A primer on the forging of cold iron by Durin Stoneforge

"Amidst the swelterin' forges o' me kin, where fiery hammers shape the mightiest o' weapons, I stumbled upon a wee bit different path, ye see. Cold iron, they call it, a metal that doesna ken the heat o' the earth but holds a heart as icy as a polar bear's fancy.
To craft such a weapon, ye need tae defy the ancient ways and honor the chill that courses through the metal's veins. Do ye hear that, laddies and lassies? The metal itself has a heart, aye, and it demands a gentle touch that can tame its frosty soul.
Deep doon in the bowels o' the earth, where the iron ore sleeps in the embrace o' darkness, I sought the hidden veins that cradled the essence o' coldness. Armed with me trusty pickaxe and a stubborn determination, I extracted this precious ore, awakenin' the echoes o' ancient powers. Can ye believe it? Me mere touch breathed life into the icy depths.
Through the anvil's dance and the strike o' me mighty hammer, I shaped the iron, preservin' its cool temperament. But let me warn ye, lads and lassies, this path is nae easy one. It's like dancin' with a lass who's just had too much mead. Ye need finesse and a keen eye, or ye'll end up with a shattered mess. And trust me, ye don't want to face an angry dwarf with a shattered mess on his hands.
Yet, the rewards are worth it, me friends. A cold iron blade, when wielded by the hands o' a master like meself, strikes fear into the hearts o' fey and demons alike. It's like givin' them a taste o' the Scottish winter, I tell ye. They won't know what hit 'em.
So, me lads and lassies, let the forges roar and the anvils sing, for we forge the legacy o' cold iron. In its embrace, we find a wee glimmer o' hope, a chilly resolve that keeps the wickedness at bay. Durin, the Master Forger o' Cold Iron, stands proud and true, armed with a wit as sharp as the blades he crafts.