The forest stood, a wall of thorns and vine,
That even gods were hesitant to tread.
Until one rose with eyes of burning wine,
And iron skin, and fire on his head.
He took the ore and birthed the heavy blade,
To bite the wood and clear the tangled way;
The very first of all the paths was made,
By him who does not fear the heat of day.
He is the master of the forge and field,
The patron of the carver and the scout;
To him, the secrets of the mountain yield,
To him, the warriors raise a mighty shout.
Without his edge, the world is but a wild,
Untamed and dark, and dangerously piled.
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