Soft afternoon light filtered through the windows of the small home turned workshop. The rays caught on glinting motes of dust as well as the shimmering surface of molten silver alloy. The air hazed with a certain cultivator's attempts to control the substance's heat and pressure.
Elua stared in concentration as she carefully poured the liquid metal into delicate molds with a sword-shaped center motif. Getting the right amount to settle was normally difficult, but using her essence to push and press at it to fill every bit of available space without air bubbles was well within her level of control.
Her hands moved the crucible with practiced precision - one born of both recent training and ancient memory. Mint eyes twitched towards Qatrand, who was meticulously polishing a set of the finished silver bookmarks. The swordswoman's usual care translated seamlessly into this sort of task.
