Fuinor (Fri Nov 16)
All In A Day's Work
A long legged spider scuttled along the unsheathed
blade hanging over the display cabinets. It seemed
intrigued at its own reflection set in the surface
of the polished sword, making its way to the right
and then to the left, in what seemed to be its own
attempt to take its mirrored double by surpise and
move without being followed.
The world that existed beneath the little arachnid
was one marked by a heavy sense of antiquity. Time
past. Though the antique shop had just been set up
a year or two ago it had managed to obtain quite a
favourable reputation, especially amongst those in
the nobility, who buy the wares, and the explorers
and adventurers, who stock the shelves.
Trinkets and baubles from sunkan ships. Armour and
weapons from the now destroyed Numenor. Jewels and
gems cut in the heart of Khazad-Dum. Things of the
age that had passed. The material reminants of all
that had transpired. Each a piece of history.
Alrik twisted the ring round his finger slowly, as
he always did when he was thinking. It was said to
have once belonged to the king of Numenor who gave
it to the admiral of his fleet as the latter led a
mission to subdue the dissidant coastal vassals. A
masterpiece it was and his most prized possession.
Crafted from gold, it was lined with many precious
stones. Sapphires. Rubies. Emeralds. Diamonds. All
set in a tasteful manner. Exquisite. As opposed to
excessive.
His stared intently into the eyes of his customer,
seeking to assess his character, unabashly. When a
man had achieved as much success as he did, he was
allowed his own eccentricities. That being the way
he would explain his behaviour when asked.
The man who had introduced himself as Suiret had a
typical peasant look. He had formed his opinion at
the first glance. The tanned, weathered skin. Arms
which were corded with muscles. Worker's arms. The
silver stubble that grew unevenly on his face. And
the stale smell of cheap ale upon his breath.
'And what do you suppose you have to offer me?' he
asked impudently, while looking over his shoulder,
at the two guards who stood at the entrance, ready
to drag out and flog anyone who dares try anything
funny.
'Times are hard. I did not want to sell this but I
am not left with much of a choice. You see what it
is is a...'
'Cut it short. I do not have all day. Show me what
you have got and I will see if it is reason enough
to not throw you out into the streets for all this
relentless effrontery,' the merchant interupted.
The man reached into a pocket and drew out a small
knife. The merchant snatched it from his brusquely
and stared at it intently. Haradrim make. At least
a hundred and fifty years old. Probably was a tool
for hunting. Those savages. Still has this certain
exotic appeal though. Might be able to sell it off
for about three hundred.
'I will give you a hundred for this,' the merchant
said aggressively, 'My final offer.'
'But sir that is far too little. I do need to make
ends meet. My wife and I have no children...'
'Spare me the sordid details. Tell me how much you
want?' his voice bearing signs of irritation.
'Two hundred.'
'It is people like you who seek to impoverish me,'
the merchant replied with a snort, 'Definitely out
of the question.'
'One eighty.'
'One twenty.'
'One sixty.'
'One thirty.'
'One forty.'
'Got yourself a deal.'
Alrik emptied the contents of his money pouch and
began counting out exactly hundred and forty gold
pieces, stacking them into neat piles of ten upon
the countertop. When he had finished once, he did
it again, just to make sure, before pushing these
piles across to the other side.
The elderly man swiped them off the table in what
Alrik thought for a moment a motion too swift and
nimble for one of his age. He did not see this as
something extremely out of place though. The fool
has gotten what he came for. So there.
'Thank you sir,' the peasant said with a bow.
The merchant responded with naught save a wave of
the hand to dismiss the commoner, turning all his
attention back to this newly acquired knife, even
as the man slipped out through the portals of his
shop.
Now where could this knife be mounted? He started
to think of all the possible positions where this
acquisition could be displayed. He brought a hand
over the other casually to twist the ring like he
always did. It was gone.
The guards were dispatched immediately. That vile
thieving knave had to be brought to justice. When
he is caught, Alrik thought, I will personally go
down and break every single bone in his old body.
Every single one.
They never did find him.
'Numenorean origins. Probably made about fifty to
a hundred years before the arrival of Lord Sauron
to that island kingdom. Quite a priceless piece I
must say. Impressive,' Anadriel, Foatirno, Keeper
of the Hoard, leaned back into her seat, taking a
closer look at the ring resting in her palm.
'It was almost too easy,' Terius remarked even as
he lit his pipe and inhaled deeply, his grey eyes
twinkling mischieviously, 'All in a day's work.'
Fuinor (Sun Sep 23)
An Undeserved Pardon
The young assassin flinched as the coarse ropes binding
his wrists together were undone. The Olog-hai doing the
task was, as those of his race tended to be, not really
gentle, to say the least.
Before he could bring up his hands to look at all those
bruises the restraints had cause, he received a kick to
the back of his knees which caused him to kneel down on
the cold stone floor, against his own will.
He was aware of the fact that failure was not looked at
with a good measure of acceptance in the ranks of those
who served the Dark Lord, and his foiled attempt on the
life of the Elven general, Legoral, which cost three of
his accomplices their lives, would not go unpunished.
Nothing had prepared him for this though. He was caught
by the patrol guards even before he reached Dol Guldur,
and was literally dragged the rest of the way, his torn
clothes bearing testimony to the rough journey which he
had undergone.
Lifting his head, he started to look around the faimiar
hall. Less than a winter had passed, since he underwent
the initiation ceremony here in the same chamber, where
he dedicated his life to serving the Shadow, whose very
promises of wealth and power drew him to the cause.
Walls of smooth marble, black as the sky, on a starless
night. Tapestries magically woven from the shadows. The
eerie blue radiance with no visible source. All of this
contributed to the creation of an atmosphere of horror.
The horror of tainted beauty.
'Greetings Saevel. I have been expecting you.'
He wondered for a second why he did not notice her, the
tall Elf, dressed in dark coloured clothes, earlier. It
seemed as if she had just appeared from nowhere, but he
knew that those who had reached the top of the assassin
profession could over tread both unseen and unheard, in
the barest of conditions.
'Lady Gothwin,' he articulated her name softly, in awe.
'You have failed us. There are consequences for such.'
The guards standing by his side drew their swords, the
sharp sound of blades leaving their baldrics acting as
a contrast to the exchanged words, which were but mere
whispers in comparison.
Saeval immediately threw himself at her feet and began
to beg for his life. Whatever composure he had managed
to keep shattered in the face of impending death. With
his pleas he added assurances of success in all future
assignments, calling upon the Melkor to be his witness
to this uttered oath.
Gothwin bent down and cupped his chin in one hand, her
cold, slender fingers upon his skin, sleek with sweat.
She looked straight into his eyes, forced open wide by
sheer fear.
'You are pardoned,' she said slowly, placing a hand on
his left cheek even as she did so, 'Now go.'
The assassin was noticably surprised, and scrambled to
his feet, thanking her profusely. His eye, not attuned
to such things, did not notice the dark fire of malice
flickering behind her stoic visage.
He bowed respectfully and turned to leave.
One. Two. He did not even reach his third step, before
crumpling to the ground, a lifeless heap, with a dark,
sinister mark, like a handprint, upon his cheek.
A malevolent female laugh rang through the Dark Tower,
echoing down its many twisted hallways.
Fuinor (Thu Oct 4)
Adunazon's Choice
The shadow of Dol Guldur rested heavily upon the Mirkwood.
There was absolutely no doubt about this fact. Once it was
called Greenwood the Great, yet now not an inkling of that
colour, often associated with natural life, could be seen.
Only the darkness remained.
The daily cycle of day and night left little impact on the
forest scene. The gloom clung on tightly to the air at all
times, never quite releasing its taloned grip, not even if
it were for a second. And so it stood, a reminder to those
of the fairer races of corrupted beauty, twisted by merely
coming into contact with the power of the Lidless Eye.
It was no secret that the forest was home to creatures who
bore forms as fell as their habitant itself. Giant spiders
and Orcs, as well as black squirrels, lived and multiplied
under the canopy of gnarled branches. For this reason, few
ever walked the Mirkwood alone, for fear of turning into a
meal under non-consentual circumstances.
Safety was the last thing on Adunazon's mind as he treaded
through the familiar forest. Why did the Black Captain ask
to see him at such a short notice? And why out here? A few
questions pounded inside his head. But he had learnt, from
past dealings, that the Lord of the Nazgul had his reasons
for doing certain things, and thus stilled himself for the
meeting ahead.
The first thing he noticed as he stepped into the clearing
was the huge looming shapes shifting around in the shadows
at the other side. Amidst them stood a tall figure whom he
had recognised at once to be the High Nazgul himself.
'Greetings Adunazon,' the unfeeling voice articulated.
'Well met,' the Lord of Dol Guldur said in response, 'What
is it that you have requested my presence for this day?'
Adunazon stared long and hard into where his eyes would be
had the Black Shadow a visible form. Like others corrupted
by the power of the Ring, the Wraith-lord was invisible to
the naked eye, and could only be seen up the black clothes
that hung loosely from his frame.
'The Dark Lord has been observing you lead his elite force
against his foes,' the spectre paused for just a second to
let it all sink in, 'And he is pleased.'
Adunazon smiled. Indeed the Sons of Ulfang have grown much
in terms of power and influence in recent years, under his
watchful guidance, and this in itself was something he was
proud of.
'He wishes to give you one of these prized steeds as a way
of recognising your efforts,' he said, as he looked behind
him, motioning to the dark beasts to move forward, 'And he
would like to let you choose for yourself, which you would
like to have.'
As the creatures made their way out of the shadows, he was
able to make out exactly what they were. Ten black horses,
each clothed in the colour of night and carrying the flame
of darkness in their eyes. What was most strange about all
these equines was the fact they made not a single sound as
they moved around.
The Lord of Dol Guldur surveyed the fine beasts as each of
them took a turn to trot right up to him for a better look
at their features. Each wanted to be chosen for this great
task of carrying him into battle, and they showed it.
Yet his eye caught one lone mare, who stood apart from her
fellow horses, seemingly not bothered by all this going on
around her. He took a few steps forward, in her direction,
but she still remained motionless.
'May I?' Adunazon inquired.
'Most certainly,' the Lord of the Nazgul responded, though
there was almost a noticable hint of amusement in his cold
tone.
Adunazon mounted the horse with ease, but at that instant,
the mare suddenly took off like the wind, bolting straight
into the darkness beyond the clearing. He was shocked, but
managed to get a firm hold on her mane, pulling hard as he
made his way down to her neck, wrapping his arms around it
for a better grip.
She charged around in a berserk frenzy, running right into
low branches and other similar obstructions, as she plowed
deeper into the heart of the Mirkwood. Adunazon watched as
the world flashed by before his eyes. The dark colours all
blurring into a mass of grey.
Nothing he tried, from cajoling with his words to wringing
her neck with his hands, seemed to stop nor slow her down.
And so he just clung on tightly, ducking here and there to
prevent himself from getting smashed by the vegetation she
was galloping through.
After what seemed like hours, the horse suddenly came to a
halt, causing Adunazon to jerk back a little. She took him
back into the clearing, stopping just in front of the High
Nazgul, where he dismounted.
'It seems that she has taken a liking to you,' he said, in
his usual emotionless tone.
Adunazon held on to the side of the mare for stability and
wiped away the sheen of perspiration from his brow. It was
thrilling. She was definitely the most powerful steed that
he had riden in his entire life.
'She does not usually come back with her rider alive.'
'A horse with an attitude. I like that,' Adunazon chuckled
as he spoke, 'I choose her.'
'I believe she has already made her choice.'
And at the instant, Adunazon looked up at the mare's face,
a look of triumph surfacing upon proud her visage. He then
threw his head backwards and laughed.
It was the start of a wonderful friendship.
Fuinor (Sat Oct 20)
Hanging Error
The pale orange light of early morning had not swelled
into the glaring brilliance of day, yet the crowds had
already gathered at the town square.
The small plaza, enclosed by the walls of a number of
two-story houses, was packed with eager onlookers. It
would not have been an exaggeration to say that every
citizen of the small town of Calembel had gathered to
witness the hanging. They were hungry for justice.
In the center of the mob, where their eyes were glued
to at present, was the gallows itself. Recently built
for the resolution to this specific case, it was just
a simple structure, yet its humble construction hid a
darker purpose. It was an instrument of death.
Standing atop the platform, with hands bound tightly,
was an overweight woman, dressed in the modest attire
favoured by commoners in the region. The days leading
up to this one were not kind to her. White had worked
its way into her dark brown hair, leaving its mark at
her temples. The streaks of tears on her plump cheeks
never did dry, frustration and helplessness displayed
in such a fashion for all to see. Yet no one believed
her. And so here she stood.
Amidst the sea of people, which had spilled over into
the connecting streets, there was a young Silvan Elf.
Barely old enough to travel the world, if measured by
conventional standards, she bore upon her face a good
imitation of innocence, like one who had not seen the
evil of reality. Brown doe-like eyes complemented her
golden tresses, meticulously bound up into a neat bun
at the back of her head. She was beautiful.
She had arrived at the Seekers' Rest just three weeks
back. She came on one cold night, requesting room and
board. No one noticed anything unusual about her, nor
had they probed much into her purpose in their small,
provincial town. No one except Naryl, the innkeeper's
wife.
She knew that there was something wrong with this Elf
maid, though she was unable place her finger down, on
what it was about her that bothered her. Despite this
fact, she was not unabashed to complain to both peers
and her husband in private about her suspicions, much
to their annoyance.
The innkeeper, Duren, was a good man, who some fondly
chided for having too much place in his heart and too
little sense in his head. Within the first three days
of her stay at the inn, he had came to look upon this
young Elf as the daughter he never had, adding to his
wife's frustration.
From the accounts of those who stayed at the inn, the
couple soon started to quarrel over every tiny matter
which made its way into their conversations. The very
issue of the Elf being the fuel for these occurances.
Up to the day he disappeared, those who lodged at the
Seekers' Rest knew no peace, the shouting filling the
air every now and then.
They found his body in one of the huge barrels in the
cellar. This was three days after he vanished. It was
a harrowing experience for those present when the lid
to the sealed wooden container was pried open. He lay
immensed in the blood tinted beer, flesh bloated to a
point where words could no longer describe the horror
of the spectacle.
All the evidence pointed back to her. From the blood-
stained dress they found, beneath a floorboard in her
room, to her chain, which was in the clenched fist of
the deceased, assumed to have been pulled off, in the
struggle that must have taken place. Her pleas, cries
of sheer desperation, fell upon deaf ears. She was to
be hung at dawn.
The executioner behind Naryl, dressed in robes of jet
black, with a hood pulled over his face, walked up to
her slowly. The planks creaked even as he did so, and
drew from her a fresh series of wails. Getting a hold
on her was easy. Placing the loop around her neck was
a different matter. She kicked and screamed. But with
some degree of effort, he got the noose into place.
Tasha made sure that the condemned woman, who was now
breaking down into sobs, had a good view of her. When
Naryl saw her, her mouth opened to point her out, but
her voice was cut short by a sob. The Elf was the one
who murdered him, she protested, even up to the point
when the verdict was passed. No one believed her, nor
these groundless claims.
Now, as she looked into her smiling face, the glimmer
of evil dancing in her brown eyes, she knew for sure.
She had been right all along. The final look she gave
in return was one of absolute terror, before the door
beneath her opened.
Fuinor (Fri Oct 26)
Timely Arrival
Vestele ran her fingers through her soft golden tresses.
The proceedings of this particular case had lasted quite
a while longer than she had expected. Or thought needed.
The evidence was clear. The Dunedan was guilty.
A judge in the courts of the Grey Havens, she frequently
saw herself as a paragon of justice, slapping onto those
convicted a fair share of retribution. There was nothing
that thrilled her more seeing the vile offenders getting
their just desserts. After all, one reaps what one sows,
she often reassured herself when her own eagerness began
to shock even her.
She glanced down from her elevated wooden bench and took
yet another good look at the accused. The woman, all her
limbs bound, was middle-aged and looked rather harmless.
Upon her lithe frame she wore simple homespun clothes of
grey. She appeared to be more a mother than a murderess.
Looks were always deceiving.
Nyssa was accused of engineering the deaths of countless
citizens of the Grey Havens. For weeks they attempted to
locate and apprehend the one responsible for the murders
of many of the city officials. In fact, if not for a tip
from a local knave, they would probably still be combing
the streets for this vile villain. With that information
they had bought, catching her was easy.
She did not deny any of the charges.
'For your crimes against the citizens of the Grey Havens
I sentence you to death,' Vestele articulated clearly. A
sense of excitement swelled within her. She held the key
to Mandos' Halls. The gates will open again.
The massive crowd of Elves cheered as this judgement was
passed. This case had drawn a large gathering whose need
was evident. Revenge. Against those who threatened their
security and peace of mind. Amongst the Fair Folk, where
racial pride was strong, it was difficult not to take it
all personally.
'Executioner,' the judge instructed coldly, 'Bring forth
the medium of death.'
With a faint movement, a tapestry hanging nearby shifted
slightly and a guard appeared, a small crystalline phial
in his hand. Poison.
'Eternal sleep,' Nyssa whispered softly to herself.
The Elves saw themselves as cultured, as compared to the
barbaric races they were forced to share the world with,
and made sure that they refrained from the violent ways,
in all aspects. Execution was no exception.
Just as the guard took a step towards the Dunedan, a boy
in the crowd suddenly gave a loud cry, pointing with his
hands outstretched at the domed glass ceiling above. The
entire hall looked upwards in response.
A dark shape seemed to be diving down from the sky at an
alarming rate. As it approached, it became a lot clearer
as to what it was. A winged beast.
The creature burst right through the the glass, a shrill
wail escaping its fanged maw as the shards pierced it on
its thick hide. A shower of broken panes rained upon the
Elves below. Screams of terror filled the air.
The beast landed in the middle of the hall. Sitting atop
it were two curious individuals. A Dwarf and an Elf. Two
representatives of two races which commonly found little
enjoyment in each others' company.
The Dwarf had a long grey beard, bound neatly in braids,
as those of his kind were fond of doing. Upon his stout,
stocky and seemingly strong frame he wore a suit of dark
armour, which seemed to have been woven from shadows.
The Elf on the other hand was clad in a pale mauve robe,
with a simple leather belt, from which many pouches hung
comfortably, around his waist. His rugged complexion set
him apart from the fair city dwelling elves instantly.
'Sorry we took so long,' the Dwarf apologised as he slid
off the back of the winged beast.
'Your honour,' he continued in a sarcastic tone, 'We are
here for our sister. If you would please hand her over?'
Vestele recovered from the susprise of this uncalculated
occurance. Her brow was furrowed in sheer exasperation.
Guards,' she commanded hastily, 'Seize them.
'As expected,' he grinned, mischief dancing in his large
eyes, 'Looks like we will have to do this the hard way.'
Across the hall, the citizens started to run towards the
nearest exit, even as the guards positioned there sought
to close in on the interlopers. Pandemonium reigned. The
beast in the meantime lashed around wildly, striking the
ones near it with its large flapping wings.
With a flick of both wrists, the Dwarf revealed two dark
daggers, which had sprung out of the hidden compartments
near his wrists, into his open palms. He ran both blades
together, edge to edge, and the twin fangs ignited. Blue
unholy fire slithered up and down both daggers in a very
serpentine manner.
The Elf drew some magical symbols in mid-air, and as the
faint trail of magic trickled down like fine sand as his
hand left them, a black wooden staff appeared. Snatching
it quickly, he readied himself for battle.
The Elven guards charged forward, swinging their weapons
even as they did so. Vestele remainded where she was, in
spite of her advisors' advice, and gave orders, shouting
at the top of her voice to her men.
The agile warrior leapt at the oncoming guards, planting
his blades into their abdomens before pulling upwards in
a single motion, rending them apart. Drawing his weapons
from his fallen foes, he continued to cut into the ranks
of the assulting enemies.
Behind him, the dark druid stood, whispering a sibilant,
sinister incantation. The ground shook for a while, then
cracked open, black vines snaking out from between these
gaps. These twisted forms of nature sped towards many of
the guards, grabbing hold of their throats and literally
drinking their immortal essence away.
Within a few moments the battle was over. The iron smell
of freshly spilled blood filled the air. Bodies littered
the entire floor. Death prevailed.
The Elf walked up to the bound Dunedan and untied her.
'Thank you Fuinor,' she said with an earnest smile, 'The
bindings were beginning to sting.'
'Come on sister,' the Dwarf called to her, climbing upon
the winged beast as he did so.
'Hold on a second Am'Zel,' she replied.
She moved towards the small phial which lay on the floor
nearby and picked it up slowly. The golden liquid within
still shimmered slightly. A smile parted her lips.
Taking a few steps up the stairs, she beheld the injured
Vestele, who leaned against the bench, the marks left by
the dark vines upon her neck. She bent down.
The Elf judge's sapphire blue eyes widened in terror. It
was clear what the Dunedan wanted to do. She removed the
silver cover of the phial with one hand. She forced open
the Elf's mouth with the other. And she poured it in.
Vestele did not even have time to scream before the cold
touch of death claimed her. Within seconds blood started
to flow out from her eyes, ears and mouth.
Nyssa got to her feet and smiled at her brothers.
'Thank you for waiting gentlemen. Let us return home.'
Fuinor (Fri Nov 2)
Coming Home
The fortress loomed high above the tops of even the
tallest trees in the surrounding forest. It was, in
some sense, like a dark hand thrust upwards, to the
heavens above. A dark hand whose reach knew not the
conventional boundaries that bound those who called
themselves the Free Peoples. It transcended.
Even upon closer inspection, it would seem to those
who examined its architecture that the entire tower
was crafted from a single piece of stone. A work of
sorcery. Dol Guldur stood, with its fanged parapets
and slit windows, as a reminder to all of the power
of Sauron.
Morthar looked at the cast iron gates before him. A
lesser man would have been striken by the awe which
comes with beholding a sight so sublime. But he was
no ordinary man. He bore the touch of the Shadow.
If not for anything else, it would be his pale grey
eyes which betrayed his alligence to the Dark Lord.
Like two mirky pools set upon his rugged face, they
watched the world go by, with something evil hidden
in their cloudy depths.
He had spent most of his life in the Nameless Land,
training under the watchful eyes of the many blade-
masters there. His purpose in life was clear to him
for as long as he remembered. To serve the Power of
the Black Land. And this he did, to the best of his
ability.
But of late it seemed as if a poison had crept into
his cold heart. For what can only be said to be the
feeling of emptiness wrapped its serpentine tendril
around him. Choking him. He found himself having to
brush away such thoughts more and more frequently.
It had reached a point where it even seemed to have
affected his work as well. His concentration broken
regularly by this unsettling alien emotion. He knew
that this had to be dealt with. And it was clear to
him that his superiors thought the same.
Why had the Master asked him to travel to this dark
citadel? He had no clue. But he felt good to have a
chance to get away from Mordor for a while. Somehow
the pressure of having to perform did get to him on
more than one occasion. Here there was some room to
breathe.
The gates parted slowly and a pair of Uruk-hai came
out from the small opening. Clad in black chainmail
and wearing cloaks of the same colouration, Morthar
easily identified them as high guards, the elite of
the Dark Lord's lesser servants. They did not utter
a single word but motioned to him to follow them.
The inside of Dol Guldur was less grand that he had
expected. Yet it carried with it a form of elagance
in the sheer simplicity of its decoration. Brackets
of silver crafted in the shape of dragons served as
a base to hold the torches which flickered with red
eldritch flames. Between them hung black tapestries
of spider-silk, adding in to the ominous atmosphere
that was prevailing.
'Greetings Morthar,' a soft feminine voice said.
Its owner was a slender Elf maiden, who wore a dark
purple gown upon her lithe frame. Her hair was tied
up into a neat bun, a silver hairpin holding it all
in place. She emitted an aura of regal beauty.
'Well met,' he replied slowly.
Fuinor (Fri Nov 9)
The Finishing Touch
The forge was incredibly neat. Neater than one would imagine
a forge to be anyway. Finished products were arranged in the
order of type and size respectively. They ranged from armour
and weapons of all sorts to mundane household items, such as
hinges and horseshoes. The tools used to create these pieces
each had their own place. Be it on the wall or upon the work
bench. Raw materials were stacked neatly in one corner, next
to the wooden buckets of cold water and the copper tray that
the coals were placed upon, awaiting the touch of the master
craftsman. Torches in the hands of mounted brackets gave off
overlapping spheres of radiance, which together with that of
the furnace, illuminated the room with a soft warm glow.
Thorik hammered away at the piece of metal happily. In those
light brown eyes he saw the end result. Visualised entirely.
Down to the intricate details. Forging, he believed, as most
things in life were, was kind of like a journey. It was very
useful to know where one wanted to go. The intended end.
Standing at just over four feet, he was not an exceptionally
tall Dwarf, yet there was something in the manner he carried
himself in that made him seem vertically imposing. His frame
was stout but sturdy, muscular from years of hard labour. He
wore a plain tunic and breeches, upon which donned a leather
apron, for protection from the element he worked with daily.
Fire. His beard was kept short, unlike most of his kind, who
prided themselves in their long beards, so that there was as
little hinderance to his work as possible. He was, as he was
fond of believing, professional.
The smith had detected his presence even before the stranger
stepped out of the shadows. The workship was like his web, a
well drawn out lair, where he himself reigned. Nothing could
enter and leave without his notice. Turning his head towards
the doorway in a sideward glance, he look a good look at the
visitor, before returning to his work.
He sported a dull black hauberk upon his tall and statuesque
form. His handsome features were framed by soft ginger curls
which brought out the colour of his striking blue eyes. That
was the one thing about him which stood out the most. It was
a pair of unusually cold orbs. Frigid. Thorik recognised him
immediately.
'I have come for the sword,' the man said. His voice had the
clarity of an orator. Crisp and precise.
'Just as you said you would,' the Dwarf replied, putting his
work aside slowly, 'I have it right here. Come in.'
He walked over to the weapon rack and lifted a sword off the
holder. Pulling out a rag from his pocket, he gave the blade
a swift wipe, before handing it over to the waiting man.
Holding it in his hands, he began to examine the weapon. The
Dwarf was indeed as good as he was rumoured to have been. It
was a sheer masterpiece. Strange, swirling symbols lined the
surface of the blade, etched into the shimmering metal, with
the grooves filled with what appeared to be amethyst powder.
The guard and hilt were crafted in such a way that it looked
like a dragon, its wings spread open, as if in flight. There
was a polished amethyst mounted in the pommel, which was the
curled tail of the metal beast.
'The metal you provided was rather difficult to work with. I
must say that it was quite a challenge,' the Dwarf said with
a smile and a hint of what could only be pride, 'But I think
you would agree that I managed to meet your expectations.'
The man did not respond. His eyes were fixed on the piece of
art he held upon his open palms. Transfixed by the beauty of
the masterpiece.
'Now about the fee,' his thick growth of facial hair parted,
revealing a yellowed grin. Greed flickered like a green fire
in his small eyes.
'The fee to be paid upon completion,' the man said, suddenly
looking straight at the smith, 'It is not ready for the task
it is set out for yet.'
'Not ready?' exclaimed the Dwarf indignantly. Anger made its
way from his heart to his enraged visage, reddening it. This
was an issue of pride. Dwarves had a lot of it.
The man gave no warning. He wielded the sword with the style
and flair of a blademaster. The next moment, the Dwarf fell,
a bloodied mess upon the smooth stone floor. Multiple wounds
covered his entire body. Neat slash marks. Yet death had not
claimed him yet. He opened his mouth to speak. Blood spilled
forth. He gazed up at dark armoured warrior in fear.
The sword began to glow with a fell purple light. Radiating.
The blood which covered it slowly boiled and bubbled away in
a few seconds, becoming naught but a faint red mist, that in
turn dissipated slowly.
'It still required the life blood of its creator,' explained
the man, without a hint of emotion, 'Now it is complete. The
Dark Lord thanks you for your service to him, Thorik.'
The Dwarf made a gurgling sound even as his last breath left
his body. He died knowing that many of his kind would die in
a similiar fashion. By the blade that he had made.
Nichodemus looked at the sword, still glowing with the eerie
light. It was finished.
'You can call me Gothwin,' she smiled slightly, 'We
have been expecting you. Welcome to the family. The
Sons and Daughters of Ulfang.'
The purpose of this trip was clear to him now. With
his infallible wisdom the Master had seen his needs
and had met it. A smile began to form upon his lips
as he thought it over.
He was home.