Surpassing Standards
I can do better than that.
It's not an unusual thought for me. To look at some piece of work and say, "I can make that better." Old designs sketched when I was a young, young, young apprentice in heavily guarded journals, scraps of paper with every errant thought my little plaitling brain could vomit up for runework, crafts made when I was a Journeywoman just trying to learn how to make my way in the world, and prove I was, indeed, worthy. Maiden's Rebuke, Lhunegal Brynwand, if I put my back into it I could make those again, better, improved, without the flaws, the deficiencies, the failures of youth, the failures of foolishness, the failures of incomprehension. Decades, centuries, grinding me like an ax's head on the whet stone, until all that was left was an improved Runesmith, a better Runesmith.
It's more surprising to me when I can say it about Granduncle's ring.
Zharr-a-Drakhazi.
Not to speak poorly of it, after all. He made me the Runesmith I am today, took care of me as a youth, ensured I would live up to the standards of kin and clan rather than shame myself, shame my family. A living legend, a benchmark, a figure to set myself towards, to try and emulate, to live up to, standard to meet, the goal ever hunted for. A windswept peak I could traverse towards my whole life. The reasoning for it is sound in every level.
And the ring itself is a beauty, both of form-- The Adamant, strong Adamant, lovely Adamant made to look as four wires welded together in the most intricate means, the well-carved rubies, the hearthstone and most of all the dining hall of clan Winterhearth, so shaped and so shaved and so crafted that they may as well live. Detailed to the most minute, pristine and perfect level--and of function, ravaging any enemy spellcasters around.
But.
I can do better.
Oh, there's reasons for that. He's never not put his back into making something, but he didn't empty his heart, his soul, his everything into Zharr-A-Drakhazi. Not like Skarrenbakraz, not like Barak Azamar.
Now those, those I would need a few more centuries, or the right ingredients to surpass and it doesn't look like there's many forefathers of beasts running around for me to kill.
Yes, beardling, let me finish my thoughts. Bah. Now my Granduncle Snorri has more experience making talismans, all Runes even, in his left finger, than I have in my entire body, nevermind you; but I've been naturally good at them from the beginning, only further refined by him and Lady Gemma (and isn't that a benefit he's missing that I have?) until that natural talent shines pristine, pure.
On the other hand, if you ever need a commission for something genuinely out of the ordinary and unexpected, than you'd be well-served looking for my Granduncle. I've picked up a bit of a knack for them myself, but in comparison, there is no comparison.
But I knew I could make a better ring from the moment I saw it.
And I knew I needed a better ring. For revenge, you see, beardling.
So I set to work, preparing myself.
Trying to surpass my teacher, just this once.
Days, weeks, months, years getting every single component as ready as they could ever be.
And, of course, there are a few resources I have that Master Snorri doesn't. He has more, and he has better, but these, there are mine.
First, reagents from the hold Brynduraz. Ancient and thick Stone Troll's Blood, from a beast a few dozen cuts above the usual. Hardly a nascent Greedy One, those are not the kind of things you can order just because you made friends as a Journeywoman, but a monstrous example of the subspecies, potent and ancient and terrible as you'd expect. According to Barra it was surrounded by at least dead Shamans of the Gori, bodies broken like a dry twig put under a hammer, its flesh engorged and its maw caked in blood. A mountain of muscle and fat towering over the mountains, body covered with burns and scars, bolts and arrows and weapons broken into the regenerating flesh and yet still there. It was a survivor of the purest kind. It took three dozen-rangers to poison, sabotage, and corral the thing to its death even as they shot it with bolt after bolt after bolt.
And even then, Barra still had to wrestle with the damn thing to keep it from escaping to cause more trouble later. Damn trolls.
The smell leaking from the cask when it first arrived, trundling on a little wagon, made me believe the story alright: even with Runes of warding and preservation laced along it a smell like ornery goats and vigorous aurochs seemed to dominate the room I kept it in the entire time, the years really, I waited for the rest of what I ordered to come along; worse, if I wasn't particularly careful I could catch the taste on my tongue too, it was just that thick and vile. So much worse than anything your young little mind can conceive of, Beardling.
As much as that was a considerable improvement over the general smell of Stone Trolls, it still made grabbing reagents for more usual, typical orders--tossing a few dozen amulets to the Thanes of the hold, getting banners ready for regiments of huskarls and other warriors, or wedding gifts for wives and husbands alike-- a fascinating exercise in trying to figure out how by Gazul's great skill to get it without having to catch the smell or wanting to wretch until every ounce of ale I'd ever drunk in my life came back up the most unpleasant way possible. I learned, very quickly, how to look through my horde quick as I could; further, it directly led me to better categorize the reagents I had, just to avoid having to smell that blood if at all possible.
The next piece, Barazgal, good Barazgal, from Galbaraz. Flawless and smooth and radiant as all the metals of that place were, shiny and pristine and perfect. The metal of kings, the metal of lords, the metal of oaths. The mark of Grungni Himself, Father of Dwarfs, and so the stuff of defiance and of protection. Gold of the best caliber, gold without peer or competitor, yes better even than the stuff the Caledorians pull out of their parched desert rocks to impress their pet flying lizards into not leaving, the kind of thing burned, invariably, into the dwarf mind as what gold ought to look like. A shade not far from the very best of ale, a shade not far from the best kinds of brew, worked over again and again and again until it was entirely without slag or flaw or impurity.
"Why not Adamant" he asks, bah. BAH! Granduncle may have enough of the stuff to arm the Hearth Guard in it, or Gronti, or any other kind of wonder he should so desire but we don't all have his stockpile or array of the stuff. I needed to be smart and considered with the stuff, not toss it about willy-nilly. I, on the other hand, was still working on setting up my own Smelter to get production up to par and I could scarcely ask Granduncle for some if he knew I was going to use it to try and surpass him, just this once, and do something better than he did. And besides, Beardling, tell me: does Gromril or its derivatives convert magic or just block it entirely?
Ah, so some of what your poor, long suffering master has said does manage to penetrate that thick, stony skull of yours to reside in your head. Good. Aye, Barazgal is the better for controlling, channeling, converting magic rather than denying it entirely out of hand. 'S why the Master Rune of Grungni uses it for converting the spells of the enemy into the protective barrier rather than Gromril, converting it to productive use rather than just denying it out of hand. It's all a matter of context which is more useful: you want to use it to fuel something productive, or spiteful, or both, you could do worse than applying oathgold or purer variants, assuming you can find any. You want to just say no entirely--or, for that matter, just make the Rune work better in most cases, admittedly-- you want to find the best Gromril you can and use it. Consider that your free tip of the century the next time somebody's desperate or charitable enough to commission you rather than saving up and getting what they need from somebody old and therefore better at the job than you.
And so it went into my vault, only just waiting for the moment when I would turn my, not inconsiderable mind, towards converting it into good, solid dwarf work, into something worthy of the effort.
And last, last of all, was the Stomach of a Cygor. They're nasty, brutish creatures: the Brana hate them, and not without cause. Wizard-hunters, who seek out the flesh of spellcasters to consume. We may spite enemy wizards, boy, at least it's quick work we make of them rather than what those hunters do.
The Brana located a beastmen herd that had one of the things traveling overhead, for about the same reason you or I would keep particularly close track of the Frundrar Sorcerers or some of the more spiteful bootlickers of Tzeentch. Among that herd there was a Bray Shaman too, of course, a lot of them actually: no real threat if things were done smart, but doing things smart would require Runesmiths so there couldn't be any spells tossed about.
And of course, history is replete with examples of what could happen if it wasn't done smart.
Now I may not be quite as close as the Rockhead is to the Brana, but I am still a student of the Gift-Giver, the man who Runed their Aerie, and a Master Runesmith in good standing beside and Dolgi cannot be everywhere at once, so when they needed another Runesmith to help make sure the enemy couldn't get up to mischief, they came to me.
It was not a particularly hard battle as far as these things go. Rangers corralled them with planned avalanches, Stormcallers sapped their strength with blizzards even worse than usual, and I got into position with certain, simple traps, getting banners and other parts of an array set up in a valley a few dozen kilometers from Kraka Drak.
There've been better, but there's been worse, to be sure. A single volley from the Rangers managed to cut down the bestigors and other elites, the shamans couldn't cast so much as a damn nightlight with all the banners I'd draped around the place, all of them boiling down to "I don't like magic, so there'll be none" leaving a bunch of Gors and Ungors and in the vast history of the universe I'm not sure there's been a more onesided fight than the average Brana against the average Gor never mind the Ungor. This was not a herd large enough for numbers to make up the difference, either.
Leaving only the Cygor itself.
They're big, tough and dumb just as the Enemy likes 'em, but you know what else is true? They burn. Just the same as anybody else do they burn. So I borrowed Bryngrungni--Emlik's Master Work, that Grudge Thrower with all the fire Runes worked into it--in return for letting him have third picking after me and the Brana, kept it concealed and when it was time, tossed a rock about as big as I am right at the thing's chest.
Coated in fur, oil, grease, filth and Ancestors only know what else, it went up like a damn bonfire.
But it still managed to toss a rock at the Brana before it went down. So stubborn I'm almost impressed.
That out of the way, we set about dividing the spoils. The Cygor was the biggest, most important piece: the Brana took its heart and its brain, for some ritual or another or maybe to craft; I took its blood and its stomach; and Emlik claimed the eye.
And with that, I was all ready to finally begin.
I toiled, long, to see the Ring made. I crafted the mundane first, of course, intricately shaping the bone of a Magma Wyrm to purpose. Chiseling, carving, shaping and working, all my focus, all of my commitment, turned towards that simple jewel, file and knife and chisel alike biting into the dead bone, a strike, ten strikes, a hundred strikes, a thousand, it did not matter for I had a goal, to make something better than even Granduncle Snorri could, to for once in my life surpass that legend. Crisp lines, bright lines, as well-made and as well-carved as any could ever ask for in all that centuries to come of my life. A depiction of the facets and portions of Valaya, in the most intricate detail possible and yet minute as well to fit on it, dividing the ring into fourths: Valaya healing, Valaya brewing, Valaya at the Hearth, and Valaya the warrior, so that none could forget the Goddess of the Dawi in all the ages to come. To honor Her, and to beseech Her, to bless the ring, and to bless my hands not to falter nor shake as I put myself to the task of creating it and making it proper. Silver imported from Karak-Eight-Peaks, the hold favored by Her when She and the others still walked among us, was Her body, made so detailed even you Beardlings can imagine it. Her armor, Her Plaits, Her barrels and Her ax. Meanwhile Her visage was made of accent stones, hearthstones, the stone beloved of Her from Kraka Drak. Divided between the calm face of Matron and Brewer and the anger, the indignation, the spite of the Protector.
Of course, they weren't just generic portraits but stories, legends, beardling. Proper knowledge passed down from those who were elders when I was a plaitling, about as ignorant as you. The Brewer, Valaya teaching good Dawi how to use the brews and drafts outside of Zorn after they parted and began colonizing the rest of the World's Edge Mountains, establishing Holds that dotted the forts. Valaya the Warrior, dueling that shoddy abomination of the Tempter Kal'Tharnix and destroying him so utterly that at the least he's never found the courage to return, assuming he still exists at all. Valaya driving out the poison from the Silverpeak, allowing that place to exist at all, certainly to stand forever as a testament to our people. And Valaya of the Hearth, working with Thungni to establish Her Ancestor Rune and so allow the Dwarfs to defy vile magic when the enemy dares to attempt to turn it against us.
And then the Runes, of course.
The Master Rune of Valaya. I chanted and smote, smote and chanted, my jewelers hammer driving the chisel in as I carved it onto Valaya of the hearth, each blow as perfect as I could manage, each punctuated by a syllable of the chant. Magic and mysticism swirled all about me and around me as I set myself to the task, seconds becoming minutes becoming hours becoming days becoming weeks becoming months becoming long years as I put myself to this test, this task, this thing that needed to be done, this drive to create something for myself and to prove a point, to do as I had set out to do and make a better damn ring than Snorri. Not because he wanted it done, not to prove a point to anyone else, not for fun--well, maybe for fun.
But most of all, to show myself that it could be done. That at least this one time, I could not just meet the standards of my Ancestors, not just exceed the standards of my Ancestors, but in fact exceed the Ancestors themselves in this thing. Perhaps appropriately for a student of the man who managed to invent Gromril chain when everyone was convinced that only Grungni would ever manage to achieve it. If any master would ever take it well, take some gratification out of what I had set myself to doing, it seemed Master Snorri would be the one: he would grumble about it, I think, if he ever knew, of course, but some little portion of him would be validated that I had the ambition, the drive, the wherewithal to even attempt it.
And if I did succeed? If I did make a better ring, a ring of such beauty and worth as to enter myth? Then aye, aye, I think he would allow himself pride, that he had brought up such a capable student, pride that his teaching had been worth it.
Not that I'll ever know that feeling in my apprentices, of course.
And then all at once it was ready, shimmering and shining, glistening and gleaming in the light of torches, only just waiting to be quenched with the blood of a Troll. I poured the essence of that bull of a thing out and out and out, flagons of the chunky, thick life-blood seeming to drain like I had just strung up the troll itself, cut it and was draining it like some kind of stuck pig. I chanted, I poured, and it shimmered, thirsty and needy, needy and thirsty, a thing of endless might and spite only just waiting for some wizard to dare try and attack. But it needed fuel, it needed power, and that power was held in the blood, the blood that I poured for long heartbeat after long heartbeat. I poured the blood until it seemed like the blood itself was coming not just from the cask, but from me, as though some part of me was commingling with the troll, even as it disappeared from reality, burned away or taken elsewhere.
And then all at once it was finished. The shell sprung to life, incomplete, waiting.
So I put myself to the next Rune.
This I carved on Valaya the warrior, the Rune of Spellturning, the rune to turn aside evil magics and return them back onto the enemy. As Her ax could carve through the deranged work of sorcerors and shamans and daemons so too this Ring would, so too this Rune would. Blow after blow after blow, chant after chant after chant, syllable after syllable until it was ready, a vast hungry pit waiting to be fed and so feed it I did. The Barazgal was scorched, melted, waiting in the smelter and so I gripped it in the best of tongs and ladeled it, portion after portion, into the Rune, still chanting, still enduring, smoothly, evenly, ensuring as much entered as possible. It was hot, but the magic of the Rune seemed to agitate it, seemed to perturb it, keep it a bubbling, molten thing held in the clay vessel, the inky black void that had been slowly beginning to glimmer and gleam and glow, a hot, sunny gold shade. It became like the noonday sun in my workshop then, as though a bright sunny noon had descended within my home.
My neighbors are polite enough not to mention it, but I think given they all bought some particularly thick curtains afterwards they must have noticed themselves.
The shell of the Master Rune took on a mirror sheen, and rightfully so. What had been perturbations in the air, a sheen not unlike that of heat, of a hot fire roaring in the forge or in the oven or the stove, became something more concrete, more tangible. Almost like thick sap, or a lens, acting as a bubble, a shell, around the ring just waiting for somebody to toss a spell so it could take some of that energy, some of that power, and return it. The Barazgal, hope among hopes, should make it channel that magic more productively, pour that energy, that power into the Master Rune of Valaya and expand the shell further and further, increasing the radius of contempt for the enemy to heights higher and higher.
Hopefully.
Either way, I was too in it at this point to stop and so I kept ladeling, kept offering, kept pouring and kept chanting, careful not to spill so much as a drop of the precious Barazgal. I did not need it on my floor or on the bone or anywhere else: I needed it in the Rune, powering it, providing it strength.
I needed it working.
There was a short, sharp flash for an instant, and the Rune gleamed like golden fire from then on--it has gleamed since, gleamed as bright as it ever has, as I think it forever will.
Finally, the last Rune.
An appropriate one.
The Rune of Thungni's Presence.
On to the face of Valaya the Healer, biting into the Hearthstone. The chant was second nature, even as the Cygor stomach, ground into a paste, began to boil for it needs to be served piping hot, hotter than hot, to match the fiery hot contempt and disdain of the Rune.
The lynchpin of the thing's function. Either it would make the whole thing function as I had hoped--an expanding bubble, a shell, where any magic could not be cast unless I allowed it and any spell cast from outside the bubble would be launched back at the sender, further expanding the bubble as it went by improving the function of Spellturning and the function of the Master Rune of Valaya-- or it would not and I would have to be satisfied with an, admittedly beautiful, and admittedly still useful--no construction with a Master Rune could ever be anything less--ring. But not one that had done as I set out and surpassed Zharr-a-Drakhazi, not one that let me do something greater than my Granduncle just this once and prove that I was able, that I was worthy, that one day Fjolla would be a name spoken of in legends passed along to my, hopefully bountiful, descendants.
And so I drove my hammer with all the force of my anxieties, pouring them out and emptying my mind of them to ensure I did things properly. Each blow further solidifying the physical structure of the Rune, each blow further carving the physical Rune into the structure of the ring and so into the structure of reality. And as it did, the shell began to flicker, to tense. It was ready.
I took the thing of paste and I began to spread it onto the Rune of Thungni's Presence, still chanting the song of certitude, still honoring my ancestor, still showing my heart and my pride as a descendant, however distant, of one who had wrought wonders, legends and Myths, as I tried to join their number and poured my everything into it, centuries of knowledge, of experience, of effort and training to try and prove myself worthy. The mirror became a black void, a pit, reflecting light and substance even as the Cygor's hunger for magic was joined to Thungni's searing contempt, as the Rune became a ravenous, devouring, hungering thing that no amount of energy, no spell, could ever hope to satiate, consuming spells by the dozens, the hundred, the thousands like loaves of stonebread and coming back for seconds, converting that energy and then shoving it along to the other Runes, allowing the bubble to expand, to grow, to reach ever higher highs, to become an unbreakable void that would take any magic dared cast against me--say, by any angry lizard witch-- and return it to them as a weapon even as the field in which they could not cast grew greater.
And then all at once it was over.
It was done.
I was left with the ring, after I knew not how long.
Guzazi Zhuf, the devourer of magic.
Then I passed out, following my Granduncle's traditions as a proper apprentice ought to.
