“I don’t know either,” Master Lokrag replies, “I can try testing some of the things you’ve said to see if I can figure out the rest. You’re right. It’s not as much detail as I was hoping for, but it’s more detail than I had without asking you.” Looking at the pieces she’s picked out, he adds, “I can make these in your size, but if I understand you correctly, you’d like them to be done in better steel than we have currently.”
“If you’re going to go to all the trouble of beating out that much metal,” Emlyn shrugs, “It seems like you ought to use metal that’s worth the effort. I’ve staffed the trip hammer a time or two. I know what a hot, sweaty job it is, even with the water wheel running the hammer. It appears that here, you pound everything out by hand. With the big river here, I’m surprised you don’t have a water hammer. It seems to run fast enough to drive one.”
Master Lokrag gives her an appraising look, “I don’t suppose you’d know how to build one.”
“I’ve never tried,” Emlyn says, “but I have been through my family’s often enough, replacing wooden teeth on the cogs or changing belts. If you’ve got someone who knows how to build sawmills or grist mills, between the two of us, we can probably figure it out. The biggest difference is the hammer mechanism. Instead of a saw that spins upright, or the mill that spins flat, the hammer goes up and then drops. If you can forge bronze, we always used bronze for the bearings and shaft collars, the flywheels, and the springs, but we always used iron for the hammer head and the anvil. We had a special blend for the bronze that we used too. There was this strange, flaky, green copper ore that we used for it, and it was supposed to make the bronze stronger.”
“Ember, I know she’s not here to be a smith,” Master Lokrag sighs, “but I might need to consult with her. Can I have some of her time?”
“If it gets me out of some of the catechisms,” Emlyn says brightly, “then count me in.”
Ember arches a brow at her, “I’ve heard all about you and how you terrorized the priests. Vanya couldn’t stop giggling.”
“If they hadn’t belabored the minute details of every single convocation that this faith has ever had, I’d be done with all this by now. Just teach me what they decided. I don’t need to memorize the location, the date, who attended, and what stance they took on the issue,” Emlyn shrugs. “When I balked at the necessity of it, some of them were a bit insulting. I’m not slow and my wits are not addled, although I can’t vouch for all the priests on that score. By the Goddess, I’m a paladin, not a priest. Either I heal it, bless it, mark it, or kill it. I also don’t know why they bothered wrapping sound military tactics in a whopping load of theology. They got quite testy with me when I pointed that out. At this point, I know far more theology than they know of military theory, but they still kept insisting that I had no idea what I was saying. That’s when I decided enough was enough and started turning the tables on the inflated gasbags. They’d do things I didn’t like, so I’d do things they didn’t like. It did get them to move through the material quite a bit faster.”
Master Lokrag stifles a snort of laughter as Ember frowns at her.
Master Lokrag pats her on the shoulder and grins, “It would be my honor to make you a suit of armor worthy of you.”
Turning to him, Emlyn bows formally, “It would be my honor to wear it."
“My Goddess, the girl would ask a favor of you,” Gethin prays, “It seems that some of the Renunciates died godless and she wishes you to offer them sanctuary and to tell them that her attempt succeeded.”
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Before Gethin can continue, the Goddess half-materializes in his office, “What’s this about more Renunciates?"
“It seems that three of her friends died without a deity to shepherd them into an afterlife. She is asking if you can find them and offer them safety.”
“Did she give you their names?”
“Yes,” Gethin sighs heavily, “I knew all their families. Dian ferch Aled ap Tathal, Midirr ferch Mabon ap Idris, and Gwladus ferch Bowen ap Kenn. She begs that if you find them that you tell them that she was successful and that it was not in vain.”
“I take it that, like her, their families were also slaughtered,” the Goddess nods, “and so no family to see to the death rites, either. Tell her that if I can find them and they will accept me, I will welcome them. She’s been here for some time. I’d best start looking right away.” Without waiting for an answer, the Goddess winks out of her half-existence.
“I think,” Gethin says slowly, eyeing Ember, “that this girl wants the Goddess to safeguard them so that she can try to find a way to resurrect them and rebuild her House.”
“Doesn’t she know what a fool’s errand that is? It’s impossible,” Ember growls in frustration.
Gethin laughs heartily at Ember’s look. “Come now, Ember,” Gethin says, still chuckling, “Look at who you’re talking about here. Is rebuilding her House any more impossible than many of the things she’s already done? Is it more impossible than battling her way to Second Awst before she’s even of age? Or more impossible than raising the status of her entire House before her family is even ready to consider marrying her off? Or finding a way to get herself onto the Soul’s Path to free herself from Rigan? Or facing off, just the four of them, against entire armies at Lake Nwdir, Tir Diffaith, or the Valley of the Statues and winning? Or even daring to fight against and kill a god? Everything this girl has done has been, quote, impossible, unquote. I wouldn’t use that word with her. If she truly wants it, she’ll find a way to do it. If I were you, old friend, I’d make sure that I don’t place myself in the path of that juggernaut. Her grandfather was right; she is remarkable. Perhaps one of the most remarkable in a great many generations.”
Morrighu returns to her palace in Moyatura, the plane where this pantheon makes its home. Her palace rises from the mists of the god-realm like a fortress carved from storm clouds and shadowed prophecy. Part temple and part fortress, it crowns a vast hill of wind-swept stone in the god-realm, where twilight skies stretch endlessly and flocks of ravens wheel like stars in graceful, silent arcs. Built of onyx and white marble veined with crimson, the structure rises in graceful tiers. Here, the echoes of ages past hum faintly through the stones, not as warnings, but as reminders of courage, sacrifice, and the quiet dignity of those who faced battle with honor.
The great gates are flanked by carved guardians in the shape of ravens, her sacred bird. Their eyes spark with divine fire, ever watchful. Within, high-vaulted halls are lit by braziers of silver flame and skylights that pour down starlight from above. The air is cool and solemn, carrying the scent of myrrh, iron, and wild heather. Tapestries line the walls—depictions of significant battles, oaths fulfilled, and figures standing resolute in the face of destiny.
At the heart of it all, Morrighu’s throne rests on a platform of polished stone and feather-carved columns. Behind it flows a great silken canopy, embroidered with threads that shimmer like raven feathers in flight. Her court is quiet but alive. It is filled with the rustle of wings, the clink of ceremonial arms, and the soft chants of those who serve not out of fear, but out of deep, abiding devotion. This is a place of strength, yes—but also of peace earned through struggle, and remembrance without regret. Servants in raven-feathered robes glide silently through the corridors, and ravens perch in the arches, bearing whispers from other realms.
Clapping her hands, Morrighu calls for her servants. She sends them, along with gifts and offerings, and messages to all the deities with whom she’s on friendly terms, asking for their assistance in finding some lost souls.
While she’s busy attempting to scry their locations, Nuada arrives. “What’s this about some lost souls?” he asks her.
“I have been petitioned by one of my followers,” Morrighu shrugs, “to attempt to find them and offer them sanctuary since they died godless and without family to take care of the proper funeral rites.”
“Would this follower who petitioned you to locate these lost sheep just happen to be that girl you’ve taken such an interest in?” Nuada chuckles, “I can’t imagine why you’re so enamored of a mortal girl.”
Lugh arrives in time to catch the end of the conversation. “Girl, eh?” Lugh laughs, “Oh, I think I know the one. Fearless and just as fiery as her hair, yes? One of the Renunciates who managed to free themselves from that lunatic. Wasn’t she the one who killed that nutter? If she’s the right one, then I may have a couple of the ones you’re looking for hanging about. I haven’t been able to persuade them to pass through. They’re afraid he will be waiting for them. I’m fairly certain that one of them said something about not wanting to run into that jackass a third time. I can’t think of anyone else who would say that other than a Renunciate.”
“How do you know this girl?” Nuada frowns.
“That dolt told them that they would not be free of him until they walked the Soul’s Path,” Lugh grins, “So they figured out how to get themselves on it and walk it. Since they weren’t dead when they entered my court the first time, I sent them all back.”
Chapter Highlights
- Ember learns exactly how dangerous, influential, and high ranking Emlyn was back home—third?highest general of an entire nation.
- Cymry marriage structures (Ban Tighe, Ban Raieth, Ban Gwyr, Ban Chiele) are revealed in all their complex, political reality.
- Gethin flatly states Emlyn could have taken the king’s throne if she’d wanted.
- Ember realizes she raised her siblings like a general raising an elite strike team.
- Ember files Ulwin’s reassignment papers (Boltir screams into a pillow).
- Emlyn gets evaluated for new armor, with Ember personally escorting her to the armory.
- Emlyn explains annual trials again, this time in greater detail—everyone fights, every winter, and status is EVERYTHING.
- Emlyn shows exactly how long she’s worn armor (since six winters old!) and why she knows precisely what she wants.
Boltir’s Tip Jar
Previous Total: 367 coppers
Added: +9 coppers (for lore density, marital chaos, and smithy anticipation)
New Total: 376 coppers
Random Object:
A small wax mock?up of an armor plate—one Emlyn might use to illustrate what she wants.
Snips the Crab:
Snips appears wearing:
- A tiny scrap of leather armor
- A walnut shell helmet
- A quill strapped to one claw (to “help” with paperwork—Boltir screams)
He refuses to remove the quill. He claims it is “symbolic.”
the Discord via this invite link. If it doesn't work, DM me for a new one.
What do you think of the pacing so far?