Crafting Motif 126: Shardborn Style

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By Master Glass-smith Irenia of the Tempered Sands

There’s an art to the molding of glass and creatia, one that I do not wish lost to the whims of fate. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to dictate and archive the methods passed down to me by the Glass-smiths of old.

Long may they slumber. May our paths converge together and the mirrors one day shine again.


It is customary for our warriors to bring us sand gathered from the lands they have conquered. It is blended into molten glass and cut into shards to adorn a warrior’s axe, every sliver of glass a testament to their prowess.


First forge a clasp of fluted glass; a delicate cinch tempered by powerful flames. Much like a blade’s hilt, a belt helps balance the weight of your resolve. Stand immovable against the enemy and face their onslaught head on.


Struck from panes of tempered glass, these feathered panels resonate with your every step. Find comfort in this hum as you advance across the battlefield. The enemy will know all hope is lost as the very ground beneath them trembles with fear.


An arrowhead properly cut can refract light itself, blinding enemies as it blazes across the battlefield, its trajectory masked by the brilliance of our ideals. Let loose your arrow, my bright warrior.


Like a bell, these chest plates reverberate with every hammer hit. A skilled Glass-smith strikes until these reverberations spread and dissipate at the edges, ensuring that the force of every weapon blow washes off of you.


The twist of a knife is an intimate act, as was this blade’s creation. Pulled from molten glass and shaped by hammer and hand until it took shape. Until it formed the blade you hold at your enemy’s throat, the dagger you plunged into their back. Twist the knife, my bright warrior.


To forge a glove from glass is to make even a flick of your wrist a deadly attack. Every pointed finger a dagger’s bite. If ever your weapon should fail, simply reach out towards your enemy and dig deep.


We guard our eyes not to blind ourselves, but to shield us from the horrors of what has been lost to time and memory. The glass planes of every helm are cut from the old slab. The last true work of the great forge. Carry the weight of its memory into battle.


Kneel, penitent, and search your reflection for the light. After all, the tempered glass of your greaves was shaped by the grace of Mirrormoor. The least you can do is stand resolute and forge onwards into battle.


When glass is shattered, it is merely placed in a liminal state. A transitory nature where it can be remolded. Reshaped. The same cannot be said for your foes. Swing heavy, my bright warrior.


Do not be fooled by this shield’s fractured panes. Its glass was forged by our deepest sorrows, made to anneal in the warmth of our regrets. Never again shall we lose sight of our destiny. It stands ready to protect you from the myriad of fates that branch before you.


Cascading glass panels make for both an impressive display and a razor-sharp defense. We each carry the weight of our campaign on our shoulders, should we not also use the edge of our ideals against our foes?


I liken our staves to a tuning fork, a tool with which to test the very resonance of the planes. Weave magicka from the profundity of the ether and listen close as it cascades over you, drowning you in the glory of what’s to come.


A blade formed from fractured glass is no simple task. How easily it can be distorted by an uneven hand, an impatient hammer. When done correctly, not even light’s gentle rays are safe from this sharpened edge. Cut the sky in two, my bright warrior.

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