Gomerick’s eyes were now lost in the fire before him, but he pulled his thoughts together, nonetheless, “I have been a smith for the majority of my life. I am 32 years of age, and in all of that time, not once did I construct a blade to be used on an innocent man.” He turned to Wenzel and added, “How can you sit there and rejoice over the death of another? For all of those years, I slaved over flames hotter and brighter than anything your simple mind could comprehend in a hundred lifetimes. I did it to better the world one project at a time, to make anything I could for those in need, as my mentor once stressed. Not only blades, but horseshoes, tools, jewelry, armor, anything my clients asked for. When I forged blades, I made them so that those receiving them could feel secure at night against thieves and feranox, so that they could protect their families. I did not sweat, day and night, over them, so that they could be used against innocent men.” Now, Wenzel sat in disbelief. “Oh, and I rescind my comment regarding your mental capacity, for I feel you will fully comprehend the ferocity of the flames of which I speak upon meeting Enghor in the underworld.”
Wenzel was overcome with animosity and immediately rose to his feet, “Is that a direct threat against me, Wenzel, Steward of Murka?”
Gomerick jumped to his feet as well, “Did I misspeak, or are you unable to understand what it was I implied?”
The two tightened up where they stood and clenched their respective blades, for they each envisioned a swift demise of the other. “Luckily for you, your death will not fall amongst the innocent.” Wenzel rebuked as he spat at Gomerick, the saliva landing at his feet. “Your head will make a fine addition to my growing collection.” Wenzel drew his sword, and Gomerick followed suit; the sharp sounds of the withdrawn blades, accompanied by the soft crackling of the fire, were all to be heard.