Cold Tempered-Gwydion

Born impure, hiding behind the crust This raw material awaits In disguise it blends with other elements Holding for the rise of a superior civilization From the day it was unearthed For smelting precious ore Punished by men, pressing it to the anvil Shaped into a punisher, a punisher itself Blazing, the bloomer reminds an inferno A pyre of charcoal heats impurities Refining and removing the slag Impregnated silicate The purest aspect of the substance takes place Easier to mold, tender to work Base to the alloys Wrought iron, the flexible form! Amidst the dense, grey smoke Surround by enormous apparatus Dwells the blacksmith Steadily, his arms smites Bride the metal with a shape Edify, rectify Towards the conception of a weapon From the day it was unearthed For smelting precious ore Punished by men, pressing it to the anvil Shaped into a punisher, a punisher itself The art of forging starts with the core The inner part of the blade Compromises are made To be as deadly as possible Sustain impact without fracturing Albeit prone to bending So fortify it! But to accomplish this is no small feat Using less carbon And insist with the tempering For the outer side A razor-sharp edge is required Combine different layers Welding them together Iron! The blood ore Iron! To refine Iron! Assume it's shape To a deadly form The final stage is quenching Technique of heating until the red-hot stage Then pouring it into water Iron! The blood ore Iron! To refine Iron! Assume it's shape To a deadly form Engrave it's name With bold rune glyphs embossed “The leg bitter”, fierce companion Best friend to have at hand