Anyway, have some M A M M O T H.
I haven't written anything in years so excuse the clunkiness.
A simple expedition, Snerra thought. That's what this was supposed to be – gathering reagents from the potent beasties that had become all riled up in the wake of the war and the storm. And yet, even as they ventured into the valleys and woods beyond Drakk, there was something in the air that set her on edge, beyond the norm of these chaotic times. Her sniffer wasn't nearly as honed as Master Snorri's, no, but the fear, the distress on the wind were palpable to even her, and she could
swear she could hear something odd in the far distance.
As she and her companions rounded a turn in the mountain pass, it became clear exactly why.
A lone mammoth- nai, a mammothling, yet to even sprout its first tusks, lay half buried under scree; a landslide, clearly, from the beast-trail high above the valley. The poor thing was the source of the distress that she'd sensed, trumpeting in fear and pain that some part of her recognised could only be cries for its mother. Beyond stalked a warband of Fimir, laughing and jowling in their hideous tongue at the distressed cries of an imminent meal with no means of escape. They were growing bold, clearly, to send warbands and scouts so far into Dawi territory, a worrying sign, with the war in the west intensifying by the day.
"My lady, your orders? Should we turn back?"
Their party hadn't yet been noticed given the languid postures of their foes and the cruel laughter echoing through the valley, and ever was the thought of her safety upon her companions' minds. But to turn tail and leave? To let such injustice take place?
Unacceptable.
Rolling her shoulders with a small pop and hefting her runestaff, Snerra hopped down from the wagon and strode forwards into view, her companions readying their weapons as her intent became clear. These Fimm needed a lesson in just whose lands these were.
"Beerguard, to me! KHAZUKAN KAZAKIT HA!"
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Her ever-dutiful companions had set to work in properly disposing of the corpses and their foul, shattered artifice, allowing Snerra to turn her attention own towards the mammothling. Its cries of distress had reduced to panicked whimpers at the sight of the slaughter that had taken place.
"
Hush,
little one," Snerra said in whispered tones, caressing the soft hair upon its brow. "
It'll be alright. We'll get you out of there, don't you fret."
The child calmed a tad at her ministrations, even as she pored over the debris to determine the best way to extract it from the rubble. It aught to be simple enough, by her estimation, save for the mid-sized boulder that had its right foreleg pinned at a rather alarming angle – a delicate touch would be needed to remove that without causing undue pain.
"Hroki, dear?" she said to the nearest Beerguard.
"Yes, my lady?"
"Fetch the others and tell them to bring the mattocks and braces." She gestured to the trapped mammoth and the landslide that had trapped it. "This little one is coming home with us,"
Hroki gave a sharp salute in affirmative, well used to the odd whims of the Runelord he was sworn to. In short order the industrious longbeards of the Beerguard had devised a plan to extract the unfortunate creature from the rubble, carrying it back to the wagon aloft a quickly fashioned stretcher.
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As the little mammoth slept, swaddled in blankets by the hearth under the influence of pain-numbing herbs and tonics, Snerra ruminated on the choice before her over a mug of hot ale. The mammothling's leg was indeed mangled beyond repair, and would have to be amputated to prevent infection and the spread of gangrene to the rest of the body. That much was evident – the conundrum was what came after the fact.
To bestow dwarven artifice, particularly runework, upon a non-dwarf was always controversial. Up here in the Far North, with the example of her master and the Ancestors themselves to follow, it was far less unprecedented, but still certainly bold and likely to draw comment from her peers and elders.
And yet, it was undeniable that before her lay a
child, no more than a year old, confused and hurt and alone, the look in its eyes hardly any different to when she'd had to console little Siggrun when she'd broken her wrist, all those years ago. A child that would have had a full life ahead of it, had it not been snatched away by a twist of fate and the whims of a mountainside. Could she in good conscience consign it to a… a
half-life, to return it to its herd where it would no doubt fall victim to some other predator in short order, when it was well within her power to
make things right?
Come what may, when she put it like
that, the choice was clear. She was a Runelord now, student of the Gift-Giver and chosen by Thungni himself. Whatever fallout there might be, she would weather it with a smile knowing full well that she had done the right thing.
The prosthetic would have to be a simple, robust thing, capable of surviving in the harsh outlands beyond the mountains with no maintenance and lacking in moving parts that could foul or freeze in the worst of conditions. Were it a dwarf, the solution would be simple – Forged Limb was truly a wonderful rune, providing fluid, jointless movement that was as natural to use as the limb it replaced. It could likely even be adapted to non-dawi forms with some small effort, though pride and good sense alike would not allow her to bumble around in the dark when the child need help
now.
No, a temporary solution was needed, for anything more permanent would be outgrown by the child in short order, as mammoths were wont to do. A tricky problem, a tricky problem indeed.
Draining the rest of her ale, Snerra pulled out a ream of parchment and one of those newfangled 'pens' she'd had imported from Zhufbar. She'd spent enough time lollygagging! This prosthetic wouldn't design itself, and let it never be said that Snerra Magnasdottir lacked for creativity!
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The weeks passed, the amputation and recovery having proceeded smoothly under the enigmatic gaze of Master Yorri, before he'd promptly disappeared to do… whatever odd thing happened to take his fancy. The whims of her master's master were as inscrutable as ever, and she knew better than to ask how or why he'd become such an accomplished veterinarian.
By far the most intricate portion of the design was the connecting mechanism, an array of azrilwut pieces connected by cables of gromril wire, maintaining its form by precise application of tension and compression alone, with no moving parts that might become fouled in the wilds. She'd constructed the array such that it would gradually unfurl with the application of internal pressure as the child's leg grew, whilst still maintaining sufficient tightness that it wouldn't slip off, no matter the situation. The 'leg' portion itself was a thing of utter simplicity: strips of azrilwut, hardy and strong, treated and bent in a manner akin to the limbs of a crossbow, inscribed with Runes of Speed, Strollaz and Repair, the last of which she'd never thought to find a use for outside of children's toys. It was, all in all, a novel application of the principles of Morgrim and Thungni, and one she was rather proud of.
When at last the rangers and Brana scouts came back with reports of sightings an elder Mammoth combing the mountain valleys, singing what could only be described an elegy of mourning that 'stirred the Wind of Amethyst', she knew their time together was up.
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The hike back to the pass where they'd first met was a lengthy one, but it gave ample time for the child to get used to the prosthetic on more challenging terrain. When they at last turned the corner of the pass for the second time in as many months (after much stopping and starting to give time to reset), what lay beyond drew a small gasp from the Runelord.
At the very end other end, just beyond the treeline of the forest beyond stood a truly gargantuan example of the species, magnificent even, with deep purple eyes could swear were staring
right into her soul.. Even at this distance, she felt as though she were under the scrutiny of an Elder many times her own age. The child's mother, no doubt. He would be in good hands- trunks?
She let out a soft chuckle, and bent over slightly to look the mammothling in the eyes.
"When you are grown, tall and proud, return here, and we'll see if I can't give you a leg worthy of the name. In the meantime, between your temporary replacement and this torc, any dwarf ranger in these mountains shall know of you, and will provide aid to you and your kin should you seek it."
The torc around the small mammoth's neck flared to life, the flickering of its runelight hesitant, shy, even.
"Azulaf, brynek," The youngling said, resting his brow gently upon Snerra's chest. The Khazalid was fumbling and clunky - more a reflection of its youth than the translation runes on the torc - but it was an expression of thanks nonetheless.
What a polite child.
"I only did what ought to be done. Now go, little one, and be strong." With a final pat, she ushered him away, watching on with a fond smile as he made his way back to his mother. The child's stride was hesitant at first, before easing into a bumbling, enthusiastic gallop, trumpeting all the while in joy.
They would meet again, of this Snerra was sure.
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The ancient eyes of the Gravekeeper gazed through landscape and memory, even as one ear listened dutifully to the eager recounting of the child she'd thought lost. The small shining one, who stilled the Winds even as they danced in the wake of the Storm, and her mountain home; these she would commit to the Tales of Wandering, recorded forevermore through word and song.
After all, an elephant
never forgets.
