Welf had always felt that ancient thirst for his own blood. She cried in his veins, hummed like a bell, beat in his head like a sea tide, begged, sang sweetly in his ears, waking up after generations. Welf did not want to listen to him - it was too bitter, to give in to the call, to sink into the singing of the metal, to feel its trembling and the singing of life in his hands – and then to feel the devastation and utter bitterness of seeing his creation disintegrate into silver dust. He couldn't explain the bitterness of his loss, but the magic blades sang so sweetly and joyfully, so loudly, that he just wanted to stand and listen. The ordinary weapons sang too, softly, almost inaudibly, but Welf could feel its breath, its life. And he did not understand-did the other blacksmiths, his father, his grandfather, not feel that all weapons are alive, if forged with love in the heart and heat in the hands. Blessed steel, heavy and black or light and silver, caressed the hands of the beloved child. And the magic swords... the brightest, the loudest, the most burning and alive were doomed to bend and were not afraid of death at all.
But Welf didn't want to forge blades the way his family wanted him to. There was no fire in their hands, no desire to create in their hearts. Their minds were preoccupied with money and power – and they didn't realize that if they really got to work, everything would come back to Saba. If only they would stop chasing it.
Magic weapons are a chance for salvation. It will burn sweetly as it burns, and help you at the cost of your life, burning to the ground – but the army of Rakia craved them as a means of conquest. They wanted thousands of obedient blades that would change like gloves. Never stopping, with such blades, an army could crush cities and countries, dry up the seas, reshape the land. But Welf could not imagine that he would ever dare to create such a doomed weapon. But he was pressed, forced, and hammered with thoughts of greatness – and in the end, the very thought of ever giving a magic blade into someone else's hands made the young blacksmith shudder with anger and longing.
So he ran away – first he took one of the horses of his father, then when moved a sufficient distance, he let go of the old Matafler home. So they would not miss him so soon, thinking that he had ridden off again in his fit of youthful pride to get some air, and would return himself when he realized that Matafler had again forgotten herself and gone back to her warm stall. Welf himself went on, making odd jobs and occasionally joining the occasional farmer on his way to blessed Orario. His throat was full of sand and road dust, but his heart was pounding and singing. He think his destiny close – he could feel its breath over his right shoulder. The blood began to howl in his veins again, calling for forging, but then Welf did not listen to her, leaning back, exposing his face to the sun and the warm bucket, and feeling something completely new inside him.
A woman walked past him – her red, copper-gold hair fluttering in the Wake of her movements, breaking in a wave in the warm wind. Her movements were not those of a young, trembling maiden – her gait was that of a working man, one who abhors idleness and indolence. Beauty and grace are not seductresses, but blacksmiths. Welf looked at her silhouette, wrapped in the sunlight, and couldn't help thinking that this was the goddess.
Then he will realize that he was not mistaken.
But even in this city, everything was still the same. As soon as people heard about his skill and magic gift, they laid out bags of money in front of him, demanding a special weapon. Welf, fed up with such treatment, snarled at all these rich idiots, threw them out of his forge and shouted that he would not do it. His fellow Guildsmen were not far behind, too, with jeers flying from all sides, as if Welf himself was only an Appendix to the blood of the Crozzo family. Welf clenched his teeth until they creaked, threw himself into the Dungeon alone, and then forged, forged and forged, putting all of himself into. But the name could not be hidden, and the merchants only sighed, reluctantly accepting the usual weapons from him.
«If there is something worthwhile, maybe it will sell better»
Welf did not understand them – he put all of himself into his work. The armor he was making sang with strength and confidence inside. Welf never stopped at just good armor – he brought beauty to it. Like red hair in the wind, like sunlight – beauty was an important part. Sometimes Welf could not look at the rough-hewn armor of the adventurers, devoid of harmony and beauty – they did not sing, did not even moan. It was a dead job, just for the sake of giving it away sooner.
Money was needed, of course – but Welf still couldn't bring himself to hand over his magic weapon to someone else, where it would become just another tool. So he stopped making magic weapons, even though the magic blood that was left without a bootie for creativity screamed pitifully in his ears.
Welf sometimes found himself thinking about spitting and letting himself go, but remembering other people's greedy faces, he got goosebumps with disgust and threw the hammer away from him. No. never. He is not a slave to his blood.
Still, it's better than feeling like he is doing something wrong.
The news of a newcomer who had reached the second level in just a month and a half had spread through Orario like wildfire in the hot summer – even Welf, who had not shown his nose from the forge for the past few days. Bell Cranel, Overtaking Shadow, Shadowfax – this is a strange title but it fits. Welf had never heard of anyone getting to the second level so quickly – some people spend their whole lives on it, unable to jump above their heads. And now… Even as it is awkward. As if everyone in this town didn't have enough desire, since some little kid from a tiny Family had overtaken them all.
Welf thinks about it a little longer, but shakes his head. There was no time to think about it – he had made some more beautiful, sonorous blades and armor as light as the footsteps of a forest deer. It's time to take them to this obnoxious merchant and try to get him to put Welf's work in the light once in a while.
The merchant, of course, refuses. It doesn't sell very well, he see - clearly someone is paying him extra to put their work forward. After all, if an adventurer notices their work, appreciates and loves-the contract is already in your pocket. What should he, Welf, do? He doesn't have any extra coins, and he never had any, and he can't rely on the merchant's conscience. So Welf tries to claim his precious creations at least a moment in the light, when the merchant is urgently distracted, trying to get away from Welf. A quiet rustle of steps closer.
"Where can I find an armor from the Welf Crocco?"
Welf wants to laugh – the words ring like music to him, and the surprised expression on the merchant's face redeems all those hours when they argued about the place of weapons in the window. Welf turns his gaze to the stranger, his sharp, practiced gaze scanning him-thin but fast, light armor on him will look just right, hair silvered like Mithril, eyes like hot coals in a furnace. Welf pushes the box of armor toward him and smiles wider, watching his eyes light up with an admiring fire. The boy is already in love with this armor – and judging by the soft purr of the metal, the armor is ready to reciprocate.
"They're beautiful," - the young adventurer picks up the handcuff and gently runs his hand over it. Welf sees the creature rejoice under the stranger's careful touch, growing brighter and brighter. It looks like his luck has finally turned – no matter what the others say - "But don't you feel sorry for him? Are they not yours? "
"They're mine. I'm a blacksmith. Welf Crozzo, at your service, " - Welf can no longer contain himself and smiles as wide as he can – his heart is too happy when he sees his children in the right hands. The blacksmith holds out his hand for a handshake – his broad palm, covered with traces of old burns and calluses, has slipped thin light fingers.
"Bell Cranell. Nice to meet you. "
It seems that now the fate of Welf decided to turn a bright side to him – Shadowfax himself, the record holder among adventurers, was delighted with his armor. So the contract is just around the corner – and maybe even listen his strange desire. To get the Blacksmith Ability, Welf needed the second Level, and alone he could not go down to the middle Floors – it was simply impossible to ask for a group from his Family, he would go crazy from ridicule. So Welf saw a chance before him, and he was going to take it.
Bell examined the armor reverently, running his fingers along the edges and assessing the delicate patterns. Welf admires the sight – he has never seen such attention to his work.
"So you're the record holder? Overtaking Shadow?" - Welf makes a point of it, seeing the other blacksmiths walking around. Getting a famous client is like getting a ticket to a new life, so the quiet and calm Bell is now being hunted, even if he doesn't see it. The adventurer just nods, touching his fingers to the brand on the back – this time Welf has stamped a galloping deer over his name. He already had a rabbit, a fox, and even a wolf - "I had no idea that my armor would appeal to any celebrity. "
"This armor saved my life, master Crozzo, "- Bell finally breaks away from the scrutiny of the bib and smiling. He looks very soft, and he has a bag on his belt filled to the brim with herbs. He doesn't look like someone who has raised his level so quickly – he looks more like someone from the support team. And this admires Welf – not everyone can afford to be so strong and soft at the same time.
"I'm glad if that's the case. That's what they're for. And please, just Welf. Even though you're younger than me, I can't hear anyone calling me master. " - The blacksmiths are still circling around them, as if they're going to offer their services the moment Bell refuses. Welf, suddenly frightened by this prospect, blurts out, almost without thinking, - " So, do you want to sign a contract with me? It will benefit both of us. "
Welf is waiting for a refusal – too quickly offered, too eagerly asked. Bell puts the armor aside, carefully covers it with a cloth to protect it from the sun, and looks Welf in the eye. Suddenly, he feels his anxiety go away – and Bell smiles at him.
"It's an honor, Welf," - Shadowfax says, holding out his hand, and Welf grabs it tightly, letting out a cry of joy. The blacksmiths nearby grumble and turn away, hurrying about their business, and Bell laughs, though a soft blush fills his cheeks.
"I didn't expect you to be so pleased, Welf. But I'm glad, too. "
Welf straightens up, putting his hand on the chest of armor. He hopes that his request will not pass by other people's ears and hearts.
"Please accept me into your battle group. "
Welf's heart was about to explode – he was on the Middle Floors! After so many years of futile attempts and boring cleaning of the upper floors, he finally descended below. His trusty sword hummed softly in time with its master's excitement – Welf stroked the hilt, sharing his happiness. Behind him, rustling the pale grass of the dungeon, glided his companions – Bell was very well suited to his new armor, and their little support Lili looked at him strangely, as if doubting him.
"Lili, you'll help Welf, won't you?" - Bell smiles and moves a little further, as if getting into the right position. His soft movements inspire Welf with confidence – and immediately Welf hears, even feels, the ringing all over his skin. Bell takes the blade out of its makeshift scabbard – it's alive, it's alive, and it's very, very angry about something. Welf has never seen such a weapon in his life and is drawn to touch it. Later, he Decides, and tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword.
Then a fight ensues – and suddenly Welf notices that they work perfectly with each other. Where he doesn't have time, pulling the blade back for a swing, Bell appears, drawing attention to himself. Where they begin to be pinned, the sharp bolts from Lili's crossbow cause the monsters to move in the other direction. Where Bell passes on the edge of the attack, Welf puts out the broad blade of his sword, covering it like a shield. Welf did not expect such ease and coherence from them, a newly assembled group, but he is glad of it.
"It's all Lili's doing. She is the best" - Bell sheaths his blade and leans over some grass, Lily whistles as she carves magic stones from slain monsters, and Welf himself freezes for a moment, listening to the harmony of the Dungeon itself.
Welf understands that his new acquaintance will definitely be interested in his last name – Crozzo, like a curse. So he waits for Bell to ask the question that excites him, even leading him to his forge-the weapons left there are friendly singing in low voices. Welf ruefully strokes the hilt of the nearest weapon and promises silently that one day he will find them all masters.
Bell enters the forge as if he were entering a temple – Welf feels his excitement and delight. He's still waiting for the question about magic weapons, but he doesn't start first, waiting for Bell to get a taste of his work. The young adventurer touches each blade – Welf barely smiles as he hears them begin to sing for him – and walks over to the two-handed one and presses his cheek lightly against it, feeling the cold steel.
"It's about the size of me, "- ,Bell laughs softly, and Welf laughs with him.
"That's easy to achieve. You're little " - Welf enjoys the situation and does not notice how he talks about his skill, blood and decisions. Bell is a good listener, he doesn't interrupt, and Welf feels a strange tenderness for him, like a younger brother.
"Well, since we're here, let's see what we can do here today. "
Welf takes the Minotaur's horn and prepares to start working, when he hears the ringing again. The dagger, alive and very angry, trembles almost imperceptibly in its leather scabbard, already worn and soft.
"What about the scabbard for him?"- Bell follows Welf's gaze, and puts his hand on the hilt, sighing softly.
"That would be nice. I'm always afraid that the strap will break. But he's very ... peculiar. "
Welf understands – and explores it without touching it. In Bell's hands, the dagger is calm, though displeased with the presence of another person – Welf takes measurements and thinks about how to do everything right.
"I'll make a scabbard… But I think for this to work, I need something from you to keep him calm, " - Welf is still thinking when Bell cuts off a lock of his own hair in one motion and hands it to him.
"Will that be all right?"
"I'm think yes" - Welf takes the curled hair from his hand and smiles. They're getting more and more like Mithril in the light - "It'll definitely work. "
They work late into the night, and Bell falls asleep at the table – he is still younger than Welf, and it is hard for him in the heat and stuffiness of the forge. Welf looks at the reddish dagger that came out from under his hammer and smiles. Good Job.
The scabbard comes out by itself - silver-gray, light and strong. A strand of white hair is woven into the metal as if it should always be there, and Welf smiles at his work. He leans over the table, knocking out delicate patterns, and does not notice how thin-legged horses run along the thin rim from under his hand. Bell breathes softly in his sleep as Welf covers him with his coat.
Let him sleep a little longer, his strange new friend.
Shadowfax, variant translation - Overtaking Shadow, — Rohan horse, the leader of the Royal herd mearas. Like other horses, mearas, Shadowfax grey or silver stallion and could understand human speech. He's practically fearless. Shadowfax could ride faster than any other horse in middle-earth. Shadowfax would not tolerate the harness and saddle and carried Gandalf by his own choice.
Hello everybody! Here's Welf, the best big brother in Orario's history) I think it will be better from now on
I've been asked why Bell is developing so fast. His skill is still with him, but he's not fixated on Aiz - even though she helped him by saving him from the Minotaur. Since bell has already been saved on the verge of death twice, he wants to become the same for others - and his desire is so pure that it triggered his skill to accelerate development.
Why did I choose the name Shadowfax? For a number of reasons. First of all, Freya didn't say her word, so they wouldn't have given him the usual name. Secondly, the gods would like to giggling on Miach by giving a title for His child, so they chose the name of the horse, arguing that he has a dog (Naaza has the title of hound). And Third - I think it sounds cool)