As I pass the open gates of the city, I dismount and disarm, placing my unusual weapon across my mount's back. After many battles I'm still enamored with its cruel appearance. The curved double-plowshare was never intended to be an insturment of death, but over the years I have been able to open many minds to the idea. Literally. I cast my eyes over the streets and feel its eyes searching me. Do they suspect me to be some marauding troll, or plague ridden zombie? I'm doing my best to assume the most genteel posture when I catch the eye of one of the city's Lords. He's cradling his infant son in his arms. I happen to meet his eye as he nods to his serf to follow me. I take the gesture as a compliment, accepting my newly appointed tail. It may come in handy if I decide to make a bold statement of some kind. But for now, I let it sway to and fro in the street traffic behind me. I'm looking for an old blacksmith's shop and its location is yet a little cloudy in my memory.
The ringing beats of a hammer draw me in, and the young man sweating in the orange light looks vaguely familiar. He doesn't look up when I inform him that I'll require a much hotter forge. Slightly annoyed, he tells me that this one won't tollerate any higher temperatures. Only when I chuckle and tell him that I know better, does he look up and me and ask who I am. I was an apprentice of Polonius, who I assume was the young man's father. I'm dumbfounded when he informs me that Polonius is his grandfather, and that he would fetch him for me. The old man is yet alive.
By dusk, the flames are roaring bright blue as I heave against the bellows to the cursing shouts of old Polonius. It would be hours of back breaking labor through the night, lest the rare elements I had gathered in my travels would go to waste. It would take every pound of coke in the old man's stores to coax the dear materials into liquidus. Silica from the whitest shores of Zealand, icy stone chips cleaved from the lofty Dolomite Alps of Svizzera, dust gathered by the handful from the streets of Greek Magnesia, all would need to swirl together for the old man to stretch and hammer into the thinnest silver thread. For now though, at sunset he only cursed and cackled at his luck. He had lived to see the day when two bastard suns had set on his dingy little world.