Mortality and Excellence
He can recite the lore of Clan Brightwill to a thousand-years hence. His parents had made damn sure of that--as his brothers had been trying to woo maidens in the Hold, in particular some planned maiden excursion, instead, knowing his excellence, they had ma--allowed him to journey to the clan's personal library and for sixth months he had studied the deeds of his Ancestors long descended into the Underearth. Thousands upon thousands of pages of tomes, fo-entered into his mind so that he could understand his place.
To keep his mind focused, where his brothers had...suffered the pain of being with grandfather for months as he passed, mother and father had instead de- allowed him to take his mind off of troubles by sending him with a mining expedition to get a feel for the material he would work with as a Runesmith so that he would excel, to let him gain practice working with completely mundane construction.
As his brothers grew more familiar with their parents, he was reproached, reminded to keep the dignity of a Runesmith, a Runelord one day if he was so lucky and chosen--no, not lucky, driven.
From the day he was born and they had known he would take on the family's legacy properly, his parents have...pushed...him to excel. Have not allowed him to rest on his laurels or at all. They have known he would be the best because they have pruned every other possibility. They have ensured his name will go down in the annals of Kraka Drak as a legend of worth for they have mangled the mere mortal who might otherwise weigh that ability down.
And so they had leaped, jumped at the opportunity as Nain Kazzarson, apprentice to the Gift-Giver, and student of Gotri Hammerspite, was rumored to be looking for a student, and paid him quite a sum of money hoping he would finish ripping out mortality and leave behind a shell of excellence.
The training had been difficult, of course. How could it not be? But he had excelled for how could he not? Not after the efforts of his parents to prepare him for the thing, not after the efforts of his parents to ensure he was an equal to the task. He is very quiet, and he has very good ears, so he has heard his master call him as such, when he thinks Tholinn Vikramsson is not paying attention. He, and Fjolla, and Karstah, and the other apprentices of Snorri and the Gift-Giver himself, a figure if anything more marvelous than the stories convey, clad in Runes and wonder.
They talk about other things too, of course. Exactly what they think of his parents. An assessment he can't quite disregard. For all some part of him can't fully agree with it, either.
To be around so many Masters of the craft is...edifying. Even if his fellow apprentices can be confusing and better company than most of his closer kin has ever been, whatever else they might say. Dolgi's kin are loud and warmhearted and open when they have no need to be but honest and capable Runesmiths. His conversations with the younger children are purely an attempt to learn more about Runesmithing Lore, of course, since that's the easiest way to hide how much time he's wasting from his parents, who have their ears to the grapevine. Gandazi and Andvarri, younger than he, and so in need of an elder's guidance, as much as he could and Andvari a lesson in not putting his foot in his mouth from a mouth who's gotten too, too used to watching his words when he doesn't need to.
Every milestone ever placed before him he has surpassed, every attempt to turn him from the path failed. He will be a Runesmith, he will bring honor to Clan Brightwill for how else will he ever make missing his grandfather's funeral worth it.
He is excellence itself, and the cloak he has made lives up to that. It may be a simple apprentice's piece, and to be sure his master had made sure to point out a few points of improvement for later, but it will do what it needs to do, of that he is sure. The red wool lightly trimmed with a vanilla shade of particularly Brana down at the collar and along the edges, with images of the history of Clan Steelfist embroidered in white yarn, would keep out the cold of Norsca as a particularly thick piece of mundane work, never mind the handful of warming runes his Master nudged him to use for the gift. It is more than fitting as a gift from Tholinn Goldenbeard.
So why is he so stressed about giving it to Thorek Steelfist aside from the bleeding obvious? The man wants to journey throughout the cold of Norsca, to be a warrior, to see the world so it certainly fills a practical need? A beardling's gift to a beardling warrior is well within parameters, in fact if anything it is over par given how these things usually work, so it isn't that. Thorek has been whining about how cold out it is, so it's something he wants, so it certainly won't be a waste not matter what else then.
So why, then, is it that he's sitting in the tavern, at the edge of the bar, nursing some ale, holding the gift, trying not to stare at the noble who hasn't realized he's there? Why can't he just get up, march over there, and give it to him? Why can't he be-
His thoughts are interrupted by an Elder in a thick red cloak accidentally stumbling into him, knocking him from his stool onto the ground and getting the attention of just about every patron there, including Thorek, oh Ancestors, even as the Elder brushes some dirt off of him and grumbles apologies, checking him over for a moment before giving a grumble to the effect of "he's fine". He accepts the apology in the spirit intended, besides he's far more concerned how his associate (Friend) is walking over with a smile on his face and another tankard, which he passes over to Tholinn with a practiced ease. "You alright, prickly?"
"I am indeed."
Screw your courage to the sticking place, beard boy.
The unknowing client is here. "I suppose since you're here, I may as well give you this." He hands over the cloak with little fanfare and tries not to notice how Thorek's eyes light up as he traces the deeds of his forefathers and grandfathers and father down through the ages. "You've been whining about the cold so much and I needed the practice, I figured I may as well give you something to get over it. Even my constitution can only last so long, Steelfist."
"I will cherish it so long as it lasts, my friend." He pulls up a stool and sits next to the apprentice.
"You'd better, you have any idea what brana down costs these days?"
And with that the two fall into easy conversation and the man is allowed out of the cage for a time.
