A Warrior's Armory
He's not particularly fond of fighting, much like his father in that way. Not one for many things.
Killing. Slaying. Burning. His Grudges have been few, and all the sorts that can be solved with gold or a flung fist rather than taking up his ax, cutting off heads and leaving wailing orphans and widows behind. Most of his Runework has been the honorable but not glorious work, warming people's homes, keeping the lights on, marking the temples with the Ancestors' Runes, and of course working on the Branakroki's infrastructure to get it less shoddy. There've been axes, hammer, shields, corselets and more, of course, what Dawi could not end up runing a few martial items? His hammers have cracked skulls, his shields have saved lives, his armor has turned aside blows. Plenty of colonists in the Black Mountains are running around with his work.
But if somebody really wants that sort of thing, they'd be better served bugging his brothers and sisters. They're better Runesmiths than he is in that way, for all he can put out three in the time it takes them to make one.
But he is Bolgi Dolgison, the son of Dolgi Bolgison, and he does not turn aside. Not now.
Not ever.
So as bodies of good dwarfs, dwarfs who deserved to live long, full lives make their way back on carts draped in funerary shrouds, or defiantly march back scarred by the weight of war...
Well.
He can't just let that come to pass, now can he? Not and retain any sort of honor, as a member of his Guild or the son of his mother.
And that's how he ended up here, staring at a blank piece of Troll Hide, some Wutroth, Rumbler Lung, Grimnirzan and a Hearthstone, plenty of his savings spent to acquire them all and a plan. A way to ensure the enemy can't just keep trying to drown warriors under a tidal wave of worthless bodies and chaff. That they have to come out and fight themselves. A way to even these fights, aside from tossing his father's Master at the lot of them.
--
"Skarri, aren't you busy" they ask, "trying to convince the king about your mad fighting on griffons idea?" He snorts at the memory, rolling his eyes as he examines the ingots of Pure Gromril that make up part of his payment for this commission.
Yes, Blessed Ancestors, he is. But this, this still needs to be done. He needs to get this right, and he needs it now. He can't just look away, only focusing on one thing, his honor pulls him in as many damn directions as there are Holds in the empire if not more.
More Brana intend to campaign against the Fimir. A number of reasons, which they have kept close to the chest; nothing oathsworn, he thinks, but not his business either. Any number of reasons. Some of them even just want to get to talking to the Elves about this, that or the other Zhuf nonsense, and that's their prerogative.
It is his prerogative to make this damn armor, since he's been paid by Forgebright and he's many things but a scam-artist is not one of them. He was paid to make the armor, and he will make it if it kills him. They'll be sheathed in primarily Troll Leather, which is far from nothing, and the Rune itself will be placed on a breast plate made of Pure Gromril...or, well, most of them will be.
Looking at the Elder Dragon's Gas Sac that's part of his payment for the commission, he has his own ideas about where exactly the Master Rune should go.
Yes, he's imagining it, he can finally see it. Forgebright, flying overhead, spewing hot fire and screaming death down on the Fimir below, turning their armor to ash in the process--particularly when it's worn by those who can already zhuf about with metal in the first place. The real question becomes, how to further refine it, how to enhance it?
--
They are outnumbered manifold. Solveg has heard it from kin, and from friends, and from veterans, and yes, even from the Brana, who are generally more inclined to see "many enemies" as "good opportunity to practice fighting/casting spells in an unfriendly environment". Enslaved Gori and Daemons and nobody can even tell what else, all gathered together to try and overwhelm an infinitely superior force, Dawi and Brana and Elgi alike united in common causes. Bolgi sees it, his idea may be defensive and not without cause: Ancestors know The Gift Giver has just cornered the market on offensive banner work and while she loves her brother, he (Probably) doesn't have a Skarrenbakraz in him.
Probably.
She, on the other hand?
Well, the Miner is good work, to be sure. But, she bets she can come up with something pretty good herself. Show ambition and initative, and in any case nobody is going to turn down more bodies to throw at the problem that they don't have to be too delicate with.
And that right there is why she's got all manner of particularly...shocking...reagents ready for the work. Something to emulate the Stormcallers of the Brana, once she has the body of the Gronti all ready, the hardest part to be sure.
It may or may not end up flying, but either way? It will manage what she really needs it to do:
Lightning. Thunder. Death. The end. Flying will be a bonus, at some point she may even construct some wings to allow it...
But she's really more interested in it tossing lightning at anything too scaly for comfort, whether that be Meargh or Balefiend or Fimmi or whatever other names the Grudge-Burdened have decided to give themselves, the tossers. "Lightning-rod" seems a fairer name in this case, all told.
--
The Frost Wyrm Horn taunts him, frustrates him, annoys him even.
Good.
Annoyed is when he does his best damn work, or his name isn't Dolgi Dolgison, apprentice of Dwalin Thunderlung! A Runelord in his own right and with good reason, even if he's not quite as acclaimed as his father's master! He can almost hear him--
No wait, he can hear Dwalin. He shakes his head
Well, irrespective of the shouts he can hear as Dwalin works on his own new pet project, Dolgi can also hear Dwalin telling him not to give up, not to yield to the difficulties of the craft, not to besmirch his honor since he has sworn to aid the warriors going to take their vengeance against the FImir for their duplicity, their cruelty and their malice, their servitude to things of evil and of what is evilest in this world.
To instead, make a song of the matter. So he sang, his eyes closed, and turned about the place, an old song of Thungni slaying the Dumdrakk Kaltharax, and let the song take him as he examined the small closet of reagents just waiting to be used, held with Runes of preservation and stasis until such a time as they were to be used, in yet another glorious work of the line of apprenticeship he's been honored with.
Until at last, his eyes open on exactly what he needs. Obsidian, shiny and black, a mirror he could gaze into. Immediately his mind turns both to what he could craft with that, thoughts of a thing of spiting the magic of their wretched, Zhuf-tossing Dirachs, and of the form it should take:
A great horn.
One to split magic.
His smile splits with glorious spite as he imagines campaigning with his former Master and with Redbeak alike, ensuring the only magic will be that he allows.
--
"I journey to face the Enslavers and the Traitors," Mountainstrider had told him as he commissioned the middle child of Dolgi. "Grant me weapons for to slay the abberations, and I shall grant great portions of it to you. I trust you, my friend."
Bardin is, he supposes, glad that his friend has put such faith in him to see him armed before he journeys in a decade's time, even as he has to consider how particularly to arm him. You can't exactly make Brana an ax, can you? His father has come up with ways and means, of course, like any good Dawi Bardin Dolgison wants to walk in the path of his father but there's a difference walking in the path of your father and just repeating what's come before.
Mountainstrider deemphasizes biting attacks in combat. Apparently he's been working with the Elgi to "sharpen his mastery of the Amber Humor", for whatever nonsense that meant, and that required an open mouth for roars, chants and so on. Not that he's never seen the Brana take a bite out of whatever starts a fight with him, but he is generally more inclined to slice with his claws or throw his weight around in general, slapping people with his wings.
Now, as much as the thought of covering his wings in Gromril so he can slap trolls about with ease sounds fun, and as much as he's big and strong even by Brana standards "by the might of beast and fang" that much weight would weigh him down too much, at least for the kind of Runes he can justify putting on a Brana's weapon.
Hm.
Cover his claws in Gromril, then? And he has stated a kind of seething annoyance for anything and everything that regenerates, particularly anything the Despairing blights the world with. Fire, cleansing fire? Purity and light. That which strikes at the dark things of the world, that which burns away the illness, that which is hateful to the enemy.
Yes. He imagines the already mighty blows of his friend, sheathed in burning, bursting fire, blows carving through fat and muscle and skin and buboes as easily as he might cut through a very nice cut of steak and then searing it shut so it can no more regrow than he could if such fire was turned on him.
--
She grins, a particularly Snerraish grin.
"We'll double the budget. I don't intend to die until I've proven that tosser Valka wrong."
Oh yes, very Snerra. Not the kind, cookie baking Snerra most think of however: more the mad woman who could take a few hundred grams of iron and make a king's ax out of it without trying, that part of Snerra, the one most non-Runesmiths don't get the privilege of seeing, or understanding when they do.
A part of her, admittedly, is sad that she hasn't been called up to armor a Brana, unlike Bardin, Skarri, and apparently Solveg. It would be nice to continue her father's work on that front, and further her Clan's ties with the talking griffins.
On the other hand, she has been allowed to get particularly opulent with it, in a way she normally wouldn't as such a relatively young Runesmith, Master or no. Not quite "no expense spared" but "no expense relevant" to be sure.
Master Engineer Brighteye intends to go to war to see to it her warmachines are used properly and to bust some Meargh heads for breaking her contraptions, and she has the money to make sure of it, that much is certain. Not the pedigree to cut in front of everybody else also looking to commission Runesmiths before the next campaign against the Fimir begins in earnest, however. She could beef up something with Gromril, and Stone, and Iron...or she can do one better. So the Engineer had given her just about everything she'd asked for. Reagents scarce for anyone without the pocket book of Snorri, and the Master Engineer had seen fit to give her just about any she could ask for. A substitution that was more than adequate, given everything.
She'll be coming back right as rain alright, that much Jolla intends to make damn well sure of.
--
Snowhide has brought her Dragon Lung, taken from the body of an appreciably old Elder Wyrm, one of the Black Dragons--it smells of acrid poison and contempt, not entirely unlike most of the Longbeards she knows. She'd asked her for "Some means of making the cowards come out and fight rather than making me try and pin them down" and Siggrun, Siggrun has some ideas for that.
She's a simple woman, she knows. But there are times when simplicity is a virtue.
An arm ring of battle. Something to make her friend fight like the dickens. Master Rune of Challenge, obviously, to draw the enemy out and then something to make Snowhide a good, solid, superior fighter so she doesn't end up in over her head. Now if it were a dwarf asking for it, things would be blessedly straightforward, she could just use the Ancestor Runes of, say, Grimnir and Valaya for a good mix between offense and defense, perhaps Grimnir and Gazul to emphasize killing or Valaya and Grungni for endurance or even Valaya and Thungni for wizard hunting. But it seems a bit odd to toss Runes of her Ancestors onto her friend, who has her own perfectly good Ancestor, doesn't it?
(Not that she'd ever judge somebody for doing it, honest, the job does have practical demands as much as it does artistic ones and the Brana don't particularly seem to care.)
So perhaps then, something to draw up the natural gorm of her friend, her slighted honor, her deep and abiding contempt for the things of Chaos and all those who kneel in subjugation to it. Her natural temper, and her natural rage, normally so constrained on the grounds of everybody else's safety...unleashed?
She looks at all the reagents she has gathered over her career, not terribly long in the grand scope of things but...long enough. More than long enough, for her purposes. For this thing.
She smiles.
It is not a friendly smile.
--
The Troll Hide has been surprisingly easy to work on, all things considered. The pale white leather takes his paint as easily as a dwarf to ale to be honest, as his will guides his hand and his hand guides his brush.
This is meant for a purpose to be sure.
But it also has to be art, and so he gladly turns himself to that end, painting onto the fluttering leather. He does not compare himself to Siggrun, to Bardin, to Solveg or to the others, for once he allows himself to turn off that, to look away from that and instead look towards what he sees in his mind, because it is not a question of being better than them, he picked banners for a reason after all. None of the others touch the things, perhaps out of some pity (or is that sympathy, or respect, or disinterested and they did not even notice) and so right now, right now he can just focus on making it the best he can.
For that's all he can do.
He paints on, stopping the wool gathering to do his job instead. Three enemies of Kraka Drak, now righteously dead. The head of Kholek Sun-Eater, grim, eyes black in death while the rest is a vivid, impossible to miss red, to the right. The Greedy One, a miasmic blue like opal that shimmers thanks to that self-same rock crushed then stirred into the paint, eyes black. Haruzrildrakk in the silver of Gromril, eyes black, eyes dead. Underneath, the weapons of each who killed them: Trollslayer. Zharrgal. Dal-Grund. All surrounded by hard, angular golden knotwork, arrayed horizontally. The pole, of Wutroth, has been shaped to look like an elder hefting an ax.
The message, the promise, the threat, is clear. It would be bait, a trap, even without the Runes to attach; but with them, it will be like ale for a dwarf.
Are you strong enough?
Aye, that will do it.
--
The armor, at least, is complete. The Troll Hide has been hardened and cut into leather scales then laced together with the sinew, not entirely unlike the usual gromril but still light enough to let Forgebright fly while still offering appreciable protection, particularly when it can be reinforced with haste: better to ensure you can endure the blows, of course, but it would be a flagrant lie to act like much has a particularly good chance of hitting the Silverbearer until and unless said Silverbearer deigns to allow it. A breastplate shined to a mirror polish, and a helmet with a curving horn, also bright and shiny, glint in the forgelight, the only really hard components. He's left sword ribs, spear ribs, other, simple measures to keep the enemy's blows from skewering his client lined about the way.
The decoration is more mild than he would usually use as per his client's request, but there is still plenty--he is a Runesmith after all-- of that you can be more than certain. If he wanted pure functionality, he would have made it himself and enchanted it himself, he certainly could have.
The hard ribs that will catch spears and swords and other similar weapons have been filigreed with shimmering, exquisite gold the better to draw the eye, knotwork mountains lining them. The King of the Skies' battle with Kholek Sun-Eater has been etched into the plate and glimmers on the surface, detailed enough to convey but not so detailed as to be overpowering. The Brana's own symbol for their Aeries has been lined in particularly fine golden wire, the same bright and shimmering shade as the sun overhead, and is placed over the heart. A particularly gleaming circle of ivory under the helmet is going to hold the Master Rune of Dragonbreath when he finishes carving it, and he'll have it carved soon enough.
--
Too heavy to fly, and more's the pity for it. But the stone Brana she's made is nevertheless, a particularly fine representation of her family's most consistent clients, that much is sure. It's carved of black granite at base, as large as a particularly impressive man of the species, the wings so well-shorn if you hollowed them they could be covering for any number of those her father has armored and the head a workable helmet if you did much the same. In emulation of The Miner and of the Maiden she has followed the musculature of the Brana's body, asking Thunder-Speaker to model, allowing her to take those shapes and carry them over. The beak is hollow and hooked and sharp, the same as a living Brana. Exquisitely crafted, of course, to the highest degree. The claws have been sharpened with a good chisel, whether front or back.
But there is decoration, of course, not just...base realism, like some sort of soulless amateur documentarian. She is an artist, not something so simple, so mindless.
Well-polished Dronril has been laid at the center of the hawk talons at the thing's front and in the bottom of the back lion's paws, ensuring every blow will discharge mighty shocks even as it rips and tears and bites into flesh, even beyond the Runes she had lined up for it. She has lined the, now protective, wings with brass wire that glints the moment so much as candlelight is available, and the eyes are bluest lapis lazuli set onto white marble in leonine form, as perfect a copy as her merely mortal hands could make. The feathers of the head have the story of Morgrim and the Gift-Giver creating and Runing the Aerie of the Brana, then inlaid with precious metal: gold for the first of the Engineers, and silver for the Gift-Giver.
Now, to grant it motive...
--
The Horn has been shaped, after six months of effort, hollowed and then reinforced with a layer of brass, so that it can carry a note the way it needs to, to act as a wall of sound mightier than the efforts of perfidious magic. A hole has been made and reinforced with brass to allow someone to blow into it without risk of freezing their mouth shut or some other odious failure for the Frost Wyrm horn is cold, if not that cold. Alternating bands reinforce the outside of the thing, polished as it is to a nearly pearl white: Purified Gromril, pure horn, and then precious metal. Small enough to be carried in one hand, but big enough (and durable enough) to be used as a club if need be, for a man does not always have his weapon of choice at hand.
The Gromril has been filigreed with golden Klinkarhun extorting Thungni to look with pleasure upon this work of His craft, the horn merely polished until it gleams like teeth, while the precious metals have been studded with jewels. The metal changes, the first brand of brass lined with beryl of a pale, glittering, pleasing black, socketed in with considerable effort and force (he'd like to see the mortal with thews mighty enough to pry them out); the silver with pearls, many, many pearls, bright and flickering like fire light, seeming to dance like the tongues of heat within the fireplace; while the gold has been covered with emeralds pulled from the mines of Kraka Drak, worked into precisely carved lines, angular and hard, long and thin rectangle really. Frost flickers around all of it constantly, a slight layer seeming to cover the thing, almost making it look asleep, like some mighty beast resting after a great effort.
Which is, perhaps, approriate, really, all things considered.
Now then, to get it Runed before the next campaign. No excuse for idleness in this matter, to be sure!
--
Bardin looks upon his work with no small pride. A finely articulated gauntlet, designed to wrap on around the right claw of Mountainstrider, covering it in a layer of hard, Pure Gromril, hardened in the fiercest fires which seem captured in the Runemetal. It shines with an unusual purity after he put the effort in for a particularly nice billet, something that he'll have to look at later, shimmering somewhere between silver and white. The construction is intricate, efforts taken to reduce the weight as much as possible to ensure his friend can cut and slice as easily as he could if he were wearing nothing at all, with no more problem than wearing a silken tunic.
At the center of the back of the paw, a bright topaz that gleams the same bright, glittery shade of yellow as the sun rests, surrounded by perfectly symmetrical golden inlays that look like stylized rays of that self-same stellar body that Longbeards so often grumble over (thinking he has not realized they are grumbling for the sake of grumbling, of course, they aren't as subtle as they think they are, no not even his father, nor his grandfather, nor his great-grandfather). The decoration of the claws is subtler, but they have been lacquered in a red the same shade as a brilliant, purifying sunset, the kind of thing that can make even the harsh, cold lands of Norsca seem beautiful, if one ignores the perils lurking on the snow capped mountains. To complete the look, old Brana stories about the sun (there being considerably more for creatures who fly than those who live underground, after all) have been etched into it, filigree and other, more obvious methods discarded as too much of a risk for too much weight, and he'll not get his friend killed for something shiny.
It still needs Runes, and so Runes it shall have.
--
Jolla looks upon the armor she's made with a keen eyes, filing off any slight remaining defect.
A plate harness, thick layers of hardened gromril worked into a protection both wearable and all-encompassing for anywhere not protected by the plates instead has a layer of thick scales of Pure Gromril wrapped around it, all of it shined to a mirror finish for, unlike certain people she could name she is not above something shiny. There would be a certain sparce beauty in just the shape itself: there is something innately pleasing in something that simply functions and does its job well, the Brana are not wrong about that. But she does have a higher standard, there are things needed and necessary for it to be worthy of a Runesmith, worthy of a student of Snerra, the Smiling Runelord, savior of the High King, the Last of the Chosen, and she will not fail to live up to those standards.
A trim of reddened brass the same shade as Grimnirzan around most of the plate, first and foremost, then worked in hard, angular patterns, as a bonus acting to stop spears or swords from sliding about all over the place. Certain plates have been covered in an entire facade of the stuff even, though that is a thin skin over Gromril even in those cases. The three-piece pauldrons look like a disappointed Grungni, the worst Grungni of all to face, the top plate his helmet, the middle His face, and the bottom his beard and to that end his eyes are filled with particularly thick Hearthstones, bright and fiery things indeed. The helmet's visor has been carved to look like a particularly snarling, wrathful face, a thing foreboding and furious and hateful to the enemy, while the scales that drape and protect the body have the history of Clan Brighteye carved into them and filled with yet more of the red brass, while decorative Klinkarhun prayers to Grimnir layer the spirit in protection as well, ensuring the eyes of the Ancestors are upon her and she does not shame herself.
--
The ring is complete.
The ring is worthy.
Designed to wrap around the upper front of the right limb, it is in the main a relatively simple thing of ivory that will rest snug against Snowhide's form, enough give to flex with her or to contract as the need may arise in battle--it would not do for either the arm to break the ring or the ring to break the arm in the heat of battle as movements become weirder and wilder. Accent stones dot it, each perhaps the size of her fingernail, alternating between ruby, sapphire, and emerald in precisely that order, socketed in, respectively, bronze, silver, and gold the better to ensure they stand out from the plain white of the ivory, harvested from troll tusks and so precisely cleaned as to gleam like snow banks under the Weal-Moon.
Carved into the ivory is the story of Snowhide's family, an old line stretching back to some of the King of the Sky's eldest kin, and the battles they waged: During the Incursion, at Karag Dum, and now against the Fimir, and more personal battles aside. Each jewel acts to emphasize a singular victory from her parents back to the progenitors, her ancestors, back to the original Windbreath: A Stormcaller ancestor, for instance, has the place where his bolt of lightning overwhelmed the lightning of Dragon Ogres marked with a sapphire, while a ruby emphasizes the work of a Silverbearer, a craftsman, making a torque and so gaining a wife. Her limb is only just big enough to have space for it all, and even then it is some very tiny, very detailed carving, taking her many, many moons to get it done right.
Paying off a part of the debt will be worth it.
And so, for that matter, will be making some Runes worthy of the trouble.
--
The Rumbler Lung sizzles and a hot haze rises up from it as he shreds and rips and grates and tears it apart, feeding it to the Master Rune of Taunting.
If this is to work--and it must work--that shall be the keystone, the necessity, the fulcrum of the lever that is his craft. He chants, all his focus turned onto it for the moment, all his efforts, everything he could be yoked to making it function.
The Rune of Battle, given a Hearthstone, already blazes red and hot on the skull of Haruzrildrakk. Quick shots, fast shots, nimble shots, delivered as though Valaya herself was insisting on their perfection and lulling the enemy into a torptitude, making them jittery and sluggish by turns, neither fast enough to get out of the rain of bolts that is to come nor able enough to dodge them, even as the shots of the Quarrelers underneath are delivered as precisely as possible, too busy imagining death for the Dawi.
The Rune of Cascading Bolts, given Grimnirzan. All under its blows will deliver fast volleys of bolt fire, acting as though Grimnir Himself had drilled them in the art which they needed to perform, the art of war, resplendent and wonderful and terrible. Intimidating, not fear or terror proper perhaps, but something perturbing, to the enemy who sees such effort as well.
A certain aura of disquiet may fill an enemy faced with that, of course, and so the necessity of the Master Rune of Taunting. The enemy could not ignore this, and so rather than trying to drown weakpoints in the line under worthless bodies they will instead come, even as their morale shatters, towards the quarrelers under it, dying in droves to try and finally tear it down fast when they should be slow and jittery when they should be confident, a mishmash of conflicting, sabotaging emotions all driven from the Runes. Give them a secure enough position and sufficient ammunition and such quarrelers would be quiet the hardpoint against such chaff.
If this works.
So he prepares to put more effort into it.
Because it has to be ready, just as he has to.
For it shall be Werul A Urk, the Confuser of Foes.
--
The Runes are complete. They shimmer and smoke and sizzle, slowly weaning off the energy he had fed to them.
The Master Rune of Dragonbreath gleams a familiar, wholesome teal light, though sparks and flickers of the red heat trapped within burst about every now and again. Fire, hot fire, only barely just trapped within, only just waiting to be unleashed by Forgebright at his command and a breath. Strafing runs from above burning holes in the enemy lines, easily exploitable gaps, combined with his own magic ought to turn the Silverbearer into quite the shocktroop indeed, helping turn the tide against the simple tidal wave of numbers the enemy can spit out to try and drown their quality under quantity.
Well, quality has a quantity all its own.
The Rune of Force, given a Hearthstone, and the Rune of Might, given a Phoenix Feather, really only emphasize that to an even greater degree, allowing him to make simple numbers even less meaningless in the main. Dragon's fire already impacts like the mighty fist of Grungni Himself--the Rune of Force and Might only further emphasize that even as they increase his physical prowess as well, turning him into a bitter melee combatant indeed. His charges will end up wreathed in hot fire, the effect of all the fire reagents he's used for this, while the jets of flame he now spits will explode making balls of it that can crater the earth and reshape the landscape given sufficient effort, and if embroiled into pure melee combat for one reason or another his cuts and slashes and bites (if he needs to, of course) will burn and burn and burn, the hottest of fires to face the worst of foes.
It is complete.
It is beautiful.
It is Zharr A Skarr, the Fire of the Skies.
There is a knock at the door.
It must be him.
--
The Gronti leaps from the plinth at her command, little sparks pouring out where the Dronril touches the ground, further confirmation it can't fly until and unless she gives it something to lower its weight.
Oh well.
She'll just have to content herself with sending off a monolith of stone, lightning, and slaughter to face the Fimir. Rather than the power of a Troll's Heart motivating it, a Dronril crackles inside, the energy unleashed offering it motive and force, sending little bolts of static around into the air. Nothing dangerous there...yet. The Master Rune of Awakening crackles on the thing's chest, the bluish white of lightning, of power, of electricity burning, ringing around the teal of Runes.
The Rune of Chain Lightning. With Dronril already both inlaid in the claws and used to power the Rune of Awakening, its attacks already have lightning no matter what. With this, it can launch lightning bolts that arc, that twist, that turn and shift, following along the line of the enemy like a scyth, slaying them from far away or from close up. Dragon Ogre Blood offers it yet more twisted potency, increasing the strength of the bolts and increasing the frequency such attacks can be unleashed.
Rune of Strongarm, to capture enemy power, and slaked with Stone Troll's Blood. Enemy attacks, particularly magical attacks, end up captured, stored away, converted either to power for the Master Rune of Awakening or given to the Rune of Chain Lightning, until they are unleashed, making it function better, and making the bolts more potent, allowing them to be unleashed more often as well by recharging them with the stolen energy.
She'll meet with the king's representative to see it sent off with the next campaign, and then they'll see whether you really can drown a better army in number.
It is Dronar, the Thunderer.
--
The Runes have been laid on the Horn, one for each band of metal, carved on a precious stone.
On the gold, carved into emerald, the Master Rune of Stabilisation. The bearer will be more resistant to magic simply on the face of it for its presence, and an aura traveling along the horn's call will further work to dampen the magic of the enemy, making casting their spells the more difficult in the first place, damping fire balls and turning blades of shadow into nothing more than bad memories and nightmares. There would be those, of course, who could overpower the effects, he isn't arrogant enough to think otherwise.
Which is why he had continued on, of course, just to make as sure as he possibly could.
The Rune of Spelleating. Considerably less chance to overpower that, of course, particularly when given a Troll's Stomach and therefore, appropriately, a Troll's appetite. As he blows, enemy spells will be devoured, the energy consumed, and quite possibly ripped from the enemy's mind if Thungni is feeling particularly surly at the moment. Torrents of fire, pits of shadow, all falling apart as it enters the wall of sound he can make if he really puts his mind to it and decides to channel his master.
And lastly, the Rune of Valaya, given his most expensive reagent, Ancient Stone Troll's Blood (there are a handful of benefits to living next to Troll Country). The blows will destroy enemy magic, and furthermore, offer courage, stout heart and resilience to otherwise flagging, falling, failing dwarfs, healing minor wounds, all with power stolen from the enemy, a spiteful bit of irony, his very favorite kind.
Put them together and it becomes a small but potent field where there will be no magic unless he okays it.
Dolgi decides he'll show his former Master and Redbeak Zhufgrikar on the campaign and not a moment sooner.
--
Bardin looks upon what he's made with both pride and curiosity.
Pride, for it had come out more than alright.
And confusion, for some of the effects of the stranger reagents he had used for it.
The Master Rune of Conduction, for instance, old and faithful to him. Any Magma Dragon Blood is expensive, very expensive, by the standards of anyone not a Runelord, so after moderate experimentation--enough to know it would work, as well, but not enough to say what differences, if any, there might be--he had ordered, instead, mildly cheaper Aesvarinor Hierarch Blood at that and it had, apparently, been sufficient alright, it still burned properly and a swing still had earth rendering force. But where it was usually a hot, magmatic shaded orange fire, in this case it became almost a corrusacting, goopy field of cherry red and lava orange power and energy, more mystical, like it had been sheathed in the earth's blood rather than fire. Not entirely unlike Zharrgal, really, though not so powerful as that legend.
It worked, and it was safe. He made damn sure of that. Only a madman wouldn't test the reagents he, or even moreso, his friends would be using. It was just...different. Whether at all practically or only aesthetically, only experience can tell.
The other Reagents and the other Runes are less odd, for all he still makes use of materials from the elves, looking at their strange properties.
The Master Rune of Conduction obviates the need for strength even further, so he instead turns his focus, elsewhere.
The Rune of Spellbreaking, fed powdered Moraidyr Shells. Death, an aura of spite and strength, worked into it. Magical protection won't protect them from him, or from their ultimate fate, nor keep him from breaking their spells. Things shall pass at his command, and no mere ward, no mere spell, shall protect them from that, fading as surely as metal breaks, any regeneration seemingly cut off.
The Rune of Striking, given Grimnirzan. Every blow shall hit, shall strike clear and true, aimed at the most vulnerable place possible.
Mighty blows, breaking through any protection, striking, shattering, slaying.
It is Grimzharr, Harsh Fire.
--
The Runes demand more of her.
Or, perhaps more accurately, the Rune.
Jolla has placed the Rune of Valaya and given it its Ancient Stone Troll Blood. Magic, esoteric or direct, will strike and falter and fade, worthless, useless, against the will of the Runesmith who made this. Against her, and the will of the Shield-Maiden. It burns on the right pauldron, on Her Husband's grim visage, only just waiting to unleash itself, for an opportunity to prove its mettle.
The Rune of Grungni, given Barazgal. It shimmers, shines, offers protection from arrows and rocks and picks and no end of other, mundane threats. It burns on the left visage, shimmering golden light of Khazagar offering gleaming and glittering and brilliant protection in case she should run into something strong enough to break the steel she shall become, as well as the Pure Gromril she'll be sheathed in. Odds are low, but far from nonexistent.
But the Master Rune of Tirelessness, it demands...much. Perhaps only rightly, for it offers much: An endless vigour, and stamina, and healing, such healing: it's far from the Master Rune of Unyielding which powers Barak Azamar, but near enough to be potent.
So much effort from it and to it.
Effort put in, equal to the kind of effort it will put out.
The Elder Thundertusk Tusk only just wait to be used as she chants and continues to carve, meeting the tirelessness of the creation with her own stamina. It must be invested, that it might grow.
She'll not fail.
Brighteye will have her damn armor.
She'll fight as resilient as the Ancestors themselves and just as protected in a suit of Pure Gromril, and the mere foibles of the flesh will not let her down either: there will be no outlasting her.
It will be Karaz Klad, the Everlasting Armor.
--
Her slight chisel and hammer tink and tink and tink some more on the ivory of the arm ring, marking the Master Rune. It must be done slowly, carefully, precisely, without even the slightest failure, indeed without even the slightest chance of failure, lest that the whole thing should fall apart.
Precise work.
Delicate work.
Hard work.
Her work.
Compared to the blow of the hammer on the ax head, the breast plate, the mail link, it is at least less physically demanding, in that her workshop is kept pleasantly cool, there are no great vats of molten metal waiting to splatter all over everything, and the chisel itself is lighter.
On the other hand, she has been stooped over, looking through this lens and chanting for the past...oh Hell, she's forgotten.
Honestly, she really forgot around the time she finished the Rune of Fury.
Funny thing about Brana, they are mildly more forgiving than the Dwarfs they live with. They'd have a certain amount of respect for someone willing to stand and account for their evil. But to indulge in it and then run away...
Well.
Suffice to say, there's still plenty of rage in that proverbial cage. Rage she intends to harness by pouring Aged Wyrm Blood into it, for the Draks take insults and thefts about as well as a particularly surly Longbeard at the best of times.
Next came the Rune of Berserk. Elder Greedy Troll's Blood, for the things have a wicked, vicious, miserable temper, all tied together with a hunger and an avarice beyond compare and beyond comprehension. They desire, and desire, and desire, and they will take what they want as they want it and woe betide he who faces them in their rage.
The physical shape of the Rune is finally done, and so she begins to chant even louder as she grabs Ancient Wyrm's Lung, without much preamble starting to grind it into the shape, flecks of organic material landing on it and starting to sizzle.
It is simple, straightforward, and effective. Snowhide will challenge the enemy, and they will either meet it or run. If they answer, then her rage and anger will build at the insult of daring to stand against her.
If they don't, then her anger will grow for daring to run from her.
Either way, they'll have to face a very angry, very large Brana in battle.
Ancestors, she is very good at this.
It will be Lidrazen Albarin, the Fast Angerer.
