“My mother told me, someday I would buy…”
The low, throbbing drone of a bass voice echoes through the workshop, the only light in the night the fires of the forge being heated ever higher by the bellows, the rush of flame and the ringing song of the hammer and tong accompanying the voice as weathered hands carefully take hold of a long metal billet heated white hot, gently rotating it in the air to inspect for imperfections.
“Galleys with good oars… sail to distant shores.”
The clash of metal on metal, and the heavy, exertion drawn breaths of the smith fills the walls of the workshop to the brim, the hammer glinting in the forgelight as it strikes down on the metal billet, drawing it out strike by strike, blending the metal together and turning it into one solid metal mass.
“Stand up on the prow, nobel barque I steer…”
Soon, the smith has moved the still blindingly hot metal to a wetted, leather wrapped stand, and pulls out a intricate silver needle, and plucks a raven feather quill from a holder, closing his eyes and whispering prayers to his ancestors before he takes the needle and the quill, and pierces his wrist, letting the blood pool and fill both before returning to the metal.
“Steady course to the haven, hew many foe-men, hew many foe-men…”
As he wets his instruments with his blood, his prayers reach a higher pitch as he beseeched his ancestors to grant him the strength needed to imbue power into his weapons. Purpose settles upon his shoulders like a blanket, and he feels the approval of his ancestors upon him, his eyes narrowing as the sounds of axes breaking wooden shields into timbers, blades wetting themselves upon flesh and blood, and the shimmering chimes of hacksilver filling a purse fills his ears. The power blessed upon him by the Æsir courses fire and lighting down his veins as he begins to carve the runes of his people into the carefully heated and crafted metal.
“Uruz, for strength, to break any barrier and pierce any foe.”
“Raido Jera, to find any who dare to flee their reaping.”
“Isaz, to bring the cold of winter and the bite of Ymir and Niflheim upon them.”
On and on he went, carefully sectioning off the draw out metal as he etched his blood and silver into the metal, the raven’s quill somehow pulling the heated metal aside without burning under the intense heat, the metal itself remaining white hot with no effort. Rune after Rune engraved, glinting even brighter than the white-hot metal itself, before he was finally through.
And yet, before too long, his work was complete, and a bandage was wrapped tightly around his wrist to stem the bleeding, though not after he had poured a goodly amount into his oil tank before the smith swiftly returns to heating the metal, splitting the large billet in two, and then carefully cutting one of those two into individual rune-engraved sets.
There was still much to be done, but his ancestors were smiling upon him, and the power required to complete his chosen tasking rushed through him as reheated metal left the forge to be returned to the anvil.
Soon, the frame of what would appear to be a large caliber revolver is carefully hammered out, and the smith smiles darkly.
Yes, there is still much to be done.
—
“Oi! You're done there with the orders for the town yet, Blacksmith?” A voice called as the smith left his shop, his work complete, a bit of smoke coiling from his skin as he took a deep breath of the sharp air of a winter’s morning. The chill on the air feels cool against his forge-flame heated skin, and it tempers him as he lets out the breath he took as he takes in the start of the day.
His head turned to consider the voice who called, The Mayor, and the man nodded quietly to him. “I am. I’m afraid I must be leaving. The orders are in the workshop, Mayor, but you’ll need to find a new Blacksmith.”
The portly man can only blink in surprise as the man he knew as Blacksmith adjusts the gunbelt around his waist and the black leather duster upon his back, brushing himself off before turning to leave town. “What… Mr. Blacksmith, what nonsense are you speaking?! No one just changes their jobs and leaves! How are we supposed to find a Blacksmith so soon? You’re just abandoning us?!”
The man who gave up the name Blacksmith simply smiles to himself as he continues to walk, not bothering to look back. “I told you that I would only stick around long enough to get the supplies I needed before I left, Mr. Mayor. Blacksmith was never meant to be my name. I am Vikingr, as my ancestors before me, and I have to go repay a debt.”
The Mayor scowls, reaching into his waistcoat and pulling a silvery revolver from a holster. The weapon glints in the morning light, the carefully drawn alchemical formulae clear to see. “Now see here! I will not have any more of this talk of a -Viking- in my town! You have no crew, no boat, and there is nothing for you to steal here! You were fine as a Blacksmith, pest, and I will not have you be anything more!”
“... See, this is your problem, Mr. Mayor.” The man who called himself Vikingr turned, his coat billowing a bit as the silver buckles of his studded leather armor glints in the morning light, his boots tightly laced, even as his own revolver is drawn and cocked, pointed at the Mayor, the runes of his people glowing in dark, frosty blue against the Æsir blessed damascus.
“You seem to think you have a right to control me because I was just Boy when I wandered into your town, and you forced me to become Blacksmith. Fortunate was I to have more than a little skill in the task, but I vowed one day I would properly honor my ancestors, for it was not by their hands that I was forced into the state I had been in.” The man speaks quietly. “I will find The Slaver, The Preacher, and the Nobles that destroyed Hrafnhiem, and Hell will be coming with me.”
The Mayor, enraged at his words, lifts his Revolver higher to shoot, but is too slow. The blessed barrel of Vikingr’s revolver barely shifts as the rune bullet is fired, unleashing the powerful magicks crafted within, blessed by his ancestors, as the bullet is imbued with the frosts born of Niflheim. It strikes the Mayor dead center, and he has but a moment to cry out as he drops his revolver before the man is suddenly enveloped in a cone blast of ice, his pistol caught mid air in the ice.
Vikingr inspects his work carefully before letting out a pleased huff, opening the chamber of his revolver and pulling out the spent runic round. It would need to be recharged with another offering to his Ancestors later, but that could wait. The spent round goes into a pouch and a new round is gently slotted into the revolver from his belt, and a grim smile crosses his face.
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“My Mother told me, One day I would buy…”
[End]
Classed Spellcraft
By Ash the Kitsune
“My mother told me, someday I would buy…”
The low, throbbing drone of a bass voice echoes through the workshop, the only light in the night the fires of the forge being heated ever higher by the bellows, the rush of flame and the ringing song of the hammer and tong accompanying the voice as weathered hands carefully take hold of a long metal billet heated white hot, gently rotating it in the air to inspect for imperfections.
“Galleys with good oars… sail to distant shores.”
The clash of metal on metal, and the heavy, exertion drawn breaths of the smith fills the walls of the workshop to the brim, the hammer glinting in the forgelight as it strikes down on the metal billet, drawing it out strike by strike, blending the metal together and turning it into one solid metal mass.
“Stand up on the prow, nobel barque I steer…”
Soon, the smith has moved the still blindingly hot metal to a wetted, leather wrapped stand, and pulls out a intricate silver needle, and plucks a raven feather quill from a holder, closing his eyes and whispering prayers to his ancestors before he takes the needle and the quill, and pierces his wrist, letting the blood pool and fill both before returning to the metal.
“Steady course to the haven, hew many foe-men, hew many foe-men…”
As he wets his instruments with his blood, his prayers reach a higher pitch as he beseeched his ancestors to grant him the strength needed to imbue power into his weapons. Purpose settles upon his shoulders like a blanket, and he feels the approval of his ancestors upon him, his eyes narrowing as the sounds of axes breaking wooden shields into timbers, blades wetting themselves upon flesh and blood, and the shimmering chimes of hacksilver filling a purse fills his ears. The power blessed upon him by the Æsir courses fire and lighting down his veins as he begins to carve the runes of his people into the carefully heated and crafted metal.
“Uruz, for strength, to break any barrier and pierce any foe.”
“Raido Jera, to find any who dare to flee their reaping.”
“Isaz, to bring the cold of winter and the bite of Ymir and Niflheim upon them.”
On and on he went, carefully sectioning off the draw out metal as he etched his blood and silver into the metal, the raven’s quill somehow pulling the heated metal aside without burning under the intense heat, the metal itself remaining white hot with no effort. Rune after Rune engraved, glinting even brighter than the white-hot metal itself, before he was finally through.
And yet, before too long, his work was complete, and a bandage was wrapped tightly around his wrist to stem the bleeding, though not after he had poured a goodly amount into his oil tank before the smith swiftly returns to heating the metal, splitting the large billet in two, and then carefully cutting one of those two into individual rune-engraved sets.
There was still much to be done, but his ancestors were smiling upon him, and the power required to complete his chosen tasking rushed through him as reheated metal left the forge to be returned to the anvil.
Soon, the frame of what would appear to be a large caliber revolver is carefully hammered out, and the smith smiles darkly.
Yes, there is still much to be done.
—
“Oi! You're done there with the orders for the town yet, Blacksmith?” A voice called as the smith left his shop, his work complete, a bit of smoke coiling from his skin as he took a deep breath of the sharp air of a winter’s morning. The chill on the air feels cool against his forge-flame heated skin, and it tempers him as he lets out the breath he took as he takes in the start of the day.
His head turned to consider the voice who called, The Mayor, and the man nodded quietly to him. “I am. I’m afraid I must be leaving. The orders are in the workshop, Mayor, but you’ll need to find a new Blacksmith.”
The portly man can only blink in surprise as the man he knew as Blacksmith adjusts the gunbelt around his waist and the black leather duster upon his back, brushing himself off before turning to leave town. “What… Mr. Blacksmith, what nonsense are you speaking?! No one just changes their jobs and leaves! How are we supposed to find a Blacksmith so soon? You’re just abandoning us?!”
The man who gave up the name Blacksmith simply smiles to himself as he continues to walk, not bothering to look back. “I told you that I would only stick around long enough to get the supplies I needed before I left, Mr. Mayor. Blacksmith was never meant to be my name. I am Vikingr, as my ancestors before me, and I have to go repay a debt.”
The Mayor scowls, reaching into his waistcoat and pulling a silvery revolver from a holster. The weapon glints in the morning light, the carefully drawn alchemical formulae clear to see. “Now see here! I will not have any more of this talk of a -Viking- in my town! You have no crew, no boat, and there is nothing for you to steal here! You were fine as a Blacksmith, pest, and I will not have you be anything more!”
“... See, this is your problem, Mr. Mayor.” The man who called himself Vikingr turned, his coat billowing a bit as the silver buckles of his studded leather armor glints in the morning light, his boots tightly laced, even as his own revolver is drawn and cocked, pointed at the Mayor, the runes of his people glowing in dark, frosty blue against the Æsir blessed damascus.
“You seem to think you have a right to control me because I was just Boy when I wandered into your town, and you forced me to become Blacksmith. Fortunate was I to have more than a little skill in the task, but I vowed one day I would properly honor my ancestors, for it was not by their hands that I was forced into the state I had been in.” The man speaks quietly. “I will find The Slaver, The Preacher, and the Nobles that destroyed Hrafnhiem, and Hell will be coming with me.”
The Mayor, enraged at his words, lifts his Revolver higher to shoot, but is too slow. The blessed barrel of Vikingr’s revolver barely shifts as the rune bullet is fired, unleashing the powerful magicks crafted within, blessed by his ancestors, as the bullet is imbued with the frosts born of Niflheim. It strikes the Mayor dead center, and he has but a moment to cry out as he drops his revolver before the man is suddenly enveloped in a cone blast of ice, his pistol caught mid air in the ice.
Vikingr inspects his work carefully before letting out a pleased huff, opening the chamber of his revolver and pulling out the spent runic round. It would need to be recharged with another offering to his Ancestors later, but that could wait. The spent round goes into a pouch and a new round is gently slotted into the revolver from his belt, and a grim smile crosses his face.
“My Mother told me, One day I would buy…”