View Full Version : The Midnight Visitor (solo)
In the interest of collating extant Corone lore, other threads have been linked to from here for places, people and events appearing or referred to in this quest:
Rurin: Gaolhouse Rock (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25156-Gaolhouse-Rock-%28closed%29), Marten/Kat/Emric/Willow Lane/Smiters Row: Cleaning Out the Clinker (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25087-Cleaning-Out-the-Clinker-%28solo%29), Moody's Ale Cellar: Several threads including Living As Ghosts (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25028-Living-As-Ghosts&p=203821&viewfull=1#post203821) and A Match Made In Hell (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?25182-A-Match-Made-In-Hell&p=205377&viewfull=1#post205377)
If Otto had known about the forge facilities at the Radasanth garrison earlier, he might just have volunteered himself for service rather than wait to be conscripted. This place was leagues ahead compared to Marten's workshop: there was one smaller hearth opposite the entrance with two anvils and slack tubs nearby, and a larger drop forge with a mighty hammer mechanism up against the north wall. The machinery piped in water from the Nieme to a large reservoir by the building, transporting the water uphill by a series of small windmills. The one thing that Otto did miss were the commissions. The bulk of his work here was in the form of making repairs or otherwise mass-producing serviceable, but basic, arms and armour. Marten had regularly received orders for the sorts of exquisite wares that Otto and his fellows here rarely had the time to craft - items that were a true test of a smith's skill and ability. Otto was worried that the finer edge of his talents were beginning to rust as a result of the relentless stream of undemanding work.
Without taking his eyes from the glowing steel he had pressed against the hot chisel, he reached sideways to a bench for the hammer with which to strike it. After waving his hand fruitlessly across the rough surface a couple of times, he looked away from the workpiece to where the hammer had been. Otto reflected on the other thing he had started to become worried about while he frowned at the empty table top: the last couple of evenings that he'd worked his mind seemed to have developed a penchant for playing tricks on him... an hour or two into a shift would see him begin to forget where he had put things down, only to find them again in strange and unlikely places. He'd largely dismissed the possibility that his fellows were pranking him; Otto would have smelled if anyone else was in the forge, and he had only sensed the the rich tang of iron. It lay so thick upon the air you could bend it around the anvil's horn and shoe a horse with the result.
He put the half-forged sword back in the flames while he looked around for the tool, and found it right there resting on the lip of the hearth. Careless, he scolded himself. Heat the hammer up and you might just bash it into a new shape along with the workpiece - and even a minor deformation to the head would leave its mark on any metal it was used on. Thankful of his heavy gloves, he hung it back on the tool rack and selected another, noting the slightly charred handle of the first. He rushed back to the hearth and pulled out the workpiece; it had turned the lovely deep yellow colour of iron sitting on the brink, but not quite passing over, of being too hot to effectively shape. There was a bit too much metal in it for the short arming sword it was destined to be, though, so Otto used the hot chisel in the hardy hole to take a few inches off. Then sparks arced out into the forge's gloom to the rhythmic cadence of the hammer, and the hours passed by unheeded in the night. Inside the building there was a certain timeless quality; like it sat, with its steady fire, within a little pocket of time wedged between the seconds and separated from the rest of the universe. Otto had long ago come to enjoy these moments of sanctuary from the busy world.
Sadly, it never lasted.
As much as Otto tried, the body keeps its own meticulous clock and was making him acutely aware of the tiredness burgeoning in his arms with the last few hammer strikes. The blade was finished and out of the way now, which made way for the next job. His eyes settled on a pile of junk spread out on a large table in the corner. Unhooking a lantern from the wall, he brought it over and observed the bric-a-brac strewn over the wood: a couple of old mail shirts, a kettle helm, the top of a halberd, several rusty swords and an axe, as well as a few items which seemed more out of place like a door knob, some lengths of chain, several pieces of cutlery and what appeared to be an old trowel. Some would just need a quick fix, others would have to be melted down... but that would have to wait. There were drills scheduled in the morning and he had a free afternoon, part of which he'd planned spend paying Marten and Kat a visit. A greater priority than sifting through junk right now was getting a decent night's rest to prepare him for tomorrow, so instead Otto removed his protective gear, blew out the lantern and, twirling the hammer idly in his hand, went to return it back to its place - which is when he saw it.
The first hammer was gone.
Otto turned around very slowly and saw, basking in the heat of the forge, the other hammer lying atop one of the anvils. He looked around and even sniffed the air, but the room seemed to be as empty as ever. He returned his current tool to its place but forwent doing so for the other, and nor did he stifle the fire smouldering in the hearth before he left. Something primal inside was screaming for him not to get caught in the dark, and without taking his eyes off of the inexplicably mobile hammer, he sidled up to and out the door of the forge. The heavy wood was almost rammed shut and the Orc leaned against it in while he gathered his thoughts; these, once done, concluded that he should pop in during the day and ask the other smiths if something similar was happening to them, and definitely not go running to a senior officer. They tended to take a rather dim view of things like junior personnel bothering them with complaints about pranks; they'd either ignore him completely or make sure the ensuing eruption of disciplinary action landed on everyone involved, less to actually punish the guilty parties and more so that no one ever brought something so trivial to their attention again.
Two soldiers on patrol rounded the corner of the forge and came to a halt by Otto. The Orc stood to attention and saluted the senior guard, a corporal, who returned it.
"Everything alright, soldier?" the woman asked in a deep, rough voice.
"Yes ma'am," replied Otto. "Just retiring for the night, ma'am."
"Better hop to it then, man. Dismissed."
"Yes ma'am."
They resumed their stride, and Otto made his way to the barrack's dormitory. However curious the night's events had made him, the little clock inside had long been striking the hour of sleep; but a few minutes after laying head on to pillow and Otto was dead to the world.
Twice around the garrison, back and forth besides the river and, to cap it all off, up an down the mighty stairs of the Citadel they jogged. Otto was breathing hard by the time his platoon made it back to the fortress courtyard, which seemed considerably better than some of the choked wheezing that was going on around him. They were granted a minute to recoup themselves, which Otto used to take a swig from his canteen and warm up his arms a little before the lieutenant launched them into a sparring regimen. Otto was able to bull rush his first partner down in the first few seconds despite his continuing awkwardness with the wooden practice swords, but met his match in the next round and was swiftly bested by the superior swordplay of the following few opponents. In a surprising turn of events though he did manage to come out on top a couple of times when the rounds changed to two-against-one matches, but his performance in the three-on-one which concluded the morning's exercise was somewhat less remarkable.
Otto struggled out of the dust back on to his own two feet as the lieutenant dismissed the platoon. The world seemed to have become a lot darker all of a sudden, but he did his best to form rank and salute in the general direction of the officer along with the others. Now at ease, he carefully felt around the shape of his deformed sallet in an attempt to find the best way to force it off of his head.
"Need a hand there?"
Otto nodded mutely and Rurin - the one who had landed the iron-twisting blow that had decided the match - stepped behind him. An extra pair of hands wrapped around the helm, and between the two of them it came off with some reluctance. Sunlight poured in once more, revealing to Otto a mighty dent which marred the front of the visor. He tried to swing it up a couple of times without much conviction; just as he'd suspected, the metal was stuck stubbornly in place.
"Sorry about that, Bastard."
When Otto had first joined, an uncharacteristically scholarly recruit from his squad took note of the significance of his surname: thus Otto's informal designation had been born. He was by no means the only one to have such a thing happen to him; the higher-ups weren't the only ones keen on testing soldiers and the Orc knew others who were referred to as Brick, Short-Arse, and Pinprick. This had never bothered Otto even at the start since he was more than used to such things, and these days it was said almost exclusively as a sign of camaraderie. Also, it could have been worse - with a word that used to mean 'saddle', he reckoned he'd come out on top when they missed the opportunity to name him something at the bottom, as it were, of a rider.
"Don't worry about it, Goldilocks," Rurin's own moniker had been derived from the straw-blonde colour of her long hair. Apart from his respect for Rurin's talent as a fighter, she was a naturally amiable person who had always gotten along with the Orc, and as such he always tried to keep up the rapport between them. Rurin took off her own bascinet, brushing the pale locks from her face. Otto had always wondered how she got away with keeping her hair so long.
"Wenkins and a few others were thinking of hitting up the Stoat and Badger this afternoon," she said. "Fancy coming along for a pint or two?"
Otto shook his head. "Sorry. I promised the family I would go visit them before my shift this evening."
"Well, we'll be there if you have time to pop in for a drink. Otherwise I'll see you in the morning, Bastard."
"Mind your hangover. Don't drink too much... or too little."
This elicited a snort from the woman, and they parted ways. Otto visited the dorm and put his armour and weapons away; as personal belongings he was able to keep them in his footlocker rather than return them to the armoury. From the chest he then took out his smithing gear and loaded this in to his knapsack while also deciding, after some thought, to keep his war hammer on his person. Last of all he clipped a small badge with the CAF insignia above his breast. He always received a little more respect when people were aware that he was part of the military, and it would also be crucial in case he needed to identify himself as a soldier in the Corone Armed Forces. With that, Otto judged that he had gathered everything he needed, and set off for the streets of Radasanth.
The commotion on Radasanth's streets was reaching full swing by the time Otto started to make his way over to Smiters Row. It was almost lunch, and many of the folk out and about were setting a brisk pace so they could finish off their errands as soon as possible before stopping for a meal. Otto weaved between couriers, shoppers, wagons, horses and other beasts of burden upon the sunlit streets. A few winding wisps of cloud marked the sky above, tumbling lazily along their way. The breeze was coming in cool and refreshing from the west, picking up the smells of the city as it was funneled through the streets: fish from the wharfs, blood from the abattoirs, fruits from the vendors, and dung from the pavement. The trademarks of civilisation.
He made sure to pass through Willow Lane on the way, where he visited a couple of stalls. His first purchase was for a mixed cut of cold meats, followed by a growler procured through the back door of a tavern, and finally, a small bouquet of pink and white rhododendrons. The whole way from that last stall to the Row, Otto couldn't keep a broad grin from curling his lips - the look on the woman's face as she handed the paper-wrapped flowers over to the burly, unshaven Orc was something that would stay with him to the grave.
As Otto progressed through the city, the smells changed as well. The rich aromas of the little market that had continually - and almost painfully - prodded to the front his mind the time since he had last eaten, faded away. In their place were the pervasive scents of the craftsman's trades: fresh cut timber, glue, paint, varnish, tanning hides... and iron. The familiar cobbles of Smiters Row came in to sight, and there, the old plank fence marking Marten's yard. The gate was open so Otto slipped inside and made his way towards the squat forge opposite the entrance where, judging by the sound of it, Marten or Emric were plying their trade. Otto peaked in through the doorway and saw Marten, back to the Orc, drop a clay-coated longsword into slack tub. The oil in the tub roared with the heat from the glowing steel while Otto knocked loudly on the door, and Marten turned around, one hand removing the thick earmuffs clamped onto his skull. A large smile appeared on the old man's face as he strode forward and the two embraced.
"Hullo, lad!" Marten greeted his foster son. "Come inside. Kat's laid out the table already, though" - he eyed Otto's recent acquisitions - "I'm sure there's room for more."
They both left the forge and stepped through the house to the kitchen, where Katarina was buttering some thin slices of bread. She looked up as they entered and her own countenance grew to mirror her husband's smile. She and Otto also gave each other a hug, and then he proffered the bouquet. Kat's smile widened as she took them and Otto laid the other two items on the table.
"Oh, they're lovely! I'll just get something for these," Kat said, bustling over to a cupboard. "Thank you so much, Otto."
While Kat fashioned an impromptu vase out of a milk jug and filled it with some water originating from the pump outside, Otto and Marten took a seat each at the central table. They washed their hands from a bowl of scented water and Otto poured out three tankards of ale from the growler. Marten helped himself to some of the meats Otto had brought as well as the spread Kat had laid out for them: bread, butter, cheese, pickled onions and gherkins, anchovies, fresh collard greens, and some sliced fruit from the nearby orchards for afters. Meanwhile Kat positioned the flowers under the kitchen window and took a seat next to Marten.
They talked for an hour or so over lunch; Otto was not a great writer so his letters were few and far between, meaning these rare occasions were the only real times that he was able to catch up with his adoptive guardians. So they talked about Otto's duties and the peculiar things he had seen on patrol, how Kat's students were progressing, and the types of orders Marten was receiving these days for the forge. They also touched upon the subject of Emric - notably absent from the reunion, apparently he was picking up more and more of the advanced commissions that were coming through these days. Soon enough, the boy would be ready to take over from his father.
The sunlight coming through the window had lost a touch of its intensity and the shadows had shifted significantly from their original positions when Otto first took note of Marten's unease.
"Have you had much work today?" he asked the man.
"Aye. Emric's been out much for much of the day, so it's been a struggle to keep up. To be honest I'd best be getting back. Sorry, lad."
Otto had originally intended to help Marten out for a bit, but as the afternoon drew on he started to think he might stop in at the Stoat and Badger on the way back in the hope that Rurin and the others were still there. Two things made his mind up for him in this matter though: first, his lingering loyalty to Marten, and secondly, the realisation that there was something he wanted to ask the old man.
"Why don't I stay and help out for a couple of hours, then?" Otto suggested. "I don't start my shift at the fort for some time yet, and I don't have anything else planned for this afternoon."
"They still got you on the graveyard shift?" Kat asked, to which Otto nodded.
"No one else wants them, and you know what happens to the jobs no one else wants..."
Marten drummed his fingers a couple of times on the table, like all of a sudden he didn't want to put Otto to the trouble - yet less than a year ago, he would have expected nothing less of the lad.
"To be honest I was hoping to do a bit here," Otto added, laying the icing a bit more thickly upon the cake. "Most of the work at the garrison is, frankly, dull stuff."
Marten gave a lightning-strike smile and said: "Alright then, Otto. I'd be grateful of the help."
"Glad to give it," replied the Orc, and then to Kat: "It was good to see you again. Pass my regards to Emric when you see him."
"Likewise, love. You take care of yourself, and we'll see you again soon enough."
They hugged once more and Otto left in Marten's wake while Kat began clearing away the crockery.
Marten reached his gloved hand into the depths of the slack tub and pulled the longsword out by its handle. Standing in awe of the craftsmanship, Otto watched as the clay was scraped off and the metal, glistening with oil, laid bare before the dancing light. It was a pattern-welded blade, the fuller alternating between deeply contrasting bands of light and dark steel while the double-edge was a more homogenous crucible steel that shimmered blue from tempering even in the sparse sunlight within the forge. Chevron bands made their way down to the hilt, along the cruciform crossguard and were fully resplendent in the round pommel. The blade was as much a work of art as it was a weapon, and in that moment Otto truly wished that he had mastered swordplay just to be worthy of wielding such a thing. Marten - observing the reverence scrawled all over Otto's face - proffered it hilt-first to the Orc. Large, almost fur-coated hands grasped it tentatively.
"Go on, lad. Give it a flex," Marten suggested. Otto cast a keen eye over the fine pattern that ran up and down its length.
"Dozen-fold?" Otto asked. Marten nodded, and the Orc took it over to a heavy vise which had been attached to a bench via two large iron spikes. With extreme care he tightened the clamps around the tip of the blade so the hilt pointed straight up to the ceiling and, taking it by the handle, bent it down so far that it lay horizontally before slowly bringing it back to a vertical alignment. The sword remained a straight as an arrow. He repeated by bending it the other way, and got the same result.
"You've yet to teach me that," the Orc concluded. Marten smiled and took the sword from the vise, resting it on a rack with some other finished blades. Then he ambled over towards the beginnings of a mighty undertaking. Otto followed close behind, taking in the various half-formed bits of carapace.
"Full plate armour? You have been busy."
"Aye. And I'm damned glad you offered to help. Come to think of it, you wouldn't mind popping a bit more often, would you?"
Otto had seen Marten work on a full suit of plate once before when the Orc had been too young to do much more than fetch tools. The fully finished, black-lacquered piece had stood by the forge in all its glory for a single day before it had been collected by the new owner. Every now and then he still dreamed of owning such a thing himself, but getting to work on one was a close second.
"I wouldn't mind much at all, I think."
"Good lad. I appreciate it."
They got to work; Otto would not have time to get much at all done on the suit - which could take weeks to complete - but he could certainly use the time to picture the final product. Marten ran through the critical points for him: the required dimensions, that it was to be fluted in style, and that the underlying gambeson was to have goussets rather than fit an entire mail hauberk beneath the suit. For a time while they worked Otto was able to absorb himself in the task... but within an hour found his curiosity about the goings-on at the garrison's forge niggling to the forefront of his mind. After ten minutes of trying out ways to broach the subject in his mind, he was grateful to Marten for doing it for him.
"You like damned tired, lad," the old man shouted above the din of their hammers. "You handling those late shifts alright?"
Otto turned an ornate pauldron over in his hands as he inspected the flawless curve of the metal, and a burst of pride filled his chest with warmth. "As well as can be," he replied. "I think I'm losing my edge. Keep on losing tools all over the place."
Marten nodded. "Used to get like that when Emric came along - Kat and I working two trades and caring for a couple of babes? I could tell 'ee a thing or two about sleepless nights."
"Hah. I don't doubt it. This seems a bit different though."
"Oh? How?"
Otto recounted the past few days, starting with the first few supposed instances of misplaced tools and finishing with the occurences of the previous night. Marten slowed his hands while he listened, stopping entirely once Otto mentioned that he hadn't been able to find anyone else in the room during these events. Otto realised he was hammering away in solitude, and looked up to see Marten fixing a long, hard stare on the former apprentice.
"You get anything new in the forge the day it started?" Marten asked.
"'New' might be a bit strong. We got a pile of scrap that we've yet to salvage. Most of it's quite old."
"Aye, that sounds about right. How about food?"
"Food?"
"You know. You eat it? Food," Marten elaborated, helpfully.
"I know - no, why would I take food in there? You don't think it's vermin, do you? That seems to be stretching it."
"No, not like that," Marten said dismissively. "Like... like an offering, I suppose."
There were a few drawn-out second while Otto connected the dots, then apprehension lit up his tusked face.
"House spirits? You think it's a ghost?"
Marten took the tone of incredulity in his stride. "Not house spirits per se, no," replied the man. "More... forge spirits. And don't you start laughing, it's happened before."
"What, some fellow in a pub told you, did he?"
Marten's visage darkened a little. "No, it was here. You were doing your letters with Kat, and in any case you can't have been more than eight by then. I'd just got an antique from the Bazaar and popped out to the yard for some more iron while Emric did the sweeping, but one of them bastards had made a home in it, hadn't he? So I come back just in time to see Emric about to jump into the hearth - the little sod had told the boy he could make him a better smith than I, but he had to 're-forge' the lad to do so. Or some rot. Take it from me, Otto, them buggers will do anything for a laugh. Don't you trust 'em."
Otto fell silent for a bit. He wracked his memory for something and came up with one of the many pictures he had of a young Emric bawling away as Marten led him firmly to his room, which was vague at best. "I didn't know," he said.
"And I didn't want you knowing," Marten snapped back. Then he relaxed a bit. "If I told you about it you'd have just gone looking for the blasted thing. I threw it down an old well in any case, so that's that. But it looks like one's found you now, so I'll tell you this..."
Marten picked his workpiece back up and laid it on the anvil, then raised his hammer high.
The hammer swung down once. "Don't leave out a gift, or you'll draw its gaze."
The hammer swung down twice. "If you do, don't leave out a hammer, or you'll offer it a task."
The hammer swung down thrice. "And if you do that, don't light the forge, or you'll invite it in."
The hammer swung down again - slightly harder than before. "Just find its home and cast it in the river. Rust is the bane of the demons of iron."
Otto didn't know what to say. Marten seemed to have finished, so they just resumed the work in near-silence until nearly an hour later when Otto had to leave. But before he left, after they'd exchanged farewells, the old man gave one last bit of advice. Otto paused in the doorway while the wizened figure stared into the flames and heard Marten's rough voice mumble something else.
"If you don't heed anything else, just remember one thing... they don't likes to be seen, either."
Otto nodded, but Marten wasn't watching him. He stepped out into the evening and was gone.
Amarson's Tipple is a moderately roasted, dry-hopped barley ale with a dark red body that denotes the vast amounts of malt used in its production. The only ingredients are water from the brewery's own well, Bradbury hops, and pristine malt derived from Yarborough barley and unadulterated by cheap alternative fruit-derived sugars. It is cold-fermented then cask-conditioned for three months before it is put up for sale; publicans generally buy the casks straight from Amarson's, though bottled ales are also available for purchase. Popular amongst drinkers who want to sacrifice a little more coin for the sake of quality, it is also identified as tender in Radasanth's informal barter system amongst a certain kind of person. All this may be considered relevant since a bottle full of the stuff was being thrust in front of Otto's bemused face.
"You got this for me?" he hazarded.
The other armourer, a violet-eyed half elf, beamed as he flourished the amber glass. "Can you believe Moody's Ale Cellar actually had a few bottles of the stuff on hand? Anyway, it's the least we could do to thank you."
Now this really threw the Orc. Otto frowned and peered over the half breed's shoulder to the inside of the garrison forge, unsure of what to expect. As far as he could tell things looked normal as ever, so he probably wasn't dreaming.
"Thanks, Orlannes... uh, what for, exactly?"
Orlannes raised an eyebrow and laughed nervously. "For getting half the work orders done by yourself last night?" he answered. "In all honesty, you took a hell of a load of our hands today, but don't burn yourself out, yeah? We just left the scrap pile for you to do tonight, something simple, so maybe just get that sorted and go have an early one. You must be exhausted - I can't imagine how much work those things must have taken."
Otto rubbed his face and gave the next response a bit more thought than its predecessors.
"Thank you. I appreciate it."
"Not a problem, my friend." Orlannes put the bottle down by the doorstep. "Alright then, we'll be off."
Orlannes and two others shuffled out the door while Otto donned the heavy protective gear of the trade. Then when he was sure that he was alone, he swore. First and least, he swore because if he'd known that he'd have a free night in the forge, he probably could have taken some work over from Marten's and spent his time on that. Secondly, he swore because he had expected to come back to a yelling for leaving the forge lit and untidied last night but had instead returned to this... praise for work which was definitely not his, and probably not that of anyone else in the garrison. Orlannes hadn't mentioned anything about the state of the forge, so Otto had to assume the fire had been stifled and tools returned by the time the smiths had got in that morning.
He occupied himself with some trivial tasks to begin with while the daylight still lasted; sweeping, tidying, taking inventory, organising work orders and invoices. The hearth flames were dying down since the others had got the days share of the work done and didn't expect Otto to need it, and the last reddish rays of the sun painted horizontal stripes through the building's apertures when he decided to inspect some of 'his' work. There were three new steel short swords on the rack, each one simple in shape but masterful in their construction. Every edge was perfectly straight, razor sharp, and artistically tempered so they displayed a rainbow progression of colours from side to side. He performed another elasticity test and found the swords not wanting... Otto suspected that he could curl them around in a full circle and the blades would still spring back in to shape. The things were beautiful but they were trifles compared to what caught his eye next.
Alone on an armour stand in a darkened corner, was a sallet. Slowly, oblivious to everything else, he walked over to the helm and lifted it off the wooden mannequin. The top was round, perfectly curved without a dent, and had a slight crest running from the brow up along the crown and then down the back to the top of the long, tapered tail. The tail was formed from overlapping steel plates embossed to look like stylised dragon scale, and a chaotic mish-mash of lines on the main body of the piece and the bevor resolved themselves into intricate flame patterns. Contrasting this finery, the adjustable visor was largely plain save for a single, baleful eye above the slit. Exquisite designs such as this had etched themselves into his imagination during the crafting of his own sad, battle-dented iron helm.
These were the things that Otto wanted to make, but couldn't.
He went to a chair and sat down to brood in the growing darkness. Even if he had the time to work on such things, Otto had no master to speak of from whom he could learn the skills necessary for such accomplished pieces; the military wasn't going to bother training him beyond the level they needed him for, and Marten's tutelage had been reduced to the odd visit here and there. The sallet spun around again and again between his fingers as the light waned and finally receded from the city altogether, to leave Otto and a single lit lantern alone in the forge...
... then Otto jerked awake, and the sallet tumbled out of his lap. He cursed and grabbed it from the ground - How long did I nod off for just now? It was well past time he returned to the dorm so Otto put the helmet back on its stand and went to leave the forge; the salvage heap would have to wait another time. As he stepped outside something clinked against his boot and rolled away in the dark with a slosh. The Orc followed the tell-tale glint of reflected moonlight and, grabbing at it, brought the bottle of Amarson's up to his face.
He stopped, and thought.
Then he stepped back inside and locked the door closed securely behind him. Otto scanned the room and his gaze fell on one of the anvils by the hearth; as he strode past it he set the bottle down on its hardened surface and continued on to the tool rack, where he picked out two smith's hammers. One he kept and the other he put down on the same anvil as the ale, which he then proceeded to uncork - but not drink - before putting it back down next to the hammer. An altar, and an offering, Otto reckoned, concluding: Now for the ritual. He found a sack of coal and loaded up the hearth with that and some kindling. Igniting the slender wood starter, the Orc carefully nursed the infant tongue of flame first with more food and then tentative pushes on the bellows until the forge was roaring with life. Sweat had formed and soaked the linen shirt on Otto's back as he kept pressing hard on the bellows, eyes squinting against the glare from behind a pair of goggles, when a voice behind him spoke in lighthearted tones:
"Your hospitality is accepted, child of the Blood."
Child of the Blood, Otto repeated in his mind. He - it - made 'Blood' sound like it had significance...
He eased off on the bellows and took a step back from the flames to wipe his brow. Now the hearth was fully lit the place seemed alive with heat and light, transformed from the cold, dark building that the Orc had woken up in a short time ago.
"You are welcome in my forge," Otto replied, without turning around. Whatever else, he wasn't about to look at his visitor. There was a liquid sound followed by the ring of glass tapping against steel and Otto's guest spoke once more.
"You did not drink the ale." The voice had a strange sort of chiming quality to it, Otto noticed.
"No. It was given to me for your work. It was never mine to drink."
"You have some wisdom, I see," it replied.
In fact Otto was seriously doubting his judgement at that moment. He had no idea what exactly was behind him, watching him at this moment, nor did he have a clue of what would happen if he put a foot wrong. Folklore about such spirits usually implied that mistreating a house god would bring terrible luck and curse the home; a farm would have to worry about stillborn livestock and ruined crops while a ship might suffer from spoiled food stores and poor winds. Those were the best scenarios, too; the stories also had their share of monsters who came to their victims in the dead of night, to whom something like a broken tool would soon become the least of their worries...
But then there were the clever and quick, who were fewer in number but much more fortunate in their dealings with such creatures.
"I have seen your work," Otto continued. When the monster is behind you, sometimes the only way to go is forward. "It is truly masterful."
"Yes."
"I wish to learn how to craft with such skill."
"Do I wish to teach?" The voice's owner was sounding more and more amused.
"I am worth teaching," the Orc stated.
"I have watched you, child of Blood," it said - and once again, there was a strong inflection on 'Blood'. "You are competent. Nothing more."
Otto gritted his teeth in frustration, forcing the first black surges of anger in his chest back down. "That is my point. I have no one to learn from, and no time to make but the simplest, passable pieces. I am condemned to a life of, of... mediocrity in the forge. I gave you a place, food, and a purpose. Can you not give me your knowledge?"
"I have repaid my debts to you already. Three blades. One helm. Those you saw. Others have already been taken away. This I will continue to do so long as you provide me with offerings. That is a fair deal."
Otto glared at his feet, then strode over to a weapon rack. Steel short swords dangled in the fire's light and he picked out a Katzbalger from the array. As he returned to the spot in front of the hearth he took care not to look towards the anvil where he had laid the offerings, but could still make out a formless short of shadow radiating out from there. Then he stopped side on to the impromptu altar and held the blade up to the light.
"Look at this. They brought in mild steel for us to use, but wouldn't give us time to carburize it. This sword won't hold an edge worth a damn and it's probably going to some green recruit who may just have to rely on it for his life. Didn't even have time to straighten the edge out properly - look at that dip there - and the fuller could have been a bit deeper. The brass have no idea of what goes in to a good weapon, they just want something sharp to decorate their soldiers with. This is what I have to make all day. Can you imagine that? If this was the best you could do?"
"You believe you are better than that?"
"I have to learn, otherwise what sort of smith will I become? It's an insult to the iron."
There was a pause before the spirit spoke again - like it was deliberating over a great and serious matter. Otto was not fooled; this whole exchange was but a game which it "Then I propose a challenge. Succeed, and I will become your mentor."
Otto frowned. "What is to be my wager?"
"Your Blood."
Well... that was ominous. "And if I refuse to accept?" He asked.
"Then I will not work for you, nor heed your offerings, for ever more." The voice was clipped and harsh, void of its previous mirth. Otto wondered if the spirit was under the impression that the Orc did not truly mean what he had said before.
"What do you propose, then?" Asked Otto.
"Decide first if you will accept or not. Then I shall tell."
Otto turned the sword over in his hand while he weighed up the options. Surprisingly, at least to himself, the answer was almost a no-brainer.
"I accept your challenge," he said.
"Come here, then, child of the Blood."
The command hammered around the forge with the strength of steel. Otto had never felt anything like it; the words reverberated through his skull and down his spine to his legs, which practically walked themselves over to the anvil. He tried his best not to look at the shadowy figure and instead focused on the toes of his boots.
"Bring forth the keys," it ordered. Otto laid the sword to the side and dug a hand into his pocket, but as soon as he had removed the forge's keyring it flew from his clutch straight towards the rounded horn to stick securely on the anvil's side with a clang.
"Place your hands upon the anvil," was the next command. Otto did so, and the spirit continued: "If you choose falsely, I will take your Blood. If you do not choose before first light, I will take your Blood. If you attempt to flee your fate, I will take your Blood. Choose wisely, and I will give to you of my knowledge. On Iron sworn, so bound by Iron, here in Iron's home."
Something happened to Otto then, which ever after he struggled to find the words to describe. The best he had been able was to liken it to the short, sharp shocks that practitioners of his trade were overly familiar with upon touching the surface of some objects, except in this case it slammed through every vein in his body from head to toe.
"Now, prove your talent with Iron," said the spirit while Otto still reeled. "Find my home, and you will have what you seek."
The Orc staggered back in the direction of the hearth and tried to shake off the lingering shock. He was about to state that he had thought the forge was the spirit's home now, but stopped short in case it considered that to be his answer - Otto was in no hurry to lose this little wager. So instead he turned back to the fire and closed his eyes, trying to think as the heat seeped through him. The first thing to pop up in his mind was Marten's recollection of his own run-in with such a creature. It had made a home in an actual item, he remembered the old man had said. Maybe they used to be traded around or sold, like a commodity - can't picture the demand for them being very high, in that case. Marten seemed to reckon this one's come in with the salvage pile, didn't he? I'd better make that my first stop.
As far as he could tell, everything in the original salvage heap was still there on the table. Two byrnies, the kettle helm, a halberd top, five rusty swords and an axe, a brass door knob, about five feet of chain in three three separate lengths, four spoons, three knives, and a trowel. Otto looked over the mail shirts: too new, perhaps. Marten had inferred that the piece would be antiquated. That description certainly fit the helm, but Otto didn't think it seemed likely; the metal was quite rusted and plain with little craftsmanship to commend it. Only two of the swords seemed like potential candidates under these requirements, and the axe was just a simple woodsman's chopper. The doorknob, melted down, would be a good source of ornamental brass, but the Orc seriously doubted a spirit of iron would haunt a door handle of any kind, let alone one which contained no iron. Chain? No. Spoons, probably not. One of the knives was actually silver - Otto was tempted to pocket it, but refrained from doing so - which again, like brass, cast doubt on its suitability. One knife was a plain affair but the other looked old but well-cared for, and had some nice flower ornamentation. The trowel was the last item he examined: its old shovel head, bent at an obtuse angle to the handle, still contained bits of dried mortar and the thing was devoid of a neck.
In Otto's mind it came down to the two swords and the knife. He separated these from the rest of the items and put them side by side, leaned over the table, and wracked his brains for the answer. Both of the swords were under three feet in length and dark grey, old, but undeniably well-made. It still didn't seem right, though... maybe it was just nerves, but they didn't seem exceptional in any way. Sure, they would have been made in the forge, but the swords would probably go out in to the field and the knife looked more like a fileting blade for fish than anything to do with metalworking. Wouldn't such a spirit inhabit something guaranteed to stay within a forge? Perhaps Otto had overlooked something.
Was there anything at all strange about the other items?
He took another quick look over the rejected pile and saw something that he thought was a little odd. Most trowels have necks, don't they? A leather-clad paw picked the item up for further inspection while the other did its best to remove the traces of mortar from the head. What had looked like a straight chisel-tip was actually a break, suggesting the thing had originally had a pointed tip. The head also seemed a little large and narrow compared to the handle. He inspected the bend: that, too had occurred after the tool had been forged. He resumed his cleaning of the blade and soon found, barely visible in the dimness, well worn engravings which may have just been figures in combat.
No, Otto corrected himself. Sacrifices. This was a ceremonial dagger.
"A good blade for its age, isn't it?" said the voice. "Long ago, when mortal lords wanted something truly great to be birthed from the forge, that blade would quench my thirst and fuel the flames, and I would hammer out legends on the anvil."
"This is plain iron," Otto remarked. "I'm amazed its not rusted, but why not Prevalida, or Mythril?"
"Iron holds a magic greater than any other. When lost, Iron can show you the way home. Iron can repel Iron, and Iron can attract Iron. And Iron is the metal of life. The Iron is in the Blood, and Blood is life. There is great power in this."
"The blade has been damaged."
"It has been... too long since last I was in the forge. My home sat away a in miserable hovel for many mortal generations as spoils from a great war which the last human to possess me did not even know his ancestors had fought in. I grew weak, then the blade was bent, so they used me to build their stone houses until I was thrown in with the scrap. I was fortunate to come here where at last I could draw upon the strength of the home of Iron, the place where it is born and reborn time and again."
"And now... what? You're free, or 'reborn'?"
"In time. Your Blood would have hastened it. But offerings and a purpose here will do as much eventually."
"So you will teach me."
"Yes."
Otto realised there was something he had not asked the spirit yet.
"What's your name, anyway?"
The spirit laughed; it sounded like wind chimes in the breeze. "That was not part of our agreement. But you may call me Anvil."
"Really? Well, in that case... they call me Bastard."
"As you wish, Bastard," Anvil chuckled, good humour once more infusing its words. "Are you prepared to learn?"
"Aye. I'll be glad to put this ordeal behind me," Otto sighed with relief, but this elation was woefully short lived.
"You think it is over?" Anvil's suspiciously cheerful tones put the young Orc back on edge. "The night's trials have only begun, child."
The forge was a little darker now; the coals in the hearth were soon to be on their last legs with the result that Otto could barely make out the motifs along the dagger's blade. His wide nostrils flared and snuffled up and down the length of the dagger in case that approach revealed any other hitherto unobserved aspects of the item, but the thing just smelled of iron and mortar dust. There was no indication it was eldritch in nature, nor did it seem like it had been used for its original purpose for a very long time. The fact was that Otto didn't have a clue on how to deal with his new mentor if things took a turn for the worse. He suspected that melting it down would have little effect, and knew that the approach he had most confidence in - letting it rust away - was not a feasible tactic due to likely time constraints should he find himself locked in the same room as an enraged spirit.
"Mend it." Anvil commanded. Otto cast an appraising eye over the damage and found it would be an easy enough task. The blade was slightly leaf-shaped: it curved gradually in towards the tip and also flared out sharply at the base, providing an artistic effect but making both of those points prone to damage. That was fine in a ceremonial dagger, though you wouldn't want to use it in a fight unless there was nothing else at hand. Drawing the metal out to fix the tip would be easy enough, while the same structural weakness that allowed it to bend so easily would make it that much simpler to set straight again.
They did not speak much while Otto worked. He did ask Anvil what the spirit had planned next, but the answer did not surprise him at all.
"Not before time," Anvil intoned.
Said time approached quickly, however, as the dagger was soon restored. Otto teased its iron out and back in to shape, and gave it as much of an edge as he could upon the grindstone. When he had finished, he inspected his work in the light of several freshly-lit lanterns.
"Heat it," was Anvil's next instruction. Otto picked up some tongs and positioned the blade above the heart of the coals, vomiting sparks with every push on the bellows.
"Remove it," Anvil told the Orc when the dagger had turned a uniformly brilliant yellow, "and place it on the anvil."
The metal made an intimidating 'plink' noise as it cooled ever so slowly on the anvil's flat top. Otto put the tongs aside and gazed at the strange dagger that was somewhat juxtaposed by the adjacent empty beer bottle. Anvil stood on the opposite side if the corona of shadow in his peripheral vision was anything to go by.
"Now hold it."
Otto did a double take. "What?"
"Pick it up. Hold it."
Otto's eye slipped a little to the side where the anvil had just begun to develop a dull, angry, red glow around the dagger. He extended a gloved hand warily forward towards the hilt.
"No," Anvil said, much more forcefully this time. Otto's hand felt as though it ran up against a wall before it could reach the dagger. "Bare your hands. Be forged in turn."
... it's joking. It must be joking. "Are you joking?"
"No."
Oh.
It had to be some sort of trick - there was no way that Otto would be able to use his hands again if he had to keep a hold of the dagger while it was still at that temperature. He bit his lip and kept an uneasy gaze fixed on the piece as the protective gloves slipped off his hands, which could now move forward without resistance. The heat radiating out was incredible - a very good trick, then. Another test: no doubt Anvil was teaching Otto to look inside himself and put aside all fear and hesitation. With renewed confidence, Otto took a deep breath, and his hands shot forward -
- and Otto rent forth a scream like none other he had uttered before.
"AUGHgodsDAMN! Damn damn damn DAMN!"
The glowing dagger clattered to the stone floor while Otto fled to the slack tub to thrust his tormented finger tips into the water's not-nearly-soothing-enough embrace. He managed to stop yelling at this point, though only just, and settled instead for merely gritting his teeth as tears flowed unbeckoned through the grime on his face. Behind him, Anvil spoke a single word in a disdainful tone of voice.
"Weak."
Otto snapped a glare over his shoulder towards the voice without thinking - but instead of foolishly (and quite possibly terminally) unveiling the mysterious guise of Anvil, he saw instead an empty forge.
Anvil had gone.
"Anvil! Where are you?"
No response. Half-aware of the fool he must look shouting out to the empty forge, Otto let a few more curses out and flicked the water from his hands. He stalked around the forge - unsure of what he to look for exactly but hoping for some sign of the spirit. As much as he denied it, though, he knew that Anvil would not be found. Otto gave the empty bottle a kick; it skidded over the flagstones and smashed against the wall by the door. He stared at it for a bit, his mind blank, then grabbed a small brush and pan and began to tidy up the mess. Otto had always found that doing mundane little tasks helped occupy the restless part of his brain and left him free to think without distraction.
Perhaps Marten was right. Even if Anvil had not been lying, was its offer really worth the cost? And if it had just been toying with Otto... he shuddered to imagine how easily things could have gone terribly, terribly wrong. As it was a few singed fingers were nothing to complain about, and they wouldn't stop him from holding a hammer. Leastways, not for long. He brought them up for inspection: the tips had turned white, perhaps, though it was hard to tell in this light. Thumb and forefinger pressed together and Otto winced with the pain.
Otto put the pan aside and set his haunches down on a stool. Then he rubbed the digits together once more, and gave them a timid sniff.
"Weak," Anvil had said.
Otto's gaze wandered over to the dagger on the ground. The metal was still glowing, albeit a dull red by now.
He sat and stared at the thing for a full minute before getting up and retrieving the tongs. Then, using them to pick up the blade, he went back to the forge and reinvigorated the coals. It was but the work of a few minutes to bring the dagger back to a yellow-gold hue and set it back upon the anvil.
Otto held back as long as he dared. When the colour seemed to adopt an almost imperceptible touch of orange, he braced himself for the pain this time - and two hands shot forward to close around the burning metal.
He had no idea how he managed to hold on. The first knee-jerk reaction was to instantly release the thing but a desperate surge of determination locked his trembling fingers fast upon the blade. The pain spread to the back of his hand and up his wrists, and he had almost given in then when he started to pay attention with his ears. After this point it was much easier to maintain a hold on the dagger even though the agony continued to invade his body. Now his head felt like it was caught within a vise, slowly splitting beneath the tightening clamps. The edges of his vision went black and he sunk to his knees before the anvil, and still he held on.
When the darkness overtook him completely and Otto slumped forward over the anvil's hardened surface, his hands had practically fused to the iron bade.
When Otto first stirred, sightlessness threw him into an instant panic. He could not see, which is different to, say, just seeing black; there was a fundamental part of him missing, nothing with which to even be blind. He tried to raise his hands to his face, too shocked to accept his condition, and found that there was nothing to move. No hands, no arms, no feet nor legs - and neither could he hear nor smell, much akin to his lack of sight. It was a surreal feeling to realise how many senses ticked away in the background largely unnoticed until they were gone - balance, time, posture, pressure... there was just one left which Otto latched onto in a desperate struggle against solipsism: space. The old constraints which localised his consciousness somewhere in the depths of his skull were gone along with his body. Here, where he had no such cage, he could just relax and let himself flow out.
The expanding awareness of Otto brushed up against something, revealing another sensation which had not abandoned him completely. He touched, or did something that felt a bit like it, an oddly soft sort of wall. As he grew he discovered it was roughly spherical, and brushed up against another orb - several orbs, in fact, in some sort of lattice. There were more above him and below him like sheets stacked atop one another. Otto pushed through the insubstantial walls with ease, and thought them to be completely empty until he struck, in the centre of each ball, a pinpoint of incredible hardness; tiny flecks of mind-bogglingly dense matter juxtaposed against their huge, layered cages which parted like fog. Each sphere seemed to have (for lack of a better word) grooves by which they connected to each other, and the whole network hummed.
The orbs suddenly coordinated their jostling to vibrate in unison.
"You are either much wiser, or much more foolish than I had first supposed, Bastard." Anvil said. Though devoid of hearing, Otto could understand its words by feeling the vibrations of the lattices. "Which would that be, I wonder?"
Otto had found a group of orbs which seemed different to the others: they had a different number of 'grooves', and the shells and cores were not quite the same. He probed at these inquisitively as he replied, and they picked up his words and hummed them out as their own.
"The pain was real enough, but my fingers did not smell or feel burnt. So when I held the dagger again and couldn't hear or smell my hands... cook... I had confidence." The strange patch was but a few lattices thick, though it trailed off horizontally far in to the distance.
"And is that all?" Anvil asked.
"When you said I was 'weak' you sounded - disdainful? I thought, if you were playing a trick, then you'd have been laughing at me instead." There was a brief lull, and Otto spoke again. "What is this place?"
"This is my home."
"This is the dagger? We're inside the dagger? What's all this stuff, then?"
"Don't you know Iron when you see it, child?"
"I... apparently not," Otto managed to say. "This is like no iron I've ever seen."
"You simply have not seen it from this perspective before. This is a great privilege for you."
"That's one way to put it, sure."
Otto found more and more abnormal patches - impurities, he now realised, following the ancient folds of the metal from when it had first been forged. Anvil seemed to know where Otto's attention was focused and would mention the origins and effect of each one ("This one comes from sand: too much makes the metal brittle but improves a blade's edge", "This one marks the difference between iron and steel", "These are metals, but not Iron"). When they reached the edge Otto found one more which bound to the metals, forming cracks which seemed to have grown over time through the iron body.
"And this," Anvil said, "is rust. This is the death of Iron."
Otto tried to focus on that one area. As he had expanded, his ability to register each of the innumerable orbs continued to wane. It was like trying to take in every star in the night sky at once; at some point all you were left with was a general impression and very little detail at all. What was from one point of view just a homogenous lump of metal less than a foot in length was proving to be, from another perspective, a jostling, humming mosaic so large it defied comprehension. Otto flowed across the corroded surface which, here, could be 'seen' as plain as day, yet the blade had appeared in almost pristine condition save for some structural damage when he had viewed it before in his own hands. He was starting to understand that it was not that surprising: compared to the size of the rest of the dagger, this part of the surface must be less than a hundredth of a hair's thickness.
Priorities overcame momentary curiosity: "I still wish to learn," he said.
"Then you must make me." When Anvil spoke, the universe seemed to buzz. If Otto still had teeth the sensation would have set them on edge.
"I have already overcome your tests," he replied.
"So consider this just one more. Pass it and return, or stay here for eternity, I care not."
Otto felt panic once more. "I'm trapped here?" He asked.
"That is up to you."
Otto surged along the surface of the blade in an attempt to discover some way back. He could practically feel Anvil watching him from wherever the spirit was perched. Otto had encountered no sign of the other occupant, and surmised that he was unlikely to if it was incorporeal - much as he himself appeared to be.
"You are getting close," Anvil chuckled.
"Close? What to?"
But Anvil had easily guessed Otto's objective. The surface of the iron had, before, fronted what appeared to be a much emptier space and was frequently bombarded by the rust-causing... things, though very rarely did they actually seem to hit home. Otto flew by as a section of lattice was warped, in a series of eye-watering movements, to a complex web by some of these impacts, before at last he came to what he sought. He offered up some general thanks for the size of his hands and began to inspect the interface between the dagger and his own flesh. For a moment there was the faintest tingle from his hands - which extended far above and filled an area that was many orders of magnitude larger than what he seemed to occupy right now.
Anvil, though, wasn't quite done with him yet. "Leaving so soon?" it mused. "And without what you came here for, as well. I think not, child."
The spheres flew past as something sent Otto reeling away from the surface. Willing himself to a stop, he sped back to the interface and found that he was somehow blocked from reaching the edge: all the iron directly beneath that part of the Orc's hand now seemed impervious to his attempts to pass through. As he pushed unsuccessfully against the barrier, the next row of iron in began to push back, and Otto was forced once more further in to the depths of the blade.
"What are you doing, Anvil?" he yelled.
"Are you not a shaper of Iron? Do you not bend it to your will?" Anvil replied. Otto could feel the barrier growing once again. He struggled to keep a hold, and though he managed to slow it down he could not stop Anvil from pushing him back. He may as well have tried to damn the Nieme with his hands.
"STOP!"
Otto struck back with every ounce of force that he could muster. The iron around him shook violently, and parted... in one moment, a layer of lattice slipped against another, the numerous shells oscillating madly before locking back into the same configuration. Some of the impurities, however, reacted differently. In the centre of the pockets that Otto could see, where there was no iron, the fracture remained and did not heal itself.
A new assault by Anvil left him with little time to ponder the implications. Otto tried to slow down the spirits progress and give himself a chance to form sort sort of defense by expanding himself through the blade once more. What he found was that Anvil was coming in from all around the surface of the dagger, save for the very ends where Otto's body did not touch the metal. As much as Otto tried to resist, Anvil was encroaching fast into his territory.
"Show me you are a smith, child of the Blood," Anvil chimed. "You have surely had a few daggers on your anvil before."
"Yes, but with them I've never had to fight back!"
"You sought to learn my craft. The things I can show you to fold into the Iron, they will not want to be trapped there. They will struggle against you. So say now whether you truly yearn for my tutelage. If not, you will awake in the forge and will never see nor hear a sign of my presence again. If you do, well... we shall see. What say you? Do you wish to learn?"
The invasion had come to a halt; Anvil was probably giving Otto just enough time to come up with an answer. From the looks of things this was his one and only chance to escape with any certainty. If he resumed the fight, was there any way to defeat the spirit?
Otto saw the answer.
"Yes."
"Good," Anvil sounded pleased, and resumed the attack with twice its former strength. Otto suppressed his fear once again as more and more ground was lost, and he gathered his strength. The tide slowed a little, and then he began to focus sharp blows at specific spots along the front. The first time he managed to make a small breach which he tried to occupy, but retreated quickly back into the core when Anvil began to swiftly pincer shut the gap and trap a part of Otto into an isolated bubble; gods knew what a nightmare trying to coordinate that would have turned out to be. After that first counterattack Otto repeated these assaults along his shrinking border but without the same success. Each time he left the metal twisted and misshapen as he had before.
What would happen to him if he lost? Otto couldn't help but spare a part of his mind to think about that. Would Anvil leave him there, trapped in a tiny pocket within the iron until the blade was melted down or it finally crumbled away from centuries of accumulated rust? Would he even survive that long, or did his presence here still depend on the health of his body? If that was the case, he would die when his mindless husk succumbed to thirst and hunger. Or perhaps he would just dwindle away beneath Anvil's onslaught until he disappeared entirely, if that were possible.
The fury of the first few minutes (or so it seemed - who could say for sure how quickly time went for them here?) had subsided to be replaced by a slow war of attrition that was heading inevitably towards Otto's demise. Otto was finding himself spread much less thinly now and was finding it easier to hinder Anvil's approach, which also gave him more time and strength for his own strikes against the barrier. Yet he knew that as Anvil captured more and more, he could expect a renewed assault from the spirit. He was sure Anvil had been holding back all this time, and Otto was not looking forward to the final few critical stages of the battle.
Anvil caught on sooner than Otto had expected. The Orc judged that he had been beaten back to a space measuring an inch across the centre when he felt a slight pause in Anvil's push. He braced himself, reckoning that Anvil had momentarily paused once it had figured out Otto's plan, but he was still unprepared for the ferocity of the renewed attack. Anvil pushed in with more than twice the force as it had before, forcing Otto to continue striking the metal frenziedly and without precision so as to reach his goal before the chance was lost to him forever.
He had half of his territory still under his sway now. He had focused much of his strength at the forefront towards the faces of the blade, so most of Anvil's claimed ground was in from the edges. Once again Otto was finding it slightly easier to hinder its approach as his own effective territory diminished - but with nowhere near the same effect as had occurred before. Anvil's push was relentless.
Just a quarter of an inch across was left to him now. Anvil was still coming in fast and had adopted Otto's tactic of focusing on specific point rather than attacking the entire boundary uniformly. He was unprepared for this, and Anvil began to reach tendrils deep into Otto's realm towards the core. His own strikes increased in frequency and desperation.
The breaches multiplied and branched. Otto withdrew as far as he dared to form a final front line. This one he could not afford to give up. He had almost made it by now - but Anvil's unstoppable invasion had already begun to put holes back into Otto's defenses.
There was no more time - he had to strike now. Anvil's grasp tightened, squeezing through Otto's last efforts at resistance, and it crowed with victory.
"Your Blood is mine, child -" it began.
Otto struck.
He struck with every bit of strength he had left at the iron running through the centre of the blade. Every blow he had made up to this point was not a random attack against the malicious spirit, but made with a long-term plan in mind. Each time he had shifted the metal he had ushered all the impurities he could find towards the core, where they now ran the entire length of the dagger. With that final blow the iron jumped apart and the blade cracked from top to bottom. For Otto in those final moments there was an explosion of matter all around as the cage cracked and split above. Escape beckoned, and Otto made a final bid to bend the tiny sliver of metal that was left to him...
The hiss and crackle of coal carried through the darkness. There was something else... something hard. Big. The anvil? Otto was lying on top of it, whatever it was - and with that, he realised he had a body once again. His eyelids flicked open and the blackness receded, revealing the dimly lit forge. He seemed to be kneeling with a cheek resting against the anvil's top, and a small trail of drool had run from the corner of his lips down to the steel surface. The dagger was still clasped firmly in his hands, but it felt twisted and, yes, broken. There was also a slight stabbing pain in his left palm. Stiff joints and cold muscles ached as Otto lifted himself up, pushing against the anvil with his arms, and the pain in his hand increased. When he pulled his hands apart, each one came away with one half of the dagger; it looked to have split somewhat cleanly down the middle. The area around the break appeared black and brittle apart for a single, hair-thin line of iron in the piece sitting in his left hand. This sliver had curled around and pierced his palm, and appeared to be what was causing the pain. Upon careful extraction of the metallic splinter, a spot of blood welled up from the wound.
The dagger halves began to vibrate in his grip.
"Well done, child", Anvil said. Otto glanced around the room, but saw no sign of the spirit's presence. It must have remained within the dagger.
"We're done with the tests", Otto said. It wasn't a question; it was a statement of fact.
Anvil chuckled. "Everything is a test. Children of the Blood must always try their limits to know who they are, and see who they may become".
"I don't agree with the cost of failure that you set".
"But it was not yours to decide. I am content to teach now, if you are still keen to learn".
Otto was listening with only one ear. Most of his attention had shifted from the dagger halves in his hands to his palms. The gloom of the forge had masked it earlier, but he had sought out one of the lanterns and brought his hands up to the light for closer inspection. The skin on the underside of his rough paws was much, much paler than before - with proper lighting, he suspected that they would be revealed as having turned pure white.
"This is...", he began. He wasn't sure what it was.
"My first gift", Anvil finished for him. "You take a lump of Iron and forge it in to a hammer. I have taken a plain mortal and forged him in to one who can capture miracles in metal".
"How?"
"I will show you. We will work, until day's first light".
Anvil sounded confident... but Otto shook his head. "No", he stated.
There was a pause, and when Anvil spoke, it seemed surprised for the first time during the night. "You do not wish to learn the craft? After everything you have done already?".
"I cannot trust you. Your intent is hidden by words which are shed without warning. Swear you will not harm me, and I will agree to learn".
"And why should I offer such a deal? What would I receive in turn?"
Otto walked over to the hearth and thought about this. What would motivate such a spirit?
"You are too much trouble. But I think you are weak, now. I could melt you down, mix you in with the ashes, and throw you upon the wind. Or... perhaps I could just drop you in the river and let time do its long, slow work".
Anvil remained silent. Otto turned what was left of the dagger, two pieces of misshapen metal, around in his hands. The spirit's home was broken.
"Or", he continued, "I could share with you my work and bring you offerings each night. I'd consider that fair".
"I will agree", Anvil said in a flat voice, "if you also swear upon the Iron. That you will not harm me, that you will fulfill your promise each day, until one score of moons wax full".
Nearly two years. That could work.
"I can accept that", Otto said.
"Good. Then you know what to do".
Otto went back to the anvil and laid the pieces on its surface, next to the smith's hammer. There they repeated the thrice-iron oath with their own promises, and a shock ran through Otto's body once again. As it traveled up his arms, his bare hands felt - just for a moment - the metal underneath as he had when trapped inside the dagger. The jolt didn't affect him nearly so strongly this time, either. Afterwards, Otto yawned; all he knew was that it was dark yet outside, but time had passed in such a strange fashion with everything which had occurred that he had no idea of the exact hour. He went to remove his apron, but Anvil chimed in.
"We have work to do, Bastard", it said. "and I have not shaped Iron this evening. We will work until sunrise".
The Orc sighed, and lowered his hands from the leather straps.
Silver clouds blanketed the early morning sky above the city fort. The wind was steady and cold, the air damp and the grass heavy with frigid dew. Orlannes, Ingrid and Corbin trudged over the yard towards the forge building, wrapping their cloaks tight and rubbing life into their hands. Shouts from drill instructors were already rolling through the fort, contesting with bells from the harbour and flocks of gulls.
"Nice if Bastard left a surprise for us again", muttered Ingrid.
"Aye", Corbin agreed. "I've some bread and cheese. If we're ahead with work, I say we light the forge and sit snug for another hour afore we start".
"We shouldn't get used to it". Orlannes teeth were chattering, and he pulled his frayed woolen coat a bit tighter around his frame. "I'd hate to think what it would take out of a man. Orc. Whatever".
"I'd no idea 'e had it in him, to be honest", confessed Ingrid. "'E always seemed a touch slow - oh, bloody hell...".
When Orlannes unlocked the forge door and pushed it open, warm air washed over the trio and down the path. The creaking door revealed a hunched figure pressing at the bellow, back turned to the entrance. As Orlannes, Ingrid and Corbin filed in, they took note of their surroundings. There were new swords, axes, maces and other assorted arms adorning benches and stands around the room. Four new steel-shod oaken kite shields hung from the walls. While they stared at the array, Otto turned around to face them.
"Forge is hot", he said, pointing a tired finger at the hearth. Dark rings surrounded his eyes, and he seemed to be swaying slightly. "Ready to use. Good bye".
The trio silently watched the Orc remove his working leathers and return the protective gear to its place. The smiths hammer, however, he took with him. Orlannes thought it belonged to the forge at first, but on closer inspection, it looked like new metal had been worked in to it somehow, and none of the others had stylised flame and dragon scale patterning on the sides.
They stood aside and let the shambling figure of Otto out the door.
Solo concluded. I would ask moderators that this thread permit the acquisition of the familiar Acmon ('Anvil') for Otto, tied to his smithing hammer. This thread will also serve as the origin of future 'Thaumic Metalworking' abilities. Both familiar and abilities will be implemented in Otto's updated profiles upon leveling.
Just as an aside, I am aware of the grammatical differences in the final post. I have changed to UK grammar conventions, to fit with my use of UK spelling.
Mordelain
03-14-13, 05:35 PM
Thread Title: The Midnight Visitor
Judgement Type: Condensed Rubric
Participants: Otto
Plot ~ 20/30
Story ~ 6/10 – solid, reflective, and to the point – you set out to tell a tale of meeting, and told it well. I believe you can capitalise on the strong concepts you have by expanding them; describe the amble through the streets, the drinking games, and the trials by night in more detail – make each one a story within a story. I appreciate you are just starting out, but do not be afraid to think big, write big, and dream big. The only way is up! Then down…and then up! Then down… (Like a hammer).
Setting ~ 7/10 – Radasanth lives, and Radasanth breathes life. It felt like a sprawling, slum-riddled city, and the tavern wench like characters that accompany Otto on his journey of self-discovery talked the talk, and walked the walk. For attention to detail, and historical abeyance to the canon of the island, you earn a solid, respectable 7. Work on the interaction between Otto’s thoughts, his past, and the deeply metaphorical way of describing and thinking you have, and this will only continue to develop.
Pacing ~ 7/10 – readable, ambling, and well-paced pacing. Try not to gather dialogue so heavily into one post, and description in another.
Character ~ 20/30
Communication ~ 6/10 – strong, natural, and effluent dialogue. You use short and simple sentences to eloquently give questions more intent, and the flow between characters is believable, well thought out, and suitable for the theme and content of your work.
Action ~ 6/10 – this was all down to the hammer falls and dynamism between characters. You grasp the concept that action is not just about swordplay sure enough, and have a strong foundation. To improve, and this can only be said with encouragement, consider playing up to Otto’s military background or aspirations; he need not be gung-ho, but a little more swashbuckler to that beard would not go amiss. Or perhaps utilise humour where the reader would expect action, irony is a brilliant tool if used well – especially when orcs are concerned.
Persona ~ 8/10 – Otto lives and breathes cold war industrialism; his every breath, muscle, and hammer swing make me feel like I am covered in soot. He is also clearly belligerent, though full of hearty morals, you portray the background and persona as written in your biography, whilst going much further. Your talent lies in this area of the rubric, and the highlight was post 7, where we see the rhetorical discussion about smithing procedure, and the nickname Bastard given life. Excellent work.
Prose ~ 19/30
Mechanics ~ 6/10 – it is always easier to spot mechanical errors in a polished thread, simply because they stick out more. There are instances of formatting errors, and dialogue errors, of the ‘I hate you,” she said/I hate you,”’ She said variety (post 6), and you should take care, though you noted in the conclusion, with UK/American use of hyphens. I am unclear where you switched, but take note in the future to use the appropriate form; it is a minefield!
Clarity~ 6/10 – you managed the internal thought and talk with Anvil well, but clarity was hamstrung by the intensely dynamic dialogue. Breaking up a flow with action and description to such an extent made it difficult to track. Sometimes, simple sentence structures and more stoic, rhythmic, speech makes for an easier read – none of the impact need be lost in doing so.
Technique ~ 7/10 – I believe I could go into considerable more detail with you regarding some flourishes you have used, please e-mail PM, as appropriate, if you wish to go into further detail or me. It is such a strong, energetic read! Primarily, be careful with word order, and avoid passive voice.
Wildcard: 8/10 – characterful, entertaining, and witty. I really enjoyed Otto’s encounter with Anvil. In such a short time, you have made quite the literary impact, and I look forward to seeing where you take this dapper Orc in the future!
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I would be happy to develop on the points above, or provide more in depth examples based on those notes if requested. cydneyoliver@gmail.com, or my Mordelain inbox are both appropriate avenues to do.
If you have any concerns, doubts, and worries, and don’t wish to speak to me directly for whatever reason, then I am sure another member of staff will resolve the matter on your behalf. I am perfectly amenable and open to feedback, as the judge has to develop, as much as the writer put under the scrutiny of the rubric!
Total ~ 67/100
Otto receives 1172 experience, and 200 gold.
Spoils noted, but will require discussion and links in your next update.
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