To Walk the Lands Our Ancestors' Formed
A forge dimmed and cooled, a hearth banked low and dying. Chants silenced and the ring of shaping metal stilled. It was unnatural Dirbuk Mirthforge thought as he ordered his tools for the last time in a workspace over five centuries old. A day had not gone by where some work was being done here, either the forging of his art, the grumbling of negotiations, or the soft crackling of a cozy fire. But now it was silent and would remain so. Already the runes standing vigil over his vault had been released from their duty, and the massive doors hung eerily open revealing the glittering treasures and reagents he had accumulated over his long life. His instructions on how to dispense of his wealth lay crisply on the table in front of it, impossible to ignore. For on that very same table lay the last and greatest of his creations, a circlet of gromril blazing with runes of power. Fit for the eldest longbeards, to be worn with pride when representing their clan to the greater hold. None had commissioned the work from him, none had promised payment for his last work. It was rune work for the simple pleasure of creating runes of power, for the simple purpose of crafting art. Who ultimately received it he cared little about, for he would be gone from this world before the decision was made.
He divested himself of his runic weapons and talismans and proceed out of his workshop clad only in the simple garments of a traveling ranger, a long hooded black cloak. Brown leather armor one could buy from a journeying tanner and solid black boots that he had worn for centuries. And in his pouch, he carried some rations, a waterskin, and a single candle. Dipping his head in greeting to the gate guards as he passed, and in such a manner that they would not recognize him when his descendant's questioned them, he began to walk. To the rising sun, and the mountains that were its foundation. The World's Edge Mountains that his Ancestors had walked themselves.
As he walked, Dirbuk heard the words of his master, reverberating through a workshop very similar to the one that had just been left behind. Words of power, of instruction, and of wisdom. And of the final lesson apprentices never appreciated until their master vanished, like a breath of frosted air. Just as he had never understood when his master rambled about cycles and returning to the roots, so to did his apprentice fail to comprehend. But now they would, and the darkness would be lit by fires of understanding. It was fitting, as a runesmith, that one would seek to emulate the Ancestor Gods. And what better way than to seek where the Ancestors' started when one is dying? To seek where everything truly began at your end?
For days he walked, slowly curving his path until he was walking south along the edge of the Mountains. The foolishness at Karak Kadrin did not slow him, for he did not carry anything with him on his pilgrimage, and the beardlings who disagreed quieted at his indignant grumbling. After that unpleasantness, it was smooth walking. Few beasts dared to block his path, but with some quick flourishes of his woodsmen ax, they stopped becoming problems. Slowly days became longer and nights became shorter. With each step, though, he could feel time eating its way through his marrow, and age press down upon his shoulders like a yoke. Pride and duty kept him walking, but it could not last forever. His strength was eroding like limestone next to rushing water. Each drop carrying a little bit more away. And there were so many drops now.
But as he walked, he sensed two more presences next to him. Ancient beyond comprehension, they wore age like the mantles of kings, and in their wake time bowed before their authority. Thungni, from whom Dirbuk received the right to forge runes and will into being power unmatched, walked two steps behind and a step to his right. Gazul, who held dominion over the halls of ancestors which Dirbuk would be joining, walked two steps behind and a step to his left. As he made camp though and saw only one set of tracks to his fire, he knew that it was simply a tired mind playing tricks. It was a warm comfort, the tricks his mind played on him. For there was peace in knowing that in passing out of the realm of one ancestor, he would pass into the realm of another.
Months passed in his journey. Some days spent resting, recuperating spent strength to walk another mile. Other days simply moving forward with sheer inertia. But the distance was traveled. Zhufbar passed by him in a daze. Karaz-a-Karak passed by with nary a thought. Karak Eight-Peaks passed without a glance at its splendor. Karak Azul without any hesitation. It was somewhere between Karak Azul and Karak Zorn that he stopped his journey. Dirbuk took in the sites, of white-capped peaks and valleys lush with life. This is what the Ancestor Gods saw when they moved north, these very same peaks, and the very same valleys. It was, gratifying, to see and experience this. At the end.
With a weary heart and weak body, Dirbuk found a small cave to rest in. He watched the sunset for a final time, and as dusk came he lit the candle he had lovingly carried all this time in his journey. While watching the stars his eyelids drooped lower and lower, and when the candle finally guttered out he was feasting and drinking in the halls of Gazul with the wife of his youth by his side and his ancestors ready to celebrate the deeds and honors of their descendant who had finally joined them at long last.
A/N: I saw something once where a runesmith will just disappear one day with their final work left in their workshop. I don't know how accurate that is, but I figured that I would give my take on it. This has been percolating in my mind for some time now, and I'm glad that I was finally able to find the time to get it down on paper. I hope you enjoy the read!
