Mace of Coxdale

After thirty days and thirty nights, the Mace of Coxdale finally ejected itself from the incinerating heat. The irregular shape of its blades shone a bright red, when Kell, Coxdale's only surviving blacksmith lifted it with a heavy metal clamp and dropped it into the stream.

Steam rose, and then came the smell of burning, only it lasted as long as the hissing and bubbling of water went. Eventually the flowing water produced no more trail of white smoke, or sounds except the running water, or smell of melted metal. Kell pulled up his trouser and took off his clothes and stepped into the river. His hands dipped into the riverbed and hoisted the mace head and tossed it to the riverbank.

The shape of the mace had already settled down to its original design and Kell was now picking the surface to mark it with words and symbols. Under the head, the part which would join with an heavy wooden staff, was engraved with his name and the town's.

The Berlonm had mascaraed many townsfolk, including women and children. Among the dead, were friends and families and colleagues. Kell had to avenge their death, and the first step, was to create the Mace of Coxdale, the only thing he knew best, the signature craft of his trade.

The mace head had now joined the staff, and formed a unity of balance and power. Kell waved the Mace of Coxdale and felt the rage and fury. He directed the weight to an giant boulder and the mace instantly split it into thousand dust.

Kell held the Mace of Coxdale up to his shoulder and marveled at his own work. With this, no armies, certainly not The Berlonm, could stop the malice from spreading.

Terror, is coming.