“I’m positive,” Gramin nods, “I don’t want her to have to watch us mowing through whatever’s left of her kin if I can avoid it.”
“They’re that bad?” Horvath asks.
“Worse. Much worse,” Gramin says, shaking his head, “The things that they’ve already done to that child…”
“I suppose that’s what the gloves are about then,” Horvath grimaces, “I’ll go cancel the messages right now.” H
orvath heads back into his office and cancels the undelivered messages. Two of them went through, so Horvath sends a follow-up message saying that the girl’s parents have been found.
“I can’t imagine being afraid of my own family,” Astridir says, “That poor thing. Atres is certainly gone on her, so you likely wouldn’t be alone in defending her.”
“You think he’d be up to the task?” Gramin asks, “Against men from a Cymry Great House?”
“The King’s Guards are some of the best in all of Tassatung,” Astridir nods, “Atres is supposed to be one of their best. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that he is.”
“Hmmm,” Gramin grins, “I might have to get him in a ring and see. Now, what do you do for fun around here?”
“There’s quite a lot to do,” Astridir informs him, “There’s the Carnival Arcade. It’s like a fair that never closes, with all the games and things. There are places where you can do activities like bowling. A few places offer wine or beer for tasting. Some of the plays can be good. I’m not fond of the shows. Most of them are a bit… crude for my taste.”
“What would you like to do, once you’re off work?” Gramin asks, “I’ll leave the choice up to you.”
“I know a lovely little place, right around the corner from here,” Astridir replies, “The wine is good. The ale is better. The food isn’t dwarven, but it’s decent. It’s usually quiet, and the service is always good. Maybe we could just sit and talk for a while. I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Fair enough,” Gramin nods. Horvath comes back, “I was able to cancel all but two of the messages. I told those two that her parents have been found. If they come here looking, I’ll just tell them I spoke to her father. They don’t need to know anything else.”
“My thanks,” Gramin nods, “I have another favor to ask you. Would you mind if I whisk Astridir here off to dinner and a nice long chat?”
“Not at all,” Horvath says, “I trust you’ll have her home at a reasonable hour?”
“Of course,” Gramin nods, “Just tell me what you consider reasonable.”
“Before midnight,” Horvath replies, “She’s old enough to be out a bit late, but nothing good ever happens after midnight.”
“That’s more than fair,” Gramin agrees. “Lovely Astridir, let’s go see this place so I can see what you like about it so much.”
Horvath locks up after Astridir and Gramin leave.
“Gods above,” he mutters, “Terrified of your own family. They must have been horrible if the girl’s mother asked a bunch of dwarves to all take her to raise. I wonder if that explains what happened to her mother. What rotten luck for a child to be born into that mess.”
Horvath considers for a moment, “I don’t know that he said who she was or even from what House.”
As Horvath considers the conversation with Gramin, he realizes that Gramin has hinted that she’s the girl he remembers.
“What’s this about the clan vault?” Emlyn looks at Loket, “What exactly do you have in mind?”
“I think you need a bit of a boost to repair some of the damage that’s been done to you. We’ve got an artifact in the clan vault here in Harito that will do the trick, but no one’s allowed to take it out of the vault. We’ll have to haul in some cots and chamber pots so you can spend a few nights in the vault wearing it. When you heal without eating, your body starts to break down its own tissues. I think that’s why you’re so hungry and not getting any stronger. I’ve watched you eat, and Atres is right, you’re a bottomless pit.”
“I have been getting stronger,” Emlyn says, “It’s just slow.”
“I know Benger mentioned that based on what Kethas has been feeding her, he felt like the Temple was under-feeding her.”
“That only makes it worse,” Loket grimaces, “No wonder it took so long for them to heal you. All the bits that had to be regenerated had to come from somewhere. Magic, on its own, only does so much. It needs some base materials to work with, and if I understand the state you were in, you didn’t have any left. Everything was burnt and shredded.”
“You can ask Garmer about it when he’s back,” Emlyn frowns, “He was on gate duty when the Goddess showed up with me. I didn’t have two thumbs of skin anywhere. They thought they might have to regenerate some manly bits because they couldn’t tell if I was male or female. He said I was like a burnt roast and so shredded inside that even the repeated resurrections weren’t doing much to help.”
“How many times were you resurrected?” Loket asks.
“I don’t know,” Emlyn shrugs, “I don’t think anyone was counting. They probably should have been, since it’s probably some kind of a record. Benger says that they had priests and clerics around my bed in shifts, chanting almost constantly.”
“We’ll get it all sorted out,” Loket nods, “I’ll have a chat with Benger.”
“Why did Gramin go see Astridir?” Atres asks.
“See, there you go again, asking another good question,” Loket grins, “We ran into Astridir at the jewelry store, and she was flirting with him. It’s long past time for Gramin to settle down. Astridir’s also Clan Grim Beard. They keep a forge hold in the same place where Girlie is from. If you want metal ore, they’re one of the few sources for some of the best quality. We’ll see if that works out or not. Gramin’s been difficult to get married off. To quote Gendini, ‘Even Vorlig has a wife even though Umir knows how since he’d actually have to talk to a woman to court her’. My opinion is that Narieni courted Vorlig, but don’t tell him I said that. Astridir had to make the first move with Gramin. She tweaked his beard when we were at the store.”
“Really?” Emlyn grins, “That’s almost as forward as someone else I know.”
Loket raises an eyebrow and looks at Atres. “See here, boyo,” Loket says with a gleam in his eye, “You’ve got a nice gauntlet to run with four dwarven fathers.”
“Hrmph!” Atres shrugs, “You may as well join the list. I have six of Benger’s brothers, Benger’s Da, Benger’s Mama, all eight of her cohort, Ember, the Temple Weapon’s masters, and probably the Temple smiths, too. If I were foolish enough to do anything stupid, you might have to take a number and wait your turn to get a slice of me with that axe. That’s assuming that there’s enough left by the time someone calls your number.” Atres grins at Loket, “There are only two ways out of this for me. I either win my prize or you’re all too busy fighting over who gets my hide, and I manage to get away.”
“That about sums it up,” Loket laughs.
“I’m set on winning the prize,” Atres says with a look that makes Emlyn blush again, “I have plans for those little pink ears.”
Atres grins at her blush, “Let’s go get you some dinner. I’m certain that everyone would like to sit and catch up for a bit. We’ll go see Argonath tomorrow and poke around the armory some more.”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The group returns to the inn, and Kethas has dinner ready, so they sit down, eat, and talk.
“How’s the uniform?” Vorlig asks Loket.
Loket palms his face, “She’s covered from her neck to her toes, and I still don’t want to see a daughter of mine wearing that in public. Otrin’s not going to like it any better than I do when he sees it. I’m certain that Gramin’s going to have a few things to say. You might even have a few things to say about it. She’s right about having to punch some people if they make her wear that. She thinks that she should show up to the King’s Guard in it and let the chaos ensue. Maybe if Argonath has to deal with it first-hand, he’ll understand why she’s resisting.”
“I don’t think he realizes the dynamics in play,” Kethas says, “The King’s Guard has been all male for a very long time. Lots of them aren’t going to appreciate having a woman around. Brarazo told me what you said, and I can’t say I fault you. Maybe having her show up in it and let him see the fallout firsthand is the best way to drive that point home.”
“He certainly doesn’t account for all the ones like Rirdec that I’ll have to deal with,” Emlyn grumbles, “I went through this when I went to the conclave. If I’d had a different grandfather, it would have been even worse.”
“How bad was it?” Atres asks.
“The one saving grace that I had was that I was so young at the conclave, most were afraid of putting their hands on me,” Emlyn explains, “The slightest accusation would have been disastrous for them with me being as young as I was at the time. It took two years and my becoming Second Awst to make most of it stop. Even then, it didn’t stop completely. Elgan’s personal guards were living in fear of the day I displaced him. That’s among the Cymry, where they’re used to seeing women fight.”
“And here?” Loket asks.
“Here in Harito,” Emlyn grimaces, “I’m a novelty. Women here don’t fight. My order has two other female paladins, and both of them are from outside Tassatung. Both of them transferred in after some unpleasant events involving their local population at other Temples. It’s not just Harito or even Tassatung. It’s this whole part of the world. I offered to train them, but I think they’re both getting ready to renounce their vocation and become clerics. Since our clerics do a lot of healing, that’s seen as more acceptable, and there are more women in those ranks.”
“What happened with Elgan’s bodyguards?” Loket asks, “I don’t think I heard about this.”
“They snuck into the showers while I was bathing,” Emlyn growls, “They found out the hard way that smite and some of my other paladin abilities work quite well on jackasses.”
Walking through the corridors to see the artificers, Otrin stops as a rumbling boom sound, felt more than heard through the stone of the Taig, fills the air. As he walks along, another boom rolls through the stone. Frowning, Otrin walks a bit faster until he comes to a door. There’s now a cadence to the booms that makes it sound like something very, very large is running.
He bangs on the door, and a voice on the other side yells back, “Give us a minute.”
A few minutes later, there’s an incredible boom, followed by a massive thud, and a cloud of dust rolls under the door.
He can hear voices shouting, “It’s down,” and “All clear.”
Otrin hears the locks turn, and a young woman opens the door, adorned with rings, hooks, and loops all over her armor that seem to be designed for attaching and removing equipment.
Salmra grins at Otrin, “Sorry for the wait, but it wouldn’t do to let one of the Clan Fathers get stepped on by a runaway construct. It’s down now, so it should be safe enough.”
Carved directly into the heart of the mountain, the artificer’s workshop pulses with a low, rhythmic hum. The sound of machinery and rune engines beats like a slow, steady mechanical heartbeat. The chamber is vast yet enclosed, with layered, reinforced stone and enchanted bronze ribs forming an arch that resembles the inside of a mechanical beast’s ribcage. At the center of the workshop stands a massive, rune-inlaid worktable made of dark basalt. Its surface bears scars from years of engraving, welding, alchemical burns, and gear marks. Tiny clockwork limbs, half-assembled constructs, and delicate schematics clutter the surface, protected on one end by a mechanical spider with a blinking crystal eye.
Walls bristle with tool racks: racks of gold-inlaid hammers, bristle-thin etching needles, tiny arc-lathes powered by fire runes, and gemstone clamps designed for micron-precise adjustments. Gears the size of cart wheels lean against the corners, engraved with clan glyphs and power markings. Copper tubing snakes along the walls and ceiling in a labyrinth of pressure feeds, steam vents, and flickering rune conduits. Other tubes glow red-hot, filled with molten rock.
On a raised platform, a crystal lattice glows softly beneath a reinforced dome. It’s part forge, part focus, and used for imbuing objects with magical resonance. Another alcove houses the automaton archives, where constructs stand still like statues, their masks polished, arms folded over their chests as if they were dreaming of purpose. Rows of shelves overflow with parts, gilded cogs, iridescent wires, ingots of alchemical metals like frost-iron and quicksilver-brass, each in its labeled niche. At the back, a furnace breathes quietly, its intake shaped like a lion’s maw, enchanted to burn hotter than dragon fire.
The air feels warm, metallic, and faintly scented with oil and ozone. The only sounds are the soft ticking of calibration totems and the occasional whirr of something adjusting itself in the shadows. This is not a place of chaos. It is ordered complexity, with every invention reflecting the mind that created it: meticulous, rooted in tradition, and fiercely alive.
Otrin steps inside and sees a massive construct being hauled back to its feet by an even larger crane.
“It’ll be fine once we work out the control issues,” Salmra assures him, “Let me make you a cup of tea while the others are wrapping up.”
Salmra leads him to the dining area and returns with the promised mug, and Otrin sips as the rest of the artificers scramble about the construct, securing it. With the construct secured, the group wanders over to see what’s brought Otrin to their door.
“My forge-daughter is tasked with dealing with something we think is a Fey,” Otrin begins, “and I wanted to know if you might have some ideas about how to do that.”
Otrin goes on to describe the situation with Divaros. Skoril, the grizzled veteran of many strange requests, grows thoughtful.
“Hmmm… possibly a Fey, you say,” Skoril says thoughtfully, “Normally, you just banish them and that solves the problem. This sounds more like a territorial encroachment of some kind. If the Fey is native to the area, banishment won’t work since banishment just returns them to wherever they’re from. It’s probably easier to move the village.”
“If you want the girls back,” Nurag shrugs, “banishment won’t be much help for that either. Maybe we figure out something, it might be willing to take in trade for the girls instead?”
“We’ll need to do some research,” Skoril says, “We’ll need to find out what kinds of things might entice a Fey to give them up. We’ll need to determine if this thing is native or not. If it’s not, banishment will be sufficient to get it to go away. As for something to get her back, if it takes her, that should be simple enough. Any of her Temple’s mages should be able to place a recall spell on her. We might have a thing or two in storage that would bring her here to the Taig. I’ll see if we can locate them.”
“My forge-daughter mentioned blood-runes and an old story about using up the Fey’s magic to make it disappear,” Otrin says.
“We can look into those things,” Skoril agrees, “As for something to say what it is exactly, that’s a bit more difficult since there are so many kinds of Fey and the higher-ranking Fey can create new ones, more or less, by wishing them into existence. Not all can shapeshift or morph, and fewer still would be capable of assuming the shape of a dragon. If we were to limit it to those, it might be possible to create something that identifies the thing, but testing it to ensure it works properly would be problematic. I’d be hesitant to send that into the field and place it in the hands of someone who would be depending on it. It might be better for us to just give you the list of Fey creatures we suspect, with some notes on how to distinguish between them. Keep in mind that Fey come in many variations, so it’s possible that any list we can create might not be exhaustive.”
Grinning, Odoki elbows Salmra, “Looks like we’ll be spending some time doing research.”
With a smirk, Skoril nods, “That you will. I think if we approach this from the outcomes you’re looking for, we might be more likely to have something useful for her. I believe the village will have to be relocated. Getting the humans away from it permanently will likely be part of the solution.”
“Let me know when you have something,” Otrin nods, “You may have to send word via the Clan Bank in Harito. I’m going back there. Gods… She needs to have people around her, and she can’t leave Harito right now.”
“I’ve been hearing some interesting rumors about the Culling,” Skoril says, “Gold isn’t the only way to pay us. Information is another. I know it’s probably a touchy subject, but we’d like to talk to her, if she’s willing. If she’s not, we understand.”
“I’ll ask her,” Otrin says, “I don’t know if she’ll want to or not. It was… horrific for her. She found her entire family abused by her former comrades. She’s still grappling with all of it. For the rest of us, it was a horrible event that happened a long time ago. For her, it’s recent.”
“How recent?” Skoril asks with a frown.
“She says that last winter she was hiding in the wilderness with her friends raiding supply caravans,” Otrin grimaces.
“How is that possible?” Odoki asks, “That means almost no time has passed for her.”
“Their god captured her and her friends,” Otrin says, “She doesn’t look any older either.”
“If he held them for that long,” Skoril says, shaking his head, “it can’t have been pleasant for them. We’ll understand if it’s too touchy to talk about. You get gods involved in something, and there’s no rhyme or reason to much of anything. Gods are powerful enough to alter reality in surprising ways, simply through an act of will. She’s lucky she’s still in one piece, even if that piece is a bit tattered. The Tigani, the ones most call Tinker-Folk, refuse to worship any god and fear all of them. That’s not without good reason. The Culling is just one more example of what even the quote good unquote gods are capable of. Our archives are littered with accounts of people and families whose gods wiped them out. The Cymry were hardly the first and unlikely to be the last.”
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Current Count: 45 "Protective Vows" and 2 "Molten Gazes".
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Observation: "Atres is laying it on thick today. He’s promising to take Nia to 'Dotara' to meet his father. That’s the oldest trick in the book! 'Meet the family' is basically just code for 'I’m never letting you leave.' He also has 'plans for those little pink ears'. If he thinks a few whispers are going to win her over, he’s forgotten that I can reach a high C while simultaneously juggling three daggers. Your move, King’s Guard.
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Official Entry: Request for relocation of one Paladin to the Harito Clan Vault; logistical support includes one cot and one chamber pot.
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Boltir’s Correction: "REJECTED. A legend does not sleep on a 'cot.' She should be resting on a pile of dragon-silk cushions while a skald (me) provides a 24-hour soundtrack of heroic deeds! Also, I’ve added a line to the inventory for 'One barrel of superior Ironhills ale'. Healing requires hydration, and water is for people who don't have good songs to sing."
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Current Jar Total: 285 coppers, a chunk of glowing lichen, and a "Cymry-to-Dwarven" phrasebook.
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Boltir’s Plea: "Did you hear that? Gramin is actually taking Astridir to a quiet place to 'chat'! The world is ending, kin. If a stoic like Gramin can find a date, there’s hope for everyone—except maybe Atres, if I have anything to say about it. Toss a coin in the jar! I’m saving up for a 'Scroll of Invisibility' so I can sneak into that Clan Vault and make sure Atres isn't taking advantage of the 'private' atmosphere. Leave a review if you think Nia should use the vault time to practice her wall-running instead of just 'lounging and eating'!"
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