Duncan nods to Ragnar and goes back to the main chamber where the prisoners have taken residence. He comes over to Elorian and Son. "Forgive me for intrustion, Sir, my lady, but I believe that I would be ill-mannered not to introduce myself. My name is Duncan Bloodforged, whose ancestors have once fought on great Fortress Wall. I myself do my best not to dishonour their memories. And I'm truly at your service, as much as my capabilities allow me to be. So if you any of you have any need for my help, feel free to ask, and I will do my best to assist you." He makes a small bow right after saying his name.
After talking to Son and lady Elorian, Duncan approaches the blacksmith. "Master blacksmith, I would like to ask for your assistance. There is a forge deeper in the tunnels, and a couple of us that with some skills in the art of metalworking will be working on some new equipment and weapons. If you feel up for it, we would much appreciate your help. We will reforge some of these shadowforged armors and weapons, and purge any taint they might have with fire. Would you care to join us?"
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Elorien looks at you with a sad smile. "Thank you, Sir. It makes me glad that the chivalry is not dead in this dreary world. Indeed, perhaps our ancestors served on the Wall together?"
Blacksmith shudders when you ask for his assistance. "Aye, I will help, but let's be done with that quickly. I like not this place."
"Wh-what would you expect me to do?" pleads the soldier. "Slave or soldier. What choice is their for me? What else was I to do?" Chops' eyes narrow as the soldier pleads. With each word, Chops' sadness turns more and more to anger. He growls.
he barks. Steam rises from the sweat on his neck into the cold air as his own temperature rises. Then more quietly, he murmers, "I would give you the chance to pray to your god to save your soul, weak little man, but The Dark One doesn't care about you." Chops hesitates for a second as the soldier realizes the truth in Chops' words, then the young dworg quickly jerks his axe, drawing a line of red on the soldier's throat. He dies in seconds. Chops never knows if the man got off a prayer.
Without pause, Chops strips the useful armor, items, and weapons off of the soldier and makes his way back to his stash of sticks. On the way, he sees one blue flower. It has a ring of six petals splayed out with a cup-like set of petals around the stamen. He doesn't know what it is but it is beautiful. He notices that there are many more so he picks one, and carefully tucks it in his urutuk's sheath before trudging his way back to the camp.
Felna co cks her head and mews. Chops raises a finger to his lips and says, "Shhhhh."
The pool of water steams as the stream flows into the pool. The scarred dworg stands on the edge, just staring at the sight. He dips a finger in the pool, and feels the heat. He pulls off his boots and sits on the edge, letting his feet hang in the hot water. Sun that feels good, he thinks as he revels in the feeling.
"Screw it," mumbles Chops to himself as he slides out of his clothes and steps in the pool. Unarmed and naked, he is still one of the most dangerous creatures on Eredane so he feels he can take this luxury. My god this feels good! The heat of the water relaxes muscles that have been used for nothing more than fighting, trudging, moving rocks, and long distance travel for too long.
A half hour later he leaves the pool, redresses and heads back to camp. Chops finds Ragnar and drops off the wood he gathered, as well as the armor and weapons he took from the soldier. The barbarian barely acknowledges the delivery as he prepares and works the forge. Chops checks to make sure the flower is still in its place.
He approaches the pale elf-orc woman that he has grown to care about. She is still entrenched in her preparations. He shyly presents the flower to her and speaks.
"If you'd like to take a break, I have found the perfect place to relax.," he says quietly.
Solvistania is engrossed in her studies, and at first does not notice Chops satring at her. Finally, after he announces his presence, she looks up and gives him a small smile, a look of fatigue in her eyes. She notices the flower presented to her, and she looks up at him, her eyes drinking in his face and his eyes.
"A break, I am really busy now..." she starts to say quietly, but then she stops. Something in his gaze stops the rest of her words from being uttered. Maybe the look in his eyes was enspelling her. NO! but she was enspelled anyway, not by the forces of magic, but something far older...
She rises to her feet and takes the flower from him, and slides it into her hair, tying her hair in a braid around it so it covers the left side of her hair."Thank you, Durathoin. This is a thoughtful gift, and I do like it. Tell me more of this place where we can relax."
She allows him to take her arn and lets him guide her away.
Hand in hand with Durathoin, Solvistania wonders just what her love has in mind. They leave the camp and for fifteen minutes, follow a deer trail in the woods. Faintly, the sound of trickling water reaches her ears.
"It's safe, I swear," says the dworg quietly. "I've been scouting out here for hours." He seems refreshed and relaxed. And much cleaner than any of the companions have a right to be. She notices that the crisp air has grown warmer, then she notices the fog. The trickling she had heard now sounds more like a small waterfall.
"I found this hot water spring cove earlier. It feels wonderful. I thought you might like it." The normally bold and brash warrior is now demure and shy. "It feels good on the muscles. I was wondering if you'd like to join me in the waters. They are just the right temperature."
The woods clear out a bit to reveal a large pool of steaming water. It is bordered on three sides by short stone cliffs. Ledges are interspersed here and there. She can see that there are ledges underwater, shallow enough for her to sit on and still keep her head and shoulders out of the water.
he strips down and slides into the water quickly. Solvistania can't help but cringe at the multitude of scourge scars and burn marks, intermingled with more recently earned slashes. She also can't help but notice the rippling muscles on his black skin. The light glints off his wet frame, enhancing the well honed fighting frame developed through a lifetime of hardship. He looks away to give her privacy while she prepares to enter the pool.
Solvistania stares at the hot spring, then looks over to Durathoin. On his question to her, she nods in acquiescence. She waits for him to enter the hot spring, and once he has settled, she starts to take off her cloak, and then starts to untie her dress.
She hears a mewing from Felina, a questioning look in the feline's eyes. Solvistania stares at her, until the feline meows once, then scampers off, leaving the two of them alone. She continues to take off her dress, and he can see her body is quite slender, almost emaciated, but ther are no marks on her skin. When she turns to face him, he can see she has completely disrobed.
She slips into the spring and glides next to Durathoin, and then tentatively starts to touch each of his many scars that are crisscrossed over his body. Her touch feels like a feather, and it brings a soothing feel to his body. She says nothing, and just allows the silence to reign over this tender time, a time of intimacy between two castoffs from their respective races.
Soon her touches grow more exploratory and her hands start roaming over the other parts of his body. Now he can no longer control himself, and he starts returning the favor. When he touched her skin, it was like touching the softest silk, and soon he found his lips on hers, where she returns his kisses.
The afternoon lengthens to evening...a time of connection, and of growth. It is fleeting to be sure, but it is what allows the fight to continue...
"There is much to be done. Bring all the equipment gathered from your former captors to the forge. I need you and Sorok to begin smelting it all down into four foot rods. I have something I must do, but I will join you tomorrow morning."He looks to Chops and Anang. "I intend to arm these refugees. I will need wood for spears."
Sorok scowls muttering to himself. "Bah, them toothpicks'll break the first Odrendor they come across. Ye'd need proper stone. Suppose humans are'nt sturdy 'nough te handle it though." After a moment he looks up."Right, le's get to it." With that he begins collecting the fallen Odrud swords and armor then heads down to the forge and begins heating the metal until it glows white hot, then hammering it down into smaller block forms. He works hammering the metal down to the right shape, pounding it down to the correct size, scraping the metal as it cools to out excess material to balance it perfectly. He then re-heats the metal folding the steel over itself to strenghten it. He continues this until he feels the metal is ready and sets it aside until he has finished with the rods.
As the dark Dwarf again removed the white hot metal from the green glowing flames to the forges anvil, he feels a complacence from within. Though it was a different forge from the one he learned on, he felt that it was a part of him or rather he was a part of it. For every Dwarf, Black blood or not, was most comfortable and felt most at home when they work with stone and metal in the cool embrace of the earth and this is why they are the masters of the forge.
As Ragnar leaves to commune with the sacred spirits of his people, Ilona observes tthe activities of the others.
As efficient as they were in combat, so too did the group funcion while at rest, each person instinctively finding where their unique skills would do the most good.
She smiles quietly to herself, the thoughts a welcome distraction from the darkness brought on by the knowledge of what was done to Ellorian.
She walked back to their stronghold, a few of the refugees avoiding eye contact, her words still fresh in their minds. Already she could see thee effects of a real night's sleep and the understanding that tomorrow may actually bring something better than the day before it. It wasn't quite hope yet but that would come in time.
She would make sure of it.
Returning with the blacksmith to the forge, Duncan joins Sorok. As they start working Duncan watches as Sorok touches metal, sometimes amazed how he seems to bend it more with his will than heavy hammer, making hard metal behave almost like clay.
So this is how a dwarf handles metal. He makes it looks all so easy, like he could squeeze the red-hot metal in the right shape using only his bare hands.
Duncan tried his best to keep up with Sorok's pace, and pure efficiency, and almost manages, and despite considerable effort, the dwarf always remained half a step ahead. The blacksmith seemed uncomfortable at first, not trusting the heat source of the forge, but once he got started, it looked like almost happy to do some work, although he stayed wary, and was eager to finish the work as soon as possible.
They worked through most of the afternoon, heating the steal and then hammering it and folding it, and Duncan could almost feel the taint of the Shadow being purged with every new folding, reheating and hammering.
Late in the day, after long hours of echoes of three craftsmen in the smithy, four foot rods were standing in front of them, pure, Shadow taint gone.
After taking a break, Duncan walks to the bars again. It was almost as if he felt them call to him, and after touching a couple of them, he is certain of it. He can almost see them taking shape. Weighing a hammer in one hand, he feels the surge rising, and desire for creation taking over.
"Master dwarf, we still have plenty of time until Ragnar returns, and I think that I will start forging myself an armor. I think I will manage with a little assistance of your skill and experience. Will you help me?"
Having said that, he takes a metal rod, heats it, and starts hammering away.
As Anang, chops and Ragnar depart the encampment each set on his actions, Gilian returns briefly to the forge, finding the other two male members of the group working hard at the forge.
Well, there's a thing with these men and relation to people. As usual it's going to be Ilona and myself job to sort the refugees out. I had hoped this Duncan would help us there but he is already stuck at the forge.
Turning back on her heels, she walks to the tunnel entrance and spends a few minutes, half hidden, looking at the coming and going, quickly assessing the authority currents within this new group.
With this knowledge, she goes back to the forge and, consulting with Sorok and Duncan, they come up with a defence plan for the refugees. The first part would be to build a wooden palisade with a deep enough ditch and a entrance small enough to prevent the soldiers to use the tortoise manoeuvre they used before and to be able to fire crossbows from protected positions. This would require the refugees to work together and that was something she could do with Ilona's help.
"Master dwarf, we still have plenty of time until Ragnar returns, and I think that I will start forging myself an armor. I think I will manage with a little assistance of your skill and experience. Will you help me?"
Having said that, he takes a metal rod, heats it, and starts hammering away.
"Aye, we'll have ye properly outfitted soon enough. First though, we finish workin on the spears, then we can start on your armor till Ragnar returns.
With that he returns to the forge, taking the finished poles then measuring and balancing them till he finds the middle balance point and brings them over to the grinder. There he spends a long while cutting them down the middle until he has eight perfectly measured two foot poles. The Dwarf and his two assistants then takes them to the forges fires till they again glow a molten white hot. He then begins to pound them flat into spear heads.
The hours crawl by marked only by the now familiar constant pounding of hammer on metal as the three smiths work well into the evening. Once the spear heads are complete they are brought to the grinder for a final sharpening. Once they are sharp enough to pass the three smiths inspection they are set to the side of the forge on a leather cloth, where they gleam in the forges fire waiting.
Stepping out of the tunnel, Gilian quickly gathers those of the refugees that will help her convince the others. she includes both the Son and Ellorian and makes a point directing her talk to them. Her first words to the small assembly are to explain the group will soon leave to deal with more dangerous enemies and a complicated mission but that in the mean time, they will help as much as they can to secure this place for the coming winter so that the refugees can, coming spring, contact other communities and make their way back to more hospitable lands.
"The forge down there, the library and the other rooms are not safe then but we are working on it and we'll make them safe before we go. That will give you enough space to winter and the temperature there will not drop too much. But there are still two threats. first, the worgs and then, Zafina and her band. For that, we will need to fortify the entrance and prepare a few more surprises. We propose to erect a wooden palisade protected but a deep ditch, with an entrance small enough so that only one or two can come at the same time. I've got a friend that can help you with the ditch. But I must warn you, he is not human. He is a creature older than all of you together, but young in his mind. His kind were born of Aryth out of the stone and earth, so don't be afraid by his shape."
On cue, Pebble comes out of the tunnel to stand by his mistress and mischievously offers his hand for the refugees to shake. Gilian takes note of those who do before sending them of to work.
Seeing Ilona standing by and watching the process, Gilian approaches her and asks her to keep an eye on the refugee progress. "You're the only one of our group that can get them to do something out of hope and not out of fear. If we start showing them they have a future, I hope they'll start doing things by themselves. In the mean time, I've got some work to do with some oil that was still in the forge. Pebble has also located some saltpetre and sulphur for me and I happen to know how to make some cling fire. ".
It has grown dark, and the two lovers have been in the hot spring for hours. Solvistania is leaning back against Durathoin, half asleep while he runs his fingers through her hair, still white despite the wetness.
"I never want to leave this," he whispers and pauses to her reply. But we should get back. Someone might worry. He kisses her head, which is turned up to him. The heat inside him grows more intense as he more passionately presses her against him once again.
Shortly thereafter, they exit the pool and wipe the water off of each others bodies as they dress. He takes in the sight of her, and sees only the beauty of her despite the years of pain that she carries with her. Hand in hand, they slowly walk back to the camp, and to the grim reality of this dark world they live in.
Solvistania tries to focus on the upcoming ritual, knowing how dangerous it will be. She also tries to think about how to further assist the refugees, and also what Zafina's next move would be. But everytime she tries to focus on these concerns, she remembers Durathoin, and images of the time they spent together overwhelm her senses, her emotions, her controls. Indeed, she has been conquered by him, more thoroughly than any minion of Shadow could ever dream of. When she looked im his eyes, and saw the love he had for her, she felt...complete, yes complete for the first time ever.
She holds his hand tightly, and vows never to let him go.
After finishing the spear heads Sorok calls for a break for the three of them. Once a short time had passed he calls Duncan over.
"Ye move well in armor, better'n most. I'm thinkin yer needin a breastplate. The Dwarf rubs his chin with a thoughtful look for a moment looking Duncan over muttering to himself. "Though, the way ye move calls fer more maneuverability, an anythin heavier'd slow ye down. I'll be workin through the evenin te get it done. First though, I'll be needin te size ye." With that Sorok begins getting measurements from Duncan to properly size him in his armor. Once the Dwarf has a better idea of how to shape the armor, with an excited look in his eyes he exits the room to find Gilian.
As he rounds the corner he nearly bumps into Gilian who was making her way down to the forge. "Ah, thank the Mother. I was jus lookin fer ye lass, I be needin yer assistance. I be needin wood, a lot of water and sulfur from yer guardian.
Ilona nods as Gillian speaks, her signature grin flashing at the petite healer's assessment.
"Fun thing about hope is it's a lot like fire. Spreads like mad and just keeps growing"
Her eyes pass over the refugees attempting to apply themselves, many lost or confused, yet even one night of freedom showed.
She shrugged out of the massive scabbard strapped across her back, laying Requiem down with an almost reverent care, the dazzling Sarcosan wordlessly joins in the work, supporting and helping wherever she is needing, pitching in guide the effort, giving it meaning and by extension, working to build the sense of accomplishment they gain from actively takimg measures to help themselves.
The morning comes, as mornings most often do, without preamble. The fog slowly rolls back, the dark slowly fades to light, and everything would have been surprisingly calm and tranquil-
Except where Ragnar is concerned, nothing is ever calm and tranquil.
He comes striding out of the darkest part of the gloomy wood, fog seeming to cling and swirl around his feet like grasping hands. The shadows cling and dance in the light of the spectral torches that follow him and the sounds of the forest creatures fall deathly silent, making the din of the spirits around him all the more clear. If one could see beneath his deep hood, they would see an expression of patient exasperation.
Today, it is not just the voices of the spirits that plague him. Today, two birds argue, loudly, flitting from branch to branch as he finds his way back to the ancient Dwarven castle, looking around for his companions.
"Well how th' hell was I supposed to know that the thing was going to spit us out a few hundred league away? You were the one that said you'd keep an eye out while we went down in the ruins. Ya should have been able to make it here weeks ago."
"We've been in the area for over a week. We were unable to discern the location of this Dwarven fortress. Quite a find, I might add. Dwarves are not known to build castles. Even the pack could not pierce whatever glamour keeps this place safe from prying eyes. I could not have found you until Ragnar began the familiar bonding ritual."
"Go figure you think that's a good thing. You know what happens to us now if he dies, right? That ain't gonna be fun."
"Our task is to watch over him, and aid him. What better way? We were, for all intents and purposes, Familiar Spirits already, save for the bond itself. How would you put it? 'Don't get your feathers in a ruffle?'"
Y'know, I think I changed my mind. I liked it better when you were lost on the other side of the continent."
"Insults, the last resort of the witless and the defeated."
"And anyone who has to spend more than a few minutes with certain overly-intellectual Vigdir."
"Being overly intellectual is greatly preferable to being underly so. Are these the ones you've spoken of?"
"Yep. Well, most of 'em at any rate. Looks like we made it just in time for breakfast. Hey folks! We're back. Don't all cheer at once. The other, not-quite-so-good-looking bird is my partner Hugi. She's annoying as hell, but probably smarter than you, so she's handy some times. Now who's gonna feed me?"
Ragnar simply stops in front of the group where they have gathered for their morning meal. he seems as if he is about to say something when the pot over the cookfire trembles a moment and comes crashing down into the embers kicking up a plume of steam and ash, ruining whatever had been cooking.
he snaps in his harsh native tongue
"Strana! Get away from there"
and then looks around at everyone for a moment. "I...I am sorry. I'll go. I'm sorry."
With a drawn look on his face he turns and begins walking in the direction of the forge.
Solvistania looks up at Ragnar, momentarily tearing her gaze from Durathoin, after he disturbs the morning breakfast, and at first Muni's announcement does not register. Then her memory recalls another bird that had left to watch over the stepping stones...so long ago.
She gently disengages Durathoin's hand from her own and rises, approaching Muni, and Hugi.
"Hugi, is that really you? It has been too long. Welcome back, your presence was missed." There is a smile on her face, and reflected in her blood red eyes.
"Hugi, is that really you? It has been too long. Welcome back, your presence was missed."[/b][/smaller] There is a smile on her face, and reflected in her blood red eyes.
"Indeed, it is me mistress Solvistania. I don't believe we had a proper introduction back at the ruins before all of you vanished. I'm pleased you remember. I'm glad you've all managed to keep Ragnar alive while I've been away."
The scent of jasmine wafts through the area signaling Ilona's arrival. She notes the faling pot, her eyes flicking to Ragnar aas he apologizes for the actions of one of his spirits, a quick pulse of empathy washing from her.
As Solvi speaks completely bypassing the event, she smiles, happy to see the elf maiden draw out of her shell as well as shifting the focus.
She slides up alongside the grim necromancer, the mists seeming to dissipate slightly as her arm reaches along his back, her head coming to rest on the rock like bicep, glancing up at him with a wink.
"Welcome back. We've got a lot ahead of us today. Ready?"
Making eye contact she mouths the words.
"Missed you!"
He seems surprised at her touch, but does not shrink away, merely going still. He swallows as her head comes to rest on his arm, seeming both surprised and worried for a moment. Her presence obviously calms him and releases him a bit from the tension he seems to continuously wind within him. He touches her slowly and tentatively, as if afraid she won't really be there when his hand finally reach her. His day alone with nothing but his thoughts and the voices of the dead does not seem to have been good for him.
"I...missed you also. I am ready. I thought I would get started instead of disrupting everyone's meal."
"Yep. Well, most of 'em at any rate. Looks like we made it just in time for breakfast. Hey folks! We're back. Don't all cheer at once. The other, not-quite-so-good-looking bird is my partner Hugi. She's annoying as hell, but probably smarter than you, so she's handy some times. Now who's gonna feed me?"
"Awe crap! Two of you? Izrador couldn't be so cruel....what a world....what a world. Oooooh, look out! I'm going! Oooooh! Ooooooh!" Chops cries in mock horror and falls to his knees with his hands covering his face.
Solvistania laughs under her breath, the first time she has laughed in a long time, perhaps ever. "Perhaps, we should just give ourselves up to the Shadow, before he inflicts even more punishment on us."
"Awe crap! Two of you? Izrador couldn't be so cruel....what a world....what a world. Oooooh, look out! I'm going! Oooooh! Ooooooh!" Chops cries in mock horror and falls to his knees with his hands covering his face.
The slightly smaller, slightly sleeker black bird looks back toward Muni for a moment before leaning her head off to the side at Chops' antics.
"It seems, Muni, that for once in your existence you were correct."
As Chops covers his face with his hands, Hugi continues.
"Ah, that is much better. Now if you would be so kind as to remain like that, I'm sure I speak for the world when I deliver my thanks."
Solvistania glances up at Hugi, and responds "Durathoin, you are also spared looking at the source of your anguish as well. A fair trade, I think."
"Agck! But I can still hear them." The dworg cries in horror and removes his hands from over his face and plugs his ears with his index fingers. Chops responds with great mirth and volume.
Ilona joins in the laughter, an infectious bubbling sound that amplifies the lightened mood generated by Chops' antics.
Chops responds with great mirth and volume.
"I think I'm jealous. I wish I had fingers. I just have to suffer when she opens her beak."
Smiling, Duncan takes pieces of meat from whatever was cooking, and courteously bows before the ravens.
"Please, allow me, Wise Ones, to offer you this meat as a token of friendship. Your long journeys must have left you tired and hungry."
"Hey, look, the new guy's got manners." Muni squawks.
"Indeed." the other raven says, hopping toward the offered food.
For a bit they are silent, except for occasional squawks of protest as they try to steal food from each other, eventually flying away to nearby trees to enjoy the last bits in peace.
After discussing things with Gilian, Sorok returns to the forge. He calls both Duncan and the blacksmith to aid him in melting down the recovered armor and weapons of their foes. As the metal was heated to its melting point Sorok began hammering it to create thin malleable plates. Working late into the evening after both of the humans had gone to sleep; he begins hammering the now cooling plates over the anvils rounded edge, bending them into the shape in his minds eye. Once he is done with this he takes the completed plates and reheats them, then begins melding them together to become the base shell of the armor. The Dwarf now drawn into his work forgoes food and rest as the pounding of the hammer continues to be heard throughout the night and into the morning.
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The black smith, the death shaman and the dragon knight toil at the forge in order to smelt away the vileness of the Shadow-made arms and to purify the steel with the heat of Aryth's magic. Over long hours, the three stop talking, their very lungs seared by the heat of the forge, their ears numbed by the clang of metal on metal. Three days and three nights they work at the forge with one goal in mind - to arm the rescued captives and give them the chance to keep their freedom. At the dawn of the fourth day, the last spear head, the last knife is made - and the three smiths put down their hammers and go to sleep. The work is not done yet. There are still dragon knight's arms and armor to be made. When they wake.
[
In the morning, as Sorok exits the forge he is drawn to the gathering of the crowd as Chops loudly pronounces:
The Dwarf missing the point of the exclamation responds "If yer not liken the sound o' the forge, there's outside too." Then upon noticing Ragnar. "Och, yer back... Is tha' another o' yer talkin birds?
The Dwarf shakes his head muttering.
The large Dornish man, the noble looking Erenlander, and the dark Dwarf all stood in the eerie glow of the nexus forge looking down at the assembled materials before them. A cursed sword of a Legate, the armor of the soldiers who fought under him, the pile of dismantled collars of all the slaves that were freed and finally the heirloom ruby of Duncan’s. He looks up to the noble Erenlander standing before him.
“It’s my belief that a weapons true strength can only be brought ‘bout by the one who forges it. Though ye may no’ have learned the skill of forging arms ye’ll be part of it. For here in these fires we shall cleanse the taint of this metal and forge you a sword that will start yer legacy."
The three smiths began working the forge. Duncan heated the metal to a cherry glow then held it steady while Ragnar worked the metal with the guidance of both his father and Sorok’s instruction. Sorok switched between instructing the other two smiths and melting down the other materials to find the best metal before allowing it to be used. The three worked, minutes turned to hours and eventually hours turned to days as they worked in unison toward their new goal. Switching off when they needed, aided by Ragnars ghosts that gave them the tools they needed, the ever burning forge, and Ilona who occasionally wandered down to give food and water or moral support.
As the work entered its final stages Sorok took over. The hilt was complete save for a gap in the cross guard. Once he and Duncan carefully applied the ruby so that it was perfectly set and began applying the Dwarven metal secrets he had learned so long ago. He brought the hammer down onto the metal with a resounding clang, there was a shower of sparks, and his memories both old and new flowed. Clang. His eyes stung at being brought forth into the glow of the forge for his first instruction in the craft of war. Clang. Duncan surprisingly breaks his grip when Ragnar calls for him to halt his offense. Clang. A blur of his first months as an apprentice of crafting weapons and armor of all sorts under a barrage of insults from the forge master and burns from the forge. Clang. As he retrieves his hammer and shield he stands to the side as Duncan and Anang begin the fight anew, studying how Duncan moved with his arms and armor. Clang. A warm glow as he presented his first true success to the forge master. Clang. After several well placed blows from the lithe dark skinned Elf the Erenlander falls to his knees barely conscious. Clang. With every pound of the hammer, Sorok's memories solidify, bringing him white-hot clarity. In the forging of metal, the dark Dwarf can find and temper his focus, bringing his thoughts into alignment. Clang. He begins to realize that he is working towards something, not just the simple works of metal beneath his hands, but something in his mind. Clang. Another blow, another degree closer to completion, and another step closer to what he seeks. Clang. And then, almost as his mind seizes on it, the work is done. For one last moment, he can see it shining in his mind, the secret daring him to unlock it. Reality intrudes once more, and he loses his grasp on the thought.
The double-edged blade stands strong and defiant much like the Erenlander it was made for. It is perfectly balanced and seemingly floats in the users hand. The blade is decorated by an intricately designed Griffin, though Sorok had never heard of the beast which Ragnar had described in great detail as the symbol of Erenland on the pommel and is dominated by a single unmarred ruby that shines brightly on the cross-guard. Surrounding the ruby on both sides are Dwarven runes of the Father Sun and Mother Moon.
The hilt is smooth and unblemished, and as Sorok sets the chisel to the metal he stops and turns to Duncan. "Now the blade is finished ye should be the one t' name it."
Looking at the beautiful blade on the anvil, Ducan says, slightly frowning,"No. No runes. And no name. Not yet. I need to deserve the right to name the blade, and the sword needs to prove itself worthy of having one. I would ask only one more boon of you before you finish. Give the pommel shape of a dragon's head, and then I will take over and complete the blade."