otherwise known as Bob) to tell him to continue his engraving the icons of the Truthbringer. Jodiah himself turned back to the strip of mithril -- truesilver, as the dwarves call it -- and continued hammering away.

Sparks flew high in the forge, that day, and the billows did not stop for some time.

The second blade was finished, and the etchings completed by the gnome with the unpronouncable name. Well, pronouncable to the other gnomes, anyway, though not to his human tongue. It simply couldn't wrap around that many syllables. To Ayreg, he was simply known as Bob.

It's been perhaps an hour since he took his break, and the sun was now high in the midday sky. Wiping beads of sweat from his brow with his soot-stained arm, Jodiah almost thought about staying out in the cool air for a few minutes longer. No rest for the weary, though, and the gnomes had a peculiar way of dealing with someone that wasn't working.

According to them, the captain had to be the first over the rail and onto the enemy's deck. "Try orderin' a group o' crusty ol' buccaneers t' storm a frigate while y'er hidin' in th' powder room, an' see where it gits ye'" Joshel the Large (the Gnome) once said to the owner of the forge.

By now, though, the group of gnomes had finished tinkering together the odd chains. There were two, and they handled them with tongs. Ayreg could see why at a glance -- only one end of the chains was harmless at all, appearing to have a bolthole cut through it. The rest of the chain on the sides and opposite tip were ridged with razor-sharp mithril edging. Ayreg nodded approvingly. He didn't have to see it in action to know the kind of damage a weapon like that could do.

Placing the hilt and single blade on its back, he leaned over the anvil as the gnomes placed the chains with the bolthole near the flanged tip of the truesilver blade. Careful movements with a handy hardy while holding the chain more-or-less in place with the tongs lined the boltholes on the chains up to pre-marked positions on the sword.

Thistle the Gnome brought over the finished second blade, and they slid it down into the second tang slot. Jodiah knocked it twice with the hammer, securing the oversized handguard to the blade. Now the tinkering resumed.

Jodiah watched with rapt attention as the gnomes huddled around the sword laying on the anvil. Tiny hammers and bolts were brought out, and the bolts were hammered down with the careful precision a surgeon would have. When they nodded to Ayreg and stepped back, he lifted the sword.

The chains swung free, as he knew they would, dangling to the sides out of the sandwich-style blades. He held the sword up, and the two whip-like razors slid down between the twin blades, stopping with an abrupt click.

Jodiah smiled.

The gnomes had tinkered together clever sliding and locking mechanisms built into the hilt. When a tiny lever was pulled just above the handle of the sword, small teeth lifted out of their position from holding the razor-whips in position. Theoretically, this would allow the wielder of this weapon to swing the sword, tripping the lever right at the moment of impact, and wrapping the poor victim up to either side with the razor-sharp mithril-ridged chain-whips. It was hard enough to wrap his head around the concept of using gravity in such a manner, he had to see it in action.

Walking into the back courtyard, the gnomes set up a series of wooden dummies, vaguely in humanoid shape. He nodded to them, and they scampered away.

A powerful, singular thrust set the truesilver tip of the sword deep into the wood.

A slash tore a large gouge out from the side of the practice dummy. A most acceptable reaction, Jodiah thought, as the chain-whips functioned like serrates even in their closed position.

The final dummy was brought up, and Jodiah made a large-arched swing of the sword, releasing the lever just before impact.

The sudden stop as the sword buried into the dummy sent the chain whips flying out from between the sandwiched-together mithril blades, up and out, flexing their dozens of joints as they wrapped around the wooden dummy. Mithril edgings on the chain whip took anchor into the wood, on both sides.

Jodiah turned, ripping the sword back and away. Another acceptable response -- as the chain-whips were jerked free, splinters of wood exploded from the back side of the dummy, complimenting the finely-cut gorge left by the razor-sharp dual blades of the sword itself.

The last, and perhaps most acceptable response of all was that in the backswing of pulling away, the chain-whips reverted their direction, sliding back down into the sword and locking into place again with a soft click. Jodiah was most impressed.

There was still work to be done, of course, like reheating the hilt one last time to make sure the tang took a solid lock to the handguard, wrapping the hilt itself with leather for grip, and perhaps laying gold filigree into the handle to enhance its appearance.

He frowned, though, thinking... he still needed to coat the weapon in soulstock. Until then, it was as deadly as it was beautiful, but soul-forged coating on the mithril would give it the guarentee that anything killed by it would never make a return to the world.

With the Stygian soulforges in the Shadowlands being the only place to get soulstock, he was merely hoping Tara would be getting him someone capable enough to watch his back. Assaulting a soulforge isn't easy even when you're a wraith; and when the living enter the land of the dead, they stand out from the crowd.

Jodiah Ayreg had no intention of falling into the Legion's hands, again.