Disclaimer: Tolkien forged raw steel; Kortirion plays with glue and paper.
Strike the iron! Strike the iron! Strike the iron - now!
The rhythm rang out as hammers drew sparks, chattering viciously on anvils, before half-wrought blades hissed a-quenching in dank, ashy water. Incandescent molten iron splashed and flamed into moulds, hot shards leapt to scour thick hides leaving livid scars, still - barely visible among disfigurements and fanged horror.
The piles grew among the noisome reek and smoke of the vast forges - billhooks, halberds, war-hammers, battle-axes, sharp edges to hack down the puny upstarts, and the Bright Eyes. But even they trembled at His passing - trying not to catch that eye.