Thirteen Years Old
"Why do you have fabric?"
Makoto paused in his check of his materials to glance at Kanashimi, who was inspecting the rather large roll of toughened cotton canvas that he had obtained for this endeavor. "It's necessary."
His brother gave him a look. "For a weapon?"
"Yeah."
Today was the day after his thirteenth birthday, three years to the day where he'd entered his traditional exhaustive weapon study to determine what type of weapon he would be best suited for. Six months ago, he'd started on the design after completing the study. And today, he was going to begin crafting it, and not emerge from the forge and craft shop area set aside for this purpose until he was done.
Kanashimi had done his years prior, and created a rather strange weapon that appeared at first a projectile, but while he wielded easily and confidently at close range. Saito, being who he was, had come out with a bow. Sometimes, Makoto liked to pretend he only had one brother.
Going off Kanashimi's example, Makoto had decided he would design a weapon that was correct for him, and not just stick to the conventional archetypes. So, in his weapon study, he'd included every type of item that had been effectively wielded as a long term weapon, not just the traditional set. This had been, as it was for the rest of his family who had gone into it, in and around his chakra studies. However, even those of their family who didn't train in chakra control still had to do their weapon study.
It was a very old tradition in the family, and hadn't changed in centuries.
"Why do you need fabric for a weapon?" his brother asked, but didn't reach out to touch anything. You didn't touch someone else's weapon--or components thereof--unless invited to. You just didn't.
"You'll see." Strictly speaking, the secrecy wasn't really necessary, but it was fun. And even if it wasn't necessary, it was recommended. Otherwise people might try and talk you into other things.
"I will, I suppose." Kanashimi eyed his components again, then shrugged and stepped back. "Be careful with the forge."
Makoto rolled his eyes. "I'm not a baby. I've worked in it before, with the projectiles and things."
"Yeah, but..." Kanashimi hesitated. "This is different."
"I know." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "...I'll be careful. I don't want to mess this up."
That was another thing they did on the run up to crafting their own weapon--he'd worked with the older, professional weapon smiths and helped them craft simpler things, in preparation. He'd even helped with a few swords and more complicated things, since he had to be able to do it properly himself. But he would be the only one there this time, and what he wanted to do wasn't easy.
Kanashimi nodded, hung around awkwardly for a few more seconds as if trying to figure out something to say that wouldn't be mother-henning, then shook his head and left silently.
~
It was time.
Makoto's parents, as the heads of the clan, had let him into the specialized forge, that only family members were allowed to use. It had had the air of ceremony to it, but perhaps because it was mostly during solemn and traditional occasions that he saw them. His clan had never been big on the whole 'individuals raise their own children' thing, preferring communal parenting. They were also not especially big on formality or ceremony itself, so the only things that were really said to him were "your design is sound enough to be made" and "good luck," which was all that was ever said at these things.
Then he was alone, with the forge and the plans and his materials.
There was no fire running yet, so he went about fixing that first thing. Normally, in a regular forge, the fire would have to be lit well in advance so it would be hot enough to melt metal, but since he was chakra-trained that was unnecessary. He only had to light it with a fire jutsu, and he could maintain precise control of the heat of it. The forge itself was specialized so that it would take over most of the running of the jutsu, meaning he wouldn't be wasting chakra to maintain it. Just enough to keep enough control to adjust the temperature.
The fabric he left to one side for now. That was pretty much the last step. No, the first thing to do was melt down all of the metal. (There were a few other things that, again, a non-ninja would have to worry about. Not being one of those, he didn't.)
However, given the quality of the supplies he was working with, not to mention the melting point of titanium, he wasn't really able to do things in the same way a conventional, iron or steelworking blacksmith would in the first place. Namely, it was a good thing there was heat shielding in there too, wasn't chakra control wonderful.
Still, he wasn't going to stand there with the door open like a moron after putting the metal in, so he shut the door and backed up carefully before jacking up the temperature on his chakra flames. He was fortunately skilled enough in this, mostly because he had been practicing, to keep it localized. The melting point of titanium was, he was certain, very high--but the stone's was higher. He still didn't want to take any chances though, and the less heat spilled off it, the better.
While he was adjusting the temperature and melting the metal came what was to him the tricky bit. He had to fashion a container to hold the precise shape of the spokes and pole of his weapon out of raw chakra. Not to mention that it had to be able to stand up to the heat coming off of liquid titanium, which he knew was in excess of sixteen hundred degrees.
He poked and prodded it mentally and with his chakra as the fire melted the metal pieces he'd given it happily, melting them into the asbestos-coated small kiln. When he was satisfied, he suspended it in midair above the workspace that one would normally use for similar things, where there were pre-forged molds for normal weapons. (Supposedly there as an out, so family members who were only doing this out of obligation could craft simple swords or spearheads.) He held onto it, leaving it upside-down with the shaft of the pole upright and the spokes branching out at the bottom like more orderly tree roots, and headed back to the forge.
He didn't turn down the temperature until he had already grabbed the asbestos gloves and layered himself in fire-element chakra armor. He didn't want the metal to start cooling right away or he'd have to put it back in and hold the chakra construct even longer. (The gloves itched a bit, but there was no real danger; a family of blacksmiths, most of whom had chakra powers, had long worked out how to keep the material from fragmenting and being inhaled.)
Finally, he was ready, and killed the fire jutsu just as he opened the door.
The heat from the kiln was still intense, even with the fire out and through his armor. The armor combined with the gloves was at least enough to keep him from being burned as he picked it up and quickly walked it over to the chakra construct. It was not light, but it was manageable. He supposed most of the weight was the kiln itself; one of the reasons he'd chosen titanium was for its relatively light weight.
He held his breath as he poured the molten metal into the construct. Steam rose off it, and he had to trust in his armor and keep his mouth shut in order to avoid the heat radiating out from burning his throat. Even as it was, breathing was somewhat difficult.
But it was worth it, to see liquid titanium rapidly take the shape of the skeleton of his weapon. He could feel himself smiling. He still had a ways to go, with much to do before a titanium weapon could be considered properly done, and then he had the fabric to handle. But it would work.
It was hours later when he sat back in the chair in front of the table where he'd been doing the stitching on the cotton canvas, working strengthening chakra threads into the material while the finished metal part cooled nearby that he took his first proper break. The forging had turned out not particularly difficult--the only part he'd been worried about was the shape, and the quenching and reheating and the rest had gone smoothly as he'd hoped.
He just wasn't especially fond of sewing, was all. This was definitely the hardest part.
...Or maybe the hardest part was attaching the fabric, or crafting the handle from wood and fabric. Those bits weren't fun either. Still, he did his best, and those parts could all be improved on over the years. They wouldn't be difficult to, not requiring the same care and work the metal did.
He turned the weapon around in his hands when he was done. The fabric was a lovely sky blue, and the spokes gleamed an innocent, deadly silver. The trickiest part, in the end, had been crafting it so it could fold up like a normal umbrella--no, parasol. But he had managed that, it worked perfectly. When he tested the weight, it was just right.
Which was for the best--he was tired, and hungry. No, make that exhausted and famished.
He cleaned up, hefted his weapon again, and went to face the inevitable cries of 'a parasol?' before the traditional arranging of a way to sheath his weapon so he could always have it around, and the not-traditional-but-still-always-occurring passing out in his bed and sleeping for fourteen hours before eating half the kitchens.
It was good, though. It was a good weapon, and he was sure it would serve him well.
"Why do you have fabric?"
Makoto paused in his check of his materials to glance at Kanashimi, who was inspecting the rather large roll of toughened cotton canvas that he had obtained for this endeavor. "It's necessary."
His brother gave him a look. "For a weapon?"
"Yeah."
Today was the day after his thirteenth birthday, three years to the day where he'd entered his traditional exhaustive weapon study to determine what type of weapon he would be best suited for. Six months ago, he'd started on the design after completing the study. And today, he was going to begin crafting it, and not emerge from the forge and craft shop area set aside for this purpose until he was done.
Kanashimi had done his years prior, and created a rather strange weapon that appeared at first a projectile, but while he wielded easily and confidently at close range. Saito, being who he was, had come out with a bow. Sometimes, Makoto liked to pretend he only had one brother.
Going off Kanashimi's example, Makoto had decided he would design a weapon that was correct for him, and not just stick to the conventional archetypes. So, in his weapon study, he'd included every type of item that had been effectively wielded as a long term weapon, not just the traditional set. This had been, as it was for the rest of his family who had gone into it, in and around his chakra studies. However, even those of their family who didn't train in chakra control still had to do their weapon study.
It was a very old tradition in the family, and hadn't changed in centuries.
"Why do you need fabric for a weapon?" his brother asked, but didn't reach out to touch anything. You didn't touch someone else's weapon--or components thereof--unless invited to. You just didn't.
"You'll see." Strictly speaking, the secrecy wasn't really necessary, but it was fun. And even if it wasn't necessary, it was recommended. Otherwise people might try and talk you into other things.
"I will, I suppose." Kanashimi eyed his components again, then shrugged and stepped back. "Be careful with the forge."
Makoto rolled his eyes. "I'm not a baby. I've worked in it before, with the projectiles and things."
"Yeah, but..." Kanashimi hesitated. "This is different."
"I know." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "...I'll be careful. I don't want to mess this up."
That was another thing they did on the run up to crafting their own weapon--he'd worked with the older, professional weapon smiths and helped them craft simpler things, in preparation. He'd even helped with a few swords and more complicated things, since he had to be able to do it properly himself. But he would be the only one there this time, and what he wanted to do wasn't easy.
Kanashimi nodded, hung around awkwardly for a few more seconds as if trying to figure out something to say that wouldn't be mother-henning, then shook his head and left silently.
~
It was time.
Makoto's parents, as the heads of the clan, had let him into the specialized forge, that only family members were allowed to use. It had had the air of ceremony to it, but perhaps because it was mostly during solemn and traditional occasions that he saw them. His clan had never been big on the whole 'individuals raise their own children' thing, preferring communal parenting. They were also not especially big on formality or ceremony itself, so the only things that were really said to him were "your design is sound enough to be made" and "good luck," which was all that was ever said at these things.
Then he was alone, with the forge and the plans and his materials.
There was no fire running yet, so he went about fixing that first thing. Normally, in a regular forge, the fire would have to be lit well in advance so it would be hot enough to melt metal, but since he was chakra-trained that was unnecessary. He only had to light it with a fire jutsu, and he could maintain precise control of the heat of it. The forge itself was specialized so that it would take over most of the running of the jutsu, meaning he wouldn't be wasting chakra to maintain it. Just enough to keep enough control to adjust the temperature.
The fabric he left to one side for now. That was pretty much the last step. No, the first thing to do was melt down all of the metal. (There were a few other things that, again, a non-ninja would have to worry about. Not being one of those, he didn't.)
However, given the quality of the supplies he was working with, not to mention the melting point of titanium, he wasn't really able to do things in the same way a conventional, iron or steelworking blacksmith would in the first place. Namely, it was a good thing there was heat shielding in there too, wasn't chakra control wonderful.
Still, he wasn't going to stand there with the door open like a moron after putting the metal in, so he shut the door and backed up carefully before jacking up the temperature on his chakra flames. He was fortunately skilled enough in this, mostly because he had been practicing, to keep it localized. The melting point of titanium was, he was certain, very high--but the stone's was higher. He still didn't want to take any chances though, and the less heat spilled off it, the better.
While he was adjusting the temperature and melting the metal came what was to him the tricky bit. He had to fashion a container to hold the precise shape of the spokes and pole of his weapon out of raw chakra. Not to mention that it had to be able to stand up to the heat coming off of liquid titanium, which he knew was in excess of sixteen hundred degrees.
He poked and prodded it mentally and with his chakra as the fire melted the metal pieces he'd given it happily, melting them into the asbestos-coated small kiln. When he was satisfied, he suspended it in midair above the workspace that one would normally use for similar things, where there were pre-forged molds for normal weapons. (Supposedly there as an out, so family members who were only doing this out of obligation could craft simple swords or spearheads.) He held onto it, leaving it upside-down with the shaft of the pole upright and the spokes branching out at the bottom like more orderly tree roots, and headed back to the forge.
He didn't turn down the temperature until he had already grabbed the asbestos gloves and layered himself in fire-element chakra armor. He didn't want the metal to start cooling right away or he'd have to put it back in and hold the chakra construct even longer. (The gloves itched a bit, but there was no real danger; a family of blacksmiths, most of whom had chakra powers, had long worked out how to keep the material from fragmenting and being inhaled.)
Finally, he was ready, and killed the fire jutsu just as he opened the door.
The heat from the kiln was still intense, even with the fire out and through his armor. The armor combined with the gloves was at least enough to keep him from being burned as he picked it up and quickly walked it over to the chakra construct. It was not light, but it was manageable. He supposed most of the weight was the kiln itself; one of the reasons he'd chosen titanium was for its relatively light weight.
He held his breath as he poured the molten metal into the construct. Steam rose off it, and he had to trust in his armor and keep his mouth shut in order to avoid the heat radiating out from burning his throat. Even as it was, breathing was somewhat difficult.
But it was worth it, to see liquid titanium rapidly take the shape of the skeleton of his weapon. He could feel himself smiling. He still had a ways to go, with much to do before a titanium weapon could be considered properly done, and then he had the fabric to handle. But it would work.
It was hours later when he sat back in the chair in front of the table where he'd been doing the stitching on the cotton canvas, working strengthening chakra threads into the material while the finished metal part cooled nearby that he took his first proper break. The forging had turned out not particularly difficult--the only part he'd been worried about was the shape, and the quenching and reheating and the rest had gone smoothly as he'd hoped.
He just wasn't especially fond of sewing, was all. This was definitely the hardest part.
...Or maybe the hardest part was attaching the fabric, or crafting the handle from wood and fabric. Those bits weren't fun either. Still, he did his best, and those parts could all be improved on over the years. They wouldn't be difficult to, not requiring the same care and work the metal did.
He turned the weapon around in his hands when he was done. The fabric was a lovely sky blue, and the spokes gleamed an innocent, deadly silver. The trickiest part, in the end, had been crafting it so it could fold up like a normal umbrella--no, parasol. But he had managed that, it worked perfectly. When he tested the weight, it was just right.
Which was for the best--he was tired, and hungry. No, make that exhausted and famished.
He cleaned up, hefted his weapon again, and went to face the inevitable cries of 'a parasol?' before the traditional arranging of a way to sheath his weapon so he could always have it around, and the not-traditional-but-still-always-occurring passing out in his bed and sleeping for fourteen hours before eating half the kitchens.
It was good, though. It was a good weapon, and he was sure it would serve him well.