Private Tales The First of Many

[Grimm]

_____________________

Falwood.

Amid the massive trees and elven hunters, far from the city of Fal’Addas, stood the lonesome almost overgrown workshop of Grimm, often referred to as The God of The Forge. His reputation preceded him, but deep in the emptiness of the woods there was nothing but a trail of smoke going into the sky, and the ever constant sound of hammering as he built upon this tool and that. He was old now, but his strikes rang true everytime, and his strength had yet to fade; though Grimm himself would claim it was because he was too awnry to let go of anything.

Years of working the hammer had left his sight weaker than most, but he refused the easier option of darkened goggles. There was something beautiful about the sparks, as each hammer blasted the metal into the exact shape he wanted, and bringing it to a temperament few other craftsman could manage without two assistants. Grimm did it on his own, and it showed in his massive but stubby arms, making up for leverage with pure strength.

His property consisted of his home, shrouded amongst the trees, as a quaint cottage well crafted from the local fauna. Unlike most, it even held hardened glass windows, and runic sigils to stop the would be trespasser from simply entering, but the real magic of the property existed in a cave dug by hand into a nearby cliffside. Words carved around its opening were written in ancient dwarvish, and whatever they meant was lost to any but Grimm as he worked tirelessly on the forge, metal shavings pervading his waist length beard with every slam of the hammer.

Morgan would see all of this, met by the legendary figure Grimm was. His dwarf stature standing no higher than five feet, and his expression as harsh as the legends. The flash of his hammer strikes, matched with metal on metal clangs, made him an imposing figure more akin to a stimpy dragon than a dwarf; and yet here he stood, the man himself.

The God of The Forge, completely oblivious to his would be guest.

Morgan​

 

[Morgan]

Morgan had made certain to approach the property at a slow trot, following the column of smoke which billowed into the sky while trying to stay aware of any traps or other countermeasures he might have otherwise stumbled through. The trip up to the cottage itself had proven to be quite uneventful, though the half-elven interloper still felt a certain tension prickling the hairs up the back of his neck to stand at attention. After a fruitless knock at the cottage door, the would-be hedge knight thought for a moment that he may have tracked down the wrong recluse's home. Luckily, his pointed ears picked up on the same distant clanging sound- muted yet distinct -that had drawn him to this particular property to begin with.

Deft footfalls lead Morgan down a subtle path leading from the cottage to a nearby cave entrance. There was something unusual to the likely natural entrance cut into the cliffside, as if it had been carved by one with remarkable skills in the realm of stonework. Morgan dismissed this notion out of hand, lacking the wisdom to make the necessary tie between the legendary craftsman and his potentially artificed surroundings. After all, who would take the time and effort to hew out an entire cave?

Morgan stepped towards the center of the forge's wide, carved entrance, doffing his pinned cavalier hat and holding it close to his sternum in a rare sign of respect from the young iconoclast. Silhouetted by the noonday sun, Morgan's figure cut a distinct outline to anyone who might happen to look towards him from within the forge itself. His form is comparably tall when placed in such proximity to a Dwarf, though his build is just slightly too stocky to be wholly elvish in nature. One of his feet sat about half a foot in front of the other, as if their shared owner was preparing to fight or flee at a moment's notice.

"Pardon me, but I'm seeking the artisan known as Grimm." A small glottal accompanied the start of Morgan's speech, and he internally kicked himself for not clearing his throat before making his introduction. The half-elf squinted into the cave, but what light came from the forge hardly helped him to pick out the finer details of the intimidating figure he could hardly see standing over a partially completed work. It was doubtless that progressing into the forge would elucidate these details for him, but something about entering another man's working-space without being invited in would be crossing an unspoken boundary. "I don't suppose I've found him, have I?"

Grimm

 

[Grimm]

The dwarf’s smoke covered expression looked up, black shades of ash seeming to accent what light reflected off his brown eyes. Beneath the beard, his face contorted as he harshly began to yell in the direction of the half-elf;

“Whom tha’ absolute fuck cahlls meh ah fuckin’ ‘art-tis-san’?”, and with his thick accent, the hammer held in his hand ripped from his grasp in the direction of the elf. The speed was minimal, being a heavily unbalanced projectile, but its accuracy was remarkable all things considered. It’d be an easy feat to dodge it, but the suprise of a random hammer was certainly chilling, and foreboding of who the man had chosen to speak to.

A thick, burly paw slammed itself onto the unfinished, still molten tool he worked on forcing sparks to fly out like it had been hit not by flesh, but the steel of a hammer. An impressive feat, and one he seemed to do out of anger before using tongs to pick the piece from its place on the anvil and into an oil bath nearby, the notable sounds of hissing, boiling oil and smoke rising further into the surprisingly well crafted cave.

“Cahll meh tha’ ‘gain, an’ ah’ll fuckin’ whop yuh.”, Grimm offered in a hoarse, almost drunken expression.

Dunking his hands into a nearby barrel of water, he haphazardly washed what grime had formed on his burly mitts, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference as he closed the gap between the two. With a suprising display of speed, he walked uncomfortably close to Morgan and tugged on his well fit clothes with thick fingers, looking them over as if investigating something;

“So, coomin’ from Alliria? ‘Aybe urh one o’ ‘em Vel Anirian boys, huh? Comin’ wif ol’ Daddies gold ta pay meh foh ah sword huh?”, he said, constantly tugging at Morgan’s shirt, as if to annoy the would-be-hedge knight.

Morgan​

 

[Morgan]

The half elf was only minimally caught off guard by the dwarf's sudden outburst, remembering what his mentor had said about the forge master's temper and how it could be flared up just as easily as the fires on which he honed his craft. What did manage to throw Morgan for a loop, on the other hand, was the heavy metal object that came careening all too suddenly for the center of his chest. His well-trained reflexes kicked in for just a split second, allowing him to take a half step backwards and swing his shoulder back out of the hammer's path. What came as some surprise to Morgan himself, however, was the instant right after where his offhand reached out to snatch the unbalanced projectile out of the air. His fingers wrapped like a vice around the tool's handle, and his arm elbow bent to slow the hammer's velocity to a quick stop. The projectile's momentum causes the half elf to stumble back for just a moment, but he manages to catch himself as quickly as he'd started to fall.

Morgan turned his attention from the hammer back to the dwarf who had been making his way quite promptly closer to where he was standing, flipping his grip on the thrown tool to hold it delicately at his side. He bit back the quip that sprung to mind as his travelling clothes were roughly manhandled by the still-blackened hands of the God of the Forge, instead letting the man take his time in examining the stitches and toggles of his raiment. Morgan's clothes were relatively simple when compared to his usual dress, consisting of a tight-fitting vest of dark fabric held closed by a hodgepodge collection of buttons made from brass and wood worn over a simple off-white, collarless shirt. Strapped on over his clothing, however, was a single shoulder pad that swept across his torso to rest tightly against his right shoulder. It's construction is solid, but the surface area is small and would likely fail to effectively block any attack.

To whittle a long description into a brief insight; It's quite clear that this fellow doesn't come from much money.

In stark contrast to his shoddy outfit, a fine-looking sabre rests sheathed at Morgan's left hip. Judging by the green handle and scabbard, paired with the intricate leaf-work that makes up the weapon's hand guard, this single sword is quite possibly the most expensive item Morgan hard ever owned. And it is for this exact reason that he holds his previously doffed hat in his left hand, casually attempting to hide the sword from Grimm's line of sight.

"I'll admit, it was a poor choice of words. Won't happen again." The half elf's discomfort was growing as the dwarf continued tugging at his vest, but he maintained an easy smile that almost completely hid any dissatisfaction with their interaction that was beginning to bud in his heart. "And, yes, you had it right on your first guess; I was actually trained in Alliria by someone who claims to be an old acquaintance of yours, though he emphasized that calling the pair of you 'friends' would be a drastic overstatement."

The half elf cast a brief glance down to the heavy hammer in his right hand's grip before he raised the tool up between himself and Grimm. "I believe you may have dropped this." Sure, it was a simple bid at affiliative humor, but getting the dwarf to laugh might just be his best bet to leave without having his ribs cracked by any other thrown implements.

Grimm

 

[Grimm]

“Po’ choice ah ‘ords in-deed.”, Grimm seemed to struggle through, putting emphasis on the few words he tried saying without an accent.

Eventually, he let go of the vest and grabbed his hammer from Morgan with some gusto, as if annoyed that the boy had managed to catch his expertly tossed hammer assault. Tucking it back into his leather belt, he walked back to a small stone chair near the furnace, waves of heat pumping out of it with every second it lay open. The entire cave seemed more like the inside of a sauna than anything else, incubating the massive amount of warmth generated in his fully carved stove.

“So, if ya cohmin’ ‘er ‘om Alliria, ye probably know Jankin’?”, Grimm considered what he said for a moment, then fervently shaking his head as he pulled a loose stack of tobacco from a pouch nearby, packing it into a finely crafted wooden pipe, then took a pinch of hot embers and held them down with a bare thumb until it began to smoke, rolling between his beard whiskers in a thick cloud before he spoke again.

“Nah, Jankin’ hates ya fuckin’ haf’ knife ear elvish bas’ards.”, another puff of smoke.

“Don’t matta. Wha’dya coom for, eh?”, he said, ending his loud tirade for Morgan to fill the blank, his beady eyes watching him carefully.

Morgan​

 

[Morgan]

Briefly taking on an annoyed facade of a smile that ground his teeth into one another as the dwarf turned around to return to his seat, Morgan deftly placed his hand back onto his head while tugging his vest back into form beneath the leather strapping which held his single pauldron in place. He took about three steps forward, following the dwarf's lead, before deciding he was plenty close enough to the source of the room's immense heat. As the dwarf mentioned an apparent acquaintance of his, this "Jankin" fellow, the half elf thought back to his days tending the bar at one of the outer city's better taverns to see if the name rung any bells. He was drawn back to the present as the dwarf continued his thought, though, and the title of "hater of half-elves" didn't really narrow the field as much as one might hope. There were a fair few of those in Alliria, after all.

Drawn fully out of his memories, Morgan's sharp eyes met Grimm's, fixing him with a look that might convey a certain level of respect if it wasn't overlaid by the halfblood's own determination. "While the conversation has been gripping thus far, I must admit I've come to commission a weapon from you-- As cliched as that must sound."

"The man who taught me swordplay, Sir Anverth Rolfe, claimed you could forge a blade sharp enough to puncture a dragon's hide with the lightest thrust and slash through chainmail as easily as the air itself." The half-elf gave a light chuckle at this, shaking his head for a moment to let the comment hang in the air. "He's a man committed to exaggeration, as you may well know, but I've trusted his recommendation enough to make the trek here."

Now, Anverth was a name that Grimm may very well remember, but he certainly wasn't a "Sir" the last time their paths would have crossed. Anverth lived through his youth as the profligate son of a rich Allirian merchant before he decided to leave the life of glamour and ease behind him, attempting to hone his skills as a duelist; Those who deal in gossip and rumors claim that it was the sabre he'd purchased from Grimm that allowed him to ascend to knighthood.

Grimm

 

[Grimm]

“Sih ‘An-verth Roll-fe”? Con’t believe tha’ lil runt ‘came ah knight.”, Grimm said through puffs of smoke. Although his tone sounded dismissive, almost harsh to Morgan’s former master, somewhere behind that beard was a soft, yet subtle, smile. The pride of a father, perhaps, seeing his creation do well in the world.

“‘Ell, if lil’ Rowlfee said yah gewd, ah ‘pose ah cahn ‘elp.”

With that, the stocky dwarf stood from his chair and walked, almost hobbled, to a small door within the cave, chiseled out of solid granite by his own well worn fingers. Opening it, he pulled a small bundle, consisting of blankets and rope, clothes more fitting the environment, and a hefty odor of smoke. With great strength, he tossed the entire bundle to Morgan, expecting him fully to catch it.

“On’t go thinkin’ it’ll be easy, knife ear.”, he said with a furrowed brow, “If yah wan’t ah weapon, yah gonna’ work fah it.”

Walking back to his seat, he pulled a small singed notebook from a nearby table, with a piece of charcoal wrapped tightly in linens next to it. It took him only a second before he began drawing up a design Morgan couldn’t see; but his gaze eventually came back to the elf.

“Ihf Rowlfee taught yah, yah fight ‘ike ‘em roight?”, carelessly putting the charcoal to his cheek in thought, mindlessly making a blackened mark on his already dirty cheek.

Morgan​

 

[Morgan]

If there was a smile on Grimm's face, Morgan couldn't hear it. He had been hopeful that the forge master might remember the man who'd taught him everything he knew about fighting properly, but hadn't expected that the two would have formed much of a relationship beyond that of a craftsman and a customer. In spite of his surprise, the left corner of the half-elf's lips perked up into the faintest sign of a genuine smile.

It was good to know that his mentor had made some sort of impact. Especially if that impact means that Grimm would help him fill out his arsenal.

Morgan caught the thrown pack with a practiced ease, swinging a hand readily under the loose projectile while his other arm swung down on top of it to keep all of its contents together. A small puff of smoke-scented dust floated up into his nose, causing him to recoil involuntarily at the unexpected olfactory experience. His long, pointed ears picked up just slightly as he was addressed, drawing his gaze back up from the pack to follow Grimm's course back to his seat.

The God of the Forge mentioned that he'd need to work if he wanted a weapon suitable to build a legend, and that determined, lopsided smile only became more defined on the young man's features. "To be honest, sir, I wouldn't have it any other way." It was true. The poor sod had to fight for most of what he had in his youth, and would have been quite disappointed if he was simply given Grimm's handiwork at no physical cost.

He met Grimm's gaze when it came back to him, only briefly flitting away to watch as the dark mark was smeared over the dwarf's cheek before reestablishing eye contact. "Yes, he trained me in his style- dueling single handed, and, ah, occasionally wielding a dagger in the offhand when in a less strict fight." Morgan gestured to the pair of blades that sat on his slender hips, with the aforementioned sabre on his left while a far shorter straight-guarded dagger hung close to his right.

Grimm

 

[Grimm]

Grimm simply shook his head, going back to whatever it was he drawing, before offering a gravely insult Morgan would have to become accustomed to as the two would work together.

“Yah know, yah awreddy gettin’ oan mah nerves, kid.”, he said with a shake of his massive rounded head, beard swaying in its heavy wake.

“‘Can’ae e’en cohm up wi’ yer ohn style huh? Brugduff.”, he ended, throwing out some harsh explitive in dwarvish Morgan wouldn’t likely to understand. Most dwarves wouldn’t have understood either, but it came with enough intent someone could tell what he meant.

“Fahn. Go up tah de ‘ouse, mayk ‘rself aht home. Sundown ah’ll ‘ave sohm work forh yah.”, he said, never letting his gaze look back to the elf, his hand moving about constantly with what seemed to be no idea Morgan still stood there.

So was Grimm; brunt and abrasive as always, it seemed.

Morgan​

 

[Morgan]

Morgan glanced around for the brief moments of silence before Grimm insulted him once more, taking in the finer details of the cavern's stonework for the first time. He recoiled once he was addressed again, ears drooping just slightly at the insult. He had been made aware in the past of his tendency to grate on certain people's nerves, but some part of him knew that it was just in the forge master's nature to be abrasive.

The half-elf wanted to throw back a response at the implication he lacked creativity in his fighting, but he bit back the desire to do so to avoid annoying the dwarf further. Instead, he gave a shallow, respectful nod at the offer of a place to stay, clutching the bundle of clothes and blankets just a touch tighter.

"Well, I greatly appreciate the accommodation. I won't bother you any longer-- At least, not until sundown." Grimm may have caught the forge's orange light glinting off of Morgan's toothy smile; He would have hardly any time to mention if he'd noticed Morgan's cheeky expression, though, for the half-elf turned promptly on his rear-placed heel and walked with purpose out into the woods. The cool forest air served as quite a relief compared to the oppressive heat from the foundry, and the young swordsman couldn't help but sigh out the heavy fumes he'd breathed in during his brief stay in the cave.

The cottage was only a brief walk from the cliff side, and Morgan found himself ducking only slightly through the door to comfortably pass into the picturesque home. The inside, while modest in comparison to the glamour of the forge, was at least somewhat comfy in appearance, but the knife-eared bastard couldn't help but notice a most specific lack of beds in the main room. He probed around for a few moments on his way to the room's far wall, glancing about at what little decoration the house had to speak for.

Upon arriving at the farthest wall and being met by a pair of doors, Morgan pushed them both open and progressed into the less lived-in of the two rooms, assuming it to be the guest bedroom of sorts. The bed was relatively neatly made and tucked into the corner of the room, but there was notably little in the way of color to spruce up the room's utilitarian interior. Setting the bundle of cloth and rope gently on the bed, the half-elf shrugged his canvas knapsack off of one shoulder before swinging it to his front and setting it beside the bundle. Deft fingers pulled the bag open, and he quickly went about setting out what few items he brought with him from the Inn he'd made a temporary residence of.

One such object he produced was a scarf knit of rough-spun cyan yarn, which he quickly unfurled to retrieve the small idol he'd wrapped within. Tossing the scarf aside to drape elegantly over the bedpost, he turned the metal idol over in his hand a few times, examining it to see if it had taken any damage in transit. The soft bronze material it was composed of had maintained its luster, and the distinct shape of Tychan's primordial star was easy enough to make out. He set the idol on the small nightstand that sat beside the bed, adjusting its angle to face what he thought to be the most 'proper' direction, which just so happened to point in the direction of the bed. With the Celestial god of diplomacy and protection watching over him, Morgan went to his bag and stuffed the discarded scarf back into its confines.

He shoved the bag and bundle to the side, turning and taking a seat on the bed. He sank about an inch or two into the mattress, and decided he might be more comfortable if he didn't know what it was stuffed with. Without another moment's hesitation, the half-elf carefully removed his shoes and set them aside on the floor before drawing his feet up onto the bed and striking a meditative posture. Casting one last glance to the idol, he then closed his eyes and began a period of restful meditation, waiting for Grimm to make his way back to the cottage at his leisure.

Grimm

 

[Grimm]

As the hours went by, Grimm finally announced his arrival in the cabin with a loud slam of the door; though one that lacked aggression, more so just a byproduct of his strength. Wiping his nose, he sniffled a few times as he moved to the kitchen and poked at the now failing flame, hoping to stroke it to life for the night. Not that he expected to get much sleep.

As Morgan would eventually make his way out of the guest room, Grimm would look him up and down before speaking;

“Morrow weh goin’ tah cut ‘own ah tree. ‘Ig ‘ol bastard, livin’ ‘er ah wholelot longah ‘an meh.”, he said as he drank down what water he had grabbed from a small pale nearby. No doubt the same pale used for washing, not that the dwarf cared.

“Ah metal grow ihn ‘eh, knife-eahrs ‘en usin’ eh for yeers. Aughtta ‘ake ah fine sword. Yoogonna ‘ut eh down, so get yah ‘sw-ord fit’tin’ ‘ands ‘eady for some ‘ard work.”

“Bra’ o’ dun. Weh goin’ cuttin’.”

Morgan​

 

[Morgan]

Morgan stretched languidly once the ruckus outside of his room stirred him from his meditation, but the movement did little to assuage the tension that had built up in his spine after hours of sitting in place. He pushed out into the common room of the cottage, only slightly disappointed he hadn't come to some grandiose epiphany during his few hours of trying not to think about anything.

He cocked an eyebrow at the dwarf's suggestion that such an utterly miraculous plant could exist. Magic surely was a peculiar concept, especially considering the half-elf had next to no idea as to how the arcane operates. "A tree that grows metal, eh?"

The young man simply shrugged the thought off. Wouldn't be the first time he'd learned something, and it didn't take a genius to know it couldn't be the last. "I suppose the world does get stranger with everything I learn," he said, striking up a casual tone and taking a lean back against the door frame he'd passed through.

The fire flickered from its position across the room, drawing the half-elf's attention. He squinted at it for a moment before addressing Grimm once more. "Anything else you need from me? If not, I'm certain I won't bother you until we're ready to set out for this big old bastard I'm meant to cut down."

Grimm

 

[Grimm]

“Nay”, he offered Morgan, simply shaking his rotund head.

“Ih won’ be so easay tho’. Mind ‘ow ye swing yah s’ord, an’ ye powa’. Git ah ‘ood naught rest, kid.”

Grimm said, in a surprisingly simple manner. For the first time in their conversation to date, he hadn’t really brought much disdain into the terms used, and instead waddled over to a chair and sat down, staring into the soft rolling embers of his now dying fire. The chair creaked under his weight, giving a sign to both its age and the dwarf’s less than immaculate sturdy form, but he offered nothing else to the elf.

Come morning, Grimm was back to his usual ways, with the sun creeping into the windows signifying early morning dawn; he stomped around his cabin with a mission, swearing this way and that as he rifled through his various tools. When Morgan would come out of his room, he’d find a mess, axes and pots tipped and tossed all around the already dirty hovel.

Grimm glanced up to the half elf with a squint in his eye, grumbling something before opening a small closet, filled with both hanging meats, coats, and tools. Eventually, he picked up a somewhat dark looking axe, a small sigil ground intos face, and with it in hand he hefted it to the sky and called out;

“‘Bout fuckin’ time! Ah thought ah lost tha’ ol’ girl.”, he chuckled out, though this momentary happiness seemed to fall flat as he quickly took it by the neck and carelessly tossed it for Morgan to catch.

As Morgan would be expected to do so, he’d find the axe to be unbelievably heavy. Whatever it was made out of was insanely dense, and the fact Grimm had so carelessly tossed it gave a glimpse into the stout dwarves strength. The axe easily weighed fourty five pound, requiring two hands to heft, and more strength to wield than most men could ever muster.

“Darksteel. ‘Ard metal, used te’ forge ‘er all da time. No’ so much, anymo’. O’, ‘nother thing, leave yah weapons ‘ere.”, he said idly, grabbing a days of rations and motioning the two out of the home. With Morgan in tow, Grimm brought him through twisting paths and various gullys before they eventually made it to a towering, ten feet thick tree that grew exclusively in the Falwood.

“‘Ere she be. Ye’ gonna cut ‘er down with tha’ axe. Te’ metal will ‘ove about, stoppin’ yah from makin’ progress. Dat’s what te’ axe be for, te’ breakthrough ‘et. Most ‘ov te’ metal is in ‘er core, but to git it, ye’ll hav’ te cut her down complete. Put wha’ ye git in dis ‘ere chest.”, he said, slapping a small sigiled lockbox already set out here the previous night. It reeked of magic, likely a set amount of dwarven runes Grimm had made to force the liquid metal of the tree’s protection system to turn docile for traversing. It seemed he had set out alot in search of the duelist’s perfect weapon.

With that, Grimm set down the rations, motioning Morgan to them as he walked a bit away from the tree;

“Ah legend ‘ih made o’ gruff. This be ah test for ye. Don’t come back ‘till she’s cut ‘own.”

“Die out ‘ere if yuh must. Ah’ll be back in a month.”, he said with a surprisingly amount of solemness in his tone.

It was obvious Grimm didn’t expect Morgan to survive, between the nearly impossible to wield Darksteel Splitter-Axe he had been given, and a lack of weapons; faced with nothing but a few days of survival rations, and nothing else. If Morgan wanted the sword as badly as he claimed, he’d have to kill the tree, and pull from its very core the living metal.

If he wasn’t willing, then he simply didn’t want his dream enough.

Morgan​