Bleuhebluebluhebeuh so much for updating on wednesday. Life always seems to be interesting at the most inconvenient times. Also I really didn't want to put that ending there. Beluhebluhebluehbluehb. I wanted to write something else but I was too lazy. Well I'm not going to edit it, because it's really not a big deal, but blechu I don't like it. I did more research for this following bit than I have for most of the entire story so far. I mean, I've done quite a bit of mythological research for ideas, but I haven't yet done any fact checking until now.
Because maths are important. I came up with the number 440 as the absolute minimum if you could get all of the iron out of somebody, but that seems low (due to not having a perfect method to extract iron and due to elves being half sized). I'm going to say 2,000, because elves need to eat and there has to be some error room.
"Now that sword. That acursed iron stick,"
She said and stared in sorrow at the ground,
"Is an isnult from a goblin king's trick".
"There have been many evil jokes around,
But few can turn a slave into a hound.
Fewer still have nigh destroyed a race.
I take that back. Only one fits this case."
"A long time past, fore we were born
The hearts of our mothers with pride did burn.
They waged a war doomed and forlorn,
But goblin hearts are of spite, they would learn.
Our army? Gone. Our lord? In chains.
Their king asked for the wishes of the queen.
"Cutting our trees causes such pains,
Torture seems a pleasent thing to be seen."
"So shall it then be." Said the king.
She knew it not, but our old queen was wrong.
So wrong that to lies she would cling,
Because that sword is the armie's last song.
Blood tastes of iron, so 'tis said.
Iron makes swords, like your very blade.
Without much blood is one quite dead,
As color does from her face slowly fade.
We have nothing 'gainst metal, no,
The use of dead trees is its only flaw.
The task was to make a sword. Simple, though,
Is it not when tools are living and raw.
No wood. No dirt. No clothes. No stone.
Nothing but elves, every one of them pawns.
They ate their friends, picked to the bone.
They were redder than the reddest of dawns.
And the blood. Oh, the blood. The spill.
Every drop was saved and put in a well.
So many dead. So many still.
They pleaded to rot in hell below hell.
That's enough for now. I'm really glad I can finally start talking about the sword that the Bard found in a barrel at Shrak, and why it burnt his hand (or whatever you want to say it did. It didn't burn his hand because it didn't get hot, but we'll get to that.) I like having artifacts sort of just floating around in the world. The Golden Short Sword being some sort of demon slaying relic that symbolizes dwarven strength, and this Iron Blade (I don't have a name. I was thinking just calling it the rapscallion blade because that's what I called it first, but that's not fitting.) which is literally made out of thousands of elves.
As a joke.
Goblin jokes are wonderful. What? No wood? Okay. Make a metal sword! You don't need wood for that, you have all the metal you need right inside you, you cannibals.
I like where it's going. Between the slow anger that's making the bard more violent and dark and the complete ridiculousness of the characters, I'm pretty proud of myself. Maybe I'm not really explaining my points in the story well enough, but I can't really tell. The story may just be really detailed in my head.
Also I'm note even close to being done with this little history part. It needs a lot of description. It's an important artifact. Not a real plot point like the golden sword, but still important. It's what's going to help the Bard end the story.