Baronhawk's Nest

The secrets of steel,
stolen by man.
From God's battlefield,
taken by mortal hands.

The perfect mix of carbon,
that delicate careful balance.
Upon folds of layered iron,
pounded into brilliance.

Damascus blades that sings,
the Snake blades of the Goths.
The spear tips of Zulu Kings,
the Samurai's swords of wrath.

Gilded Viking swords,
the curves of Malay Kris.
Swords from Toledo forge,
the lances of Navajo myths.

In all these things,
lies the distinct temper.
Of metallic mixings,
and the forge of masters.

But in all the thrills,
of legends and lore.
The secret of steel,
is a distant aurore.

In the beatings of Conan's drum,
that wild kingless barbarian.
His prayers to mighty Crom,
his god of earth and mountain.

Give me strength,
so that I might succeed.
Upon Valeria's lend,
whom at your side does sit.

But if you do not grant,
this humble request.
Even you I will shun,
for my fate is my own behest!

Therein lies the true temper,
the discipline of steel its secret emper.
The real secret of its deadly timbre,
is as much its makings as in its master.

For the power of steel,
is only as magnified.
By the hands that wields,
this vaunted of artifacts.

The discipline of body,
of practice and skill.
Maintaining the melody,
of ripened muscles and sharpened steel.

But ware the hand!
and ware the steel!
For it does not rend,
without an iron will.

The true secret,
the discipline of steel.
Lies perhaps interred,
in the strength of will.