A Sword and an Aegis.

[glaes]

The smith stared at the glowing embers as the forge threw off its tremendous heat. He would stir from his seat to stir the flames anew or to work the bellows, forcing air through the smelter to heat the metal. Otherwise he would remain nearby, staring into the red-hot coals and remain deep in thought.

Deep within this forge-furnace the crucibles rested, their contents a silvery metal which was white hot by now. It would take hours for the impurities to burn off, a practice in patience.

“Another sword, Lord Blackwell?”

Darius stirred from his thoughts and looked to the new arrival, a young clean-shaven priest of the Triumvirate, one which bore the Right Hand Gauntlet on a thick chain around his neck.

“Cry your pardon but no, something entirely different, lest I’d not have asked for your presence.” Darius rose and shook the priest’s hand, checked once more on the forge, and resumed his position in the nearby chair. “A Sword such as I makes much use of a shield at times, and I thought to have one forged.”

His new arrival made a face at this. “Have you lost faith in Caspar’s Great Wall, Lord Blackwell? You’ve born it as long as I’ve known you.”

“Since the days before the Sundering, when you and so many others arrived to replace our fallen brethren? Not so long I say.” Darius challenges, perhaps too harshly, but there is still much unrest in the temple-grounds filled with so many new faces and at times it shows, even amongst those under the same banner. He speaks again with a softer tone to ease the tension.

“My foe has changed, if I remain in the past then I am doomed. Rurik Stonefist will see to its commission and from there I’ll likely seek you or your fellows for its blessing, time will tell. But I will not remain unchanged when so much else in this vale has had to evolve so dramatically. I’ll let you know when to perform the rites over our blessed silver, it is not yet time.”

And so the hours passed in an uneasy silence neither was willing to break, Darius all to content to mull over the thoughts that rolled around in his mind’s eye. And when the work was done, five fresh bars of silver were the finished product, and from there, only time would tell.

[kuscotopia]

A bead of sweat formed on Rurik's brow. This was the moment...this was the last...just one more.

“Steady lad...”, Rurik thought to himself as he carefully lowered his empty ale bottle into place atop the tower of the other spent ale bottles. Wide-eyed and steady-of-hand, Rurik affixed the new bottle atop his monument of procrastination. After the tremors subsided he let go. Moving his hands away slowly at first and quicker as he drew closer to the back of his chair. It was early in the morning and his room at Grizzly's was nearly pitch-black as couple of dwarven candles still made a defiant last stand against the encroaching darkness.

Rurik sighed heavily as he swept his eyes over the amalgam of notes and tomes that defined his monument's perimeter. He had never been much good at book learning. He was always more of a hands-on learner. Preferring tried and tested experience over theories and guess-work. His title of Forge Smith carried with it a new weight however. His time of raw production was largely over. Now was the time for him to maintain the tomes, improve upon old techniques, and create new methods for future smiths to follow. Still, he couldn't help from wishing that a previous smith had detailed an alloying process between alchemical silver and the sacred adamant.

His monument wobbled precariously as he drew his latest notes on the alloying process closer to him for review. He was close. The alchemical silver is a temperamental metal: so very sensitive to temperature. This posed the main challenge as adamant was strong and resilient to heat. Successfully alloying the two metals required temperatures already beyond scorching the alchemical properties out of the silver, thus rendering the bulwark no more than a large piece of jewelry.

THUD! The door to the room across the hall slammed shut.

Surprised, Rurik spun around in his chair. Caught up in the moment, he didn't mind his thigh as it sped towards the table's leg. A squeak of table legs against a stone floor was immediately followed by a cacophony of noise as the bottles comprising his monument dashed against each other, the table, and ultimately the floor.

Rurik's attention swept back across to the table. “Feckin'..motherless...gah” he muttered as he immediately started sweeping away shards of glass and specks of ale from the library's tomes. When their safety was won, he started recovering his notes from the catastrophe. The last ale of several bottles now rested on-top of his notes. Different shades of ink swirled together to form puddles where words had once been. Reaching forward to wipe away the ale his expression suddenly went blank.

“HO!” He shouted as inspiration fell upon him. Quenching was the key! A quick alloying followed by an immediate quenching of the molten alloy in sacred oils would re-infuse the alchemical properties! A cold-forge with an adamant smithing hammer would then ensure the properties were retained during shaping. Grinning from ear to ear Rurik started to chuckle. He couldn't wait to see the look on Darius's face when he presented The Sword with an impossible bulwark.

[kuscotopia]

Four shoddy, old wheels lazily creaked down the uncobbled incline leading down to the legion's guard post. Pulling back on the brown leather reins Rurik brought the two mules which pulled the aged wagon to a stop just before the bridge. Atop the wagon sat Rurik, his oversize wizard's hat sheltering his eyes from the afternoon sun.

"Whoa now fellas..." he said to the mules. After lurching to a stop Rurik hopped down, reins in still in hand, and walked over to one of the bridges stone pillars where he secured his rented. After haggling briefly with a nearby blackwood mercenary over short-term protection services for his wagon, Rurik jumped the next portal into Sundren Proper.

As he strode down towards the Watcher's temple Rurik started to wonder if Darius had made good on alerting his church-fellows about their order. It was quite a large quantity of sanctified oil they needed and he hadn't heard from Darius in some time. Either way, Rurik was going to see to it that he got what he needed.

"Maybe ifn dey don't want ta help I can be talkin' to some of dem Triumverates.." Rurik thought to himself as he passed by the two guards keeping their vigil in front of the temple. Rurik stepped through the stone archway to where a small group of three helmite priests were making quiet discussion.

"Oy dere fellas! Name's Rurik Stonefist, I believe ya all be havin' a couple barrels of blessed oil fer me?" Rurik grinned as he looked between the clergymen expectantly.

[kuscotopia]

Rurik stood there staring at each of the clergymen in turn.

"Wull...come on now...speak up!"

((*Prods glaes*))

[glaes]

Darius, very much late to the meeting, does make his appearance.

"Rurik, I cry your pardon for the tardiness, much has preoccupied my time of late but it is no excuse to make you wait as I have."

And as the conversation draws on and the two make their greetings between each other and those present. Darius, in his round about manner of speech, begins to get down to the business at hand.

Particularly he asks of Rurik in what quantities the materials are required, the number of barrels, casks, or otherwise, required of the sacred waters and oils to be used in the refinement. As for the source, well, due to recent developments of closeness between him and the House of the Shield, the High Adjudicator gladly requests their aid in the matter of supply, having long had a tradition of supply such holy liquids to the former Arbiter's Alliance.

With that business out of the way, Darius offers to Rurik many self-made ingots of blessed silver, each stamped with the sigil of House Blackwell, and the Open Right Hand of the Brave.

"Made by my own efforts, for this united effort. Blessed over by myself and a young priest of my faith. I hope they are useful to this endeavor. Further, I pray their craftsmanship is to your standards, as you are the master of this craft in mine eyes."

[kuscotopia]

Humming thoughtfully Rurik hefts each of the bars paying close attention to each bar's weight and visual appearance.

"Bah, lad ya dun havta be kissin' me arse.", Rurik chuckled, "Ya be a foine smith. Dese ingots be propa' pure! De weight be spot on fer refoined silver. Gud on ya I say!"

"Now den. Ifn ya can tink dem fellas over at House of Shield can be deliverin' de two barrels of holy oil we be needin', den dey be foine by me. We could be tryin' ta get by wit less, but I dun care ta risk using scorched holy oils on a work loike dis. Each quenching wull havta be done in a gud virgin oil. Dat's wut de second barrel be for."

Rurik nodded in agreement with himself.

After haggling over schedules and determining a day when the scope of the work could commence, Rurik added, "I be havin' a bit of prep work fer meself as well. So how 'bout ya go deal with de House of Shield an' bring de oil ta Unstoppable on de day we jus' decided upon. I wull rent out de work space so we won' be havin' ta worry about runnin' outta room."

[kuscotopia]

"Nuttin' but child-loike folly..", Rurik thought to himself as he lowered an adamant chisel down into place atop a sizable lump of admant. With a grunt, Rurik swung his smithing hammer down onto the chisel. Decades had passed since Rurik last let a woman do this to him and it was for good reason. It would only be a matter of time before he would be forced to walk a familiar road. Either his tongue would betray him or his devotion to Moradin would leave her alone or, worse yet, his forge would slowly grow cold from neglect. What would happen then? "I canna' go back to de way tings were...dis be who I am..". Rurik brought the hammer down many more times as his thoughts continued to race. A couple hours passed before what once was one lump was now two.

Days fell off the calendar as Rurik shaped the two bulbous lumps. His mind now singularly focused on the task at hand. From the largest, a two handed maul emerged and, from the smallest, a new smithing hammer. Both completely shaped from a singular source. No seams, no joints, and nothing to weaken or disconnect. This would prove essential while working on Darius's shield as cold forging the shield's admant-alloy would require great force and the anvil's recoil would likely crack any traditionally crafted hammers.

Dwarven sigils denoting craftwork, artistry, innovation, and engineering were then set along the hafts and heads of both hammers. Only after finishing and setting the hammers next to each other did Rurik's personal thoughts resume. Hard work always brought answers and his mind was much quieter now. It was not for him to say what final shape the All-Father would set for him. "Toime is de All-Father's hammer", Rurik reminded himself, "we be all realized through it." Whatever would become of two must not be forced and could only be demonstrated in time.

With both hammers in tow Rurik set out for Unstoppable Forces. He was finally ready to shape Darius's bulwark.

[kuscotopia]

Rurik's quarters were a disaster, just as he left them. Both him and Targus had been asked to leave so quickly that Rurik barely had time to pack enough cigars let alone get his affairs in order. It wasn't enough to just bring food and clothing for the trip, either. He had to select his best works to showcase his talents with the people beyond the glacier. Rurik left no crate unturned in this search and the evidence of his carelessness was strewn across the floor and worktables within.

Rurik crossed the cobbled floor to his sturdy cot. The cot's pine frame creaked loudly as Rurik plopped himself down, laying on his back. "Feckin' hells...gud ta be home," he said to no one. Laying there staring at the ceiling, he couldn't help but let his mind drift. For many, long months him and Targus wandered east along The Spine pushing past the great glacier towards Mithril Hall and back again. Chuckling, Rurik thought about all the dingy-arse shanty towns they visited attempting to drum up trading partners for Whurest. The lack of quality beer and forges alone left it a wonder how Rurik managed to stay sane on the journey long enough to return home. But, here he was.

Emitting a sigh, Rurik rolled over onto his right-side. There, against the far wall centered between a large adamantine maul and matching smithing hammer, leaned a great tower shield wrapped in silk. Rurik sprang to his feet in sudden realization. His heart raced and every hair on his barrel-of-a-chest stood on end. "Holy feckin' shite," He exclaimed, "I fergot ta deliver Blackwell's shield!"