Going out isn't something you do very often, but at the request of your niece and the far less polite prodding of your family and friends, you've been making more of an effort these past few decades to actually go and meet with people for reasons outside of duty and business.
And moreover, prove you aren't a hermit who only leaves to begrudgingly do the above mentioned tasks.
Bah!
So as part of your plan to prove that you are
not a hermit, you've begun coming to your former students' monthly get-togethers. A little tradition they made that originally began when Snerra, Fjolla and Dolgi finished a hard day's training and unwound over dinner and a few drinks before bed, that's now grown into a dinner all of their immediate families, Nain and Karstah, and now every so often,
you.
And maybe Yorri, you haven't seen him there but that means nothing when it concerns your teacher.
Truth be told, you aren't altogether
unhappy about being forced to go out, because again you aren't a hermit, but there are always reservations in the back of your mind about attending these. You'd have to be blind to not realize that, as their teacher, your students may act differently with each other when you're around and they aren't. It's one that's died down now that they're older and Masters in their own right who don't quake in their boots everytime they disagree with you, Snerra especially, but it's never really gone for good. Still you tend to simply lurk about in the background, a quiet spectre that does his best to make your students forget you're there so that they can relax a bit easier.
Not exactly beating the hermit allegations with that tactic though.
Still, it's part of why you chose to get here early, already being there when the others arrived tended to help with the whole blending in business, and for this occasion specifically the other reason is because the pot of stew you brought along was large enough that you wanted a bit of a buffer of time just in case something went wrong on the way here and you got delayed.
You turn the corner to Snerra's home and stop when you see another figure handing a small wooden box to your niece. Before you can so much as blink, they both turn to look at you and the noise you made, giving you a better look at the stranger and causing you to blink.
Why If your eyes do not deceive you, that's Brynna.
Rather than stand there like an idiot, you walk over and offer the both of them a nod in greeting.
"Snerra, Brynna."
"Uncle!" your niece says, looking at the pot in your hands, "and you brought the stew! Lovely! Just a moment, let me bring this in and I can take that off your hands."
Both you and Brynna watch as Snerra disappears into her home, scurrying off with the box she'd received, leaving the two of you alone outside her open door.
"Lord Klausson," Brynna begins, making you turn away from the sound of your niece's footsteps to regard your colleague.
The first thing you notice when you get a closer look is the state of her hair; where there was once a uniform grey-white, your fellow Runelord's hairline is now dominated by a band of vibrant obsidian black that intermingles with the grey along the edge of both colors, long enough that she's braided then tied the offending locks behind her head.
The second thing you notice are her new prosthetics.
You stare into eyes made from spheres of veined marble, the bright white broken up by incredibly fine streaks of burgundy and salmon, with the irises made from alternating plates of gold and amber and a circular shard of Obsidian held in the center to act as their pupil. That they dimly glowed with a warm, yet ominous light, made it clear that Brynna had gone through the effort to inscribe the Runes inside each orb.
As for her hand, it's far more overt in its nature. A well articulated but sturdy construction of interlocking and shifting plates of thinly beaten Gromril overtop the intricate mechanisms given the way it clicked and clacked with each twitch of her fingers. Obvious in the way that the eyes at least attempt to appear like a facsimile from a distance.
The two of you look at each other silently, unsure of how to proceed.
"How was acclimation?" you broach, defaulting to what you usually ask newly limbed patrons.
Brynna, thankfully, obliges your attempt.
"Your craft does you credit Lord Klausson," she compliments, "they are far more robust than I imagined. I could imagine myself forgetting they weren't my own flesh and blood if…"
A grunt of understanding.
"Till you see, and then you remember."
"Aye," Brynna admits, looking at the results of your own brush with death intently, "I suppose I should have realized you would understand the dangers of our work more than most."
"For what it may be worth, you've bounced back well, compared to most others, me especially," you offer.
She chuckles.
"I suppose that's one way to look at things. Forgive my abruptness Lord Klausson but I must beg your leave. I planned on meeting with my nephew later and it wouldn't do for me to be tardy."
"Right, I'll not keep you then. Enjoy your dinner Lady Gildedeyes, and may the Ancestors watch over you."
"And you Lord Klausson," she returns before heading off.
For a moment longer you watch her walk away before the sound of footsteps draws your attention back around to see your niece coming back from wherever she disappeared off to.
"Has Lady Brynna gone then?"
"Aye, dinner with her nephew," you answer, making your own niece nod before looking at you pointedly.
"Indulge me, but you didn't just stand there awkwardly beside her waiting for me to come back did you?"
You give her an affronted look.
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"And they'll be returning soon you reckon?" you ask Fjolla, just one of many conversations happening around Snerra's table.
"Been about as much time as it took me, and I've 'overheard' their kin hearing much the same in the letters they get too. So barring ill luck I'll be judging their creations soon. Hopefully they'll not disappoint, a terrible shame to be turned back for everyone involved." she confirms.
You hum in agreement
"Thinking about taking any more after?" you ask, eyes glancing over at the stiff figure of Nain's student as he is badgered by Dolgi's youngest.
Fjolla shakes her head calmly.
"I don't think so. Unlike Dolgi or Snerra, I'm not exactly happy to have as many beardlings in my life as possible, barring exceptional circumstances."
You grunt, tucking away that tidbit about Snerra looking for yet more students away in the corner of your mind for later. You have a few youngsters of note tossed your way that she may be interested in teaching.
"It isn't for everyone no."
"Have you seen any particularly noteworthy prospects Master?"
Now you let yourself scoff.
"Nine apprentices is more than enough," You tell her, "Maybe if a youngster with true promise rears their head and somehow goes unnoticed. Khazagar and the duties therein are more than enough on my plate. It's up to you lot to continue this particular lineage now Fjolla."
A job they've been doing more than ably at.
Nain, Fjolla and Snerra all had apprentices by this point, Dolgi more than made up for his lack of students with the size of his family, and Karstah had her hands full with the Dragons and duties as your heir.
As for the others…
…you recall Jargrim grumbling about not practicing pocket gravel on his future students when he thought you were out of earshot once.
Hmmm…
"Master?"
You blink, then look over at a curious and slightly worried looking Fjolla.
"Fjolla? Ah, right. I was lost in my thoughts, what did you say again?"
"I said, speaking of teaching, how was yours and Karstah's project with the dragons going."
Ah.
While you let yourself descend into regaling Fjolla with stories about the particulars of raising dragons, a part of your mind meanders down the path of memories that thinking about Jargrim brought to the surface. Not so much actively recalling snippets and points of pride, but merely going over whatever came up with a forlorn fondness.
One day.
One day you'll meet them all again.
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"He was a handsome one I'll admit, but a poor eater. No finesse to his feasting," Solveig tells her sisters sorrowfully.
Siggrun sighs as Jolla nods along, letting Sol share her story while they help clean the dishes.
For all that she and her twin were alike, her sibling indulged the youngest member of their family whenever she talked about her romantic escapades far too often than Siggrun thought was smart. There were ears in the oddest places after all.
"Incorrigible Solveig, really only the fourth outing?" she finds herself asking in mock surprise, before adding on, "and if I recall properly, didn't you predict the very thing you're complaining about too? Why try if you knew?"
"Could have been wrong, and he was
very handsome, with a beard like silk," Sol counters easily.
Before Siggrun can come up with a reply the sound of the door opening makes all three sisters shush up and turn their heads to see who's just entered the kitchen.
"Incoming!" Master Snerra announces, barging into the kitchen with an empty pot in need of refilling, "move aside please!"
The three sisters make way for Master Snerra as she walks over to the stove and switches the empty pot with another sitting atop it.
"I'd like to thank you for your help again girls, very kind of you to ease this old woman's burden," the twins' teacher comments, huffing out of habit as she hoists the fresh pot into her arms.
"Of course Master," she and Jolla say in unison.
"What they said Lady Snerra, it's only fitting to repay you for the meal."
"Hmm, and I'm sure being away from Dolgi before he starts singing is just a bonus."
"No that was part of it/Of course it was a coincidence/I actually enjoy papa's songs," the trio replied.
Master Snerra chuffs in amusement before exiting the kitchen, the sounds of their father's raucous celebration coming through the doorway for a second before its shut.
"Where was I? Right! You can't give me too much lip, you both couldn't have spent your Journeys entirely on learning could you?"
"I won't speak for Jolla, but I was too busy trying not to die, sister dearest," Siggrun says sardonically, causing Solveig to pout.
"No comment," Jolla says, making both of them turn to stare at her.
"A damning statement from your twin, Siggy," Solveig says.
She nods.
"Didn't think you had it in you," she tells her twin.
"No comment!" she repeats, scrubbing the plates harder out of embarrassment before admitting, "people look much prettier when you're drunk and the tavern's dark is all I'll say."
"Scandalous," she tuts sarcastically, "what would our mother think?"
Solveig laughs as Jolla's face turns the same shade of red as her hair.
The sound of the door opening once again makes them pause their discussion, perfectly timed as well considering Lord Gift Giver is the one who's come in this time.
"Lasses," he greets, his prosthetic eye giving them all a once over before his gaze moves to the barrels neatly stacked in the corner, "don't let me stop your discussion. Im just here to grab more ale. Your father spilled some and now your mother's helping him clean up his mess."
"We were just discussing our Journeys, Elder," Solveig comments, making both sisters look at her pointedly, "and how one should best spend their time during the experience. Would you have any wisdom or stories you would be willing to share?"
The Eldest Runelord of the Far North hums contemplatively, easily holding a barrel the size of his chest against his hip as he stood there, before coming to a decision.
"My Journeying was a great deal more fraught than most. Even your father's and his many
many brushes with death would be hard pressed to compete I reckon. I was only fifty winters old, and of course not many want to pay for the services of one so young and inexperienced, Rhunki or otherwise. One night in particular I remember having naught more than a few gold pieces to my name at the time, having spent most of it procuring material for a client's commission ya see. Like the fool I was back then, I decided to spend that gold on one particularly good meal at the local tavern, having grown sick of gruel and some truly wretched beer I'd been subsisting off for months by that point. Aye and it was
delicious, freshly roasted haunch seasoned to perfection, a hearty stew of lowland auroch, troll, and lamb with melted cheese overtop, and a keg of the smoothest drink that'd I ever had at the time. For a few hours that night I dined like a king. Course, I didn't eat much of anything except water and stonebread until the windfall from the finished commission was given to me afterwards. Were I back there with the knowledge I had now? I would have done it again I reckon."
They blink in surprise, expecting the exact opposite. The obvious set up for the age old parable of temperance most Dwarf children were told.
"Ha! Never get complacent plaitlings, it's been the death of many a talented and brave Dawi. As to why? Well, one reason is that when I sat there, eating that bread and drinking that water, I deluded myself into thinking I was eating that meal. The starvation probably helped sell the hallucination honestly, but the point was that the memory kept me going, and that was enough. Most Dawi are the same aye, and we like to think we're all alike, and in many ways we are, but in my life I've learned that no Dwarf is cut from the same stone in the end. The lesson ought to be that you should know yourself, temperance may have worked for many, but it may end up hampering a select few. And well the second reason? Hmph. I won't divulge, but the hours I spent eating my fill like a glutton let someone important have enough time to find me, and for that I'll be eternally thankful. Know yourself, and know the consequence of your actions young ones, that's far more generally applicable advice than most."
His tale complete, the Gift Giver readjusts the barrel under his arm and heads for the dining room. Before he leaves through the door however, he pauses, and without looking back, offers a final parting line.
"And be more quiet, or use better metaphors! Everyone else here is either too young, drunk or busy to have heard, but
this Dwarf has working ears!"
They can only stand, silently mortified, and watch as the Gift Giver returns to the dining room, his cackles cutting off when the door shuts behind him.
