Treasures Of The Dwarven Forge

In tonight’s sleep story, you are hard at work in your blacksmith’s forge near the end of a long day. The dwarves are retiring from the mines, and one brings you a particularly rare ore, which you use to forge a tool worthy of the gods. Before heading home to rest, you gather up your scraps to create a gift for a loved one.

Tonight’s key ingredients:
High fantasy
Norse myth
Body scan

Music: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw; Curled In by Lotus, from EpidemicSound
Sounds by ZapSplat

Transcript

Create magical treasures in a blacksmith's forge in tonight's fantasy bedtime story.

Sleep in Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

I'm here to help you fall asleep.

So at any time when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and surrender to sleep.

If you are still awake when the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing body scan.

In tonight's story,

You are hard at work in your blacksmith's forge near the end of a long day.

The dwarves are returning from the mines and one brings you a particularly rare ore,

Which you use to forge a tool worthy of the gods.

Before heading home to rest,

You gather up your scraps to create a gift for a loved one.

Before we begin tonight's story,

Take a moment to acknowledge anything your body is holding onto.

That might mean bringing your attention to the muscles of your face and consciously releasing any tightness in your jaw or your brow or the muscles of your shoulders or neck.

Do a brief scan of the body to find any areas you might be unconsciously clenching or tightening.

Now let that all go.

Now begin to quiet your mind.

As thoughts or worries come through,

Just acknowledge them and then let them go in whatever way suits you.

Imagine them dissolving or taking flight,

Popping like a bubble or blowing away on the wind like a dandelion.

You don't need them right now.

Just focus on the sensation of your body and your natural nourishing breath.

Let your body relax into a comfortable position and breathe.

You feel most at home in the wash of moonlight.

When the heat of the sun wanes to the cool of the evening and the rest of the world curls up to take its rest,

You and the creatures of night savor the quiet and solitude.

You always stay at your bench for a few hours more,

Enjoying the sweetness of the dark.

You greet the moon like an old friend each night,

Save those on which it hides in the blackness of the void waiting to be reborn in a new cycle.

Tonight,

You're grateful to see that it's large and full,

Casting ample lustrous light upon your workspace through the natural window in the cavern.

Torches burn here too,

Along with the fires of the forge,

Their flames reaching for the air and meeting the cool white glow of the moon with their warm amber light.

Your forge lies amid a network of caves in the misty mountains.

Deep in the heart of the mountains,

Your dwarven cousins dig and search for the treasures of the earth.

Some days,

They bring you common metals.

On others,

They present you with small reserves of more valuable tin or copper.

The occasional gemstone makes it to your bench with the commission of the king beneath the mountain to fashion new regalia.

But you suspect that many of the more precious valuables never even see your forge.

They're either sold on the surface or turned over directly to the king.

But when he wants something of true,

Lasting value,

He always sends his emissaries to you.

For your reputation as the greatest blacksmith to kings and gods alike is iron-clad.

You've held this position and this reputation for longer than you can remember.

For you've lived many centuries in the dark mountain hold and time slides like melting snow off its craggy surface.

The years and centuries slip by,

Punctuated with the sounds of a strike upon the anvil and the continuous revolution of moon and stars above.

Some nights,

When you finally retire to your quarters to sleep,

You lie in bed straining to remember your early years upon the earth.

The memories are distant as a star.

In your dreams,

They come back to you sometimes,

Vibrant and detailed,

And you feel you can grasp them in your hands.

But upon waking,

They recede once more into the darkened corners of history.

Places,

Voices,

And places.

Shadows now,

Indistinguishable from the noise of morning.

The full moon smiles on you tonight.

You are finishing the casting of a broadsword commissioned for the leader of the elven army.

Dwarves and elves have long held contempt for one another,

An ancient grudge that neither side seems to remember.

But should your work impress the elves,

It could lead to further conversation,

An armistice perhaps.

You do not intend to disappoint.

You hold your craftsmanship to the very highest standard.

Holding your tongs steady,

You pour the molten bronze,

Slowly,

With control,

Into its cast.

The intense glow of the liquid expands,

Slow and unfolding,

Into the grooves and contours of the soapstone mold.

Heat radiates off the fluid metal,

Stinging your eyes and warming your skin.

As a promise of payment for this commission,

You were gifted a piece of extraordinary elven craft.

It sits upon your mantle now,

Illuminated by the glow of the fires,

In a spot where you can see it from all corners of the forge.

It catches your eye now and makes you smile.

It's said that there is a special species of oak tree that grows only in the fabled elven forests of Dreamwood.

This tree can grow to the size of a small mountain,

Reaching up into the skies.

The legends hold that the queen of Dreamwood built her citadel into one of these trees and enchanted her wood so that the enemy could not enter.

You've never seen this mysterious elven forest,

But according to the elves who came to commission the sword,

This artifact is fashioned from a branch of one of those elven oak trees.

Whatever its material,

You were delighted to receive it,

And you found great delight in admiring the craftsmanship.

The thing itself is,

Apparently,

A staff,

Carved of a reddish and pliable wood.

It stands taller than your full height,

With a smooth,

Tapered end.

The shaft is carved with looping patterns and endless knots and braids.

The carving is so delicate,

So refined,

That the thing looks as though it might break to pieces within your firm grasp.

And yet,

To hold it is to realize that it's crafted with surprising strength and resilience.

You're not sure you have use for a staff yourself,

But as a keepsake it's marvelous,

And as inspiration for your own trade,

It's tremendously worthwhile.

When the time comes to harden the sword blade,

You smear the grooves with smudges of clay.

A little trick,

You learned to give the bronze strength and flexibility.

You plunge the blade into a vessel of oil and savor the satisfying sizzle as the bronze is quenched,

Then slowly tempered.

The slower the cool,

The stronger,

And more pliant the metal.

You remove the blade from the oil when it's ready,

And hold it into the firelight to admire the shape.

Just as you hoped,

The sword is light and swift,

While also boasting an impressive length.

The tip of the blade meets with elegant curves,

And it's picked up the inlay from the mold.

All it needs now is grinding and polishing to remove the excess and brighten the shine.

You feel yourself exhale an involuntary sigh as you sit beside the grindstone,

Still holding the bronze sword.

This has been a long day beside the fire.

You place your foot upon the pedal and begin to turn the stone wheel,

Exerting some energy to increase the speed.

There are many things you cherish about your craft,

But perhaps your favorite part is this one.

Chipping away at the unnecessary to reveal the masterpiece,

Polishing the unpolished and revealing refinery through this rugged process.

For as long as you've been the blacksmith of the mountain forge,

The motions are second nature to you.

You've come to know your equipment and materials,

Their quirks and idiosyncrasies,

And you know how to correct for them.

For instance,

As the grindstone turns,

It shivers just a little when you decelerate.

You adjust how you handle the blade against it in anticipation.

Though your body knows the moves,

You keep your mind sharp.

For every project deserves every ounce of your attention and care,

Especially one as important as this.

When at last you're satisfied with the polish on the blade and the curves of the handle,

You once more hold the sword into the light.

With your free hand,

You massage the muscles of your neck,

Which are stiff from the angle at which you hold your head at the grindstone.

The moon has long traveled from your window,

But it still extends some of its tender glow into your space,

Which catches the shine of the blade on one side.

The other reflects the chaotic dancing of torch flame.

You've done well,

You think.

This will be well received by the elven leader.

You imagine her bearing it.

Though you've never seen her face,

You've heard her described as a fierce and laconic warrior with dark red hair and fiery copper eyes.

Perhaps you think if she appreciates your work on the sword,

She'll come to you for matching armor.

What a vision that would be,

You think.

An elven warrior clad in gleaming bronze,

Bearing your sword against the enemy.

You place the sword delicately on the mantle beside your elven oak gift.

Retrieving a rag,

You wipe the grease and ash off your hands,

Then the sweat from your brow.

You're proud of the day's work.

But just as you're about to make the decision to retire home to bed,

You see a stout silhouette in your doorway.

A torch from the tunnel beyond,

Framing the person with a backlit glow.

They step into the forge,

A side of their face picking up the flickering firelight.

And you recognize Niffy,

One of the younger dwarves who works in the mine.

On some evenings,

He's brought you rare gemstones.

He always shivers with nerves,

As though he's fearful of dropping the treasures somewhere in the dark tunnels.

You greet him with words of warm welcome,

Though you're sure he can hear the weariness in your voice.

His hands are,

As they often are,

Outstretched,

Bearing a basket containing something bright and glittering.

As he comes closer to you,

Your eyes widen.

You stare at the basket in his hands and the rocks of ore in the basket.

They are of a substance you haven't seen in centuries.

A substance that has,

Since your last time forging with it,

Slipped into the realm of myth.

For all the items you fashioned of it or sold to other lands,

You yourself can hardly remember if you ever truly handled it,

Or if the myths and your dreams have somehow tricked you.

It's me thrill.

These eyes are quivering,

As though he's fighting the urge to cry,

Or fearful of what you might say.

Perhaps he thinks you'll scoff at his findings,

Calling it only copper.

But you know what you're looking at.

The hue of the raw metal running in veins through the rocks is such a pure silver,

It's almost white.

It gleams like a pearl,

Seeming to exude its own soft glow from deep within.

You place a hand on Niffy's shoulder and give it a squeeze,

Hoping to reassure the young lad.

You take the me thrill from his hands and scrounge through your belongings.

He deserves to be paid handsomely for discovering such a treasure.

You thank him profusely for bringing it to you,

As you have just the idea for what to craft with it.

Niffy departs the forge feeling more confident and richer than when he entered.

You meanwhile feel your weariness fall away,

And all plans of heading to bed receding in the torch lit tunnels.

Your eyes sparkle with the brilliance of Niffy's discovery.

The ore he's brought you is enough to forge many swords or several shirts of mail.

And there will come a time for such a thing.

But for now your mind is racing with a tiny idea that balloons to a powerful desire.

Your eyes fall on the Elf and Oak staff,

And you feel your face split into a grin.

It takes some time to smelt the ore from the stones,

And you pass that time pacing throughout the forge.

The moon is a distant memory,

And all hope of sleeping this night is gone.

You'll stay here until you bring your dream to fruition.

And oh,

How marvelous it could be.

Your heart leaps with joy and excitement as you set the wheels in motion.

A night of casting,

Forging,

And hammering commences.

With each strike of the hammer against your anvil,

The meathril conforms as though to the shape of your thoughts,

Responding to your every move and desire.

It's as though you've worked with the material every day of your life,

Or as though it has a mind of its own,

And it's perfectly in sync with yours.

Never before has your craft felt so much like an art or a process of magic,

Drawing the veins of the Earth into exquisite order and elegance through an unprecedented symbiosis.

You and the meathril working as one.

Finally,

You lower the meathril into water to temper,

The swift sizzle as always sending a light shiver up your spine.

You withdraw the thing you've made,

As thin as paper and yet hard as steel,

As bright as silver and yet gleaming with its own internal light.

A spear blade,

Worthy to be wielded by the gods themselves,

Let alone the elven general or king beneath the mountain.

Its slopes,

With such grace that it nearly brings you to tears.

Then,

Bringing your vision fully to life,

You retrieve the oaken staff from your mantle.

Though you have little use for a walking stick,

You can think of many good uses for a meathril spear.

Once the blade is fasted to the end of the staff,

The whole picture becomes clear.

It towers above your head and yet it's perfectly balanced,

Even in your hands.

The elegant loops and knots of the wood blend seamlessly into the brilliant,

Reflective meathril blade.

You are immensely proud of your handiwork.

For this is not simply a beautiful treasure,

Nor is it merely a powerful weapon.

It's crafted of precious,

Legendary elven wood and of priceless,

Mythic,

Dwarven metal.

If you are the connector of two warring cultures through the forging of a sword alone,

Let this spear make clear the symbolic peace between your two worlds.

You feel moved by the exercise and no closer to wanting rest.

Your mind races with all the possibilities,

All the beautiful things you can make with the meathril.

As you gaze into the reflective surface of the remaining ore,

A spark of inspiration ignites and quiets all other thoughts in your mind.

With burning clarity in the shining metal,

You can see,

For just a moment,

The face of someone you love,

Someone who has always been there for you,

No matter how much your commitment to your work can monopolize your time and energy.

Imagine who treasures you.

You blink back tears as you think of this person,

And the thought of them brings you a soothing warmth that's softer and more subtle than the heat of the forge.

It's as though you're wrapped in a light silk blanket.

At the last of your resolve and your remaining energy,

You decide that before turning in,

You'll make a gift for your loved one,

Something fashioned of this rare and beautiful metal.

Once,

Long ago,

You were asked to cast a gold ring for the king beneath the mountain.

It was blessed by the old gods with a powerful enchantment,

One that allowed it to multiply itself.

On every ninth night,

Eight new gold rings would weep from the original.

It was beautiful magic and built the king's riches beyond imagination.

If you remember right,

You still have the stone mold from that casting.

It takes you a few minutes,

But you locate it amid your materials.

The mithril is heating to white hot in the fire.

Gingerly and with love,

You pour the molten mithril into the ring mold.

You watch with wonder and satisfaction as the pearlescent liquid,

White as moonbeams,

Spreads into the round cast.

Thinking of your loved one,

You silently call upon the old gods.

If they're listening,

Might they grant this ring,

A labor of love and compassion,

The same enchantment as the gold?

You don't ask out of greed,

For you do not intend to possess the mithril that might drip from this ring,

But out of your newfound longing for a peace between all the peoples of the world.

Those new rings of mithril falling from the original might become priceless peace offerings and treasured gifts symbolizing love and loyalty.

You're not sure if the old gods of the mountains can hear you,

Or indeed if they still exist and dwell there,

For much of the old world is lost from memory.

But a cool breeze whistles through your cave window in the abating night,

Song-like and sweet.

You take this as a message that someone has heard your wish.

The ring,

Once complete,

Is as lovely and enchanting as you envisioned.

You polish the metal to bring out the incandescent shine of the mithril.

It gleams like the full moon and throws flashes of violet and lapis in reflection.

It's smooth and delicate in your hands,

Then holding it up to the light of the fire to inspect for imperfections.

You see its glossy surface start to ripple like liquid.

Just as a reservoir of dew slides over the sides of a morning blossom,

Another perfectly formed ring drips from the one in your hand,

Falling to the floor with a dainty ping.

Once later,

Another ring weeps from the original,

And another,

Another,

Until eight identical mithril rings rest in a little pile on the floor of the forge.

You scoop up the copies in your free hand.

Someone has heard you.

Somewhere in your ancient,

Distant memory,

A torchlight springs to life.

Time erases much,

You think.

But the memories are still there.

They just need a light shown upon them.

Tonight,

You've shown a light upon the old gods,

Powered by love and friendship,

And it's woken them from obscurity.

What other lost things might you stumble upon?

You think of all the people you'll give these rings to as gifts.

Of course,

One will go to Niphi,

Who found the reserves of mithril and came straight to you.

But the original,

Which you stashed in a pocket of your apron,

Belongs to your loved one.

They will,

You think.

You're very touched.

It's only now that you begin to feel the ache of the long hours you've worked.

This is so like you,

To lose whole days and nights in the forge,

Spurred by endless fascination with the work,

Or burning desire to complete a project.

You settle for nothing less than perfection.

You survey the pieces you've made,

The bronze sword for the elven general,

The oaken and mithril spear,

And the regenerating mithril ring.

Perhaps,

You think,

A vacation is in order.

The world will still turn,

And the forge will still burn,

Even if you take a much needed rest.

The first rays of sun are starting to enter the forge through your natural window as you take your leave.

But it's no matter,

For you're venturing deeper into the mountain,

To a chamber the sunlight won't penetrate.

You turn the mithril ring over and over in your hand as you move through the network of tunnels.

You've worked all night,

And the day's shift of miners are already waking up to begin the day anew.

They scurry about you,

Seeming to move at many times your speed.

You let your body simply lope through the space with no additional effort or haste.

You will get there when you get there.

Rehabilitation makes its way through your body,

From your aching feet to the crown of your head.

When at last you arrive at your chamber,

You feel hardly capable of taking another step.

You collapse in your bed.

It's dark and cool,

And you pull a light blanket up to your shoulders.

Deep in the heart of the mountain,

You dream of a childhood long forgotten,

Of endless play,

Of summertime.

You dream of the faces of people from long ago,

Friends and family.

In the dream,

You meet your childhood self,

And you give them a ring of precious mithril.

You watch as the ring bubbles and transforms before your eyes,

Expanding into a burning torch in the child's hands.

But the flame,

Rather than amber,

Is a dazzling white,

Almost too bright to behold.

It's like liquid diamond.

And the child turns away from you and starts up a tunnel,

Which is illuminated brilliantly by the white light of the torch.

Along the tunnel are infinite veins of glittering ore.

As you look closely at the veins,

You can see your memories dancing along them,

As though you're peering into a whole world of things that were once lost and are now found again.

The tunnel is very,

Very long,

And the flame in the torch shows no signs of burning out.

Breathe naturally.

Settle into your sleep surface.

Embrace quiet and stillness.

You deserve it.

Bring your awareness to the fingers of your right hand,

The thumb,

Forefinger,

Middle finger,

Ring finger,

And pinky finger.

Feel how each of your fingers connects to the palm of your hand.

Follow your awareness into the palm of your hand,

And feel warmth and light in the palm of your hand.

A warmth that you possess already.

Follow that warmth into your wrist and forearm and elbow,

Upper arm and shoulder.

Feel the warmth and light massaging the connective tissue and your muscles in the place where your arm meets your torso.

Feel the light shining and warm,

Traveling like liquid across your chest,

Softening your heart space to the connection point of your left shoulder,

Where it massages the muscles and the tissues.

Then let it travel down the left upper arm,

Elbow,

Forearm,

Into the wrist.

Filling up the palm of your hand,

Softening the spaces where your fingers connect to the palm of your hand.

The thumb,

Forefinger,

Middle finger,

Ring finger,

Pinky finger.

Feel how a current of warmth now runs across your arms and torso.

Feel how the two sides of your body are connected and allow them to soften and relax together.

Now bring awareness to the toes of your right foot.

The big toe,

Second toe,

Third toe,

Fourth toe,

And pinky toe.

Feel how each is connected to the ball mound of your foot.

Feel the softness of warmth and light massaging the soles of your feet,

Alleviating the tension of your day,

All the way to the heel and ankle.

Feel where the foot connects to the lower leg,

Warm and soft.

Let the sensation travel up your calf and shin,

To the knee,

Softening that critical joint,

Up through the thigh,

The hip flexor,

Warmth and light softening and releasing any tension stored here,

Massaging the connective point between the leg and the core of the body.

Feel the current of light,

Warm and comforting,

Ignite in the belly and travel across the pelvis to massage the connections of the left hip and hip flexor,

Releasing any strain or stored tension in this part of the body.

The warmth travels down the left thigh,

Massages the left knee,

Down to the shin and calf,

And the left ankle,

Where the leg meets your left foot.

Let the current of light and warmth massage the heel and release the sole of your left foot,

The left ball mound.

Feel where the end of the foot connects to your left toes,

The big toe,

The second toe,

Third toe,

Fourth toe,

Pinky toe.

Now feel how a continuous circuit of sensation connects your right foot across your legs,

Belly and pelvis to your left foot.

Feel the warm sensation of current that runs through all the connections of your body.

Now bring awareness to the space where your shoulders meet your neck.

Release any strain.

Let the sensation of warm light travel up the slope of your neck and release your jaw,

The muscles inside the mouth,

The tongue,

The throat,

And the muscles of the face,

Around the lips,

Where the jaw meets the muscles of the ears,

Around the nose,

The temples,

The eyebrows,

The space where the eyebrows meet,

The space where the eyebrows meet,

The forehead,

The scalp.

Feel your whole body,

The myriad pathways and connections.

Feel the whole body,

Light and warm and soft and connected.

Feel at ease.

Let go.

And let yourself sink.

Good night.

Reviews

I love your sleep stories! I am always pulled into the descriptive, safe, and unusual places.

The only "problem" I have is that the stories are too long, but I am usually asleep within the first 30 minutes. Still, this is one of my favorites.

These stories are wonderful and entertaining. Your delivery is magical; your voice is soothing and brings about immediate relaxation. Thank you so much for creating and sharing these!

Most enjoyable to go to sleep to, very well written and told. Although I haven't made it to the end of any of these captivating stories yet. I am not convinced there really is a body scan at the end of the stories, as there seems to be no good reason to have one. Much appreciated thank you.

Fabulous love your stories thank you Namaste 🙏🏻

Awesome! I fell asleep when you started talking about the uncommon stones. It’s the last thing I can remember!

The best of this series. Beautiful ly written and delivered.