Turn 4 Results:
- Location
- Edmonton
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Winning Vote
You quietly walk through the halls of the Hold, a simple red cloak and a bulging sack that bears the Runes of Concealment, Lightstep and Silence. You're dressed more like a simple ranger than a Runelord ought to be, but despite all sense and logic you cannot help but conceal this little yearly excursion of yours.
Up ahead you see a group of beardlings laughing, clearly having just left one of the local taverns and on their way home. As you get closer you see the glinting emblem of Clan Dromminling, a clan of miners who were part of the original expedition, many of whose members worked in the mines surrounding the area though mostly centred around the Gromril mine.
"Goren save yourself the effort, the Rhunrikki's apprentice is out of your league," one young beardling chortles.
"I'm not trying anything, wouldn't be proper anyway. I can't believe the lot of you. I answer a question honestly and this is what I get!" a dwarf you presume is Goren grumbles back good-naturedly.
"We aren't mocking you for answering the question friend, it's for describing her like a Skald recanting the beauty of Valaya," another snaps back with a chuckle.
"I answered honestly!" he bites back hotly.
"Aye ya did, which makes it even funnier!" one says, causing the whole group to laugh.
"The lot of you shush now, forgive us for disturbing you Elder," the seemingly oldest of them says, turning to you and bowing, followed swiftly by his fellows.
You snort, give them all a standard glare of disapproval and move on without a word.
"Elder looked familiar," you hear one of the beardlings note from behind you.
"Where did you meet a ranger with a beard like that?" another says, their voices beginning to fade.
"Don't rightly recall," is the last thing you hear from that group before it becomes unintelligible for even your keen hearing.
Hmmph.
Best to write to Iggun about it, she did ask you to keep an eye on her daughter after all, and dwarfs taking notice of Fjolla in that manner did count as something she ought to know by your reckoning. Wouldn't do for her or her husband to be surprised by a marriage offer from a different clan.
You shake your head, you wished the girl luck. Courtship was always a rather tangled mess of politics, economics and familial drama.
Luckily for you, Klaus Drokkisson was the type of father who took his children's feelings into account when approving or denying their request to marry.
Still, you didn't see Fjolla settling down anytime soon. While women were often encouraged to marry on account of their comparative rarity to men, it was just as respectable for a dwarf woman to live her life without so much as looking at a man. After all, it wasn't as if your people were in danger of dying out any more than a race usually was. Well that, and the fact that dwarf stubbornness was inherent to all of your people probably played a part.
But enough ruminating, you had things to do and errands to run.
Shifting your shoulders, you move the bulging sack back into a position you can tolerate as you make your way through the residential and towards the temple district, heading straight to the Temple of Valaya specifically.
At the top of the staircase Elder Moira stood alone, patiently tapping her foot.
"Getting tired in your old age beardling? You're a good twelve seconds late, how uncouth to make a woman my age wait so long," she tuts at you.
You simply bow and apologize before following her into the temple proper.
Quietly, with the aid of runes in your case and simple skill in Moira's, the both of you make your way deep into the interior complex of the temple, into its most heavily guarded areas to reach your destination.
The Foundling Ward.
Foundlings, the thought sent a wave of sadness through you. Often enough clans took in and raised the children of their dead kinsmen themselves, the elders giving them the education their parents would have and none would be worse for wear.
But sometimes that didn't happen.
A small family who may have left their clan's hold to forge a branch in another hold being wiped out, the result of dalliances or trysts, perhaps even abandoned wholesale. The former was tragic, the latter made you think dark thoughts.
From these fates came the foundlings, children born without clan or home through no fault of their own.
The world was cruel, especially to these young dwarfs. No parents, no support network like a clan offered, no traditions save that of their people, only the priestesses of Valaya took them in, and through connections to the various guilds helped them find suitable apprenticeships so that they may make a life for themselves.
With that thought in mind you carefully lay down the sack and one by one, take out the toys you have built over the past few years in your free time, and lay them down at the foot of each child's bed. You and elder moira do this for every room, quietly entering, laying down a toy over and over until every last child has received one, the excess kept by the Temple to hand off when another inevitably arrives at your request.
You note with a tint of sadness that there are more foundlings here than all the other times you've visited, only one more in a long list of reasons to curse that abominable Troll and its horde.
"You don't have to come each time you do realize?" Elder Moira says for what feels like the umpteenth time. In reality, it's only the third time, but the point stands.
"Doesn't feel right to do it any other way," you answer honestly.
"Suit yourself," she says, a hint of exasperated humour in her voice.
"I'll be back soon enough, thank you for humouring me Elder," you say sincerely.
"Bah, off with you now beardling, I'm sure a Runelord has better things to do than drop off toys to children," she says with a shoo-ing gesture.
You say nothing as you leave, empty sack hanging from your back, but both of you know that you really didn't believe that despite any and all evidence to the contrary.
Must be that inherent dwarf stubbornness.
Still, your night isn't yet over, you quietly creep up on to your two apprentices, both nursing a mug of ale in their hands as they quietly chat with the other.
"That fella, what was his name? You know the one waxing poetically about your 'oathgold plaits that shone like pure Gromril'?" Dolgi says teasingly.
"Don't you start Ruby- Head, honestly can't those wazzocks take a hint? I may need to carry an axe with me to get the point across that I have better things to do than settle down. Don't know what's worse, that fellow's poetry or that he didn't notice me sitting here not two meters way!" Fjolla grouses back, sullenly taking a sip of her drink.
"Alright, alright Goldy-locks I see your point. But still, must feel nice being noticed by someone like that," he says wistfully.
"Speaking of disasters, how's your sickeningly sweet 'definitely not a courtship' with Klorah 'soon to be Embermane' going?" she says with a grin.
"I told you it isn't a courtship!" Dolgi whispers hotly, cheeks as red as his hair, "We just talk is all. And even if there was, I'm not making it official until I'm a master runesmith in who knows how long. I can only hope she's still interested by the time I become one."
"Trust me, if anyone's more hopelessly in love than you it's Klorah, and you know the stories I told you about Granduncle Jorri," she says reassuring him with a pat on the back for good measure.
"Really?" he says, eyes glistening with unshed tears, lips trembling.
"Yes, you rockhead, really. Now stop embarrassing the both of us and finish your drink. We have lessons in a few hours and orders to complete for Master Snorri," Fjolla snarks, eyes rolling in exasperation.
Now seems a good time to cut in.
"THAT YOU DO APPRENTICE!" you boom suddenly, spooking Fjolla and sending Dolgi out of his seat in fright, "BUT YOU MUST BE MISTAKEN ABOUT LESSONS STARTING A FEW HOURS FROM NOW!"
You pull out a handful of gravel, the fine particulates glinting in the warm light of the bar.
Both of them pale.
"THEY NEVER STOPPED TO BEGIN WITH," you yell, chortling darkly.
Pocket gravel.
The majority of your time is split between the workshop and the slowly rising form of the smelter complex in the hold. At this stage in construction, there isn't much to be done on your end. Only when the smelting array is complete can you begin to inscribe the Runes necessary, with that in mind you use the opportunity to train your apprentices in the art of time management.
You see, a runesmith's work was more than just inscribing the Runes themselves. There was also the task of ordering material, working with the builders to give you the time and privacy to do your work as the strictures of your guild demand.
As apprentices they didn't need to worry about such things yet, you graciously having told them of that fact many times. But it would do them well to learn how to manage the task themselves in preparation.
You send them off to order your supplies for the smelter, a list of ingredients in hand and money in their purses. Their task is to fulfill the order in the most efficient and cost-effective manner as possible.
Of course, you don't rely on them to get things right, you've made the proper arrangements with the local guildhalls a long time ago. Not that the shop owners would tell your haggard little charges, sending their own little equally in the dark apprentices to haggle with yours.
Collaborative teaching, so efficient.
While your apprentices were off running themselves ragged you were busy preparing your workshop safe for the arduous task of fiddling about with Master Runes.
It was a trickier process than one would think, you and the Longbeards assisting you had to carefully carve out a room adjacent to the workshop proper, built in such a way and with the right materials so that it could withstand and be prepared to handle the magical feedback of a Master Rune experiment gone wrong.
The process takes the better part of two years, which made it difficult for much else to be done. While you trusted these Longbeards to be honourable, that was one of the main criteria when you hired their services after all, tradition and good common sense demanded you put away your work while they were inside your workshop and carving away.
By the time it was done, all but the Rune's you would use were in place. A large reinforced chamber composed of more Gromril than some dwarfs would see in their lifetime. Pillars and conduits of the Rune Metal permeating the room's structure, all meant to enhance the effects of the Rune you were going to place.
Something you knew, could account for when you were working, but did not understand why.
Bah!
The rest of the decade your free time is spent in a cycle of endless repetition powered by a burning desire to know and good old Dwarf stubbornness that makes you keep going over the thought in your head. The image of brilliant silver, the pure almost incandescent white that you have stubbornly refused to, or more accurately cannot let go of.
Something is there, you just have to find what it is.
Growling in frustration you finish off the keg, walk over to the pile and put with the rest, forming an orderly little stack off in the corner of your workshop for your apprentice's to pick up later. You stare at the assortment of kegs, mind still whirling with the image of that moment. What did you know? Again you force yourself to repeat everything relevant to your problem over again from the beginning.
- Gromril was the strongest metal the dwarfs have ever found, putting everything else your people have found to shame.
- It is also the rarest, likely coming from the void of space in the form of cataclysmic meteor strikes.
- It takes to Runes like dwarfs to beer. Both substances simply resonate with the other on a level beyond most everything else.
- Gromril is the only surface Armour Runes would deign adhere themselves to.
- The Purest specimens of the metal were required for the Master Rune that bore its name.
All of these points clearly connected, but you just can't see how.
Perhaps it is the drink, perhaps the exhaustion, but your mind ends up wandering to what you know of Runes somehow.
The gift of Thungni, Runes harness magic and make order from it. You cannot inscribe more than three runes on an item, only a single Master Rune can be inscribed on an individual item…
…those kegs were rather nicely stacked if you do say so yourself.
You shake your head, clearing those intrusive thoughts and force yourself to repeat the information in your mind.
Runes harness wild magic, and through processes that your people still weren't firm about, made order from it. Taking the very substance of randomness and creating consistency and measurability. The Anathema to the Realm of Chaos…
...wait.
Perhaps the link is there, deep in the fundamentals of both these things. Unbidden the Master Rune of Gromril rises to the forefront of your mind, the light searing in your mind almost translating to your physical vision.
If the connection can be found...it will likely be in that Rune, not in its physical presence but its making. The thought is so compelling you end up on the floor rather than waste time getting to your desk. Taking a pose of deep contemplation, you recall the chant of the Master Rune of Gromril, the words coming to you like second nature.
Fifteen strikes with the chisel on the Rune Metal, ordered in perfect alignment…
No, that wasn't it. You continue the chant in your mind, discarding references to Garim the Ancestor, the instructions for precise striking, and dig instead into what you thought was simply thematic filler.
...let it be ordered thus and carry the strength of the Star Iron…
There, there! There is something there, you can feel it in your oldest whiskers but what is it? You aren't there, but you're closer. Closer, you can feel it, you go over more of the chant methodically.
...as Thungni brought order to madness let this Gromril bring order to the metal, let order return to itself…
Wait.
As Thungni brought order to madness...let this Gromril bring order…
Order.
Order.
The line referred to Thungni's discovery of the Glittering Realm, the Ankor Bryn, and his discovery of the Runes. Order from chaos, Runes were order imposed on something without it, for Gromril to be compared to that would mean Gromril was also linked to the concept of order?
You needed to test, to go over your mental library and find some truth to it.
Over the rest of the decade, in between bouts of training your apprentices and waiting for the damn smelter to finish for you to do your work, you wrote.
On paper, because once you were certain you'd commit it to memory, then maybe inscribe the final draft onto wafer-thin sheets of Gromril and bind that into a Tome you'd seal in a place no one would ever know of before burning the originals in a fire. Runesmith secrecy and all that. But back to your findings, and oh the giddy feeling in your gut at the thought.
Hundreds of runes are gone over with your new insight in mind; looking, searching for the barest discrepancy. Each rune that uses Gromril in its construction reveals a faint but noticeable pattern.
Ordering, conciseness, stability.
It becomes even more apparent when looking at permutations of existing runes that use Gromril when the original did not. The Rune of Burning, derived from the Rune of Fire, used flakes of Gromril. The startling difference that allowed it to set its ammunition ablaze after it had been launched from its, primarily wooden, firing mechanism.
But the strongest point of evidence in your favour was going over the Rune of Daemon Slaying. Its creation required drops of molten Gromril be poured into the grooves, and theories abound about how this rune so easily damaged daemonkind. Something in the Rune proved anathema to the daemon's essence making them easier to banish back into the Realms of Chaos, or so it was claimed.
Maybe this was why? Gromril's inherent order forcing the chaos that was a daemon out of the natural world?
How many other runesmiths learned of this inherent connection? Thungni for certain, the Burudin likely knew, as would the Brotherhood of Dron, mayhaps a few of the older masters too. Well, it's not like you're in any position to ask them for help, let alone sure they'd even give it to you, to be frank.
It seems so obvious in hindsight. But you feel as if you've only discovered a piece to a far larger puzzle.
Gain:
- The Rune Metal Chain has begun! Next piece of the chain unlocked.
- Narrative insight, mechanical insight into many things. Progress to ??? (2-1) =1 and ??? (3-1) =2
- Progress on both the workshop and the smelter.
AN: not really a lot of concrete gains here, felt sorta weird tbh. Uh, anyway C&C and thank you for reading :^)
…
You quietly walk through the halls of the Hold, a simple red cloak and a bulging sack that bears the Runes of Concealment, Lightstep and Silence. You're dressed more like a simple ranger than a Runelord ought to be, but despite all sense and logic you cannot help but conceal this little yearly excursion of yours.
Up ahead you see a group of beardlings laughing, clearly having just left one of the local taverns and on their way home. As you get closer you see the glinting emblem of Clan Dromminling, a clan of miners who were part of the original expedition, many of whose members worked in the mines surrounding the area though mostly centred around the Gromril mine.
"Goren save yourself the effort, the Rhunrikki's apprentice is out of your league," one young beardling chortles.
"I'm not trying anything, wouldn't be proper anyway. I can't believe the lot of you. I answer a question honestly and this is what I get!" a dwarf you presume is Goren grumbles back good-naturedly.
"We aren't mocking you for answering the question friend, it's for describing her like a Skald recanting the beauty of Valaya," another snaps back with a chuckle.
"I answered honestly!" he bites back hotly.
"Aye ya did, which makes it even funnier!" one says, causing the whole group to laugh.
"The lot of you shush now, forgive us for disturbing you Elder," the seemingly oldest of them says, turning to you and bowing, followed swiftly by his fellows.
You snort, give them all a standard glare of disapproval and move on without a word.
"Elder looked familiar," you hear one of the beardlings note from behind you.
"Where did you meet a ranger with a beard like that?" another says, their voices beginning to fade.
"Don't rightly recall," is the last thing you hear from that group before it becomes unintelligible for even your keen hearing.
Hmmph.
Best to write to Iggun about it, she did ask you to keep an eye on her daughter after all, and dwarfs taking notice of Fjolla in that manner did count as something she ought to know by your reckoning. Wouldn't do for her or her husband to be surprised by a marriage offer from a different clan.
You shake your head, you wished the girl luck. Courtship was always a rather tangled mess of politics, economics and familial drama.
Luckily for you, Klaus Drokkisson was the type of father who took his children's feelings into account when approving or denying their request to marry.
Still, you didn't see Fjolla settling down anytime soon. While women were often encouraged to marry on account of their comparative rarity to men, it was just as respectable for a dwarf woman to live her life without so much as looking at a man. After all, it wasn't as if your people were in danger of dying out any more than a race usually was. Well that, and the fact that dwarf stubbornness was inherent to all of your people probably played a part.
But enough ruminating, you had things to do and errands to run.
Shifting your shoulders, you move the bulging sack back into a position you can tolerate as you make your way through the residential and towards the temple district, heading straight to the Temple of Valaya specifically.
...
At the top of the staircase Elder Moira stood alone, patiently tapping her foot.
"Getting tired in your old age beardling? You're a good twelve seconds late, how uncouth to make a woman my age wait so long," she tuts at you.
You simply bow and apologize before following her into the temple proper.
Quietly, with the aid of runes in your case and simple skill in Moira's, the both of you make your way deep into the interior complex of the temple, into its most heavily guarded areas to reach your destination.
The Foundling Ward.
Foundlings, the thought sent a wave of sadness through you. Often enough clans took in and raised the children of their dead kinsmen themselves, the elders giving them the education their parents would have and none would be worse for wear.
But sometimes that didn't happen.
A small family who may have left their clan's hold to forge a branch in another hold being wiped out, the result of dalliances or trysts, perhaps even abandoned wholesale. The former was tragic, the latter made you think dark thoughts.
From these fates came the foundlings, children born without clan or home through no fault of their own.
The world was cruel, especially to these young dwarfs. No parents, no support network like a clan offered, no traditions save that of their people, only the priestesses of Valaya took them in, and through connections to the various guilds helped them find suitable apprenticeships so that they may make a life for themselves.
With that thought in mind you carefully lay down the sack and one by one, take out the toys you have built over the past few years in your free time, and lay them down at the foot of each child's bed. You and elder moira do this for every room, quietly entering, laying down a toy over and over until every last child has received one, the excess kept by the Temple to hand off when another inevitably arrives at your request.
You note with a tint of sadness that there are more foundlings here than all the other times you've visited, only one more in a long list of reasons to curse that abominable Troll and its horde.
"You don't have to come each time you do realize?" Elder Moira says for what feels like the umpteenth time. In reality, it's only the third time, but the point stands.
"Doesn't feel right to do it any other way," you answer honestly.
"Suit yourself," she says, a hint of exasperated humour in her voice.
"I'll be back soon enough, thank you for humouring me Elder," you say sincerely.
"Bah, off with you now beardling, I'm sure a Runelord has better things to do than drop off toys to children," she says with a shoo-ing gesture.
You say nothing as you leave, empty sack hanging from your back, but both of you know that you really didn't believe that despite any and all evidence to the contrary.
Must be that inherent dwarf stubbornness.
…
Still, your night isn't yet over, you quietly creep up on to your two apprentices, both nursing a mug of ale in their hands as they quietly chat with the other.
"That fella, what was his name? You know the one waxing poetically about your 'oathgold plaits that shone like pure Gromril'?" Dolgi says teasingly.
"Don't you start Ruby- Head, honestly can't those wazzocks take a hint? I may need to carry an axe with me to get the point across that I have better things to do than settle down. Don't know what's worse, that fellow's poetry or that he didn't notice me sitting here not two meters way!" Fjolla grouses back, sullenly taking a sip of her drink.
"Alright, alright Goldy-locks I see your point. But still, must feel nice being noticed by someone like that," he says wistfully.
"Speaking of disasters, how's your sickeningly sweet 'definitely not a courtship' with Klorah 'soon to be Embermane' going?" she says with a grin.
"I told you it isn't a courtship!" Dolgi whispers hotly, cheeks as red as his hair, "We just talk is all. And even if there was, I'm not making it official until I'm a master runesmith in who knows how long. I can only hope she's still interested by the time I become one."
"Trust me, if anyone's more hopelessly in love than you it's Klorah, and you know the stories I told you about Granduncle Jorri," she says reassuring him with a pat on the back for good measure.
"Really?" he says, eyes glistening with unshed tears, lips trembling.
"Yes, you rockhead, really. Now stop embarrassing the both of us and finish your drink. We have lessons in a few hours and orders to complete for Master Snorri," Fjolla snarks, eyes rolling in exasperation.
Now seems a good time to cut in.
"THAT YOU DO APPRENTICE!" you boom suddenly, spooking Fjolla and sending Dolgi out of his seat in fright, "BUT YOU MUST BE MISTAKEN ABOUT LESSONS STARTING A FEW HOURS FROM NOW!"
You pull out a handful of gravel, the fine particulates glinting in the warm light of the bar.
Both of them pale.
"THEY NEVER STOPPED TO BEGIN WITH," you yell, chortling darkly.
Pocket gravel.
…
The majority of your time is split between the workshop and the slowly rising form of the smelter complex in the hold. At this stage in construction, there isn't much to be done on your end. Only when the smelting array is complete can you begin to inscribe the Runes necessary, with that in mind you use the opportunity to train your apprentices in the art of time management.
You see, a runesmith's work was more than just inscribing the Runes themselves. There was also the task of ordering material, working with the builders to give you the time and privacy to do your work as the strictures of your guild demand.
As apprentices they didn't need to worry about such things yet, you graciously having told them of that fact many times. But it would do them well to learn how to manage the task themselves in preparation.
You send them off to order your supplies for the smelter, a list of ingredients in hand and money in their purses. Their task is to fulfill the order in the most efficient and cost-effective manner as possible.
Of course, you don't rely on them to get things right, you've made the proper arrangements with the local guildhalls a long time ago. Not that the shop owners would tell your haggard little charges, sending their own little equally in the dark apprentices to haggle with yours.
Collaborative teaching, so efficient.
…
While your apprentices were off running themselves ragged you were busy preparing your workshop safe for the arduous task of fiddling about with Master Runes.
It was a trickier process than one would think, you and the Longbeards assisting you had to carefully carve out a room adjacent to the workshop proper, built in such a way and with the right materials so that it could withstand and be prepared to handle the magical feedback of a Master Rune experiment gone wrong.
The process takes the better part of two years, which made it difficult for much else to be done. While you trusted these Longbeards to be honourable, that was one of the main criteria when you hired their services after all, tradition and good common sense demanded you put away your work while they were inside your workshop and carving away.
By the time it was done, all but the Rune's you would use were in place. A large reinforced chamber composed of more Gromril than some dwarfs would see in their lifetime. Pillars and conduits of the Rune Metal permeating the room's structure, all meant to enhance the effects of the Rune you were going to place.
Something you knew, could account for when you were working, but did not understand why.
Bah!
…
The rest of the decade your free time is spent in a cycle of endless repetition powered by a burning desire to know and good old Dwarf stubbornness that makes you keep going over the thought in your head. The image of brilliant silver, the pure almost incandescent white that you have stubbornly refused to, or more accurately cannot let go of.
Something is there, you just have to find what it is.
Growling in frustration you finish off the keg, walk over to the pile and put with the rest, forming an orderly little stack off in the corner of your workshop for your apprentice's to pick up later. You stare at the assortment of kegs, mind still whirling with the image of that moment. What did you know? Again you force yourself to repeat everything relevant to your problem over again from the beginning.
- Gromril was the strongest metal the dwarfs have ever found, putting everything else your people have found to shame.
- It is also the rarest, likely coming from the void of space in the form of cataclysmic meteor strikes.
- It takes to Runes like dwarfs to beer. Both substances simply resonate with the other on a level beyond most everything else.
- Gromril is the only surface Armour Runes would deign adhere themselves to.
- The Purest specimens of the metal were required for the Master Rune that bore its name.
All of these points clearly connected, but you just can't see how.
Perhaps it is the drink, perhaps the exhaustion, but your mind ends up wandering to what you know of Runes somehow.
The gift of Thungni, Runes harness magic and make order from it. You cannot inscribe more than three runes on an item, only a single Master Rune can be inscribed on an individual item…
…those kegs were rather nicely stacked if you do say so yourself.
You shake your head, clearing those intrusive thoughts and force yourself to repeat the information in your mind.
Runes harness wild magic, and through processes that your people still weren't firm about, made order from it. Taking the very substance of randomness and creating consistency and measurability. The Anathema to the Realm of Chaos…
...wait.
Perhaps the link is there, deep in the fundamentals of both these things. Unbidden the Master Rune of Gromril rises to the forefront of your mind, the light searing in your mind almost translating to your physical vision.
If the connection can be found...it will likely be in that Rune, not in its physical presence but its making. The thought is so compelling you end up on the floor rather than waste time getting to your desk. Taking a pose of deep contemplation, you recall the chant of the Master Rune of Gromril, the words coming to you like second nature.
Fifteen strikes with the chisel on the Rune Metal, ordered in perfect alignment…
No, that wasn't it. You continue the chant in your mind, discarding references to Garim the Ancestor, the instructions for precise striking, and dig instead into what you thought was simply thematic filler.
...let it be ordered thus and carry the strength of the Star Iron…
There, there! There is something there, you can feel it in your oldest whiskers but what is it? You aren't there, but you're closer. Closer, you can feel it, you go over more of the chant methodically.
...as Thungni brought order to madness let this Gromril bring order to the metal, let order return to itself…
Wait.
As Thungni brought order to madness...let this Gromril bring order…
Order.
Order.
ORDER.
The mental image of the Master Rune of Gromril, still sitting in the corner of your mind, blazes with blinding light.
The mental image of the Master Rune of Gromril, still sitting in the corner of your mind, blazes with blinding light.
The line referred to Thungni's discovery of the Glittering Realm, the Ankor Bryn, and his discovery of the Runes. Order from chaos, Runes were order imposed on something without it, for Gromril to be compared to that would mean Gromril was also linked to the concept of order?
You needed to test, to go over your mental library and find some truth to it.
…
Over the rest of the decade, in between bouts of training your apprentices and waiting for the damn smelter to finish for you to do your work, you wrote.
On paper, because once you were certain you'd commit it to memory, then maybe inscribe the final draft onto wafer-thin sheets of Gromril and bind that into a Tome you'd seal in a place no one would ever know of before burning the originals in a fire. Runesmith secrecy and all that. But back to your findings, and oh the giddy feeling in your gut at the thought.
Hundreds of runes are gone over with your new insight in mind; looking, searching for the barest discrepancy. Each rune that uses Gromril in its construction reveals a faint but noticeable pattern.
Ordering, conciseness, stability.
It becomes even more apparent when looking at permutations of existing runes that use Gromril when the original did not. The Rune of Burning, derived from the Rune of Fire, used flakes of Gromril. The startling difference that allowed it to set its ammunition ablaze after it had been launched from its, primarily wooden, firing mechanism.
But the strongest point of evidence in your favour was going over the Rune of Daemon Slaying. Its creation required drops of molten Gromril be poured into the grooves, and theories abound about how this rune so easily damaged daemonkind. Something in the Rune proved anathema to the daemon's essence making them easier to banish back into the Realms of Chaos, or so it was claimed.
Maybe this was why? Gromril's inherent order forcing the chaos that was a daemon out of the natural world?
How many other runesmiths learned of this inherent connection? Thungni for certain, the Burudin likely knew, as would the Brotherhood of Dron, mayhaps a few of the older masters too. Well, it's not like you're in any position to ask them for help, let alone sure they'd even give it to you, to be frank.
It seems so obvious in hindsight. But you feel as if you've only discovered a piece to a far larger puzzle.
…
Gain:
- The Rune Metal Chain has begun! Next piece of the chain unlocked.
- Narrative insight, mechanical insight into many things. Progress to ??? (2-1) =1 and ??? (3-1) =2
- Progress on both the workshop and the smelter.
AN: not really a lot of concrete gains here, felt sorta weird tbh. Uh, anyway C&C and thank you for reading :^)
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