Some say he was born from the depths of the earth, others that he was forged by giants, and some claim him to have risen from the forge. To Ash, this nonsense is but another distraction from the forge. Ever since he was a child, Ash had always been interested in the fine craft of the weaponsmith. He idled the whole day simply listening to the clang on the anvil; he listened with joy. He soon became an apprentice, his emerald eyes set upon the title of master. His days consisted of heating the forge, carrying the materials to and fro, preparing the water, and anything else his master craftsman needed of him. He didn’t mind; he’d do anything for the forge. Eventually, it came time to make, to create the fiercest blades of all, but first, a dagger. One dagger became two, then four, then 12. Daggers evolved into shortswords, which developed his skill for longswords and rapiers. Soon, he had a shop of his own; he was the master now. As he developed as a weaponsmith, his once frail frame flourished, forcing fantastic foils for familiar fellows. His size increased twofold, his body sharpened by the same steel he refined into blades. He towered over everyone in Avalon, yet he could hardly be led to anger. The only thing that mattered to him was the forge; as long as no one interfered, no one died. Soon, he became renowned, a legend in his own right. Knight and kings bade him to developed the finest of weaponry; he delivered.

No one even came close to his level of skill, and he hated it. No matter how much he improved, he could never find a worthy apprentice of his own. When he died, who would stoke the fire? Who would take his place? He needed to find a worthy successor, one who loved the forge as much as he did. And so he began a new quest, a quest to find the perfect pupil, so that he may sharpen him as he had sharpened countless axes and rapiers. He needed the best. He deserved the best. It might take him the rest of his life, but he was ready, ready to go find an apprentice.