The sound of chains rattling between anvil and hammer echoed distantly from the slopes of Mount Neverest. An icy wind whipped down from that cruel pinnacle but blew aside when whistling over the forge bellows on the grounds of the Shadopan Monastery. The monks stirred uneasily in their meditations and sparring partners missed with wild swings unguided by disquieted thoughts. A dark ceremony was underway in their midst, but no groundskeepers would dare interrupt.
Khorvis brought his hammer down one last time on the chain links, binding them in place. It was a mighty work - a saronite nest of nine cords, each at least as long as an adolescent crocolisk, and each tipped with a cruel barb wrought in living steel. The chain links met as one upon a thick ring, which the orc now held high above the overturned forge. Hooking it onto a winch, Bloodstar stomped over the a pile of what appeared at first to be charred lumber. He broke a long limb from the remains and sneered a foul grin at the onlooking Shadopan initiates. As a shadowy energy curled over the smith's gauntlets, it became clear that the heap was no wood - it was the rotting corpse of the recently slain Sha of Violence. Brought to its end by avenging heroes, Khorvis was appropriating what was left for his own purposes.
"Quit your whipering, bloody whelps! This creature no longer needs her arms! Bwahaha!" Khorvis turned away from the crowd and threw the limb into the forge fire. The flame erupted into black and white tendrils of searing heat, and the winch slowly lowered the flail into the coals. The metal at first took on an orange hue as it warmed, then brighter, and brighter, until each link was a radiant white sun that pushed back every memory of Kun-Lai's chill. Raising the winch again, Khorvis wheeled the frame over to a leaking barrel over which clumps of damp skin drained. A piercing hiss split the air as the cat-o-nine-tails was tempered in the bloody vat, and when it finally emerged, the metal had cooled to a dull reddish jet.
For the rest of that day and night, Dreadweaver Bloodstar sliced strips of fresh scalps from the rack. He braided them round the wooden handle for his new Lash, all the while humming an ancient ogre battle-hymn recounting the simple joys of violence.
The stories and lives of the Grim. ((Roleplaying Stories and In Character Interactions))