Gal Harrier
Sigfrith hunkered down further in the sand and absentmindedly traced a finger around him in a circle in the sand. He grimaced at the result. The rune was sloppy, uneven, and already shifting in the sand. This material was no good for rune-work, even one as simple as a rune of warding. It was hardly more than a circle.
He heaved himself up to his feet and stomped forward, his hood pulled low over his face to keep the sand from his eyes. Deep-shadowed eyes peered into the gloom. He needed proper stone. Even ruined buildings would stand him in good stead. For while sand was once of the stone, it had fallen from its once noble nature to be like that of the flightier species. Divided amongst itself, fluid, and unsteady. One could not trust it to build with nor to stand on.
Sigfrith hated sand. It was coarse, rough, and got everywhere. But worst of all, it had no solidity to it that could be trusted and held to its bond. In a sense, sand had nothing of the honor of
Dwarves or the stone they worked with. Of course, there were dwarves like that too, those who had gone bad and abandoned their clan and their stone-home. They went wherever the wind carried them, much akin to the sand.
But that was of no import here. There were runes to be carved and runes to be learned, if he could find them. Gradually, he felt the stability of the ground beneath his feet begin to change. Where before it had been constantly shifting, with nothing of the solid echo of good-stone, he now began to feel the rumbling of stone beneath his feet.
The
ruins were much deeper beneath him now and the sky above cleared to shine brilliantly with stars. Wind whistled past his ears and clouds scudded on the horizon, casting deep shadows even among the gloom.
Sigfrith sniffed and pulled at his beard. He was not one for weather-magics, but he felt a storm was brewing. Already sharp grains of sand were throwing themselves into his face. This was not a place he wished to spend above the ground during a storm. He trudged forward until he came across an opening the ruins. A chill emanated from the dark depths below.
"Never would a Dwarf dare to go belowground," he murmured to himself, before lowering himself over the lip and down into the catacombs below. A few grains of sand fell in after him, but otherwise, it was still and quiet. He tilted his head to listen. Only echoes and the keening moans of wind in forgotten corridors.
Yet something stirred in the depths that he could not recognize. Something that felt restless and Sigfrith murmured an ancient ward in the Dwarven tongue. Not that it made a difference, but it made him feel better.
A new thought struck him. Perhaps he could summon and bind the thing in his runes. For it to dwell in the city for countless
ages meant that it must be ancient. He couldn't say if it was intelligent or not, but if he could bind it within a rune, at least it would keep him safe for as long as the rune lasted.
He shuffled down the corridor and inspected each piece of stone with his boot before finally solid stone to work with. With that, he sat down, removed his hammer and chisel from a pack, and set to work. First was the rune of warding, all around him, and with enough space to add in the more complicated runes. Then the rune of summons paired with the rune for spirits, surrounded by the rune of holding. It took him some time to manage these, but at last, it was finished.
Sigfrith murmured a quiet incantation and opened up a vial of mercury. He took care not to spill a drop on himself, but gradually poured out the metal into the carved lines, along with another chemical ingredient that hardened it. In his mind, hardly any time had passed, but it must have been nearly two hours before he had completed his task.
With that, the runes flared to life in a curving cascade of red light, as they summoned the unquiet spirits in the vicinity. Hopefully, there was just one. He couldn't actually tell beyond the chill that lingered in his heart, signifying some great evil in the area.
