Bahlnus

<--The Many
==God of Metallurgy==
Sparks fly as the hammer strikes red-hot steel. Vapors hiss as the seething metal is dropped in Aquis' body. The work is not done. Patience and a fine eye are the blacksmith's allies; Bahlnus is their god. He is the hammer's strike, he is the dripping metal, he is the bar of ore. He is the rare crystal in the mountain, that miners seek.
His sigil is the anvil or the pickaxe. His father is Orbaelus and his brother is Ghorus. His body is the soft metal above the foundry's fire. Pray to Bahlnus not for luck or easy work, pray to him for the constution to become a master of your craft. Metallurgy is a magic all its own, and Bahlnus' faithful are its sorcerers. Thank Bahlnus for a job well done and a product well made. Thank him for the sturdiness of your armor and the sharpness of your blade.
-- --
--
"I watch the forge smolder and flicker with an almost hypnotic rhythm. The pyre rages forth with ferocity, a beast attempting to strike from its iron cage. The room becomes brilliant in color, every fault and crack is revealed within the stonework. There is a glow that would blind the fool to gaze at its beauty for too long. As all gold cannot stay, the flame is only welcome for these few moments. The beast's power is great, but it is held back and contained by the metallic bars surrounding it. 
The pyre would consume any if it were to escape from its confinement. The master is only stronger when its subjects are contained. As the beast retreats from its attempted escape, the colors fade. The walls become more perfect, more uniform in their appearance. Their once riddled structure now a thing of darkness; perception is not an illusion, but a void. It becomes difficult to discern the pattern of anything but the anvil before me. The focus is the flame. The focus is the forge.
I thrust metal into the beast's mouth, and it hisses with disdain and woe. The pyre retaliates, shooting sparks and ash onto my flesh. For the veteran master, the flesh is hard. The flesh is the iron that has already been forged. There is no pain as the charred remains of ash upon the skin pale to grey. The iron within my grasp shines with the blood of the beast. As the sun burns, so does the iron so close to my flesh. It is a burn that is pleasant, one familiar and seared into the mind's thoughts. The iron is laid firmly upon the anvil, clanging a single-noted song as the metals collide. 
The hand is raised; it is a hammer, an extension of my closed fist and will. As it is willed, the hand rains wind and force down upon the bloodied iron. A second note to the song of metallurgy is heard. Again. Again. A melody. Particles of the beast scatter across the dim floor, joining its brothers before it. The flesh is hard, and ignores any blood strewn upon it. The flesh is iron, standing with the reverberations of the metal being pounded before it. It is a wave of force that connects the flesh to the metal. The flesh is the metal. Again. Pounding iron against its own, sweat drips down from the brow onto the blood of the beast. It sizzles, raising no rebellion against heat and failing to temper the rage that is the forge's doing. 
The metal before me takes shape. The blood of the beast and the hand, its own, work together to mold destiny and future. The tip of the metal is edged, jagged; it will soon cut more than the pyre's wrath. The blood of the beast loses its gleam just as the forge does, having been separated too long from the beast. I raise the sharp metal on high as it meets the brilliance of the room for the first time. I have much work to do. I thrust the changed metal into the beast's mouth. The anvil awaits us. The cycle continues.
I am the sword. I am the iron."
- a passage from The First Forge, the holy book of Bahlnus
--
((Excerpt written by Bacon_Bits))
Category:Destiny of the Fated
Category:DOTF Religion