In the thicket, under the crescent moon... the fox is hiding on its prowl.
In the dark soil, rich and of musky scent, a bar of steel did hide for decades...
Steel it is of skillful provenience, ardent and valiant, and yet pitted deeply by the ravaging rust; once it was smelted to achieve true temper... and the smiths laboured with all their might to produce a bar from the ingot, a chisel from the bar of steel. It was used to near extinction, beaten and battered and ground anew until little did remain of it... decades of hard use and pounding it saw... and then it hid in the tracks of deer and the wild boar. The owl flew above the soil where it was hidden, and the fox trod over it on its hunt.
And the crescent moon shone.
And in the tracks of fox and boar, of deer and hare I saw it, submerged in the musky earth, where death and life reign supreme. The forge was lit with roaring fire, and again a smith did labour long and carefully to pound the metal and forge into it the fangs of the fox, the light of the crescent moon, the graceful and lithe roebuck and the furious boar.
As of yet, it has seen no temper and no quench - but soon the time will come when it will be lying in the roaring embers to incorporate the mighty fire, too.
Thus it will sing.
Thus it will bite.
