The Torge

The blacksmith at his age-old forge, Hammering in an arcane gorge, His argent anvil overgrown with nettles, Pounding celestial magic into arctic metals, Creating the bladed blight, they call the Torge. The infamous devil himself was at the door, The carmine demon was evil to the core, False wind billowed out the smith's brocade, As the contorted blade was slowly made, But then the vile devil took the floor. The wretched smith turned swiftly to see, What creature had entered so hatefully, But the night lit with apocalyptic fire, The smith's soul feeding hell's raging desire, The devil lifted the weapon with courtesy. The edge had been sharpened and was keen, The blade extremely long straight, and lean, Villiany was strong at this dark hour, The blade simmered with the dark prince's power, The demon's soul was abject and mean. The Underworld gained a new weapon that night, In preparation for the final divine fight.