Defiance was born in a cradle of fire. It was black, made of obsidian, like most weapons of legends were said to be. The Obsidian had been taken from the very mines the dragon had defiled with its flame.

  There was an age when they would have seen it as a blessing. Like the mountain was hollowed by it. Like the sea was boiling because of it.

  But not anymore. Now the land would fight back and so would the clan. It was an irony not chosen by the shamans but the smith, that the metal was the very same obsidian it had created. The very threat it meant to pose on them and the very ritual it had prepared the mines for. It would be its doom.

  The obsidian was still hot when they gathered it. The stone and metal mingled together by the dragons might. On any other day it would have been a smith’s duty to tame the hot black stone. But not this day. Its fury was the very reason it was chosen. They would not quench it, they would not tame it, they would unleash it.

  No one knew how much time they would have before either the dragon or the Khan would return, but even that fury was casted right into the blade.

  Yet it refused to be made. Fear was cast through the obsidian that had been formed by the dragon's flame. It took day and night until it accepted the fire of the forge and was ready to be cast anew. Smiths hammered down and brought it to form, shamans sang and made the ancestors watch.

  This was no mere blade. It was a legacy to be made. A blade to slay a god, to slay a dragon, or die trying.

  The smith and the chieftain called it the edge of defiance, yet once its purpose was whispered among the clan it carried more than one name. Some just shortened it to their Defiance, others just named it for what it was meant to be. The Dragonslayer.

  Overnight the egg watched, and even when dawn arose it remained a watcher. Like the clan its eyes were eager to see destiny unfold. Whatever it would entail.

  To the elders it soon became clear that the weapon's name would be remembered only depending on the end of its hunt.

  Either it would be their last act of Defiance. The last teeth a clan showed against the lashes of gods and Khans.

  Or, it would be remembered for what it was said to do, for the blood of its prey.

  The smiths never stopped to hammer down on it. To craft and reforge it again and again. To fold its metal over and over again. All while the shamans sang. The ancestors watched and the winds howled through the hollow and the mountains. The hammers became one with the many drums and the horns one with the wind.

  The forging of a weapon, of obsidian no less, was always a hallowed act among the Frostsong. But this weapon was the last rite they might ever do and they would treat it as such. A last grand song to defy the fires of destiny that sought to chain them and to unleash the most ancient of hatred.

  Not even the oldest stories told them about the being from wich’s rot they were born. And not even the elders knew that this blade would carry far more than their own hatred. It would be wielded to end a fight that was thought to be lost at the dawn of creation. And no matter if it succeeded or not it would usher in a new age of battle and conquest. Fury and war.

  They didn’t know that even beyond the dragon the might of the west was soon rising. Like the tides that were unleashed after the sorceress' storms were cut it would seek to wash over their land. And no matter how the battle of ascension would end, the edge of defiance, the Dragonslayer, would be there to watch and unleash all the ancient hatred.

  It was a sudden stop when the three smiths around it stopped to hammer down. When they did the song and drums stopped too and even the wind was holding its breath.

  The ancestors watched when the man who had just forged destiny took it into his hand. It was heavy, bigger than a sword should be, but to slay the dragon it had to cut deep. It was as big as the Khan it was meant to defy. Stung into the ground even a big orc like Bruna’Gash the beast would have its hilt next to his shoulder and not below it. It was thick for a sword and they would need to sharpen its many edges for just as long.

  The forgemaster, a man who had forged destiny all his life, wanted nothing more than to raise the blade and roar. But he knew it was not yet done.

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  He turned and rammed it into the earth and snow. The snow melted and smoke rose from the earth. It wasn’t only the heat of the forge it carried but the dragon’s flame. It would do so for many centuries and remind its wielder of the enemy.

  Once the sword was cast into the ground he nodded at the shamans ahead of them. Yet his hands remained on the big sword. Its black carried a shine that most obsidian weapons had lost over the ages. A black mirror that would deflect the fires that gave birth to it.

  While he held the sword the two other smiths, his son and a woman he had long accepted as his daughter, started to sharpen the many edges. It had plenty of them for the forge had been too small to craft it at once. The biggest edge was right at its top where it took a sharp turn down that had been tradition to orcish blades of the hollow for many generations.

  While the smiths sharpened it, he felt the pain in his hands. A smith was used to fire, but this blade would test its wielder as much as its prey. But he held onto it. His two apprentices were all the reason he needed, yet there were only two of many to defy the dragon's chains.

  The oldest shaman, a man who was whispered to become the next seer now that Master Cra’Gal was dead, came close. He used a small walking stick and took his time. Bones and chains were dangling from it as much they did from him and every step was accompanied by the song of the shaman’s chains.

  Once at the sword he studied it closely. Slowly his hands washed over the clean but hot black metal and he whispered in the oldest tongue.

  Two other shamans came by and gave the elder hammer and chisel. While the smith apprentices sharped and the forgemaster held it in place, the old shaman began to hammer holes into the blade. It was thick, yet this was the last test before battle. He raised his hammer high and the song started again. The holes he crafted into its side were meant to sing. It would weaken the metal, yet force the wind to its side so every swing would sing with the ancestors might. The song he sang started low and silent while the holes were made on one of its sides. They were tiny, yet it made every smith shiver for the blades strength. But they had forged destiny, and it held true.

  After the holes were done. The old shaman looked over it again. The two other shamans gave him trinkets from the three homes of the Frostong. Bones from hunts in the boiling sea. Pelt of a yak from the Valley, and a shaman chain, crafted from the metal of the mountain itself. Slow and with care he adorned the blade with it. The bones were hung around the guard. One of the smiths aided the shaman in doing such. With a nod from the forgemaster he even accompanied the shaman to hammer them down.

  The shaman-chain was long enough to be hung from one hole to the other. It would sing with the wind with every strike.

  And finally the tiny piece of yak pelt was slowly wrapped around the grip. The smith was unsure if it would burn by the heat, yet the dead beast showed strength. It would tighten the wielder's grip on the heavy blade.

  With the trinkets adorned to the blade the shaman nodded at the smith. He nodded back and went back down to sharpen it.

  The shaman however took a long breath. For the final stage of the blessing was to be made. He took hammer and chisel again and was ready to carve runes into the blade. Yet another moment that would make a smith both wince in pain for the weapon’s strength, yet grin in pride when it endured the test. For then the runes would truly show their might in battle.

  The elder kneeled down and started far away from the hilt. He held the chisel onto the blade and raised the hammer while he started the song.

  “Achro!” he screamed and was echoed by the clans song. It was the ancient word for their land. Metal was born from it and even as a blade it would remain part of it. Like the orcs that lived through its season it would be one with it all and swing with the fury of summer and the cold heart of winter.

  “Chach’Rana!!” He screamed as he hammered in the next rune. The winds rose with it and started to howl as they dashed through the holes they had made. It was the ancient word for the ancestors. Those of legends and those that were forgotten. Their ashes might have been casted to the dunes, but every forge would carry at least some of their ashes. And the very sound of the blades strike would force them to watch. They would aid to slay the biggest of all preys, or see how the living were cast to aid them in the last battle among the ash.

  “Rea!” He screamed as he held the hammer high to swing down once more. Song and fires answered the call for it was the ancient word of flame. The forge lit up, campfires rose one last time and the few torches that were still lit burned brighter that moment.

  The sword might have carried the touch of the dragon but the fire, the true flame inside it was its own. And its wielder would cast it down on the grandest of all enemies. They would burn in anguish, no matter how the battle would end. By defiance or a beast slain, the enemy would burn and endure the pain it had casted on them all.

  The last rune was the closest to the hilt and the old man raised his hammer. He had planned to say “Fachrea”, the ancient word for fury. But the winds whispered into his ear. A distant word, a distant promise, even though he didn’t know their reason he was a man of lore and trust of the ancestors. He would never deny them their wish, for they had seen the failures of battle before.

  “Hachu’rot!” He finally screamed from the deepest depth of his lunges and brought the hammer down once more. Even though the plan had been different no one questioned the old man's wisdom, and instead echoed the word in song. It was one of the oldest words in the ancient tongue of dragons. The oldest of runes and yore. It had carried itself over the ages and would now finally be answered in battle once again.

  Hatred.