“You sure you don’t want to play?”
Lionel knuckles his forehead and groans. He bats away a curl of gray-blue pipe smoke that’s wafting over from the neighboring table in the tavern, wrinkling his nose at the acrid scent of cheap, stale tobacco. With a sigh, he sets his elbows on the tabletop and rests his chin in his interlaced hands, giving me a long-suffering look. “Nope.”
“It’s fun! C’mon, Lio. Give it a try,” I plead, giving my buddy my best puppy dog eyes. I might as well be talking with a stone statue. I’ve been trying to convince Lionel to play CnC with me for several days, ever since I got back from running the Lesser Rift. After dealing with the mental assault from the fire sprites, I could use a fun diversion. “You’ll love it if you give it a chance.“
“This is the tenth time you’ve asked.”
“Are you counting? I am pretty persistent!” I say brightly, beaming my most winning smile.
“My answer is still no.”
I shrug. “Suit yourself. I just figured you’d have fun putting together decks, since you’re always into theory-crafting about rare Classes and creative Skill combos. You do still enjoy innovating, right?”
“Yeah, well, that’s different. Dreaming about earning a powerful Class is awesome. Just imagine becoming a [Peerless Bladedancer], or perhaps a [Flame-Touched Battlemage]! But CnC? That game is for weirdos,” Lionel insists. He scrunches up his face at me, then downs his mug of mead without even a toast to our mutual greatness.
He might actually be annoyed for once. I’m overdoing it. I gesture a waiter over and ask him for another mug for Lionel. That ought to earn me back some goodwill. “How do you know? You’ve never even played. You might like it.”
He sets down the mug with an authoritative bang against the tabletop, sending up a light spray of foam. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Admitting you’re a weirdo is too scary for you, huh?” I tease. “You’ll never become a Hero of Densmore if you don't find your courage.”
“Hey! Take it back. I’m perfectly normal,” Lionel says. He grins at me like nothing’s wrong, but there’s an undertone of doubt nibbling at the edges of his conviction that makes me worry about him.
“By what standard?” I ask as I lean back in my seat and laugh softly. “Admit it. We’re all a little strange.”
“No, you’re strange, Nuri,” Lionel shoots back, although I can see that he’s having trouble not joining my laughter. “I’m just an average guy who’s never really left town. There’s nothing unusual or bizarre about me.”
I sip from my own mug of ale, watching the people in the tavern while I’m preoccupied arranging my thoughts. “I think you’re too scared of the ‘weird’ label to accept that being unusual is a good thing. The more uncommon a Skill or Class, the more powerful. So why settle? I think you’re far from normal, but in a good way.”
He gives me an inscrutable look. “Wanna clarify? Because that sounds like a backhanded compliment to me.”
“You’re the only crafter I know who’s also a [Healer]. That already makes you pretty amazing. You’re loyal, funny, and always know how to look on the bright side. From what I’ve seen over my travels last year, that’s an extremely rare combination.”
“Flattery sounds strange coming from you,” he mutters into his cup, but his smile betrays him. I can tell he finds my praise affirming.
“It’s the truth. Promise!”
“How do I know you're not a Doppelganger who killed Nuri in the Rift and took his place? You usually prefer teasing instead of compliments.”
I shrug easily. “We all have character flaws. I never seem to give my friends as much credit as they deserve. I’m trying to fix that.”
Lionel regards me in silence. His eyes are uncharacteristically expressive. “Sometimes I barely recognize you anymore. No, don't look like that. It's not a bad thing. You're just growing up, Nuri. You talk like a man now, not a kid. You're all getting so strong and impressive. Some days, I feel like the gang is leaving me behind.”
“Is this about starting over in a new Class?” I ask softly. “We’re not going to leave you behind. You have the most important skills on the team!”
“Glad to know that it's just my healing Skills that you're after,” Lionel grumbles, crossing his arms.
“Oh, come on, Lio. You know that’s not what I meant. We don’t just value you because you can keep us patched up. You’re our friend. The team is like family to me. That's why I came back to Silaraon instead of working in the capital or going to Grand Ile. I'm not leaving you behind ever again.”
I grab my mug and slake my sudden thirst. My throat is more parched than I realized. I frown in concentration. I'm terrible at encouragement. “Look. Even if you were an idiot like me who lost all his Skills and burned off a hand, I'd want you around just for your company.”
Lionel snorts trying to hold in his laughter, and then gives up entirely and sprawls back in his chair as his entire body shakes with mirth. “And here I thought that I was the comic relief.”
My face burns. “I'm not good at expressing my appreciation for my friends. I mean it, Lio.”
“Yeah, I know. You just laid it on a bit thick, don’t you think? I mean, I actually know how to keep my limbs attached to my body, thank you very much. Healing is pretty awesome. You might even say it comes in handy.”
I roll my eyes. “Unless you run out of mana in the middle of a fight. That worries me sometimes. You aren’t as durable as Mikko.”
Lionel stops laughing. He sits up and sniffs, then rubs his nose. “Well, not everyone can imbue like you. Guess I’ll have to make do with a normal, old-fashioned core instead of a fancy glass set.”
“Maybe I can make a string of glass cores for you, like I did for Melina,” I say. “Then you’ll be able to heal for twice as long.”
He shakes his head. “If you need that much healing, then you need a higher-level, dedicated [Healer] with stronger Skills than I have. Better that I have a way to fight back.”
“You want a weapon?”
He nods eagerly, his eyes shining.
“Hm. I don't know if I can make you anything as good as the twin swords that Ember is using. I’m not sure what suits you, to be honest.”
“I don’t expect you to pull a masterwork out of nowhere. Besides, those are too big and bulky. I need to move freely. If there’s trouble, then I need to be right in the middle of it so I can patch you up and get out. Or, at least, I’ll dance around the edges of danger. I’d feel better if I had a suitable weapon.”
I scratch my beard, mulling over Lionel’s suggestion. At length, I nod. “Sketch out some ideas for me. I’ll see what I can do.”
=+=
Three days later, Lionel delivers the first batch of weapon designs for me to consider. He bustles into the Silaraon Glass Works with a smug smirk on his face and deep purple bags under his eyes. Each of his weapon suggestions are radically different: a set of three small throwing hatchets with a belt clip, a whip made of razor-sharp chain links, and a pair of studded gauntlets featuring short spikes over the knuckles and jutting out from the elbow.
I set down the sheaf of sketches and clear my throat. “Nothing screams [Healer] like getting punched in the face.”
“You said you liked my theory-crafting!”
“I do! But you’re not a brawler.”
He strikes a pose, his fists held up like he’s ready to box my ears, his eyebrows raised. His words tumble out in an excited jumble. “Imagine enchanting the gauntlets to draw vitality from the enemy, like a reverse healing spell. Every hit would hurt a monster and heal me. Sounds awesome, right?”
I snicker. “In theory, sure. But getting in close with one of those flaming bears sounds hazardous to your health.”
“I’d pick my battles, naturally.”
“Who’s gonna enchant it?” I ask.
Lionel frowns. “Can’t you imbue it?”
“With a health draining property? Maybe.” I tap my forefinger against my chin as I think over the possibilities. “The problem is that you wouldn’t have a way to guide the stolen vitality to your own body. That requires either a second imbued concept—which I can’t do yet—or, y’know, an actual enchantment.”
“I thought you’d do everything.”
“I’m not that good yet,” I admit with a sigh. “If I could handle it, then I would. You’re giving me way too much credit. It’s complicated.”
“Then which one are you gonna make for me? Everyone else has something awesome! I’m feeling left out,” Lionel says, nudging me with his elbow.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
I elbow him back. “Don’t worry about it, Lio. I’ll make you something. Just gotta find the right fit.”
Lionel bristles. “You don’t like any of the options. Just admit it, Nuri. You probably already have something in mind, and now I’ve wasted my time drawing up plans.”
“Maybe,” I say, smirking.
“You’re the worst friend ever,” Lionel grumbles. Then he bounces on the balls of his feet, his ever present smile back on his face. “Sooo, what are you making me?”
“Ah, yes, your dastardly friend is so terrible that he’s making you an imbued weapon for free. Woe is you!” I put my hand to my forehead and swoon dramatically.
He sticks out his tongue at me. “Just show me what you’re planning. I’m looking forward to getting some practice in once you’re finally done lazing around and get to work.”
“Fine, fine. Maybe you'll catch the vision when I show you what I’m cooking up,” I say slyly. I tilt my head toward the workbench at the end of the hot shop. “But you’re gonna have to work for it. Assist me today, and you’ll get to see it take shape before your very eyes.”
“Deal!” Lionel practically shouts. He takes off running toward the workbench so quickly that I rub my neck, checking for whiplash as I turn to follow his sprint.
I take my time ambling over to join him, picking up a collection of glass-shaping tools as I go. “Been a while since we worked together. I kinda miss it.”
“Looking forward to making things with you. Just like old times,” Lionel says, bobbing his head.
I nod along. “Except we get to make our own projects now, instead of relying on commissions. I never want to go back to working for someone else.”
“Somewhere, Ember just felt a pinprick on her ear. She knows you’re badmouthing her,” Lionel teases.
“Nah. I have nothing but respect for Ember. She keeps the studio running smoothly. We’re commercially-focused, though. I want to create works of art.”
“You got paid for the grotto last year.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” I ask while I add flux to the batch of glass I’m prepping. I already prepped silica and stabilizer, but I’m worried about the consistency of the batch. I stir the glass constantly while we chat. Normally, it would take a few hours to melt it all down, mix in the ingredients, and smooth out all the bubbles, but our cauldron has an enchantment that works in a similar fashion to Melina’s temporal fields.
Lionel shoos me away, taking over the stirring and prep. He’s got a Skill that enables the batch of glass to turn out perfectly, so I gladly cede the work to him. He channels mana into his Skill, taking his time to sort out his words. “Where’s the line, then? You believed in that piece. I know it made you happy to create something technically precise, but also beautiful.”
“Yeah. And?” I ask warily, somehow sure that he’s leading me into a trap that’s going to make me regret my complaining.
He shrugs. “Nothing. Just talkin’.”
“I hate when you leave me to stew in my own misery,” I say, but somehow he’s made me stop and think. Art and business don’t have to be at odds with each other. They can synergize.
The mana flow from Lionel’s Skill slows to a trickle, and he nods in satisfaction. “Ready when you are, Master Nuri. Cheer up! Today’s all about art, since I’m not paying.”
“Get the star mold,” I say, trying not to laugh. I nod toward the rustic shelf behind the workbench, where rows of wooden blocks and iron molds sprawl in haphazard array. “We need to create a textured grip for your weapon.”
While he’s locating the short, hollow cylinder with multiple grooves along the inside in a star pattern, I dip the blowpipe into the batch and collect a gather of glass. I tuck one end of the pipe under my shoulder to brace it in place, and spin the rod until I have enough glass. I bring it back to my workbench and blow in a few lungfuls of air, slow and steady, to expand it to the right shape and size while I roll it back and forth on the marver.
I hop up onto the extra-high, spinning stool that I pestered Ember into getting for me, a self-congratulatory grin tugging at the edges of my lips. The leather seat is well-padded, and the metal ball bearings are magically oiled, so I can sit all day in comfort and spin in circles without the slightest of squeaks. From my new vantage point, I’m at just the right height to rest my boot on the pipe and roll it back and forth, freeing up my right hand to shape the glass.
Growing up, I’d always wet down a cloth or bit of old paper and use it to perfectly round out the glass, but these days I usually rely on manipulating heat directly to keep from burning my hand. I’m trying to conserve mana, however, so I revert to my old habits. The water hisses softly, turning to steam as the wet paper kisses the hot glass, and it creates a perfect barrier to keep the ink from running and staining the glass.
I slide down to the floor and indulge in a bit of mana expenditure, using my [Greater Heat Manipulation] to keep the glass at the right elasticity and temperature. Needs to be a bit longer, I think as I examine the glass. I hold the pipe down toward the ground and swing the blowpipe with its round globe of glass side to side—the motion reminiscent of a pendulum in a big clock. The hot, gooey glass extends downward toward the floor until I deem it the right length.
“How’s that mold coming?”
“Ready!” Lionel calls, placing it vertically on the floor in front of me without me telling him the next step. He’s a natural assistant, and I’m glad to work with him again. There’s a familiarity to our work that’s comfortable. It just feels right.
Without hesitation, I plunge the glass into the mold, tamping it down several times to let the glass cool and imprint the shape. Once it takes on the characteristics of the mold, I withdraw the glass and heat it back up in the furnace’s glory hole. I’m nervous about spending too much mana too early in the process, so I may as well let fire do its good, old-fashioned work.
“Tongs?” Lionel offers the metal tool.
I take it and shape the end of the rounded base of the glass that didn’t get reshaped in the star mold. I pinch it together, creating a small ridge that will eventually become the guard of the sword. Then it’s back in the furnace, heating up to working temps. I pull it out and spin the block on the marver with my boot again, pulling with the tongs to elongate the textured handle. I go back and forth to the furnace twice more, heating the glass, turning the rod, and crimping the end of the glass to create a rounded pommel.
I roll faster with my boot, turning the pipe with urgency now that I’ve finally started on the project. Transforming vision into reality is my favorite part of fashioning things with my hand. With the tongs, I twist the glass, stopping every few turns to score cross-hatching into the long, slender handle that’s taking shape. When I’m happy, I pinch off the glass, flip it around, and stick it to the blowpipe pommel-first. Later, when I detach the blowpipe again, I’ll melt off the edges of leftover glass.
“Need a small glob.”
Lionel rushes to oblige, bringing me a bit of molten glass from the crucible. He attaches it to the crimped end of the handle, following my instructions, and twists the rod sharply, pulling away to disengage his punty from the glass. He snatches up a pair of wooden paddles from the bucket of water nearby the workbench, handing it over before I even ask for the tool.
When I take the tool, he swaps to the other side of the workbench, turning the blowpipe for me so I can work on the glass without splitting my focus. I open up the wooden paddle a little bit on one side. The back of the paddle is pinned together, like a pair of big salad tongs. I pinch the round blob of glass while Lionel spins, pressing it flat and smooth. Soon, it turns into a small rondelle, which will protect his hand when he wields the sword.
“Heat,” I command, and Lionel takes the entire thing back to the flames. While he warms it back up again, I drink some water and stretch out my hand and arms, rolling my shoulders to stay limber. It’s nostalgic to work with glass without Skills again, but it takes longer and is definitely more demanding on the body.
“My liege,” Lionel says when he returns with hot glass, handing over the blowpipe and bowing with an extravagant flourish.
I scoff at his theatrics, but it warms my heart to see Lionel in a good mood again. At the tavern the other night he seemed discouraged, and it was so unlike his usual persona that it’s been worrying me ever since. What if something’s really wrong?
I put aside the thought—he’s a grown man, able to handle life’s ups and downs in his own way, although I’ll gladly help if he needs me—and get back to work. I swap out the wooden paddles for a pair of metal tweezers, which are a fair bit smaller than the tongs I use for more general shaping. Delicate work requires a delicate touch, and the tweezers are more precise. I pinch one edge of the round crossguard, stretching it out like putty and rolling it down toward the handle in a curlicue. On the opposite side, I repeat the pinch and pull, but this time I bend the soft, molten glass upward, curling it until it matches the curve of the first half of the crossguard.
“Want a hand-guard?”
Lionel purses his lips, tilting his head to the side while he thinks it over. He shakes his head a moment later. “Nah, I’d rather be free to grab the handle in any direction. A bar or basket guard is too constricting.”
I shrug. “Sure, sure. Makes sense with your second Class. If you lose a finger, you can just heal it, right?”
Lionel sticks out his tongue at me. He goes back to the crucible to get a new gather of glass, already anticipating our next step. That’s one of my favorite things about him. He’s always helpful, always in tune with the needs of the shop without having to be told, as long as he’s not absent-minded or forgetful.
I close my eyes, slowing my breathing and calming my nerves. This next part is when it all comes together—or all falls apart. Imbuing is fraught with trial and error, as I’ve learned since my return to Silaraon. For every three or four good pieces, I completely shatter another one or two, and the blowback from the failures burns in my psyche even worse than the mana feedback stings my channels.
“All good, Nuri?” Lionel murmurs.
I open my eyes, take one look at the genuine concern on my friend’s face, and break out into a smile. All my trepidation fades away. I square my shoulders and jut out my chin. “Ready as ever. Let’s craft you the finest sword this side of the Capital—er, well, third-finest, at least,” I say with a chuckle as my gaze flickers over to the twin glass blades hanging on the showroom wall.
Lionel’s eyes crinkle in merriment. He affixes a large clump of hot glass to the crossguard and cuts away the excess with his shears. “Ha, that’s the spirit! You wanna draw?”
I nod in response, standing up on top of the workbench and turning the metal rod with the handle and new glass attached to it while Lionel smooths it with a wet wooden block, ensuring that it’s rounded and even. When I give the go ahead, he leans back, allowing gravity to drag the soft glass downward until there’s a rod about a hand’s-breadth long where the blade will be. He whistles quietly as he swaps out the block for a flat length of wood, also soaked in the bucket to prevent it from combusting when it comes into contact with the blazing hot glass. It sizzles when the end of the rod makes contact, but doesn’t burst into flames.
“Steady,” I say, leaning down and grasping the rod just below the glass handle. I pull the rod up with a slow, easy motion. The entire process of drawing out the glass, maintaining tension while lengthening the stump of a cylinder into a tall, slender blade, takes just over a minute, but to me it feels like a small eternity. If anything goes wrong, we’ll have to throw out this attempt and start over.
Lionel lets go of the wooden slat with one hand, picks up his shears, and notches the glass at his preferred length for the sword. We each twist slightly in opposite directions, and then he taps sharply on the unwanted glass at the bottom with his shears, breaking it off from the main body of the sword. A quick application of [Greater Heat Manipulation] smooths the bumps and ridges, and I sharpen the end of the sword into a wicked, gleaming point finer than any sewing needle. It's fragile, but by the time we finish, it will hold up to the rigors of a melee.
We repeat the breaking process at the pommel end, freeing the sword from the blowpipe. I run my fingers over the glass, keeping the skin sheathed in a barrier to stave off the heat, smoothing the rough edges until it shines like polished glass.
While Lionel holds the sword in place, relying on thick gloves to keep from burning his sensitive skin, I spend mana like water, imbuing the weapon with the concept of unbreakable. It's my most consistent applique, although I wish I could also give this weapon swiftness.
The mana swirls, dancing gleefully at the mental image I paint. The image holds; the mana sets; the blade is forged.
I’m shaking and panting as my glass pseudo cores drain completely, leaving me with a pounding headache. It’s a sensation I’m all too familiar with these days. Either I need to improve my mental resistance, or craft a new set of cores with much higher artificial Capacity.
“Whoohoo!” Lionel shouts, sensing that it worked. “As light as a feather, but harder to break than even your thick skull!”
“Well, there’s a sword for you,” I say, fighting off the pang of envy at the thought of giving away the first true masterwork weapon I’ve ever created. I smile at his indefatigable spirit. “Even so, I’d feel better if you have some way to stay safe. Why don’t we talk with Mbukhe later? He might be able to teach you a [Stealth] Skill.”
“We don’t have any overlapping Skills. I’m not sure how I’d pick one up,” Lionel says, furrowing his brow in thought. He stifles a yawn, stretches, and flops down in a chair with an exaggerated groan. “Nice work, Nuri. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna nap before lunch break. That was more work than I've done in ages. You're ruining my resolve to get fat and lazy.”