- Messages
- 2
- Character Biography
- Link
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?”
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?”
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