Osward

SPACE You walk along between the familiar buildings of Deepbush. You stop in front of the jeweler, Old Man Withersby, just to make sure he’s open. (He sets his own hours, you know.) Seeing that he is, you continue on toward Osward’s. The familiar ring of steel-on-steel fills the air.

SPACE You enter the stone breezeway that serves as shelter for Osward’s forges. Standing over the huge furnace, banging away on the red hot blade of a longsword, is Osward. Standing just over six feet tall, he easily dwarfs your small stature. He is completely bald (you know he shaves it with a straight razor) with a black moustache that hangs below his chin with a handlebar style. His eyes are deep brown and have terrible crow’s feet. His mouth always seems curled in a grimace and his clothing is never without soot. He stops clanging against his enormous anvil and sticks his piece in a brazier of water, which hisses in protest. He greets you with an irregular smile.

SPACE “Meggana!” he cries when you enter. “I’m so glad you have come to visit today!” He seems very excited about something. You have never seen him this happy.
SPACE “I am dying to share this with someone,” he finishes, allowing a quick laugh to escape his mouth.
SPACE “What has your moustache all in a tither, Oz?” you ask innocently, pretending not to be interested.
SPACE “I’ve finished it,” he says.
SPACE Finished what? you think to yourself.
SPACE As if reading your thoughts, he answers, “Osblade!”
SPACE Osblade? you ask silently. What the hell is Osblade?
SPACE He is still very excited as he begins peering over his shoulder, as if keeping a secret from the rest of the world.
SPACE “Close those doors, girl,” he commands. You humor him, yanking the large barn doors closed, killing all outside illumination. The only lighting is the crackling fire of his great forge.
SPACE He scurries over to the other side of the shop to a large pile of junk metal, sheets, and broken blades rest. Shadows dance across the walls and ceiling. He looks around once more and then begins to pull all of it away from the wall. Finally, he pulls a large piece of plywood from the ground. A hole has been dug there. Osward bends down and reaches into the hole, producing a long, slender case of mahogany wood.
SPACE He carries the case over to his workbench almost ceremoniously. He light s hooded lantern there and then stops to momentarily smile at you.
SPACE “I stayed up all last night to finish it,” he tells you. You had no idea he was working on anything. Especially anything so obviously important to him. Osward produces a key from under his leather apron and inserts it into the lock on the case. The tiny lock clicks open and he swings back the lid on thin hinges. Inside rests an ornate bastard sword.
SPACE “I give you, Osblade,” he says, pulling the sword from the case. It’s blade gleams in the firelight. It is obviously magnificent. The blade is nearly five feet long with the word ‘Osblade’ etched into its length. The hilt is wrapped in brown leather tethers and its guard and pommel are made of what appears to be gold.
SPACE “Is that gold?” you ask, despite yourself.
SPACE Osward nods excitedly, and hands it to you to touch. “Dipped. I commissioned Withersby to make it and set this bloodstone in its pommel.”
SPACE Looking at the bottom of the sword’s handle, a large dark gray gem stares back at you. Flecks of red glint in the lantern’s glow. It is superb.
SPACE “It’s very heavy,” you say, picking it up.
SPACE “Aye,” he says. “I made it to fit and balance just me. It is my opus.”

SPACE You are impressed with the man’s craftsmanship yet again. You have seen Osward turn out some fine weapons, but none compare to this.

SPACE He puts the blade away and bids you help him reopen the doors.