The Other Runelords Contribute - Brynna
The last of the commissions, at least of Kraka Drak. One of the more surprising too, at that. Rumors have swirled around about Brynna being busy with her own project, quite possibly (indirectly) responsible for the incident that had ended up maiming her. That she had responded to the king's call for gear had been a surprise.
But a welcome one.
He's not inclined to put stock in the idea of her looking for an honor-guard as The Gift-Giver had, but if she was, managing to make the time to arm champions of the Hold would be one way to do it. Circumstantial evidence, and for all the Reckoners warn against putting too much stock in it, so too do they warn against not considering it at all.
"Welcome, Prince. Please enter, be well, and may no evil come upon you within my home."
"I thank you for the boon of your hospitality, honored elder, and would not impose upon your precious time."
He puts aside such thoughtful airs for the moment to instead do his duty and collect the work.
There's an air of formality, quite Zornish, on the Longplait as she welcomes him into her home (or perhaps inner sanctum is more appropriate, given the slow and steady growth of fortifications around it for all she does not desire a Kazaghar). The decoration is tastefully opulent, gold and silver and stone and gromril, the four best materials by any Dwarf's estimation, with ivory to accent and comfortable looking, particularly plush furniture all around the place, enough to seat he, his guard, and a few dozen of their closest friends all told. A seamless gray wall with Thungni's face in gold, more thoughtful than anything, surrounded by Klinkarhun prayers and enough precious gems to light the place in shimmering teal light, dominates the vast southern wall. Even odds it's (a) workshop, though how interested he is in that pales in comparison to his interest in armor upon the rack in front of it.
It's lighter than he expects of his people, that much he can say for sure: hardly the rawhide and scraps of the Gori, nor the maille-and-harness of the Elgi, but there's little, if any, articulated plate as he'd expect, instead relying on scale-and-maille for the most part, with the closest thing to real plate being the greaves (not even sabatons) and bracers (no gauntlets proper). He approaches, carefully, very carefully, looking at it. Each and every link has invocations of Grimnir chiseled onto it in the finest, but still yet legible, writing, Aldrhun at that. The gromril of the Maille has been blued to protect it from rust, a shimmering thing like the flames dancing in the hotttest, brightest forge.
The invocations all draw on one aspect, His Rage. Grimnir Bellicose Guides The Ax, Grimnir Raging Grant Me Vengeance, Grimnir Furious Make My Hide Stone, link after link after link of such raging words, the armor of one intending to slay, much as the armor itself is intended to provide as much freedom of movement as possible, relying on the nature of Pure Gromril to offer protection rather than pure coverage. Hardened scales of pure gromril cover the waist up to the neck, the scales colored red to protect from rust, bright as fire, layered over the maille. The aftermath of battle after battle that Grimnir won are etched into them, lined in wire of purest white.
The helmet, the greaves, and the bracers alike are all pure white, like the hottest of fire. They are relatively simple in geometry, but well decorated: An aventail dangles, directly attached, to the helmet, covering the whole of the head but for the eyes in Pure Gromril, the hardened plates intricately etched with the Kin of Grimnir and their legends, particularly the violent ones: His own forefather, the Ironarm himself; King Gunn; The Drakebeards; and many more aside, brightest vengeance and glorious victory and honorable sacrifice and no matter what, no matter, no surrender. To break up what could be an otherwise boring color palette the images are all lined in gold the yellow of fire, emphasizing and framing the lot of them.
The bracers and greaves are similarily decorated, though the greater space allowed her to get more detailed with it all: Otrek the Founder slaying the Frost Wyrm, slaying Kholek, and now his father leading the battle against the Fimir, all the foes who would dare to threaten his people faced at the edge of an ax. Aside from gold, Trollslayer's blade has been marked by a pearl socketed into a hearthstone the better to emulate its skyfires.
War.
Decoration of war, intended for a thing of war.
He smiles at it.
Brynna has not been subtle in laying down the Runes, the three burning marks yet flaring to brilliant life over where the heart would be: the Master Rune at the center, and then flanked by its compatriots on the scales to the left and the right.
"The Master Rune of the Boar, the Rune of Berserk, the Rune of Grimnir. Each comes to a singular point, each fulfills one purpose, harmonizing like a skald's story: The bearer shall be as stubborn and as skilled and as raging as your forefather, Prince. No blow shall slay them, no attack turn them aside, no strike dissuade them, lest the foe be mighty at arm indeed. And in battle none shall be their equal, no foeman greater, no party the more threatening. May that it shall be worthy of the champion the king offers it to; may that it meets the standards of the Royal Clan; may that it never fails in battle."
He can't help but examine the face of his great-grandfather, the man he was named after, the man he knows he cannot fight as.
But perhaps he can live up to his legacy in another way.
"It shall more than suffice, Lady Brynna. A reminder to myself and my descendants of the standards we must bear. I promise you this, I shall speak with my father to see you properly compensated. It will be done. Of my own vault if necessary." He bows at the waist to her, younger to elder, even as the huskarls that accompany him grab the piece and leave behind the initial payment.
