For my boots: poems praising the physical strength and pressure of magma as it flows relentlessly over the surface of the stone. The magma bonds to the stone also, and in fusing creates further stability—rendered in my runes as reverse-liquidity.

For my shin-plates: an ode of heat reversed. The stanzas speak of the power of magma reversed, energy to stillness, bright-heat to dark-cold. Power contains its opposite, and all exists together as one. Thus my armor will exist within the magma without being destroyed by it.

For my thigh-plates: a similar ode, but more direct, and it also speaks of the power inherent in magma's flow. It will give me strength to wade through the molten rock—strength far beyond what my ordinary muscles are capable of.

Upon my belly I enrune an ode to heat's source. It also describes how power contains its antithesis. In order for magma to have the capability to grow hotter, it must necessarily have the capacity to grow cooler. Within the poem I include a metaphor: of a battle of heat and cold. They cannot slay each other, because they are both degrees of the same.

I graft the last rune of this poem with a flash of red-gold, then I step back and grimace. I read over it again. It doesn't seem quite so strong as the others. I had to make a rune for cold, yet while in the magma I could not quite form a solid idea of what cold can be in a theme of pure heat. The runic flow is a little weak, and the wording slightly awkward.

I remind myself that this is to be only the first version of this script. Once I can wade into the magma sea—in my physical body—I will become able to find the answers I seek. Cold exists there too in some form.

I shut my eyes and get back to task. It's not quite so draining now that the basic vocabulary of the script has been set.

For my breastplate and backplate I create the central poem of the sequence. I describe a being of magma made separate from the ocean by a layer of a different kind of molten stone, a layer that is not elemental heat but heat-as-life, and heat-as-power cannot dissolve it, for it knows how to resist. It is part of the sea, able to move freely with the currents, and also not part of it, able to move against the currents by utilizing great strength of will.

Strength, flexibility, and the power to resist heat. These are the core tenets of my poems.

For the armor wrapping my arms: a poem of more concrete metaphor. Too much philosophy is not right for limbs that will be used for fighting. It tells of a battle between salamanders, who strike as quickly and lethally as fire that bursts from dry wood touched by magma and who can tear down weaker foes with ease. I continue this theme on my gauntlets, which speak of the claws of salamanders which drag their prey to fiery death.

The final runes on the fingers flash strangely. Concerned, I inspect the metal closely. The grafting is a little uneven—then I remember the trouble I had shaping these tiny segments, and how many times I had to bend them back and forth to get the right shape.

I curse. I'd held onto some hope that the quenching would improve things, but it hasn't by much. Shit! What will Vanerak have to say about this mistake? To see the new runes grafted to inferior metalwork?

There's no helping it now—to throw away enruned metal—the rest of the poem would know, somehow. And it would be a terrible insult to the new runes I've just created: to be brought forth into the world just to be tossed away. No. I cannot do that to my script.

And I don't want to keep Vanerak waiting any longer than necessary. He's pouring over our past conversations even as I forge, I'm sure of it. Looking for any mistakes in my suspected lies. Anything he finds that doesn't match up he will seize upon and use as an excuse to torture me, to drench his weapon in the blood of my friends. I must regain his favor soon.

I return to my quarters. I can't forge with fear digging its claws into my heart. I have a good sleep, sketch out some ideas for the poem that will go on my helm—though this goes poorly, for it is hard to calculate runic flow from blank spaces.

Back to the forge. I turn the blank tungsten helm over and around in my hands. There is plenty of space. Uninterrupted, a long and complex poem here will have a strong, constantly increasing runic flow. The power will be great—yet what is it to say? It won't be submerged in the magma sea, so maybe I don't have to lean so hard into runes of heat and grammatical negations. Should I write of salamanders again? But I can't think of anything they could give me here.

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I decide not to take any strange risks. This poem will re-iterate what's said on the rest of my armor. It'll reinforce the themes of strength, flexibility, and heat resistance. I won't need many new words. That's fine. From seeing the same runes used in slightly different contexts, the runeknights of the magma shore can deepen their understanding of my script.

For the first few lines, I don't need to go into my trance. Halfway through the second stanza I want a rune for steel-melted, and only then do I shut my eyes and let myself be drawn into the magma sea.

I create it, compose up to the next line, create the next rune I need. It's getting easier—I can draw in the power more easily, and what's more, I seem to have real control over whatever I'm doing. The flow of heat through my heart, soul—wherever it's going—isn't threatening to overwhelm me anymore. And the runes are coming out strong—most of them.

Some that aren't related to the theme, but necessary for the composition, have weak runic flows. Either the passage is restricted or the runic power they output isn't quite enough.

But that can't be helped. Again, this is only the first version of my script. It will be refined.

I write the poem for my helmet smoothly. It tells a complex tale of how a single current of magma winds its way up from the lowermost depths of the sea. The current is heat-as-life. Similar to the being of magma I've described in great detail on my breastplate and backplate, it is part of the sea, sharing in its power, but also is separate from it.

Halfway through, I begin to feel a little disappointed in myself, a little irritated too. I'm repeating myself. The rhythm is different, but most of the runes are the same. Am I scared of going back into the sea? Why? My control has improved—but maybe this is just because I'm not drawing in as much power as I know I can. Maybe this is what's making some of the runes so weak.

I start to catch myself choosing words that don't need new runes—but I must be more creative! This composition is feeble. A living current of magma is too vague. I need something more vivid—for my last helm I told of a dwarf striding across the world to meet the shadow of its regret. I need something like that.

I haven't yet created a rune for dwarf, dway, in this script. Why not? Every script has to have a rune for dwarf. Nearly half of all runic poems feature a being like their creator.

So I brace myself, step away from the anvil, shut my eyes. The heat of magma surrounds me in an instant. A thrill of fear rushes through me, for never has it taken me so fast. The sphere seems to rush at me also, buffeting my soul, sending me turning over and over.

A rune for dway, for dwarf—what does dwarf mean, even?

Humans say it means short. Elves say it means ugly. Dragons say slaves. Trolls say prey.

But what do I say?

I say dwarf means love and greed. Strength, toughness, yet also mortality. And through our flesh runs heat-of-life, to fuel the heat-of-forging in our hands, and with the power that our crafts give us we can inflict heat-of-life-negated upon creatures as mighty as dragons.

Dwarf means power.

Holding all these meanings in me—this is no easy task—it's like trying to hold on to blazing fire that keeps flickering out through the gaps in my fingers—I draw in the power. It rages forth, crashes into me like a wave from below, and the sphere trembles beside me. Far away I feel my body crash to its knees then backwards.

I must draw in the power! It rages through me. I focus. I don't let it control me. Through the meanings I weave its flow, and from the weaving a shape emerges, a triangle from which wave-lines burst forth.

This is the rune, the rune for dway in my script. The form is burned into my mind.

Abruptly the power leaves me. It's done the job I needed it for. It flows back into the deep depths even as I rise.

Slowly I open my eyes. Nazak is rushing at me with a pail of water held high, again. I laugh loudly and hold out my palms.

“Stop!” I say. “I have the rune I need.”

He makes no sign of stopping, and I let him douse me. My skin feels so hot that I half expect the water to boil off me in clouds of steam, but no, it's just cold and wet. I brush drops from my beard as I stand up.

“You—”

“Watch me!” I say. “All of you, watch!”

For once, Nazak says nothing. He steps back abruptly.

“Watch!” I say again.

I draw out a length of gold wire. Deftly I shape it into a perfect triangle. I clip it carefully, then I clip out ten more lengths, a little shorter. With painstaking concentration I bend each into a wave. Some are violent and uneven. Others are calmer with equal numbers of peaks and troughs.

I lay them over the perfect triangle—again, precisely. I take up a hammer and bring it down hard.

There is a clang, and within the clang are notes of music, both deep harmony and high melody. I hear it only for an instant yet am filled with awe. Something is about to be brought forth. It just has been, in fact. Now it just needs to be brought to life.

I lay a web of incandesite upon the forehead of my helm. Very gently I place the rune over it.

Nazak is deathly still, barely breathing. The guards, every last one of them, have pressed their faces to the bars. I take up my tapered iron and heat it over the magma. It glows bright yellow. I bring it to the red trails underneath the golden rune. I tap.

The color of burning gold illuminates the forge. It is brilliant. It overwhelms, for a brief moment at its peak, even the black scars in my vision. The guards shout out in wonder. Nazak stumbles back, mouth open in awe.