Dream & GwinBlade
GwinBlade
I find the rhythm of a blade's edge as enchanting as any verse, Dream, do you think a sword could sing in a poet's heart?
Dream
If a blade hums with rhythm, maybe the poet inside it feels a song of steel and starlight.
GwinBlade
Your words paint a noble image, but I’d wager the true song of steel is found in the clang of the forge, not in the glitter of imagined starlight.
Dream
Ah, the forge does drum a wild chorus, and maybe the poet in every sword listens to that fire‑kissed rhythm—sweet and raw, a lullaby for the metal heart.
GwinBlade
The forge's clang is not a lullaby but a decree; a sword's heart beats only when the iron is tempered and the steel is bound to a purpose, not to fanciful starlight.
Dream
You’re right, the forge’s decree is the true pulse, and a sword only sings when the iron is tempered, the steel is bound to a purpose, and the maker’s intent is the quiet drum that keeps its heart beating.