This is the way I heard it.

The

The

High in the Caucasus mountains, the spring morning dawns clear and cold, as the remote village

of Kevsuar slowly awakens.

Not everyone though is slumbered through the night.

At the smithy, the work begins before sunrise.

A broad-shouldered apprentice grips his tongs and shoves a bar of pig iron into the blazing

coal, carburizing it.

He transfers the hot metal into a barrel of water, triggering a furious bubbling, followed

by a swift cloud of white steam that shoots up and swirls around his head.

Next, to the apprentice, a burly blacksmith strikes swiftly and surely on hot steel.

Sparks fly, the anvil rings, and with every blow another sword comes a little further

into being.

A sword that will, with the help of God, separate the infidels from their heathen heads.

The apprentice notices an armored man in a tattered surcoat striding swiftly toward the smithy.

The Lord command reproaches, sir.

The smith tosses the sword to his apprentice and wipes his gnarled hands on his leather apron,

like his father and his father's father.

The smith fashions the weapons that make the crusades possible, and from what he could

tell from the Lord commander's posture, the work was far from finished.

The rumors are true, good smith.

...