This is a rough story, editing, proof reading and rewriting will happen before the shop opens.
Story
This story begins where all storys begin, with a hero. In our story the hero is a poor weaponsmith not one of exceptional skill, but each weapon has his whole heart and soul poured into it. While the weapons were not anything spectacular to look at there was no edge more sharp, no steel more solid. Folded time and time again his weapons only sharpened as they were used. It was said that those who held his weapons said that there was an aura to them a feeling of power and strength. But becuase of his insistance on very rare materials and such high prices for his weapons he remained poor.
But with having such quality weapons came with a price. Those who managed to pay his exorbatent prices carried his pieces only for a short time. Those who coveted such weapons killed to get them or the name of their creator. So, it came to be when the weaponsmith was traveling to the nearby city to hawk his weapons that a group of knights cornered him on the road. The king wished for him to equip his warriors and set him to creating his weapons in the deepest dungeon of his castle.
Years past and the weaponsmith tried hard to keep his weapons from falling into the hands of his ruthless master. But try as he might, even sacrificing a hand in his struggle, His weapons slowly filtered out into the hands of his king. At the age of 87 the weaponsmith finally worked up the courage to hold his newlyforged weapon to his breast. It felt to him as if ages past while the newly cooled steel sat over his heart. He felt that this blade was different, its aura was stronger, it's steel sharper. There was only one way for it to be forever ruined, it had to drink of the life blood of it's creator. Only then would it be safe from the clutching hands of the king.
His eyes closed, his hands unshaking he began his thrust, but found it unmoving. No matter how hard he urged the blade onwards towards his beating heart it would not budge. His eyes flew open, fearing that he had been too late the kings men had gotten here to take his newest weapon. But, it was not the kings men he found. He stared into the blood red eyes of a young man. Armored in steel with the weaponsmiths' own mark emblazoned on his chest, the young being gazed back deep into the old mans eyes.
"From your heart i was forged, the materials you chose with care, and the soul of the weapon you created. I am it's weilder, it's only weilder. My name is Arthur, Make for me more of these weapons, choose carefully and forge another and I will make sure that they find ones worthy of teaching and training them."
The old weaponsmith was taken in by the sincerity of the plea and nodded his consent. For weeks the old man worked in secret, forging the last weapons he would ever make, giving the failures to the king, and hiding Arthur and those weapons that had the same aura as his first sucess. Imparting all his knowledge to Arthur as he worked. His secrets, his stories, the last of his life, he poured into Arthur. And when the time came and the old man slipped in to his deepest sleep Arthur knew all. How to create these weapons, and to bring forth the beings formed in the depth of the weapons own soul.
Closing the eyes of the man that had become his adopted father Arthur reflected on all that he had learned. This man who had brought him to life, and who had had gone on before him. It was up to Arthur now, first he had to escape, then he had to begin the collection of those weapons that could possibly also be of his like.
The time had come, in the deep of night Arthur broke free of the cell. Promising that he would one day return to honor the man who had brought his kind in to being. Arthur set off, first he had to find those who he could trust with these few weapons that he had been entrusted with. Then, he must begin anew, He would find those trustworthy and tell them what must be done. And one day, he would fulfill his promise to his father.
