Mul the Silent drifted around the edges of the dance, listening to the rumbling roar of the drumline, Feeling the mageweave slide against her skin, and feeling serene for the first time since she had walked away from Clan Glacierheart nearly three and a half years ago. The murmur of other minds was a comforting froth of hope and joy. Here a young silithid couple worshiping the Light without fear of the Overseers. There an old elf mulling over old war legends and wondering how much was myth and how much was self-serving propaganda. And hidden behind a shack, drowned out in the noise of the crowd, a young mixed-race pair learning a few intimate, new things about each other.

Lulled into passivity by her surroundings, Mul was nearly ambushed when she felt the glacial stubbornness of another orc moving through the crowd. She instinctively disengaged from the crowd and slipped into the shadows between two vendor's stalls. It had been long enough that one of her ex-clanmates could have followed her, seeking to drag her back to the clan. Or it could be another had asked about her journal and followed her into the Lorekeeper's service. Either way, Mul needed to see this new orc before he saw her. She needed to know what she was dealing with before she could respond.

Mul found him leaned against a handy pile of stone on the edge of the firelight. He was dressed in well-worn travel clothes, bare feat caked with the dirt of the road. A gnarled wooden staff was slung across his back, and the starlight struck silver highlights in his white hair. Mul shrugged and abandoned stealth, walking right in.

Didn't think I'd see you again Shaman Koroc the Singer.

"Nor I you, Shaman Mul the Silent."

What brought you to search for me, all the way out here away from the Clanhold?

"Questions without answers, and a problem without a solution. You remember your little valley?"

How could I not?

"Right, dumb question. Well, it's at the middle of of the problem, and the Shaman Elder sent me to ask you for advice on the matter, given your connection to the place. It would be an excellent location for both a wizard's tower or a Druidic Circle, but the two are mutually exclusive. The tower would need to be built, and the circle would need unspoiled, unworked land. I'm inclined in favor of the circle myself, by temperament and training, but the runes kept coming up 'The Silent'."

You made a Rune, and named it after me? I'd have thought you would quietly forget me instead.

"We could never forget one who embodied what you do. You walked the Grey Roads in the Clan's time of need, and then walked away rather than endanger others. Your journal has served as a final gatekeeper to those same roads, and at least four Shaman Initiates that I know of have read it and turned away."

You honor me with you words and Runes, but as you say, I walked away. That valley belongs to the Clanhold, not me.

"Still, you have the greatest claim on the place, and you know the most of what can be seen from its hilltops."

And then some. Tell me, do the Shamans still have a place for their ceremonies outside the Clanhold? The ones done away from prying eyes, listening to the echoes of the wild?

"We have several such places, and I admit to using your valley for that purpose myself some nights. It always seems a particularly potent place for such rituals."

Then you have your answer. Keep that valley for the Druids and the Shamans, for I am not sure how the intrinsic magic of that place would interact with arcane magics.

"Probably spectacularly. Thank you."

Ahh, but you didn't come all the way to Trebor just to ask me a question did you? Come, let's find some proper drinks and talk.

"You've gotten your voice back then? I'd love to hear you sing the old songs again."

No, I've just gotten better at making others think that I'm speaking. Come on, I can hear the firewater calling our name. Whatever happened to…?

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Lady Ilelahne SiDabolo mused that it was most unusual to see a living patient's leg flayed open without blood or screams everywhere. Even more so to see the medic assisting her taking notes furiously while they waited for the smith to finish welding the fibula back together. When that was done, she and the medic would put it back into place, re-attach the 'muscles' and 'tendons', then slide the skin back on like a sock.

“How does it feel, Innoch? No pain or discomfort?"

Innoch was taking it all so stoically, devouring a history compendium while he waited, "none worth mentioning. There is discomfort to be sure, and a disjointed feeling when I try to flex my toes and nothing moves, but no pain."

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

The medic tapped his quill against his inkwell, "Lady SiDabolo, Lord Innoch, do you mind me asking some questions about how warforged are made? In case Lord Innoch ever needs repaired again, and none of us are here to assist?"

Innoch ground out a throaty chuckle, "And also so that Lord Wavethunder could perhaps try to make warforged of his own, no doubt?" The medic flushed crimson, but Innoch folded his book and tapped his chin, "I do not have the full information he wants, and other things he would need are unavailable, and yet other parts dance on the very edge of unhallowed ritual. But let be begin at the beginning, with the first 'generation' of warforged.

“If you read back through the accounts of the Seminal war, particularly the ones that dug into the after action reports, then you would know that the first warforged to appear on the battlefields were huge brutes of beings; large in frame and weighed down with the strength and armor to smash through battle lines. These were the first generation of warforged, and they were so large and heavy as a consequence of how they were made.

"I had only the barest scraps of information in the restricted stacks at Alexandria, from the untitled journal of a smith who never mentioned name, caste, or even gender, the rest was sequestered as a 'State Secret'. Reading between the lines, it is clear to me why. The smith had created a Runeforge, and at its heart sat a very particular anvil: one that could only ever be used to make warforged. The one who had volunteered to join the ranks of the warforged would enter the Runeforge naked and lay in the armor layed out upon the anvil. The smith would then fasten and weld the armor shut about the volunteer, transforming it into both a prison and a coffin. Next the smith would pour in a molten substance he called 'soul flux', immolating the volunteer alive inside the armor. Then the smith would hammer the armor into working shape, breaking the joints free of their immobility as the 'soul flux' tore the animating will of the volunteer free of their dying body and infused it into the armor itself.

"I can see the horror on your face, and the confusion as you look at my leg. This method was not the final refinement of the process, for it was quickly determined that the first generation of warforged were unstable at best. The pain of their transformation drove them just a bit insane and their size and bulk, twice to thrice the height and weight of a mortal, made them cumbersome to deploy. Thus plans were drawn up for a second generation of warforged. The smith was assigned to work with priests and mages, tasked with trapping more then simple animating will of the volunteer inside the armor. The second generation warforged were only little bigger than mortals, perhaps as large and as heavy as a knight in full war-plate. The smith did not write down the new methodology, only that it involved "trapping the mind and soul." What I do know is that he was condemned to his own anvil when he questioned the new process. The smith's assistants carried out the new process almost correctly, but not quite.

"What happened next was recorded in numerous other documents, most of which agreed in the basic facts of the matter. The smith, now warforged, rampaged through his Runeforge, slaughtering his assistants and destroying everything he could. Some accounts tell that the anvil itself was found shattered, others that it was damaged but intact, and a small handful say that the smith escaped with his anvil, never to be seen again.

"The mages and the priests ostensibly abandoned the warforged project, but the evidence of my own body shows that at least one of them continued the research in total secrecy. At this point I can only speculate, as I had no records of their work, and only the one example. I would speculate that whichever spellcaster continued the project was working with the mechanics of litchdom, or at the very least a highly evolved soul-trap spell, with a finely constructed golem body as the intended vessel. I don't know how many were made, or how the vessels were keyed to their owners. I wound up in this one after seizing a mark of rank, that of a Lord-Commander I think, from a dying man. I believe I was slain in the flesh soon thereafter, triggering whatever contingency spell the mark of rank contained, and trapping me in this body."

Ilelahne frowned, "so you're immortal now? And the Overlords of old may be waiting to wake up somewhere as well?"

Innoch shook his head, "for some definitions of immortal, yes. I do not age, nor require food or drink. I do require rest, repair should I be damaged, and I can be slain. As for the Overlords, I do not know."

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Aris Cretu walked through the crowd dispensing pleasantries and reassurances as he went. He spotted Ormillan Bluehair, complete with his hair restored to its (un)natural blue hue debating in great length with a barkeep over a particularly fizzy mug of what used to be ale. Aris defused the situation by paying the barkeep for the drink and handing Ormillan a glass of water, which promptly fizzed up, much to everyone's amusement.

Little Bird and Aliwen, their respective benedictions complete, were wandering the fair performing much the same function as Aris: putting in an Appearance, being seen, speaking to people, giving a certain aura of holiness and goodness to the proceedings, making sure everything went smoothly.

Elfyr was also moving through the crowd, acting as an extra set of eyes for Lord Wavethunder. Aris didn't doubt that Elfyr would be filing independent reports on the silithid community in Trebor. Aris didn't mind, given where that community had come from and how far along the process of integrating them into the society of Althiem at large still had to go. Aris finally found Aflia, "my apologies for making you wait, and for missing so much of the dance. What can I do to make it up to you?"

Aflia flicked a wing in irritation, but she took Aris' hand in hers and pulled him towards the sound of the drums, "dance at least the last set with me then, before you have to go on stage to sing."

"Gladly, my lady."

"And stop being such a miserable pile of secrets! I didn't find much of anything on the Reef."

Aris pulled Aflia into the steps of the dance, conscious of her new feet and wings, "on the contrary, you learned much and more, didn't you?"

"I did, and was left with even more questions. You know who gifted me with these wings, right?"

"Black Cloak."

"Yeah, what's your deal with him anyway? Mul called him Lorekeeper. At least I think she did, I was passing out at the time."

"I think that is a subject better pondered over at length with a good drink and better company. For now, let's enjoy the dance while we can."

"Mmn, and perhaps we can talk more after your set then?"

"Of course! In the meantime, perhaps you would care to join Lady Ussi and I onstage?"

"Perhaps, if you tell me what you're singing in advance? Is it something sweet, or...?"