A figure walks into the Foundry, dressed in black cloth and chainmail, a hood and mask covering his face. He proceeds to the great piles of metal bars for sale, purchasing a considerable amount of Darksteel. He motions for them to be taken to one of the nearby empty forges. The sound of ringing hammers fills the sweltering area, and as he approaches the forge, he pulls down his hood, revealing the little known cutter known as Malus. Some of the bare chested smiths murmur and point toward the man, mentioning he wishes to become a Namer.
Malus proceeds to divulge himself of his cloak; followed by his weapon belt from which hangs a wicked spiked mace. His chainmail falls to a pile on the floor, followed by his tunic and his boots, leaving him wearing nothing but his undergarments. A concentrated frown is set upon his face. He extends his fist towards the forge and fire bursts forth, the coals glowing bright under the flames. After pumping the bellows to heat the coals to the appropriate temperature, he proceeds to heat the metal. A few minutes after, a simple hammer in hand, his muscled arm pounds again and again to the sound of ringing metal. The sparks seem to fizzle upon his bare skin. As he works, his fists begin to glow a soft purple and tendrils of energy start to snake to engulf the hammerhead, causing the sparks to flash with eldritch power. It becomes apparent his work is small, to which several other smiths scoff and shake their heads, resuming their own tasks.
Some time later, Malus is bent double, sweat beading from shaven head down to his feet, as he works with tooling his craft. Standing with an abrupt nod, he reaches within a small bag set beside his clothes to withdraw a shining gem and a slightly glowing powdered essence. Gripping the gem in one hand, he works the essence over the metalwork, and then seems to just stand there. If any were watching, they would see him begin to tremble. The knuckles of the hand clutching the gem turn white, and a soft purple glow begins to infuse both hands. Suddenly, arcs of energy begin to leap from his hands to the metal, the multicoloured magics coursing over the work, caressing it with a crackling embrace. The essence hisses and the metal groans as the two are forced together, light and darkness pulsing and flickering from the object creating dancing shadows upon the mans bare chest. After moments, it is quiet and stillness, Malus panting with the same concentrated frown. He proceeds to pick up his work, slowly gliding them over his hands. Wicked looking metal gauntlets adorn the end of his arms as he flexes them, each tooled finger flexing itself. The hands look akin to claws decorated in blood-red metal, clearly intended for an intimidating appearance.
Satisfied, the man turns back to the forge, wearing his new gauntlets, and begins work once more. Time passes. Minutes, hours, perhaps even days, but the man does not care. He is one with the hammer, one with the metal, one with the forging. As he progresses, he repeats the same magic ritual on every item. Next he wears metal boots, again forged of the blood-red enchanted Darksteel, but does not stop. A suit of chainmail follows the same process, intricately tooled with a fine hand, before being covered with leg plates, pauldrons, and breastplate. Soon the man is covered from head to toe in the wicked armour, a horned helm the final glory resting upon his crown. Picking up his old cloak, he swirls it about his shoulders, fastening it into place. Turning, he addresses the foundry, his voice not muffled by the helmet but amplified, the deep grating tones rebounding from the walls.
“I, Malus Darkforge, have come to you. It is unlikely you know my name. But I have seen the multiverse for what it truly is. Pure, unbridled chaos trying to tear you apart!”
He thrusts an accusing finger at no one in particular.
“The gods mean nothing in the true scheme. They are just those who have weathered the storm, those who have wrested power with their own hands. That is what I have always done, and what I shall continue to do. The verse is full of bloods who try and claw their way up the ladder with kindness, and compassion, and other foolish notions! But I know the truth. Strength, power, is the answer. To shed the chains imposed upon us by those around us, to ascend to true power through our own will! There is a Source, and I Believe. It is anger, hatred, and chaos. And it is channelling this source that gives me power. Embracing it and holding it with both hands. I come to you forged by darkness, by anger, by love and by hatred. You have seen what I can create, but it is nothing compared to what I can destroy.
I am the Darkforged.”
A New Godsman Is Forged
