Winning Vote: said:
━<><><>< 472 A.P. ><><><>━
Feed the flame.
You're not quite sure what possesses you to do so, but you walk up to the forge until you stand so close that the flames nip at you, and lay your palm face up on its edge. Though you are immune to most forms of pain under the effects of
Barak Azamar, the heat that radiates from the forge still affects you. Most notably is the way your transformed limb literally begins to glow orange, like superheated rock, the longer you keep it on the forge. Mhorni, meanwhile, has not stood idle, following your unconscious desires by walking up beside you where it grows then breaks off a large pointed shard of granite-hard rock.
Then, without a hint of warning or fanfare, Mhorni holds the shard above your still splayed out hand and hammers it through the stoney flesh of your hand, causing a spurt of blood to erupt from the wound.
Severe arterial injury detected. Writs ong through set demand interference.
Ignoring Karstah's noise of confusion you lift your hand and aim it at the ingot in the forge, showering it in an arterial spray of molten blood and causing your heir to shout in alarm.
Anomalous ability detected. Deliberating.
Even as your literal lifeblood gushes out of you, your eyes never leave the ingot. You vainly attempt to see with your Windsight Eye, but nothing of note can be made out as the molten blood lands and sizzles away into nothingness.
Contender Regeneration: exceed expected parameters.
The ingot displays no new colours, an utterly blank core surrounded by a cloud of
Aqshy and
Chamon not unlike what you get when looking at Adamant, but you have a more than sneaking suspicion that it wasn't for the same reasons.
Deliberation complete. Intervention: Not required.
"Sacrifice." the Dragon announces with the voice of your Ancestor, "
So the path is chosen."
You grunt out in surprise when the Gronti reaches out with a clawed talon and holds your arm steady with a gentleness that definitely belies the monstrous strength you imagine it possesses.
Inefficiency within acceptable bounds. Response retrieved: Fut.
"Commit. Until it is done." it demands, head turning to look at the ingot, utterly ignoring you.
Progress range: 2.2 - 3%
"Get comfortable lass," you say, turning your head to see a thoroughly distressed Karstah, "It seems we'll be here a while."
━<><><><==><><><>━
Ylva is conversing with Sigrun when her sister in arms raises a hand and shushes her.
"Listen," she murmurs, brows furrowing in concentration.
Ylva follows along, straining her ears in the direction that Sigrun was aimed towards.
There is a rhythmic pounding, barely louder than the background noise of their camp, in the distance.
Ylva wastes no time and looks to her sister in arms.
"Move the wounded closer to the cavern entrance and form up a defensive perimeter." she orders calmly, hand moving to rest on top of the axe dangling from her belt.
"Aye Fire Keeper," Sigrun nods briskly before marching off.
Ylva does not pay her fellow Hearthwarden any further mind, her attention now split between the increasingly loud thumping heading towards them and planning out their response to whatever the source of it could be.
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Alright.
With the benefit of hindsight, you can grudgingly admit that using your blood probably wasn't the best decision you made.
It's been close to fifteen minutes now, and apparently you apparently still haven't given enough blood to satisfy the requirements of the Trial. So much so that you had sent Karstah away to let your retainers know to settle down until this was done.
Speaking of, you're thankful that one of the few silver linings is that you've been standing here like a moron long enough now that Karstah's shock had worn off.
Though you can't say that the morbid curiosity that's replaced it is that much better either you grouse, a slight frown forming on your face.
The sound of oncoming footsteps grabs your attention, and you turn your head to see Karstah heading towards you.
"Took you a while there lass. Are my retainers so lost that you had to explain something as simple as 'Master Snorri may be stuck here a while, have a sit down,' more than once?" you ask jokingly.
"No Master, that part went by quickly. I just had to have a discussion that ran longer than I thought it would." she apologizes with a short bow.
You quirk a brow at her.
"I see."
Knowing better than to press given her tone, you merely turn your head back to stare at the ingot, letting the conversation lapse into silence as Karstah moves to stand on the side of you opposite Mhorni.
"If you would humour my curiosity Master," Karstah broaches quietly, or as quietly as she can manage trying to be heard over the roar of the flames, "I had a few moments to spare pondering over your decision, and I'm left wondering. Is it something to do with
that project?"
"It may," you concede gruffly, eyes not turning away from the Ingot, "But what do you make of it my girl?"
She hums in thought.
"You already said your eye wasn't able to show you anything sadly, but I'm more surprised that it's even a valid answer for this Trial. Runesmith blood has, historically, not led to any useful ends as a reagent at any quantity." she mulls over.
"That never discounted its use in other ways Karstah," you remind her, "Runesmiths simply never had to care about those other uses. Perhaps this is Thungni's way of telling us to keep our minds open."
Even if you haven't been actively pursuing it, Akazit is never far from your mind these days. Not when it seems more and more likely to be the key to the ambition of Runesmiths everywhere. Breaking the Rule of Three, and all it may require was the bar greedily drinking up all the blood you've been spraying at it this entire time.
A burst of movement to your side makes you turn your head, only to then blink when you see its Mhorni extending another shard of stone in its hand to you expectantly. You realize with some embarrassment that your creation was reacting to your own subconscious impatience, and you take the time to mentally dismiss the order and send him back to standing at ease beside you.
You are a
Runelord, and you have waited far longer for things that were far less important than this.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Fire is your birthright.
Menlinwen The Teacher's voice echoed in his mind, speaking a line from a poem of the Winged Ones of Caledor, as he hammered away at the Metal on his Anvil. He wields the Ruby Wind,
Aqshy, and feeds the flames of his forge in preparation for the next heat.
Birthright.
That word had rung as little more than hollow pleasantries to him. The ability to wield the Ruby Fire was his from birth aye, just as the Gold and Diamond were his sister's, but he knew he was not predestined to wield it. To underestimate the Ruby Wind was folly, for Fire was mighty. A foe to be challenged, to overcome and wield with Will and Wisdom.
But above all else Fire was a tool,
his tool.
One he was borne capable of grasping, has spent decades living alongside, and in these recent years one he has begun learning, mastering, and bending to his will as a Runesmith who Shapes Metal and Wind hones their own talent. Ability was not talent, as Karstah the Caretaker said, it was privilege, chance and greatest opportunity and with it was the Duty to master it.
Zharrok raises the half formed tool to his left eye and examines it, watching the Winds within as intensely as he examines both its physical shape and glow of the metal.
It progresses well, he thinks.
He exhales a cloud of smoke in satisfaction, the acrid scent of sulfur and the noxious poison of his body set alight by his Fire filling his lair, and buries it in the coals of his forge. This would be a greater work than the last, a sure sign of his improvement. While he waits for the metal to heat, keeping an eye on it at all times, his attention splits to examine the tools hanging from the belt around his neck.
"Punch, I require the punch. This one? No, too wide. Where is the punch…" he murmurs, scanning the mass of tools, sifting through them with his free hand, until he finds the correct piece of metal amidst the mass of steel and bronze.
Growling in satisfaction, he plucks it from his neck and turns his full attention to the forge.
Fire is your birthright.
He snorts.
Not even birth was a right. All life is struggle, all joy is hard won, all talent learned, and all one cares for must be defended with claw, fang and flame.
Zharrok pulls the piece out of the forge with his claws, places it on the anvil, and begins hammering once more.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Another hour of casually bleeding passes, long enough that had you not been wearing
Barak Azamar you probably would have begun feeling sore from holding this pose. Long enough that Karstah had wandered off to sit against a wall and somehow actually fallen asleep. The mental if not physical exhaustion was strong enough that she managed to nod off despite the heat and general discomfort of where she was.
You saw no harm in leaving her to her rest, who knew when you'd get any in the rest of these Trials after all?
Progress range: 99.5%
"
Completion nears. Be prepared." the Dragon announces suddenly, the rumbling voice of your forefather travelling down the length of the chamber to where your retainers were no doubt
But it seems the time for rest is over.
"Karstah, wake up," you grumble out loudly, sending a mental note to your shadow and bemusedly watching as it walks over to nudge her awake from the corner of your eye.
She comes to slowly, blubbering and muttering in confusion as wakefulness fully takes hold, but she eventually rouses herself fully. Bleary eyed and face tinted red with embarrassment as she realizes what's happened, Karstah begins muttering to herself.
"When did I fall asleep?"
You snort.
"Maybe forty-five minutes ago. The better question is how you managed it here of all places," you grumble, lightly chiding with feigned anger, "But enough of that. Come here and get a good look, The Dragon tells me we're near the end of it now."
After the construct's proclamation you dare not look away from the ingot now, but you can hear your heir scramble to her feet and jog over to stand beside you easily enough despite the roar of the flames.
Despite the Dragon's words, the ingot looks no different to either your natural or artificial eyes, but you have no reason to believe it would lie about it either. So you continue to watch as your blood is poured and eaten by the bar as it has done for over an hour now. In the back of your mind you wonder just how much blood you've actually poured into it, certainly it was somewhere in the realm of more than four bodies' worth. These weren't the ideal conditions to measure and find out the exact volume of your lifeblood needed to feed a magical bar of metal after all.
Then, you
hear it.
Rhun zhufen.
A growing roar that begins quietly, but rapidly grows until a thousand voices chanting in unison can be heard all around you. A rhythmic thunder that rattles your bones and easily overcomes the blazing roar of the forge, a sound, a
feeling, that you quietly realize you have felt before, but never experienced isolated from the action that causes it.
Duruk angrungnaz
"Master…" your heir mutters, astounded, "this is— I— Can you
feel this?"
Skaud afhunken
"Aye lass, aye I do," you confirm, equally stunned.
Ghal angrungnaz
It feels as if you are creating a Rune.
Skaurit en skaud a Grungni
You watch the bar, not even daring to blink for fear of missing
anything that may be happening. The roar of the choir reverberates within your very soul.
Azgal-a-Azamar
Witness! The Dragon roars, rising above the deafening cacophony, glittering motes float in the corner of your eyes.
Bingrungnaz Utkhazi
Witness! the voice of Thungni demands.
Zagaz un Gnolkronar
Witness! Seven throats thunder as the bar begins to shimmer with enough light to outshine the sun.
Makazi Okrul
You demand your eyes remain open, even as everything goes white and you feel a blastwave of superheated air strike you.
━<><><><==><><><>━
"—ord Klausson! Can you hear me?" a distant voice says.
Groaning, you blearily open your eyes to see the concerned visage of one your Hearthwardens. Their face going slack with relief as they notice your movement.
"Blink if you can hear me, my Lord." they ask with growing clarity.
You slowly comply, earning a sigh of relief for your efforts. A voice inside you screams to get up, and you hastily attempt to comply; trying to force yourself upright with unsteady arms before several pairs of hands move to stabilize you.
"What happened this time?" you slur out as memories of what just happened begin coming back to you, "Karstah…where is Karstah? What happened to my heir?"
"She's unconscious but stable, my Lord. An Ancestors' damned miracle none of you got hit by shrapnel when that forge exploded, but it didn't save you from getting flung into a wall." The Hearth Guard, Kemli your mind helpfully supplies, reports while pointing a finger towards the prone form of your heir, with several Hearthwardens and Dreng fussing over her.
"No injuries?"
"Maybe a concussion, but Srelda didn't feel any bumps or bruises when she checked the young Lady's skull. We won't know for sure till she wakes up."
You nod, though it comes out as more of an uncontrolled slump than anything, and lean against the wall.
"There was…a bar. Where is it? And where's that damn Dragon?" you ask, still blinking stars out of your eyes.
"Not a damn clue my Lord. We were just waiting here like you ordered when suddenly 'boom!' the whole cavern shudders harder than a beardling during Dunkin. We rush over and we stumble on you and the young Lady crashed against the wall with a pile of rubble where that there forge used to be. But no sign of that Gronti-Duraz at all."
"Search the rubble with whoever isn't occupied right now," you order quietly, "There should be an ingot there. There
must be."
Kemli nods, and begins relaying your orders to the others.
You let out a sigh and turn your head towards Karstah.
Ancestors below that's twice now.
━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━
Dunkin - Annual bath traditionally taken whether needed or not.
Ong - One
Fut - Four
Set - Seven
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The next Trial is also a gimme. Praise Gazul.
