Snerra's breath was quick in her chest, and she struggled to keep the dignified pace of a runesmith as she hurried home, treasure clutched tightly in her arms. She failed
completely to keep the grin off her face.
Well. That was alright. There was no one here but Thimdur and Balin Bryggeroot, and they knew the reason for her cheer.
Thimdur chuckled as she juggled her parcel, trying to fish the key to her workshop from a pocket. "Need a hand with that, lass?"
She gratefully handed him the bulky object and slotted her key home with a
click. "Thank you!" she said, taking it back and disappearing inside. She reappeared momentarily, peeking around the door. "Um. You probably won't see me for another eight, maybe ten years? So, um, thank you. And I'm going to leave the door unlocked - could you ask Magda to bring me some ale and stonebread every two years or so?"
Thimdur raised an eyebrow. "Don't want to 'pull a Master Snorri', eh?"
Snerra felt certain at that moment that if Dolgi suddenly appeared beside her, she'd
still be the reddest dwarf in the room.
"But- where- you-...MMMMPH!" she said, flailing for speech.
Her bodyguards were bent over laughing. Oh, well, at least her suffering was
entertaining. The Wazzocks.
They recovered before she did. "It's alright, lass, it's alright. We won't tell a soul." Balin's eyes twinkled as he mimed turning a key over his mouth. "We'll see you're supplied and keep anyone else away."
Snerra groped for a retort before giving up. She sighed, and smiled back at them, cheeks still glowing. "Thank you. Um. 'Till then!" she said, and retreated behind her door.
She hurried back into the workshop, thoughts of the imminent future crowding out embarrassment. She really did need to ask Fjolla how to deal with this kind of thing, though.
Even if Balin
did have a very handsome beard.
***
Snerra had always preferred a more open workshop than Master Snorri, even if he was right about the inefficiency. Ideas and work just flowed better for her when she could move around freely. The old blacksmith's forge she'd rented wasn't ideal, but the Flintfoots had happily signed her a century's lease in exchange for runing the facility, and that was good enough for now.
She felt that old, familiar flutter in her chest as she pulled on her forge garments. A long sleeved shirt and trousers of soft salamander leather, tooled with prayers to Thungni and geometric designs. A drake-hide apron, still embarrassingly new after only a century of use. A short cloth band to tie back her plaits. Picking up tongs, she gripped a pure gromril ingot and placed it gently into the heart of the forge.
The flames licked over the metal as she stoked the bellows higher. She glanced at her little statue of Thungni, biting her lip.
A silly, almost childish thought bubbled up in her brain, but somehow it felt right.
"Wish me luck!" she asked Thungni, and then turned and set to work.
***
Snerra brought her hammer down, drawing out the contour of the shoulder.
And Thungni found a cavern, and within it a great, glittering realm
She tilted her strikes as she neared the edge, drawing out a slight lip that would help seat the pauldron when the armour was finished.
And plucked from it gleaming seeds of power, that he might give to the dwarves.
Watching the metal closely, she sniffed, and found herself satisfied.
This gift we carry, as servants of our Lord.
......When had that stonebread gotten here?
***
Snerra's heart sang with fevered creation, and her face ached from smiling.
Line upon delicate line bloomed across the gromril plates. Jagged peaks and graceful whorls leapt into being, flowing into each other like nothing she'd ever done before. The beautiful stream of creation halted only to allow her delicate calipers to make hundreds of measurements. Precision was
critical. Everything, every detail had to be perfect. She would accept nothing less.
Was this what
It felt like? Small wonder Master Snorri disappeared so. She'd chase this feeling for the rest of her life.
Properly engraving the breast and back plate alone took a year and a half. The pauldrons, greaves, vambraces, and other miscellaneous pieces took another eight months. As she finished each piece, she placed them in shallow trays of an acidic solution - mainly troll bile, but also a nostril-searing array of chemicals in small quantities. When she removed them weeks later, each engraved line leapt off the plate in a shiny, permanent, metallic black.
Of course, neutralizing the traces of acid took another month, but the effect was well worth the wait.
***
While the chemicals took their effect, Snerra moved to the large, central worktable and released her prize from its burlap carry-sack.
The flat, grey, hexagonal pattern of an Ironback Tortoise shell gleamed at her in the forge-light.
She ran her hands lovingly over the pristine surface, chill to the touch. It shouldn't have been
nearly so difficult to find, but with the influx of runelords from the south, and the memories of the war still fresh...
Well. She was just lucky that ranger Vraska had been so considerate to bring her the shell from his hunt! She'd have to make him something nice to thank him. Maybe a runed belt, something to keep him warm out there in the weather.
Distractions falling away, she began clamping the shell into place. She'd already laid a thin, flexible metal sheet down over the tabletop; the shell now rested on top of that sheet. Tightening the last clamp, she picked up a bit-and-brace and placed the point in the center of a hexagon on the shell-edge, just over where the tortoise's head would have been.
She took a breath, leaned her weight on the brace, and watched as the blade began carving miniscule shavings from the shell.
***
The bit made a
thunk as it pierced the shell for the final time, leaving a hole in the central hexagon to match those in every other. Straightening with a satisfying
crick, she hopped down off the table and quickly undid the clamps. She removed the shell, careful not to disturb the piles of shell-dust that had formed underneath. Placing it to one side, she moved to the end of the table and grasped the metal sheet. Rolling it to form a U shape, she lifted her end, sending the shell-dust gently skimming down into a collection bowl she'd placed at the other end.
There.
Now, she could begin.
***
Eighteen strikes mark the first line, alternating in strength between strikes of five hair-widths depth in steel, and 13 hair-widths depth in steel.
On the fifth line, strike three times with each indrawn breath, four times with each exhale.
On the seventh line, begin pouring the reagent evenly into the forming rune, striking every three heartbeats.
The hardest part was always,
always, keeping her heart rate slow enough to swing her hammer on pace.
Beneath rapturous eyes, the rune glowed and took shape.
***
Her chisel switched from line to line.
Faster
Each move precise, each strike exact.
Faster
Gromril on gromril, ringing through the forge.
Faster
Sweat dripping down her brow, but never yielding hesitation.
Faster
***
Snerra's hammer rose and fell with almighty crashes. The end was in sight. She could
taste it.
Power Flows.
The rune demanded utmost vigor. She gave it that, and exaltation besides.
Will guides it
The form was life, beneath her eyes. She bade it,
BE! And it was so.
Let song remind you
Her chisel sang with culmination, ten years in a moment.
Let mind shape it
The rune glowed red.
It was done.
Snerra saw what she had wrought, and wept.
***
Eight months later....
Jorri approved of his daughter's choice in dwellings. Tucked away in one of the warmer sections of the hold, her quarters were located on a side-tunnel off one of the markets, and the scent of fresh stonebread hung permanently in the air. Her door was painted a cheerful red, enhanced by thin geometric designs in gold.
He rapped his customary greeting on the door. No guarantee she'd be in, of course, he
was a month early, but either way he'd see her soon eno-
WHOOF
"
DA!" yelled the missile currently straining his ribs.
He hugged her back just as tightly, hooking his stump around her shoulders as his good hand thumped her back. "Ancestors, girl, what are they feeding you? Or did someone just swap out my daughter for an ogre when I wasn't looking?"
She laughed into his chest. "Oh,
Da." she said, not the least upset. She let him go, grinning up at him. "I missed you."
"I missed you too, Snerra. Now, you certainly
seem fine, but is everything alright? Your letter had me a mite worried."
"I'm fine, Da. Here, come in, I have a gift for you!" She disappeared inside, leaving the door hanging open behind her.
"A gift? I appreciate it, lass, but what was so urgen-"
Jorri stopped in the hallway, for one of a handful of moments in his life, struck utterly dumb.
The gromril armour stood on a wutroth display stand in the middle of her living room, candle and fire light dancing in its polished surfaces. The plates took a rounded, graceful design, more segmented than usual, and Jorri knew it was to ensure his comfort on the roads. One arm ended in a gromril cap, but he could see that the penultimate piece was slightly wider than the rest of the arm - she'd made it to be compatible with his new prosthetic, once Snorri finally got around to making it.
What drew his eyes, though, were the engravings. Commanding the center of the breastplate was a great, six-spoked wagon wheel, somehow seeming in motion even as it stood still. In the spaces between the spokes, in trilateral symmetry, glowed three runes. He recognized them. Protection, Speed and Fortitude. Surrounding them, covering every inch between the spokes and outside the wheel, was a map of the Karaz Ankor. A quick peek around verified that the map extended over the backplate as well. He knew within his bones it was as accurate as an engineer's map too.
"I thought, if you're ever lost, you'll have a map home." A pause. "Do you like it?"
Jorri turned, and saw, fidgeting with her plaits, Snerra. His daughter, woman grown, journeyman runesmith. A prodigy destined for heady heights, if Snorri was to be believed. And yet, somehow, still very much his little girl.
"Lass." he said, words returning to him. "If I live to be as old as Grungni, I'll still not cherish anything more."
He hugged her, and if her eyes and his eyes were a little misty, they both pretended not to notice.
She broke the hug first. "You scared me." He waited, questioningly. "When you came back like- when I saw that-" Her hand rested gently on his stump. "It's not safe out there. Not even in the underway. Not anymore. So....I had to do what I could."
"It's...incredible, Snerra, I don't know -"
"I need you to promise me, Da." She cut him off. "Promise me you'll wear it on the road. Even in the underway. No matter what. Alright?"
"Snerra-"
"
Promise me!"
And if the desperation in her voice wasn't enough, the fear and pain he saw in her eyes certainly was.
"I swear it on my beard, lass."
She sobbed, and they hugged, and neither of them felt any pressing need to do otherwise for a good while after.
