We see you. You are close. Do not forget. We are one.
Flip awoke from his slumber to find himself just as filthy as he had been when he fell asleep. Perhaps more so. He had worked up a substantial sweat while dreaming. Images of looming shadows atop the pale cliffs that marked the border between the rest of the world and the wastes that awaited him had haunted his dreams. But more than that, his slumber had been a wash of many things.
Shadows and polished orc blades rising to cut through them. Lightning striking like a heavenly blade. Roaring thunder. And then the silent dark of the night pierced by the crescent moon as though it were a wound upon the sky. A carved piece of flesh and all the stars punctures; holes in the heavens dripping out pale aster blood. And words. Words like reverberating echoes of thunder across the empty wastes.
The less valued of the wizard’s books was quickly retrieved and the night’s visions were recorded for use later in poetry and incantation.
With the night behind him, Flip stumbled out of the guest room that he had stayed in. He hadn’t even thought to grab his hatch out of the back of the wagon. And for a moment he worried that the hatch may have been discarded, but he found it propped against the wall just outside the bedroom door. And with the door open Flip found something else as well, the smell of a hearty breakfast. At least he assumed it was breakfast, it could just as easily been the remains of dinner still simmering in the hearth. Regardless Flip was famished, though he was hesitant to admit it.
“Faengil, I can hear you moving around! Get yourself into the main hall and eat something!” Mae’s voice echoed through the temple like the walls were built to carry voices to the bedrooms from the kitchen. Which, they may have been.
With some reluctance, Flip stowed the hatch in the room he had slept in and made his way out into the central chamber of the hearth temple. The main hall, which he had passed through quickly the evening before, was a wide open and warm space. Woven tapestries depicting the travels of the goddess Haemer hung from the walls. Flip realized, after probably too long, that the structure seemed taller than it had looked from the outside, and about the same time he realized that the structure was partially below ground level and built into a subtle hillside.
“Pull up a chair, Faengil, food’s warm.” Rovik called out to the wizard as soon as he was in view.
The dwarf was seated at a bar top style table that served as a sort of boundary between the kitchen proper and the rest of the main hall. The table ran lengthwise towards the hearth and Mae stood on the other side kneading a lump of dough on a slightly lower surface.
“I hear that there’s been a great deal of excitement about the technique you’ve shared.” Rovik gave Flip a wide smile and patted the seat next to his. “If you’re feeling talkative, I’d like to know what I missed.”
“You missed a whole day, Rovik. I’ve never seen you sleep that long in the near century I’ve known you.” Mae chastised her guest as she pressed her hand elbow deep into the dough she was working.
Flip didn’t respond, but sat down next to Rovik and readily accepted a bowl of warm broth and a warm chunk out of a chewy bread loaf from Mae.
“Fair enough.” Rovik muttered in response to Flip’s silence. “I hope you don’t mind if I talk, I’ve been sleeping too long and need to flush the thoughts from my head.”
Mae raised an eyebrow to Flip, but the wizard proceeded to eat his food without objection. Flip found himself in a silent mood, but wasn’t going to object to listening. He felt far more comfortable around these dwarves than he did most of the people in Builend, but refused to think deeply on why that may be.
“The boys have been talking nonstop of the blade the three of you forged. I haven’t seen it myself yet, but if you believe the young ones it’s twice as magic as they think you are.” Rovik carried on. His remark made Flip smirk, but it was quickly erased by the repetitive motion of bringing food to his mouth. “Bronson’s been at work with it for quite a while, but I’ve heard him forging something else since the morning started. He’s had the grindstone and the power hammer going for a while now, actually.”
“He’s going to run the goats ragged at this rate.” Mae sighed.
“Has Dovhran made it in to town yet?” Flip’s question seemed to derail the conversation, which irked Mae but Rovik didn’t seem to mind.
“No. I’ve not heard anything from Sommar as of yet.” Rovik grumbled, disdain for the changeling still strong in his voice.
“I will attend to a project then, if you will excuse me.” Flip pushed his empty bowl back to Mae gently, careful not to tip them over onto the lower portion of countertop. “The food is wonderful.”
“Thank you, hearth’s blessing to you Faengil.” Mae replied formally. “And if you’ve need of materials, let me know, people leave things behind here all the time and we could do with less clutter.”
“Actually.” Flip paused as he stood. “If you have spare leather, perhaps maybe a bracelet even to be more precise, I would be very appreciative. I’d offer a spell in return.”
“Oh?” Mae grinned. “Don’t suppose you have a spell that could dig a stump out?”
Flip paused for a moment and ran through his list of spells that he was prepared to cast. Several options came to mind, though none were probably what the dwarf was expecting.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“I know for a fact I’ve got a leather bracer that’s yours if you do.”
“Do you dislike insects?” Flip’s question sounded rhetorical, but Mae grimaced with the implication.
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Flip had begun his ant colony spell once directed to the stump in question. One of Mae and Bronson’s sons had come out to watch with his mother, but both had quickly become uncomfortable with the sight of the spell and gone to the other side of the house. Mae had handed off the bracer before then and as soon as his instructions were clear, Flip left the ants to do the work while he went into the room that had been granted to him to do his own.
It was a matter of incantation and inscription in the leather, both of which Flip was prepared for. He had been working on this charm since Cheska had gifted him the golden bracelet, and finally had all the materials and arcane geometry ready to inscribe on them.
Let the sun be a wound upon the sky,
Golden and garish and unsightly.
Let blue heavens placate the eye,
Away from what shines brightly.
Flip inscribed the words alongside the other arcane patterns on the bracer in one steady go at it. He often found leather to be a very simple medium for spells and charms to rest in. It was soft and willing to take on more than it had, but strong and sturdy enough to support them. Other materials like silk fabrics and pure metals had similar benefits of strength and stability, but neither met the perfect medium between the two. There were a few burs and loose stitches in the leather, which Flip spent the next hour sorting out. Once the whole item was in pristine condition and the inscriptions were complete and set in the material, Flip drew a handful of silver dust from one of his pouches and rubbed it over the surface of the bracer while repeating the incantation aloud.
It was obvious when the magic had taken hold. It became hard to look away from the item, which was the goal. With one eye still glued to the work which he had just completed, Flip untied his sleeve and pulled the golden bracelet further up his arm. With plenty of space below his wrist, he laced the bracer around his arm and relaxed as he began to notice the relatively plain leather bracer more than the golden one. Any stranger passing idly by or even looking closely at his arm would be distracted by the plain leather bracer and be inclined to ignore the clearly more valuable looking golden bracelet. It was much more cost effective than purchasing components for an illusion based spell or concealing ring, which made Flip question why he had never heard of such an enchantment before.
With his charming of the bracer complete, Flip returned to the exterior of the temple where the ants were hefting the stump out of the earth and beginning to carry it away to the roadside. Satisfied with that as well, Flip returned to the main hall of the temple to consult Mae about the fate of the stump.
“You neglected to say where the stump be placed.”
“We could use the wood, actually. It’s sturdy and knotted oak, good for tool handles and hilts and the like.” Mae thought through something else silently before giving more instruction. “Once you’ve got it out, just leave it by the hole it made and get rid of the ants. Bron ’ll have a fit if he sees that. I’ll have the boys carry it to the workshop.”
“As you wish it, then.” Flip hummed and willed the spell to end. There was a solid thunk outside the temple as the ants vanished. “They may have made it closer to the road than I anticipated.”
“Don’t bring them back to fix it, please. While I’m glad for the assistance and the spell, I would rather not witness such a writhing horror again.” Mae was clearly grateful, but also still quite disturbed. “When you get a moment, Bron’s waiting to show off his craftsmanship. Rovik and the boys are all quite entranced.”
Flip nodded and made for the back door to the workshop. Mae interjected before he could open it.
“And for the record, Faengil. It is quite beautiful. You have my thanks for imparting something so personal. Our family will treasure the technique.”
Just beyond the doorway, into the workshop, Bronson was holding the blade out for his son’s and Rovik to look at. There was a decent amount of talk happening in the small cluster of dwarves, none in any language Flip could understand, but their tones followed the patterns of excited speech.
“Ah, finally out to see our handiwork, come over and give it a swing, Faengil.” Bronson grinned widely as he caught sight of Flip and beckoned him over.
Flip approached the dwarf with his hands raised in protest.
“I must decline. My arms are not what they once were.” Flip politely declined.
Despite declining to heft the sword, Flip noticed several new details that Bronson had added. A dark charcoal gray cross guard had been placed below the blade, it stood out against the lowest silvery metal ripples. The cross guard almost blended with the darker metal finish that had been applied to the hilt and pommel. The hilt in particular drew Flip attention, as the grip had been wound with a dark violet material that very nearly matched the cords that wound around his own waist.
Flip could also see a few other pieces of metal in the forge as well, not all of them blanks for swords; in fact there was one large brick of metal that Flip wasn’t sure was entirely steel, but a sandwich of steel and something else.
“Suit yourself. Though, as the designer, more or less, of the blade, it is tradition that you name it.” Rovik chimed in. Bronson, though not incredibly enthused, nodded in agreement.
“Aye, that’s tradition. And I’d be amiss if I strayed from it.” Bronson turned to his sons before adding on, “And I’d be a poor father if I didn’t hammer it home. So, Faengil, what’ll we be calling this longsword?”
Flip paused for a long moment. He made it clear that he was deep in thought, and even sat on a stool in the workshop while the boys wandered off. It was obvious that Flip intended to take the task seriously, and Bronson even gave an approving tilt of his head at the gravity the wizard was giving the situation. Flip thought back to everything he had experienced since meeting Rovik and the rest of the dwarves, their hospitality, the maturity and paternal interest they had shown him though he was an old man in his own right. And then his mind wandered back to Joanna, and all the skills he had learned in his youth.
When Flip looked up, Rovik and Bronson were standing idly by the power hammer muttering something quiet in the dwarvish tongue; the blade still held up carefully by the hearth priest.
“I have thought of a name,” Flip announced, though his tone was not enthusiastic. Both of the remaining dwarves perked up in anticipation. “There is a phrase in the Durgothian tongue, in common translation it usually amounts to ‘odd couple,’ but literally it means ‘strange flare’ like an unusual burst of light. It describes friendships and families that bridge race and culture, odd pairings that people do not readily think will work, but do and become strong. For this reason, I request that the blade be named Strange-flare.”
“A fine name.” Mae hummed from the back door to the temple.
“Aye,” Bronson grumbled. “I’ll have it inscribed on the cross guard.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic about the name, but didn’t say anything to that effect.
“Not to dampen the mood, but you have a solicitor Faengil. Seems your employer’s finally come around to collect you.” Mae grimaced, the dwarf was avoiding saying Dovhran’s name. “Shall I set the goats on him?”