Skill to Skill
???? IC
Karstah stood stock still in her armor, Karin A Karak shifting around her form in the howling Norscan snow. Obsolete, outdone, by other works she had poured fire and metal and skill into over the long, long time she had been alive, but there was something comforting, warming, pleasing about it. When she had been young and foolish and without the weight of responsibility responsibility. Much, in fact, like her Apprentice who was pacing in the falling ice, clad in a thick winter jacket of boar skin. She rolled her eyes even as Thorek made yet another pass in the deep ravine in the snow, formed by his efforts, even as she simply crossed her arms and kept her hand on her smith's hammer. "You can't send them your energy this way, lad."
"I'm worried, master." He looked her in the eye and did no worm about nor stiffen and that affirmed the wisdom wrapped in the foolishness of her choice; or perhaps, the foolishness wrapped in her wisdom? The Beardling was a stubborn piece of work to be sure, but then if he could have that much iron in his spine at that age how much might he have once the work of years refined him? What strength of character, what strength of will! And where there was will, there was Runes. If he did not get himself killed one way or another, anyway.
Could be worse. Could be Morgrim.
They both stopped as they heard thick stomping from somewhere far away.
Far away, and getting nearer. And pretty damn near already.
"Damn, dramatic giants..."
Karstah sniffed, and tapped her amulet, and the snow simply stopped falling for a hundred meters in every direction. And so both Master and Apprentice could see their guests.
Not Dwarfs, that was for certain. For one each was much too tall, the size of the barbarous Ogri, slimmer but quick and more plainly muscled. They were certainly better armed and armored however, for all it was by and large "practical" (lazy) work it blew both Fimir and Ogre away. Most marched with pollaxes as tall as they were, viciously sharp and hard that combination of spear and hammer and ax. Their armor was by and large plate, though a few replaced thick cuirass for brigandines; and it shone bright as the sun. Second skins of steel. There were gaps in the metal, but that was nothing to complain about.
They were, after all, protected by thick crystals. Gems projected from the brows, more like studs than horns in most cases; from the knuckles, which were integrated to serve the same function as knuckle dusters; and at the sternum, which acted as a target at the center of the armor. There was variations as well, however, some had the same studs of thick crystal rising up out of their shoulders, out of their elbows, everywhere there were joints, there could be crystal studs.
Colossi. Strange, nascent creatures at the dawn of their history, living now within former Lichtenburg.
At the center of the crowd, there was a man wearing even thicker armor than the rest, made of steel worked pristine white and shimmering gold. The crystals that projected from him were all lightly carved with faint emblems not unlike those on his armor. A cloak of wyvern hide dyed gold and then embroidered with a massive harp hung from his back. Musical notes, in fact, if she had to guess. Rather than a pollaxe he held a mighty hammer, two handed and circular of head, a fine mallet indeed. The pommel was carved to resemble a note at the end, while holy writing that vaguely burned with golden fire danced along the head of the mallet. He bore magic, and lightly grimaced as it touched the field of her Runes, but endured it with a stoic air. His hair was kept short, and was red; his skin gray as slate.
What immediately drew her attention, however, was the particularly thick book chained at his hip.
"Runelord Winterhearth," he said in a voice that was more like a chorus of ringing bells than anything that should come out of a single mouth.
"Artificer. It was a surprise when the High King said you requested to speak solely with us."
"Indeed, for you and your predecessor alone have the proven history." She nodded at Thorek, who went to help the Colossi lift the chests some carried: more than mere gold was held within. Reagents, manifold reagents, strange oddities from the far south and the construction of the Artificer alike, imbued with his magic.
"And a lack of certain other features I suppose," she said. He stopped and turned and then shook his head again.
"Dwarfs. All vengeance all the time. You think the weight of wars and grudges rest upon us? Ha. If we spent our time and energy on such reckless hate for all who did anything wrong to us, we would never get anything done."
"Is that why your hammer reeks of death's bane then, Artificer Deacon?" His eyes narrowed, though his lips tilted up at the edges in a half smile.
"Hatred of the Undead is just good sense, of course."
"Aye, I'll drink to that." Karstah pulled her flask of Bretonnian brandy from her pocket and downed part of it, not strong but sweet and crisp and she was old enough to bull over anybody who wanted to judge her for it, except, perhaps, for Master Snorri; but then he was mostly too busy to stop his work these days.
Mostly.
"In any case the day is not long enough for us to waste our time trying to fight anyone who ever wronged us. So let us instead march forward helping each other. You desire reagents to help you expand the horizons of your Runework, we desire reagents to expand our Artifice, and our kings and lords and masters, such that they are, all desire to strengthen our work together against the forces that would slay both of us. Is it not so?"
She nodded, finally satisfied. "Aye, that would be the long and short of it."
"Then let us expand our horizons."
Artificer Deacon Gemheart opened the chest inside her workshop, and pulled out treasures from the the oak container. A heart that still faintly beat in aftershocks was the first thing she saw, spurts of fire occasionally dripping from it. "Heart of a Firehoof, and a mighty one at that. Ox mutated by Aqshy itself to breath fire and to be immune to its licking hunger. Rich in flame, rich in strength." He placed it back inside and next grabbed from the chest what looked to be a bird's feather, though long as his hand and colored in a mottled array of shocking, rich blues and eye-bright whites. "Athvati feather. Lightning touched, rich with power in that way." Lastly he pulled a stoppered vial from the chest, and immediately the workshop felt ten, twenty degrees cooler. "Tears of the Wind, cold encapsulated and made physical."
She nodded, looking distractedly at the three, mind already racing, even as Tekton presented the Dronril and the Hearthstones to the Colossi and explained their functions.
She tapped the necklace on her neck, activating the fires in the forges.
And then she set to work.
Distractedly she said the chant even as she beat her hammer onto the ax blade. It was shaping up into a finely made throwing ax for her new client, and a good single-handed weapon for one of her people. There was a spike on the back shaped like like a lightning bolt, and a hunk of Dronril carved to look like Thungni helped balance the bottom of the hilt, with a grip of troll hide in the center studded with sapphire and lightning shaped knotwork etched along the edge of the blade, made of pure gold; the blade itself was Gromril (best not to share all their secrets yet, after all) lacquered an arcing sky blue, while the hilt was stained dark black as the storm clouds that tossed the lightning.
And finally the Master Rune of Flight was ready. A part of her was tempted to use the Athvati feather for that but she had a better idea for that particular treasure. Instead she took the ground Great Eagle feathers and let their strength soak in; and when that was done she turned instead to the Rune of Speed, took the crushed Dronril, and poured it in.
And at last she came to the Rune of Lightning and, taking the her mortar and pestle she began to crush the feather.
Three Reagents she was given, three Reagents she would use. No doubt the Artificer Deacon thought he was clever, very clever, but she was cleverer and more stubborn than even a creature literally hewn of the stone.
So she turned to her next work. An even larger ax, one that a Colossus could use with one or both hands, but which a Dwarf would need Runes or both hands to wield. An "icicle" of Gromril projected out of the back, while the blade was damascened with blue and white gromril in such a way that the blue suggested the negative space in a snowflake. The haft was frigid blue and had a grip of Wyrren Duraz stone that leaked the cold. It was already a potent weapon by the degraded standards of the age.
Naturally, she began to add Runes. First she chanted her way through the Master Rune of Currents, feeding it the brain of a griffon from the War of Vengeance, dead to save its rider from her ax, kicking up a wind as it finished. Next she took up the Rune of Strikes, and gave it the ground down remnants of the tusk of a Thundertusk, and a particularly impressive one at that, and there was a new deftness and weight to it.
Finally she poured the Tears of the Wind into the Rune of Snow.
An ax so big no Dwarf could lift it but with Runes, and even they could never fight with it. A Colossus would be required, and a strong one at that. It had a mighty, double bladed head, forged of Gromril and "split" into three portions. Near where the hard metal head was set into the hilt it was a vibrant, heady, dark blue, like the dancing flames. At the edge, where it grew thin, the blade was a jewel bright violet, the shade of the dancing flame. And knotwork of whitest gold, white as her hair and white as the snow at the mountain top, traveled to the head: a snarling, massive dragon. The haft itself was carved out of Wyrm Bone, the only thing she could be sure would stand up to the power of the fire unleashed. A hearthstone spike shaped like a tail dripped fire. It was dyed bright red, but for the grip, made of Wyrm Scale and dyed yellow.
Next she began working on the Runes. She carved the Rune of the Ram and gave it Chimera's blood, to force the thing's fiery strength into it. The Rune of Cleaving, given the blood of a Great Taurus slaughtered with her own two hands. Strong and sharp of claw.
Finally she took the blood of the Firehoof and began to pour it into the marks of the Master Rune of Conduction (Master Rune of Kragg the Grim, bah, stop using it for a few centuries cause you've got no damn dragon blood and have that Kragg beardling come along and modify it and watch everybody lose their mind, bah).
Karstah finally stepped out of her workshop to see the Artificer Deacon presenting his works. A finely made cloak of troll hide worked soft and pliant, trimmed with silk at the bottom and dyed black and white, at the center a Dwarf's visage deeply stylized in bifaciem fashion, one half snarling and wrathful to fulfill a Grudge, the other contemplative and attentive to fulfill the craft. A set of armor next, and rather than the full plate harness it was a fine set of more intricate scale at the chest to the mid thigh, and laminar around the rest of the limbs, overlapping each other. Each scale was studded with gems, but the gems varied, alternating from one scale to the next, between the wyrren duraz, hearthstone and dronril.
It was good. For a mere forty year old, more than acceptable work. Excellent, even, all things considered.
But she was old. Old when his people were young, old when the Empire was young, old when the Vortex was young. Heir to Snorri Gift-Giver, who even with his face turned from the Empire was a great Runelord than damn near any one of the impetuous youths who claimed the title now.
And so hers were better, even as she used the mighty two handed ax to support her weight. The Colossus was unreadable as he saw the gifts he was to present to his people, in honor of their alliance, if you wanted to call "we hate the same people as you and don't particularly dislike you in comparison" an alliance.
The first was the throwing axe, constantly pouring out electricity. "Zhufadron I name it, the Torrent of Lightning. Throw it and you may control it with your hands as though it was still grasped, and sparking with lightning it shall be fast as the lightning, and so shall he that bears it be.
Next the smaller battle ax, a bastard ax perhaps to call it; and ice dripped from it, and snow fell from it, and the blizzard was trapped within. "Zhufawyr, the Torrent of Snow. Ice and cold are bound within it, and those that fight you shall face chill in all places, and shall be slow and easily slain before it."
Finally, the great ax, that which only the very mightiest could bear. Fire of hues no fire should be constantly burned around both edges of it, and the dragon-bone hilt shone with the inner heat as even it was tested by the inferno within. "Zhufazharr I call this, an ax mighty beyond might. Strike your foe with it, and it shall rend open their armor, and pour the fiery tongue of a dragon within."
She tilted her head as she examined the other's armor. "And now, what have you made?"
Project Prometheus stuff. Deeply unfortunate that I got interrupted in the middle of making it since it sort of interrupted my train of thought, but cookie, crumbles, etc.