Some people look at a lump of iron and see merely that. A dull, dark rock of cold metal with no particular shape or form. When Sir Meekin looked at a lump of iron, he saw a world of possibilities. A suit of armor measured and tempered to its wearer so that no part of it would chafe a knight's softer parts, while still allowing the skin to breathe freely. A shield so heavy and grand that it could bring a squire to his knees, quite literally. A helmet of the kind of magnificence that certainly impressed his aunt when she called for tea, even if she did repeatedly refer to it as a hat after he had politely corrected her.

The ultimate incarnation of these seemingly humble lumps of iron, however, were weapons. Splendid glaives that could cut through a man's neck in one fell swoop. Axes that could sever a limb so perfectly that body and mind would not immediately register its absence. Rapiers, so finely pointed they could remove an eye through the slit in a knight's helm. Weapons of bloody and wondrous perfection, or at least they would be, Meekin was quite certain, if they weren't too precious to be brought into actual battle, to be nicked or stained or dirtied. Instead, they graced the walls of his forge, gleaming menacingly from their hooks.

Naturally, this rock was no different, Meekin saw not a cold, metallic lump upon his workbench but a sword of such beauty its design was surely inspired by Dynara's hand. He gazed hungrily at the perfect weight and balance, its polished platinum veneer almost glowing, the ornately carved, sweeping hilt counter-balanced by a fine point at the end of the blade. His lower lip quivered, and he choked up for a minute, wondering if he dare touch it just briefly... and even then, subconsciously, his hand reached out and stroked the unassuming lump of ore.

One step at a time, he told himself as he began the process of lighting the forge. There was plenty of time before his submission was due. Perhaps enough time to design a wonderous scabbard also, something worthy of carrying a blade of this preciousness. Maybe even a matching ring to wear upon his drawing hand or a pommel of swordly grace. He posed valiantly, hand clutched upon his scabbard hip, slightly drawing his air sword with a determined and noble, if he did say so himself, look upon his face. The soft glow from the embers as they took hold of the coal, flickered over him and he gazed at his own shadow envisioning the statue people would some day raise in his honour.

Ah yes, the Seal indeed would be his to win. Not that winning mattered in itself. It was not the end reward that tempted him so much as the thrill of what he would have to accomplish to win it. Not unlike that time he courted his own cousin. She was rather a fine filly and he told her so himself, although she hadn't appreciated that compliment at the time. Now she was a fun chase, even after she set the watchdogs on him, twice. And luckily so, as he never did manage to catch her. Her mother dispatched her to Faethorn under the watchful eye of the Queen's knights. A place he was sadly unable to visit due to that unfortunate pixie incident in his youth.

A piece of coal exploded against the roof of the forge, startling the poor knight from his daydreams, and informing him that the ore was ready for smelting. He tightened the strings of the heavy apron protecting the frills on his Tolborollan silk shirt as he began the process of extracting metal from ore. As he waited for the metal to cool he wondered whether he should prepare an acceptance speech or if that would come across as too presumptious? Indeed he should appear rather humble. "Who meeeee?", he squealed at his shadow on the wall before waving his hand dismissivley and furrowing his brow in quiet contemplation. He coughed and tried again. He gave a startled gasp, allowing one hand to drift daintly against his face, inadvertantly leaving a charcoal smudge. He blushed bashfully before twittering delightfully, and then nodded satisfiedly at himself.

It had been thirty odd years or so since the Seal of Beauty had been weakened and the previous contest had been held. It was up to the people of the Basin to design an item of worthy of bearing such a seal. Well, up to him really. One couldn't expect the masses to have a deeper understanding of the nature of beauty although he acknowledged graciously that some of their intended designs were almost pretty. He was a lad during the previous weakening and rather fixated on the damsels of the Serenwilde. His design of rose-colored glasses had been declared ineligible due to tinkers or some such having made similar glasses for years. Really, someone could have told him. Who pays attention to bardic eyewear? The situation struck him as most bizarre and even now, a stray, melodic note from a wayward lyre could drive him into a fit of hair-pulling despair.

Meekin's hammer resounded with a loud clang. The metal had cooled for far too long and was no longer soft enough to be forged into shape. Breathe, he told himself, don't panic. Plenty of time. And so it went for days. He began sleeping in his forge, heating, hammering, cooling and gradually the sword began to take form. Not only was it perfectly balanced but it had retained its strength and flexibility. Though nothing more than dull iron beaten into a beautiful but unfinished shape, it held the promise of what it would become. A mastercrafted symbol of power, strength and victory.

Annealing the sword was theoretically easier. Again, he needed to heat and cool the metal, grinding it ever so gently into its final shape. He was fearful he would grind too much on any side and spoil the balanced weight. The effort to get it right was painstaking. It reminded him, uncomfortably, of that summer, back in the collegium when he accepted the dare to wear a feathery mask and bob about in the Celestian duck pond during hunting season. One wrong move and it would all be over. He hadn't even meant to accept the dare, he'd been making eyes at a tae'dae selling pies and had absent-mindedly nodded in approval just as his college mates suggested the prank.

Some days he could not even bear to grind the sword further. Those were his darker days. The fear of making a wrong move led him to develop a shake. The shake caused him to turn to whiskey to calm his nerves. The whiskey dulled his senses and he'd drift into an uneasy sleep, too afraid to touch the sword until the alcohol had worn off. He had food brought to him daily but he barely touched it. Finally, somehow through the fog, he got it finished. He quenched the sword in icy water. The metal, now quite brittle, was ready to become a true object of beauty.

He began by coating the sword in layers of more precious metals. First silver, as an undercoat, then gold for softness and warmth and finally platinum for its glorious sheen. He tempered the blade slowly and evenly, and it responded by becoming stronger, more flexible. No rush, no rush, he kept repeating. It must be perfect.

The hilt took almost as long to prepare as did the blade. Strands of indivdiually heated strips of metal were swept back into an exquisite and intricate shape to encircle the hand of the sword bearer. The pommel, a perfect, shimmering sphere fit into place as though it had been forged there from the beginning. The sword was complete. Meekin gazed at it with adoration until sleep came across his weary form and he dozed off from sheer exhaustion.

The knight awoke as the full midday sun streamed into the forge, almost blinding him until his eyes adjusted. His jaw dropped. Somehow in the garish light of day, in his charcoal smudged forge, the finished sword leaning against the wall looked like just another one of the many splendid weapons already hanging there. What had he been thinking? This was not a seal winner. It was simply an intricately designed and nicely balanced blade that would suit a noble owner.

It needed more. Something else. Something truly worthy of a Seal of Beauty. Perhaps gems. Which gems? Maybe, all of them. Forge all the gems! With a wicked gleam in his eye, he began pulling his various mastercrafted items from the walls and began tearing the gems from them, often destroying the weapon in the brutal process. Yes, he muttered, yes, as he began to etch a pattern into his sword of wonder and then painstakingly tempered each gem into it one at a time. Diamonds. Amethysts. Sapphires. Moonstones. Garnets. He worked at a frenzied pace, casting aside the whiskey that once plagued him for his new mistress, a rainbow sword that sparkled even in the pale, morning light, in a myriad of colours.

Finally, something worthy of Dynara - but how could he express that worth further? Carvings. Carvings of the Elder Gods, Her own creations of true Beauty. But how, how? He was a forger not an artist. Perhaps through runes! He could cover the blade in runes, each representing a specific Elder trait. If only he'd paid more attention to his history classes in the collegium, but that's why you hire people for this sort of thing. His eyes widened. Of course, he would hire someone. He immediately sent for the librarian and insisted she provide a full and detailed summary of the Elder Wars, and the various traits, if known, of the surviving Elders. He began carving even as she spoke, ignoring her somewhat irritible tone and her disdain for the dirtiness of the forge.

He reluctantly allowed her to leave after she threatened him with multiple disfavours and settled for the notes she had scrawled down. He gulped nervously as he realised he had somewhat underestimated the population of Elder Gods and his initial runes had been rather large in comparison to the available space. Additionally, his knowledge of runelore was perhaps more limited than he'd care to admit. As the runes became smaller and less legible, he gazed proudly at his magnificent squiggles.

Beauty, he decided, was not always about symmetary. The local barmaid was an excellent example of this, with her oval face, pouted lips and hourglass figure. He was obviously drunk the time he found her abundant curves attractive but luckily for him, the pitcher of ale she poured all over his head after he accidentally grabbed her around the waist, brought him back to his senses. Symmetry was mundane. True beauty lies in randomness, in the chaos of inspiration, in the magic of enigma. He glared at the spherical pommel before ravaging it with a red hot poker, warping it with fierce slahes. He nodded at the sword proudly. Now it represented beauty and perfection, and was ready to be submitted for the Seal.

Reverently holding the sword in both hands, he left the forge for the first time since he had begun. This was his moment. The one he had waited thirty years for. Hearing faint chatter towards the nexus, he made his way there, unable to hide the grin from his face.

"Greetings, good sirs.", he announced as he approached the gathered populace. A furriken glared at him angrily and he momentarily wished he had a free hand to loosen the scarf around his neck. "And ladies?", he added hopefully, a corner of his mouth twisting uncomfortably. "May I enquire as to where one might submit a design for the Seal of Beauty?"

An Elfen male he did not recognise replied with a delicate snort, "I dare say, old chap, its over, submissions are now closed and have been for days. May the best design win! Hopefully the best design being my slippers of resplendent silence. I certainly think so, of course.". He beamed slightly and then began to chuckle, rather heartily at himself.

"I don't know what respendent silence means, but I'm guessing it must mean "looks like baby vomit.", smirked the furrikin, before giving a frightened gulp and disappearing suddenly into the bushes.

Meekin had not responded, or even listened further. He stood there with a dumbfounded look. "Over!", he stated. "Over?", he asked. "Overrrrrr!? Well surely they allow late submissions... I mean, the next one won't be until 30 years from now." He began frantically pulling at his eyebrow, letting one end of the sword slip to the ground where it clanged resoundingly, startling the furrikin who popped back out and gave him a sympathetic look before eyeing the sword suspiciously.

The furriken patted Meekin gently. "Well... think of it this way. Thirty years is plenty of time to think of a beautiful design. Perhaps you could come up with a replacement for that monstrosity of a blade! You'd even have time to craft it, providin' it be approved, of course. Cheer up, Sir Knight, this could be your opportunity to design the perfect sword.