Private Tales The Runic Path

[Rukal Stonehide]

As one weighted blow after another struck the heated ingot of blackened iron, gouts of crimson sparks burst outwards. Their transient journey brightened the Smithy and its surroundings for but a fleeting moment. What could be seen by the most casual of observers was that this forge was of Dwarvish make. Every tool that was hung upon a crumbling wall bore the tell-tale signs of Belgrathian artistry - where it was artfully brutal and blunt in appearance, whilst still holding some measure of grace. Yet, despite these admirable traits, the Smith who wielded them now, cared little for their venerable legacy. They were naught more than tools, after all, and would serve his purposes until they broke or better ones were forged.

The artistry wasn’t limited to just the tools themselves, as much within the crumbling structure bore hallmarks of their Dwarven origins. The anvil was blocky and stout in design, something that forced the Blacksmith to adapt their surroundings - lest it lead his body down the path of ruination. Nothing was worse than losing one’s strength and stature, thanks to poor posture and shoddy workmanship. Thus, when claim was laid, the anvil was roused from its central dais and placed upon a nearby ledge; giving the Smith much needed height to his once diminutive workspace. With this change, the anvil found itself situated closer to the blazing heat of the forge itself; which now roared with resurgent heat as the Blacksmith began pumping the bellow.

With fresh streams of seemingly pressurised air being sent forth into the raging inferno, the hulking Forgewright stuck the partially shaped, and cooling, ingot of blackened iron into the fire. As time began to pass, and the ingot regained its malleability, the brutish Smith stole a moment for themselves. He breathed heavily, drinking in the fumes and heat of the forge, before returning to his work. There was little time which could be spent at rest, for the lone Blacksmith was at the most critical stage of the process. Should any stoppage to the work occur, the ingot of blackened iron would find itself becoming weaker - as the impurities within took hold. If such an event were to happen, and the process of forging continued - it would’ve resulted in an inferior weapon.

Cracks would form at the slightest provocation, and the brittle bonds between the refined metal would break down - causing a heart-wrenching catastrophe when its strength and durability were needed most. While such a sight would have been undoubtedly hilarious to watch unfold on the battlefield, this Blacksmith didn’t wish for such a dishonourable fate to befall this blade’s new master.

“Rukal,” a voice shouted from beyond the boundaries of the Forge’s ruined entranceway. While such a cry would’ve elicited a reply from the burly Blacksmith, the only reply given was that of his hammer striking the anvil twice in quick succession. It was clear to the figure beyond the doorway that the Forgewright - who bore the name of Rukal - that his attention couldn’t be diverted away from his work, especially at such a crucial point in the process. Despite this, the once-shrouded figure slipped into the Smithy to reveal himself as none other than Ghanak Stormblessed, the Shaman of their Orcish Clan. His gnarled appearance was adorned in a robe of woven flax with fraying hems across its entirety, and made further venerable by the twisted root clutched between his aged fingers.

“Rukal, I must speak with you,” the Shaman insisted as they approached.

The Orcish Smith cast a wary glance towards the approaching figure, but carried on hammering out the impurities. It wasn’t until the metal started to cool, that Rukal’s attention began to waver. With the shaped ingot deposited once more into the raging fire, the towering, ashen figure finally acknowledged the approaching Shaman with a guttural growl.

“What do you want, Stormblessed?”

Unphased by the barely-restrained ferocity, Ghanak came to stand upon the now empty platform that occupied the centre of the forge. His gnarled stature was now more than a match for the hulking frame of Rukal, and with his one good eye - stared into the glowing topaz orbs set within the Blacksmith’s face.

“I have had a vision,” Ghanak began, unbidden. “Not unlike the ill omens that have plagued you and your sires from birth.”

Rukal scowled at that moment, and felt his meaty hand tighten around the haft of his smithing hammer. He was tired of everything that transpired after the Shamans had first informed the Clan of the Stars aligning on the night of his birth, and all the attention - both good and ill - that followed after. Had Ghanak foreseen yet another jealous soul sharpening their blades in the night, seeking to put an end to his yet unfulfilled destiny? To be true, Rukal cared little. All the Orc wished to do was complete his task, and return to the alcove he called home for a long night’s rest.

“Out with it, then,” Rukal barked, clearly more agitated than he appeared.

“Very well,” Ghanak nodded, before recounting his vision. Through the consumption of sacred herbs, lovingly pilfered from the lands surrounding their Clan’s homestead, the Stormblessed Shaman saw what he believed to be a glimpse into one of many possible futures. A future where Ortain’s Folly - the aforementioned homestead - was found to be burning off in the distance, whilst a blood-soaked figure, with an ashen complexion hidden beneath, stalked towards the unseen horizon. There were several other tangents that were relayed, but Rukal couldn’t make sense of the madman’s ramblings.

“So, you have seen our Clan’s fore-coming doom, then.”

“In a manner of speaking, Rukal, yes. Prophecy is a fickle mistress, as is her twin, Destiny. Both aspects of the divine mother shouldn’t be taken as truth. We are blessed to receive these visions, but not everything is as they seem. Our tower may be set ablaze in other ways. Especially when taken in context with a vision of yourself marching towards unseen horizons.” Ghanak paused then, shifting his stance to place his aged weight onto the gnarled root of a staff. The countless fetishes and totems jangled as the Shaman moved, momentarily drawing Rukal’s gaze. “It could also mean that another Clan seeks to put our home to the torch and claim your Smithy - along with whatever secrets it holds - for their own.”

“I have spent years stoking the fires of this forge, and have yet to find much worth beyond these hanging tools.” Rukal gestured to the racks of pliers and tongs, as well as the various instruments situated across the ruined smithy. “If there was anything of worth, the Dwarves that once called this tower home have taken it with them.”

Ghanak smiled, then. “Do you speak Dwarvish, or can you read their runic script? Of course not. Our maw’s are not built for their stunted tongue, and there is little need for us to read. Our stories and lessons are passed down from one generation to the next by word of mouth. We would lose a part of ourselves if we committed our history to parchment.”

“Yet, there are those within the varied tribes that eschew such practices,” the Stormblessed Shaman continued. “In fact, our Clan is one of the few that uses a Dwarven smithy to craft our arms and armour. It’s why our Chieftain allows you to tirelessly forge the night away; plying your trade for the betterment of all within the Clan. Without your forge, we would lose our place amongst the Steppes and be sold off like livestock, butchered, or worse.”

“But that is of little consequence now,” Ghanak said with a dismissive wave of a gnarled paw, as his venerable gaze shifted down towards his mottled green feet. “The Dwarves were, and are always crafty. Everything they made always had some hidden power woven into it's purpose. It is said that the forges were their temples, of a sort. That everything they made was imbued with some fragment of the divine - or spirits from the beyond. That is why places like this are special. Did you not notice the script engraved into this platform?”

Without waiting for Rukal to reply, Ghanak slowly knelt down and began wiping away the fragments of weathered iron and ash away from one of the stones.

“As I cannot speak the stunted tongue, nor read, I saw little value in those markings.”

“True,” Ghanak replied. “However, that’s where you and I differ. As I see the truth woven into the stones beneath your feet.”

“And you’ve taken how many winters to tell me that?”

The Stormblessed chuckled. “I am old, you know. I am forgetful, and as this Clan’s Shaman, I also have better things to do than give a boy such as yourself forbidden knowledge. Especially when it won’t serve a purpose.”

Rukal’s eyes blinked twice in quick succession.

“So, something has changed and now these... Runes… will serve a purpose?”

Ghanak nodded. “Indeed, boy. Take this rune, for example.” As the Shaman came to rest atop the stonework platform, Ghanak ran a hand over the run - with a small bluish glow emanating from his withered eyes and gnarled fingers. “It is a sign of knowledge. When touched by a measure of one’s essence, it will glow with power.”

Rukal’s eyes narrowed. “What does that power entail? Will I become akin to those stoutlings in Belgarth?”

A bark of laughter erupted from Ghanak’s gnarled maw. “No, boy. You won’t lose your stature nor become like those stunted folk of the Spine. This rune imparts a measure of knowledge. Of what lore it may give? I cannot say. It’s not for me to utilise its power. While I may have seen the sign several times throughout my vision, and said as much while your attention was else, I believe that it was truly meant for you. I am merely shepherding my flock towards their destiny. It’s up to you to go with the flow, or deny it’s embrace.”

Rukal turned his amber gaze towards the faint impression, and felt something akin to curiosity creep up his spine. There was a part of him that wanted to find out what knowledge this Rune held within, but his cautious nature kept the Orc rooted in place. What if it wasn’t a Sign of Knowledge, but rather something more insidious? Some dangerous runic spell, woven into the stonework, meant to explode outwards with arcane energies as soon as anyone elected to tap into its power. Some sickening trap inscribed by a paranoid soul. Yet, as the bluish glow faded from the Shaman’s hand - Rukal found himself still alive. There was no sudden torrent of energy that tore towards the heavens, nor was his soul stolen from his body and trapped within that inscription on the floor.

He breathed out a small sigh of relief, before stepping away from the forge. The ingot within was momentarily forgotten, and slowly began to lose its shape. This distraction, as unwelcome as it began, had undoubtedly ruined all of the work that Rukal had put into shaping the foundations of the weapon. He would have to begin again, but that was nothing new. With a little creativity and freedom, the weapon’s base ingredient would be reforged anew and all that would be lost was time. Until then, however, the touch of Destiny that had been with the Orcish Blacksmith throughout his entire life crept to the forefront of his thoughts. With access to this Rune and the knowledge that it held, things could change for the better.

The possibilities were endless.

“Very well,” Rukal said with an affirmative nod. “How would I access the knowledge within?”​

 

[Rukal Stonehide]

There was a small grunt of approval that slipped through Ghanak’s gnarled maw. The Old Shaman knew that Rukal’s interest would’ve been piqued. Not because he had foreseen what’d come to pass, but rather knew the Sireling that had become the Warrior and Blacksmith that stood before him. There was an insatiable thirst for knowledge behind those glittering eyes. They wished to know many secrets, ones that would either safeguard his life in the days to come - or prepare him to face the uncertainties of the future.

“Good,” Ghanak said, with a serpentine smile creasing his cracked lips. “There are a few steps that need to be taken first, as I assume that you know little of the Ancient Dwarven tongue.” The Stormblessed paused for a moment, closing his eyes and tilting back his head. Whilst such actions were taking place, a gnarled hand roused itself from the Old Shaman’s side, before pointing a bony finger towards the towering figure of Rukal. Whispered words seemingly echoed within the dimming Forge, as they were forced out of the Shaman’s tight-lipped maw, forcing the once raging Furnace to flicker and fade. Rukal gripped the haft of his Forge-hammer tighter as the world around him began to darken.

“There is nothing to fear,” Ghanak intoned, his voice seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. “I am beseeching the Elements to lend me their power, as my own has faded with age.”

Those words caused Rukal’s eyes to narrow. His jaw tightened for a moment, but as he watched the scene unfold before him, slowly began to relax. He had seen Ghanak wield his powers before, when a roving band of Centaurs had sought to lay siege to their Holdfast. The way the Old Shaman moved was more… tempestuous in nature, then. Here, and now? His movements seemed to flow from one to the next, like a stream of running water. It was only when the Stormblessed eyes began to glow that a sliver of discomfort knifed through Rukal’s spine. Had he made the wrong choice in lowering his guard? Was this the end of his torment? There were so many questions racing through his mind, but none found answers.

It wasn’t until Ghanak stopped his incantation that Rukal’s attention snapped back into focus. The Old Shaman seemed invigorated, as seemingly imperceptible currents of arcane energy coruscated through his veins. With a single step forward, Rukal felt the sudden urge to take a step back. Yet, the Orcish Smith stood his ground. There was nothing to fear from the Stormblessed, he reassured himself. When all of the other Orcs of his clan shunned him, Ghanak took him in and taught him everything he could. It was because of Ghanak that he had survived for so long against the jealous, and vengeful eyes of his Tribe. Why would the Shaman wait until now to sever his mortal coil? It made no sense.

“Calm yourself, Rukal.” Ghanak intoned, his voice sounding less raspy. “I do not wish you any harm. I have garnered the blessing of the Four Winds, and shall use their power to inscribe your first rune onto your flesh. It will aid you in the days to come.”

With those words spoken, Rukal felt a sense of relief wash over him. His grip slackened around the haft of his hammer, and the knots building within his muscles began to untangle. He even stood his ground as Ghanak slowly approached, letting the sound of the tapping root fill his thoughts and cleanse them of his mounting fear. When the Stormblessed was within arm’s reach of the Orcish Smith, the Shaman dove into the folds of his billowing cloak to retrieve a small phial - filled with a glittering white powder.

“With this powder, made from Tangleroot, and mixed with embers from your Forge, I shall anoint your breast with a Sigil. This marking, when the arcane price is paid, shall give you the ability to comprehend languages that you may not know, nor speak. It shall not last forever, as no magicks ever do, but it shall serve your needs in the moment. The rune will fade when its power has been spent, so pay attention - and etch the pattern into your mind so that you may inscribe it again. I will not teach it to you twice.”

Rukal nodded. “I understand, Stormblessed.”

Ghanak gave yet another approving nod. Without hesitation, the Old Shaman decanted the phial of powder into his palm - whilst the gnarled cane fell into the crook of his shoulder. With a small gobbet of spit, infused with a modicum of the arcane blessing received from the Four Winds, the Stormblessed began painting the Rune onto Rukal’s chest. The twinned sensation of pressure and infusion was… almost electrifying. The Orcish Smith felt a flicker of energy race throughout his body, and began to devour its shape with his eyes. He needed to burn the shape of the symbol into his memory, so that when it’s power was needed again…

Wait. How was he supposed to invoke the Four Winds again to receive their blessing, and once again inscribe this symbol onto his chest? There was little magick within his veins, as that’s why he became a Warrior and a Smith. How-

“Silence your mind, Rukal, and focus.” Ghanak interrupted. “I shall teach you as much as I can, before this blessing fades. You will learn how to beseech the Four Winds, and ask for their blessing to invigorate your essence. Such boons do not come without sacrifice, as you know. There is a delicate parity between the mortal realm and the arcane that must be maintained. What is given, must be of equal value to what is taken - lest the balance is broken.” As the Stormblessed spoke, his fingers continued to mark Rukal’s flesh with the Rune. Its flowing pattern seemed oddly familiar to the Rune that marked the stones beneath his anvil, leading the Orcish Smith to believe it was Ancient Dwarvish. A small measure of disgust curled across his fanged maw, before fading away as the Stormblessed slowly began to pull away, and admire his work.

“There,” Ghanak said with an approving grunt. “It is finished. Take a look and remember the Sigil well, Rukal. Any deviation in its design will result in terrible consequences, and not just for you. If you decide to etch this Rune again, or any other into whatever gear you Forge - and do so wrongly - it will backfire.”

Rukal’s head cocked to the side, with a curious brow shooting towards the heavens. “How could a Rune of Knowledge backfire?”

The Stormblessed chuckled softly. “You know that this Rune, when channelled, will give knowledge and allow the bearer to understand the tongues of other races, yes? Should the curve of the Sigil be off by the slightest of margins, or the marking be made with inferior tools, it will not give the bearer what they seek - but rather take it from them.”

“So,” Rukal said, bringing his hide-bound finger towards his tusked maw. “It will drain them of their wisdom and expertise...”

“Yes,” Ghanak nodded.

“That may prove to be useful someday,” Rukal mentioned slyly, thinking of all the possibilities. “Will the Rune store that stolen knowledge?”

The Stormblessed chuckled heartily, before slapping an aged palm against Rukal’s meaty shoulder. “That all depends on you, my boy. For, you see, inscribing the Rune is but one part of the process. Anyone can write a Rune, as that’s the basis of the written languages of the City-folk. However, it’s the power gifted unto the Rune that makes it special. Your thoughts and will shall shape that Rune's purpose. If it is your wish to see the bearer of your inscribed item drained of their intellect, and have it stored within the Rune for later use? Then focus that malice into the Rune as you make the inscription, and imbue the Sigil with a fraction of your arcane essence - be it gifted by the Elements, or from your own meagre wellspring.”

“Such is the power of Runes,” Ghanak continued. “But therein lies their weakness. Runes can be quickly transcribed, as we have done now, but their power is fleeting. Useful in a pinch, for sure, but you’d better make sure to have a reservoir of energy to draw upon - and no small amount of enchanted paste on hand. Without either, you're wasting your time. It’s not like the Scroll-magic of the Pink-skins, nor the Elemental powers of the Shamans and Druids of the Steppes. You cannot summon Runes into being without having the proper tools on hand, or without paying that aforementioned arcane price.”

Rukal nodded. “Then I have much to learn from you, it seems.”

The Stormblessed chuckled, that all too familiar rasp slowly returning as the arcane blessing from the Four Winds began to fade. “That may come later, my boy. I am old, you see, and can only do so much with what time we have left. But, first, you will have to finish attuning yourself to that Rune on your chest.”

Again, Rukal nodded and began focusing on the Runic symbol. He imagined the door to his Forge, often latched at night when the embers of the furnace were smouldering, and all had grown cold. He imagined that it was the peaking hours of dawn, when the Sun’s first light crept over the distant horizon. It was then that Rukal often returned to the Forge, and thus - unlatched the wooden door. Through that connection, and with his thoughts focused on the Rune, the symbol began to glow. It was faint at first, but slowly grew in intensity, until it was almost blinding. The glittering white paste began to flake and fade, as it’s power was consumed by the nascent Runesmith.

As it bled from his breast, the knowledge and understanding that was contained within began to pierce Rukal’s mind. Within the span of a heartbeat, the Runes that dotted his pilfered tools and surrounded his anvil began to make sense. It was like a veil was lifted, and he was suddenly capable of reading the Runic Script of the Dwarves who once called this Holdfast home. The symbols etched into his tools denoted strength and durability, whilst the stones around his feet spoke of one’s endurance. Everything within this Forge seemed to hold onto the desire of supplementing the Smith’s artisanal prowess, without forcing them to succumb to the ever-present tendrils of exhaustion.

It was amazing, and Rukal’s wordless expression gave Ghanak all he needed to slap the Orcish Smith’s arm again, and laugh.

“Well done, my boy. Well done.”

“I never knew that this was what these markings meant. Imagine all that could be done within these crumbling walls!”

Rukal’s smile slowly faded, however. As the magick from the inscribed Rune faded, and the runes became nothing more than nigh-incomprehensible scribbles, a dark realisation slowly festered within his mind. Now he understood why many of his Clan sought his demise, as the dark portents of his birth foretold of this day. He had just unlocked the secrets of this Forge, and marked the entirety of his Clan for death. It wouldn’t be long before the rest of the Tribes had heard of his revelation, and with such a rumour spreading like wildfire - all would seek to take the secrets for themselves. They would come to believe these Runes would house a power that should be theirs, by any right, and would make them worthy of Uroghosh’s gaze.

His heart sank at that moment, and Ghanak nodded - knowing all too well what thoughts were going through Rukal’s mind.

“It was your destiny to learn of this Forge’s secrets, Rukal, but to never truly understand them. Our ancestors have always known that our Clan’s fate was sealed as soon as we took this Holdfast for our own. Mighty stone walls, and a Forge of Dwarven make? Many Clans are jealous of the power we wield, and will seek to take it for themselves in the days to come. Such is the way of our people.” Ghanak sighed, then. “But, it was not always so. Perhaps, one day, that may change. Yet, I fear it will not come soon enough. Thus, my boy, you must prepare yourself to leave before the morrow comes.”

Rukal was taken aback, as if slapped.

“I... I can’t leave. Not when there’s so much to learn from this Forge, and from you!”

Ghanak took a step back, and looked up into the Orcish Smith’s glittering eyes.

“If you are to survive the coming darkness, you must leave this very night. You will take only what you can carry, and I shall make rubbings of the stones for you to focus on and study in the days to come. I will also teach you an incantation, the very one that I used to beseech the Four Winds for their blessing. With this knowledge in hand, you must head West - to the towering City of Dornoch. There, a once-exiled brother of mine shall meet with you and teach you what I couldn’t, and cannot.”

“You will be safe behind those walls,” Ghanak continued, as a small tinge of sadness crept into his aged eyes. “And you shall flourish with my Brother’s teachings. He was better with Runes than I ever was.”

“I.. understand,” Rukal said with a solemn nod. It seemed that the malign portents of his birth were finally coming to fruition, and thus needed to flee his coming doom. Such thoughts were chafing his Warrior’s heart, as there was a part of him that wished to stand and face this darkness. However, through the insistence of the Stormblessed, and through the measure of knowledge gained by the blessed rune - Rukal managed to ease the raging tempest within his breast. There was always another day to fight, especially when he knew not of who - or what he’d be fighting. Through careful study and preparation, he could overcome any obstacle. It was what kept him alive for so long when the rest of his Clan wished for his death.

He almost chuckled at the thought of how relieved his fellow Orcs would be when he finally departed. One less mouth to feed, and one less worry to trouble themselves with. Bereft of the dark omens of his birth, the Clan would likely thrive in his absence. Or, perhaps, in departing - it would fade away - as that coming darkness swallowed them whole. For who but Uroghosh herself knew how the threads of fate would be woven?​