The clangs of the past ring through its polished steel. Flaws are left by its maker only to be seen by him. Changed by its own kind on the cold and stormy mountains. Where flames had once burned and blackened its skin. The blazing embers brightened and strengthened it until its color matched that of the flame. When it changed a scent of ash from the woods burning flesh embedded its self in to the metal. Shaped by steel and stone, forged by a willing master, it made its entrance in to this world.
Now, covered in dust, it sits on a shelf. Among other trophies it awaits recognition. Encased in a handmade leather blanket its gleaming blade hides from view. Memories of fire and stone dance across its reflective body like a soldiers eyes after he returns from war. Lonely and independent it sits on the shelf hoping for the chance to be used once again. Like blood its metallic flavor is strange in any mans mouth. Made from and in the mountains, it is a part of them, It is the knife.
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