I wonder if the reason the Elemental can bind itself to our armor without problem is that it's not a normal "elemental" elemental. Instead of being aligned with one of the Winds, it's aligned with the Glittering Realm. We did briefly cross into the realm while working at the Anvil after all. We could have brought something back with us.
I'm jazzed enough about things that I'm looking for excuses to talk about stuff, and this what jumps out to me.
Snorri is right, that normal Elementals which were drawn in would've been made into more energy. Rather than binding themselves to his creations, as Mhorni has apparently done.
Yet, and this is where the wild theories come in, there was another
entity that was drawn in. Something that felt what Snorri was doing, as he added the reagents and struck the Runes upon the Anvil during a Storm of Magic. That was drawn in, no, upward from beneath. Which, maybe, reinforced Snorri's Will. Even while Snorri lost all awareness of his surroundings, and his body was falling apart, maybe it was this entity that was urging him to endure and remember.
He didn't survive the encounter unscathed, the first apparent contact causing immense pain. Like something within him was being burned.
Yet, at the very end, the Glittering Realm manifested.
It's accepted that the Ancestor Gods are mundane beings that achieved divinity, and that they weren't even the first Dwarfs. Further, Thungni is credited with discovering the Glittering Realm. He isn't a being of the Aeythr, with his own brand of magic and the Glittering Realm as his domain.
Since this is how Runesmithing came to be, it seems impossible that Thungni could've created the imprint on the Aeythr to begin with. Unless, as Thungni disappears from the Karaz Ankor, he uses the height of his power in order to reach into the past and let his younger self into the Glittering Realm.
Um, I can't really speak on that. I don't think anyone really can. That said, this doesn't have to mean anything for Snorri. Whatever it's origins, all we need to know is that the Glittering Realm is tied to the Aeythr. With, perhaps, something like Daemons of it's own. That's not a reassuring connotation, but what else would you call it?
An Elemental of Runesmithing? What else would that be, besides something or an Angel? Which, out of everything in Fantasy, a Daemon is what most resembles that. Lesser entities tied to a larger power, sent to do their bidding.
I mean, what other alternatives are there?
Maybe, what if…
Could that original entity been a part of Thungni? With the statues and their glowing eyes, there's been instances where
His attention is turned to Snorri as he works. And what else was the creation of Skarrenbakraz, but a greater version of all that came before? Which would make it more that Snorri was Mantling Thungni, as priest would.
As a priest of Sigmar and Ulfric saying prayers during battle to reinforce their followers, or to smite their enemies, maybe Snorri's chants and craft brought Thungni's attention to bear.
All this is well and good, but what does it mean for Mhorni? It's unique connection to his Runecraft would fit nicely if it was related to Thungni's presence, but it doesn't answer it's connection to Snorri and his thoughts and intentions.
Well, if I had to guess, perhaps it's an echo of when Thungni Mantled Snorri? The weight of Thungni's presence, no matter how small, was burning Snorri's soul. The Brana compared it to an ore being smelted and purified, and cooling as Snorri recovered, but it still seems like it was Snorri was diminishing from the experience. Maybe that left something of a void in his soul, one that was occupied by Thungni's attention. Yet when it was over, that void wasn't necessarily filled. So…uh, hmmm.
I'm coming up against a wall here, but I can't forget that Mhorni has a unique connection to Snorri himself. Seeming to have the knowledge to understand not just Dwarf culture, but Snorri's own unvoiced thoughts and feelings.
This, more than anything, suggests to me that Mhorni is connected to Snorri's soul.
So along with all the rest of this gobbledegook, along with the physical changes like Snorri's eye and his beard, Thungni's presence left a mark.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I have no clue what Mhorni actually is, what to call it, but I think it's a safe bet to say that it isn't an Elemental of any kind. Like, all I've got to compare it to are Arcane Marks. So, in this instance, perhaps a middle ground between those and Divine Marks. Like Snorri's eye and part of his beard.
I don't totally believe that, because this is in no way predictable or standardized. Snorri's soul got mixed around and boiled and whatnot, with Thungni's stopping by to give Snorri a helping hand. Which, even if it didn't make things worse, definitely flavored the damage Snorri endured and thus the changes that came about.
That's all I've got.
What's up with Mhorni?
Well, I don't think it's an Elemental. It seems more like some sort of echo of Snorri's soul, that only exists as it does due to the attention of Thungni.
Maybe that part of Snorri's soul that was being burned up was given back to Snorri, as Thungni left.
Some choice quotes, to help explain where I'm pulling this stuff from lol.
It heeds, called by the tune.
Something, a part, a fragment of an existence that has always been, slowly begins to crawl up from the depths.
The Smith does not know why he keeps hammering, only that he must continue. The beat, the rhythm guides him, the words a vague memory and impression that cannot break through the haze of agony he suffers. His name, his being, he knows are in some part of his mind, but they are too far gone for what remains of his consciousness to reach. It is harder to think, to remember anything aside from the rhythm and the pain. He does not know if his eyes are open, vision was discarded-was discarded at some point. He cannot remember anymore. All he knows is the pain and that he must keep hammering, must hold true to the words and the rhythm. He has forgotten why, but he knows that he must not stop, not until-.
-He does not know.
Eyes form and see that which calls it.
He keeps hammering, he does not know why, only that he must not stop.
Swing, chant, endure.
Brought onto mortal plane.
Swing, chant, endure.
He thinks about stopping, and is surprised to find that another emotion bubbles up. One that is not pain. It is a hot thing, roi-roi-bubbling and bursts like molten metal. Hot and pointy.
Anger.
Yes. Yes, Anger. Anger and shame, that is what this feeling is. He cannot stop, if he stops he will feel angry and ashamed. Angry and ashamed of who? He doesn't know. He only knows that he does not want them. The Smith holds on to that nugget of thought, adds it to what he refuses to forget. He must not stop hammering, must keep with the Rhythm, he must continue or he will feel anger and shame.
He must keep going.
Swing, chant, remember, endure.
The rhythm tells him to move, to grab something, to raise it to the proper position, and to pour.
Hands of rock reach upwards, grasping.
The Smith almost recoils, whatever has happened has only intensified the agony. His body suffers pain the Smith never thought possible, every finger, every speck of skin feels as if it's being plunged into lava, his swinging arm, already more a mass of suffering than a limb, feels as if it is unravelling, curling apart like a length of cordage being unwound. Yet even this pales in comparison to the bone-deep pain he feels from someplace he cannot describe, like a piece of parchment being put to the torch, the Smith feels parts of himself burn, tear and shrivel up from an intense
not-heat that nips and bites off larger and larger chunks. Had he vocal cords capable of it he would be screaming, had he a curse to encapsulate his suffering he would bellow it for all to hear. He wants to stop, to let the pain end and let this ragged nugget of
Will that stubbornly holds on fade to emptiness.
Legend and myth
But he does not, much as he wishes he did.
S-s-wing, c-hant, re-remember, endure.
C-ch-chant, remember, endure.
Knees finally buckle. Two blows. The hammer's haft disintegrates, the last vestiges of wood turning into blackened ash.
Zharrgal is raised skyward a final time, now held aloft by the tendril of molten flesh, it's head blazing with a teal light so intense that it shines bright enough to overpower the torrent of energy still rushing around it.
It falls, metal screaming as it travels through the air like a falling comet.
The work of the Smith.
Rest.
