Gar, the proprietor of Gar's Grongak, is a middle-aged Dwarf with grey hair in his beard and eyebrows that nearly cover his eyes. His is rather gruff with a growling voice.

"An' what cannae get you?" He asks Bründir.

"Well," the young dwarf begins tentatively, "Recently got in a bit of trouble." He gestures to his crude, cloth face covering. "Priests at th' temple told me ye had something fer it. Do ye need-..." He takes the bandage, but hesitates to actually remove it until directed to avoid the offensive sight.

"Aye," Gar replies with a surly nod, "y'ain't the first t'come lookin', an y'won't be the last. That's for sure. Don' be shy then," the Dwarf remarks, beckoning to Bründir. "Show me what y'workin' with. Got all shapes an' sizes."

The terrible wound was long since mended beyond bleeding but the bandage still served as a protective cover from the world's infections and prying eyes. As it revealed itself once more, it was readily apparent that the bugbear's weapon wrought more damage than just a lost nerve. The bone fused with a small indentation, the skin drawn and pale. Supernatural healing was marvelous, but no substitute for avoiding a hit to begin with.

"Somethin' t'match color, if ye got it. I'll still be one rough-lookin' sunnuva*****, even with a new eye. Don't s'pose ye've got somethin' fer th' outside? Much as I want t'see again, I'd like t'not have ev'ryone in town starin' when I come through the gate."

Gar peers at Bründir's good eye alongside the empty socket and turns to rummage through a neat grid of tiny drawers against the wall behind the shop's counter. After a few moments, the Dwarf produces a tumbled orb of blue topaz, engraved with tiny runes in a circle on six different sides. It's roughly the size of an eyeball.

"How d'ye like the look o' that?" Gar asks, holding the Ersatz Eye out in his open palm.

While Bründir is making his shopping, Thurston goes for one of his own. It takes for him a little more time that he had expected, for he takes a couple of times the wrong turns, but finally he finds the stablishment he was looking for. A dwarven forge. 

He enters it with confidence and asks one of the apprentices for his master. He looks around as he waits and cannot help but recognice the resemblance of this forge with the one that Hürrig and himself had back in Sheercleft. 

Thurston can hear the steady clang, clang, clang of hammer and anvil echo about the smithy as he steps inside the great craft hall. The building looks almost like it's as much a shrine to a holy tradition as anything else. The Norscan is directed towards the back of the hall, where he finds a powerfully built Dwarf with a thick black beard working an intricately carved forge. The master smith is hammering at a strip of darkened blue metal that crackles with sparks from every strike. He does not look up.

Thurston waits a few seconds and admires the technique of the dwarf. He knew enough not to wait to interrupt him, but he also waited until the master smith moved the piece of metal to start hammering it from other side. 

" It's an honor Grungnazkul. I am Thurston Barnaston of the Björn, wielder of Rikkazarik, apprentice of Hürrig Magmabraids.  He told me to come here and ask you for the items I need. He says I am ready to have my own set of real tools to work with. I wonder if you would have one for me. "

The Dwarf plunges the tempered metal into a bucket of water with a crackling hiss, before looking up at Thurston.

"Magmabraids? The innkeeper's boy? He would judge a smith's quality and send him to me?" He looks Thurston up and down, taking the measure of the Norscan before him.

"What sort of 'real tools' do you think you're lookin' for, lad? Hm? Speak up!"

"Well he is an accomplished smith by himself, blessed by Moradin no less! What do I need Sir? A complete set to work with. Hammer, at least one hand hammer but if you consider a sledgehammer is appropiate then that too, chiels, punches, tongs, both with bits and  jaws would be useful too. Swage, and an swage block. Clamping vice of course,  And whetstone of good quality. Sir. Of course I have all of that back in Sheercleft but I think it is time to get better ones, so I can improve my skills. And no better ones than yours. That's what I've been told, Sir." 

Replies at once Thurston. He cannot help but adopt a more marcial stance. The tone and authority of the Grungnazkul reminds him to his instructor back in the days when he was in the temple, and the old habits come back to him naturally. 

"Hmm," the Grungnazkul rumbles, resting his hands behind his back as he paces up and down in front Thurston.

"Look around, Thurston Barnatson," he instructs, gesturing across the hall to the many industrious Dwarven apprentices working behind the Norscan. "Each of my lads here learns with the simplest of craftsman's implements. The tool does not improve your skills. You hone your skills until they are ready to wield a finer tool. Now, if young Magmabraids says that they are, then far be from me to contradict him, but I would see them for myself before I hand over the Makaz of a dawak Grungnazkul."

The Dwarf gestures to a free apprentice's forge and crosses his arms, watching Thurston carefully.

The big Norscan smiles. He wouldn't had expect nothing less. Starting to strap off his armor he asks the Grungnazkul. 

"What do you wish me to do Sir?"

Bründir stares at the runed gem as though the merchant had offered a live squid. "Good shade, yeah, but it's all blue. I don' mean offense, an' I need somethin' like it, but it's a bit...off, right?" He nudges a finger towards his good eye.

"Look 'ere," the dwarf says, "See, this, this, an' this 'ere's what lets ye see. These two are illusion runes, t'make it match yer good one. This last one binds'em all to th' gem." The tinker-merchant leans back and beams a proud smile, "Been doin' this fer a good while. I've made'em so yer own mother can't tell, an' I've made ones fer eccentrics who wanna look cooky an' such."

Satisfied, Bründir smiles and nods, "Guess it's done, then. How do I..."

"Show me ye can pay, then I'll show ye that." A minute of counting coins passes, another minute of careful pulling and prodding, and Bründir emerges from the workshop with an appearance of two functioning, if a bit scarred, eyes.

"Can't say it's the best feeling, but it's good enough. Need t'get a few more things now..." Down the bustling streets, the dwarf wanders and grows accustomed to the strangely foreign, yet well-fitting augmentation in his skull.

Quote from FrandalSilvereyes >>

The big Norscan smiles. He wouldn't had expect nothing less. Starting to strap off his armor he asks the Grungnazkul. 

"What do you wish me to do Sir?"

 
"Forge, form and smith, lad," the Grungnazkul quips back. "Make me something. Show me what you can do."

"You got it Sir" replies Thurston, and start working by adding some coal to the forge and making it roar. Once the forge is hot enough, he puts some carchoal and iron inside one mold  and makes sure that the forge keeps its heat, moving the bellows and adding coal as necessary. Once he has melted the iron and it has an orange color he takes the mold out of the forge and overturn it inot a square mold using a single orifice above it. He then takes the mold and submerges it into cold water. Vapor rises from it but the Norscan stays firm. 

He then takes out the mold and opens it with a single hit of a sledgehammer. And a big ingot of dwarven steel is revealed. He, using leather gloves and a steel pincer, inspect it, looking for imperfections or air bubbles. Apparently satified with the result, he turns back to the forge and reavive it. But that time he has taken off his shirt, wearing an apron to prevent burns from his work. He repeats the process two more times. With the first ingot colder enough to begin working with it, and while the last one is resting, he applies charcoal to the forge until it is again roaring with fire, he then introduces the two first ingots inside, this time he moves them from time to time to make sure all the ingots heats evenly. Once the metal is white red, he takes it out of the forge and puts it over an anvil. Holding it with the pincers he starts to hammer it, rithmycally, measuring the strength of every hit. Little by little the steel ingots begins to melt into one single piece of metal. 

Once it has only one piece to work with, he starts to hammer it more strongly, making it thinner and thinner. When it got the desire thickness, he takes a small axe from the tools that are hanging above his head, and applies it to the red hot metal. With care, he hammers the axe making a mark in the steel but not really cutting it. Then he folds the steel over itself and repeats the process. He puts the metal inside the forge from time to time, to make sure it keeps the desire temperature. And repeats the folding process. And again, and again. A total of a dozen times. Then he starts to hammer it again, following the rithym of a dwarven song that Hürring taught him. He works the metal metodically and slowly, it begins to take the form of a double-headed axe, with the core more dense than the parts that will, eventually become the edge of the axe. 

Then he starts the more delicate part of the process. He repeats the folding into the edges, at least ten times more per edge. He has to work fast and uninterrupted, for he has a long surface to work and must do it without losing heat. His muscles are sweating but the Norscan seems focused and do not show signs of fatigue while keeping the forge hot and working the metal. 

Once he seems happy with the number of foldings and the overall aspect of the head, he heats it once more, and goes for the most difficult part of the whole process, the tempered. Grabing it with a long pincer he submerges it on a bucket full of oil. Flames erupt from the heated metal but Thurston keeps it inside just for three seconds. Then he changes it to the water, and the vapor emerges from the bucket. Just two seconds and he retires the axe from it and leave it into the anvil. He inspect it, making sure that no crack or bubble has appeared in the proccess. Noding, apparently satisfied, he covers it with mud and a black substance on the edges. In the middle it has a crude pointy in the upper part of it and a longer, thinner, hexagonal part at the bottom of it. 

He then starts to heat the third and last ingot. This time the hammering adn the folding, only five times for the whole piece, produces a large, thinner, hexagonal piece of metal. With it still hot he uses a chisel to make a hole in one part, as if he wanted to make it hollow. He also makes it sure that the bottom of it has a small hole that crosses it from part to part. He heats it one last time and tempered it. He had now the metal shaft of the axe. 

Taking the remmants of the making of the ingots, and heating them, while he waits for the shaft and head to cool. He creates five small nails of steel. He discard two of them and takes both the shaft and the head. He takes measures in both parts and mark the anvil with chalk, at the desired points. He goes back to the forge. Heating it again he introduces just the part of the shaft he had made hollow and only the bottom part of the head. Once the two parts are red hot, but not as hot as they were before, just what he needs to work with them, he uses the chalk on the anvil to make three holes unsing a manual drill with a diamond head on it, in both pieces of metal, and with it still hot, uses the three nails to secure it. He introduces it once more in the forge, while using Thor's gifts to heal one of his thumbs, for he has burned it against the metal introducing one of the nails. Hammer it to secure the nails and tempered it. 

He checks his work. No deformations, no cracks and no apparent bubles in the union. He hefts it and smiles, glad with it's balance. It seems that he has distributed correctly the density of the metal with his hammering and folding. 

Almost three hours later from he has started, he start to grind and polish the metal. First he cleans the mud of the edges and beholds the beautiful patter it has created on the edge of the steel. Then he starts to grind and polish, grind and polish, grind and polish, using stones and leather thongs with grinding stons and metal emmbebed on it, he gives shape to the edges, the point at the middle and make sure that not the nails or the union has any rough part or burr. Almost an hour later he moves to a table and takes a series of chisles and small hammers. Then he starts to chisel a pattern in the middle of the head, after heating it a little bit, that follows the typical dwarven geometrical patterns. On the other side he engraves three runes; Dron Az Dawongr. Menaing theThunder Axe Dawrf-friend. 

He also chisel a pattern into the shaft. 

He finished by taking long leather stripes and, using the hole at the bottom of the shaft as anchor, he begins to wrap the shaft, using a pattern used by his own folk. He makes sure that in the parts where it will be wielded, the leather is together to make it more comfortable and secure, but in between the glean pattern allows to see the chiseled shaft below. 

One last poslished and cleaning with water and he finally seems gald with the work. 

Almost five hours later since he had begun to work, he presents the battle axe to the Grungnazkul. 

He should be exhausted but he is really nervous, for this will be the real test to his skill and if he is ready or don't to forge on his own, without the tutelage of his grandfather or his friend Hürrig. He waits for the veredict moving his weight from one feet to anorther. 

Back at the inn, Jex has the wagon hitched, packed and ready to go. He raps his foot irritably. 

"Where is Thurston, he was only to be a moment." An hour passes and concern overcomes irritation and Jex goes off in search of his friend. It isn't hard to locate him in the smithy, and relief crosses his face followed by irritation. He steps forwards to scold and hurry him, but gulps the words back in his throat as he watches the huge Norscan working. Muscles rippling as he raises and lowers the hammer, turning the metal and creating a masterpiece. Face locked in concentration, lost in his art. Jex stands transfixed, an hour passes as he just watches in fascination and admiration, such focus, skill and work was mesmerising. An art piece in itself. Eventually, a passerby bumps into Jex and the spell is broken. One final look at his comrade and he returns to the inn.

"Thurston is busy, looks as though we depart tomorrow" 

Aiden shrugs off his pack, looking mildly annoyed. "Some things never change. You have to understand, Norscans move with the tides and the season. That's about as specific as time gets for them...for us." He adds the last part on as an afterthought. He had never really wrestled with his identity. He was technically from Quenlan -- a small village called Ahtohallan -- but his truly formative years had been spent on Eikthyrnir. He remembered very little of his parents and the village they lived in. He had thought to seek them out and returned to Quenlan to find the village long-abandoned. That was seven years ago, and he had found no leads since.

His thoughts drifted to Olrik and Drea, the Norscan couple that had taken him in and raised him after he had been brought to the isle. Olrik had died a short time before Aiden left for the mainland. But Drea had been alive when he left. He had seen Vark use the sending spell to contact his friend Seid, and Aiden resolved to attempt to do the same that evening to contact his adoptive mother.

For a time, the Grungnazkul stands and observes Thurston, before eventually drifting off to continue to supervise the other apprentices working in the hall. However, he always returns to inspect the Norscan's progress from a distance, beady dark eyes watching for every detail. Hours pass and it is clear that Thurston has lost all sense of time as he hammers untiringly at the folded steel. Finally, after a full eight hours of hard work, he brings the finely-crafted broadaxe before the master smith for judgement.

"Hmmm," the Dwarf rumbles, hefting the weapon as he holds it up against the light to inspect the craftsmanship. "I am not often surprised, Thurston Barnatson, but you have learned your craft well. Better than I ever would have expected from an Umgaz. Even from a Dawongr. You shall have your master's tools."

Taking one hand off the axe, the Grungnazkul offers Thurston an arm to shake.

Thurston shakes the Grungnazkul arm. 
“Thank you Sir. I will honor them.” 
 He takes a towel and uses the water on a barrel to start cleaning himself a little bit. 
“How much time had passed? I’ve lost track of it but it should been a while. I am hungry” he smiles as the Master Smith comes back with his tools. 
He takes them with respect and thanks again the Grungnazul for his help, takes his gear and heads back to the inn. 

Once he enters he goes directly to his friends.

” I am sorry friends, that took more time that I thought and lost track of time. On the bright side I have now proper tools to make us good armours and weapons! You’ll see Val. I will have your new armor ready in no time!” He sees with confidence.  “Is there anything left for supper?” He asks “forging give you the apetite trust me.” 

It had been so long since Brundir walked the streets of a truly urban city. Sheercleft was a respectable size, but its entire breadth could still be crossed in under an hour on the busiest days. This Khaz had width and depth. From where he stood, the whole metropolis seemed to encompass Sheercleft stacked thrice upon itself. After an hour of wandering the streets and markets, and inevitable reality struck the dwarf: With or without this armour that fit so well, riding was certainly best. So, he resolved himself to seeing to a mount.

A livery wasn't hard to find, but the dwarf realized just how culturally mixed his home was when not a horse was to be found. Instead, the livery was a massive pigpen, albeit a bit cleaner than one at typical farms, connected to a stablehouse. "Hallo? I'm lookin' fer a horse," Brundir called at the door.

Nearby, a small desk was shoved to a corner, flanked by several shelves. An hearty dwarf sat beside watching the newcomer. "Horse? 'Fraid we don' have any, but yer an insult to yer kin if ye ride outta here without one of my boars. No dwarf should be seen on anythin' but a dwarven beast." The remark took Bründir back as he recalled horses being commonplace in Sheercleft, regardless of rider. Even his own mother rode such an animal from time to time.

"Uh, yeah, of course," Bründir's tone didn't hide his confusion, "Let's see what ye've got. Gotta be one that won't shy from a fight, though."

"Boars're good fer that," the stablemaster hops from his seat and walks through the stablehouse. Horses were in attendance, but each stall also had varied sorts of personal effects. Saddles and bags, embroidered blankets, and even barding hung in many stalls which indicated each was only renting the space for a time. At the back of the building, a wide pair of doors swung open into the massive pen outside. A few dwarves sat nearby occupied by chores, and a few massive boars wandered or laid about. The pair of dwarves inspected a few of the herd until one was found named Stonebrow. The boar seemed relatively calm, but it bore a wide scar across its brow and a large chip from the end of a tusk. The stablemaster remarked that the boar was friendly, but had a fiery temper. This drew a laugh from Bründir. The deal was settled, then and there, and the merchant gave Bründir reference to a smith who outfitted animals.

While the stablemaster was occupied counting coins for the boar and riding kit, Bründir wandered the stables to see some of the horses. Some were simply kept with only a saddle and blanket, and others resided with regalia to indicate a master of high standing. From one stall, a humming drew Bründir's ear. Within, he found Valen brushing his great warhorse. The knight seemed a bit shaken by the dwarf's appearance, but straightened quickly, "It's good to see you well, Sir." The dwarf shook a dismissive hand at the show of respect, but was cut off before he could retort, "It's clear that a great deal of trouble is rising, and not just here. I must report back to my order so they may decide course of action."

"Ye promised aid," Bründir probed.

"Call and I will deliver all I can. The Bastion is generous, and our influence is strong near home, but we are not so bountiful that we can supply kingdoms by ourselves." The knight spoke in hurried tones, as though his horse were running home without him.

"What 'appened down there?" Bründir pressed again. His tacit drive produced more fumbling from the young knight.

"Nothing that you should trouble yourself with, or that you haven't already troubled with. Your allies are powerful, but I worry, if it I'm not overstepping, if they aren't baling a ship already sunk? We fended off what we found, but it seems greater powers are at work."

Bründir drew up a smile, "Good, I was hopin' it'd be more'n shite goblins an' fat ogres."

Valen couldn't help but laugh, "Master Bründir, I do hope you're arm and luck are as strong as your confidence. Again, if you ever need my people, you need only call. I will take my leave for home within a few hours. I wish you all well." A firm shake between the two men, and Bründir returned in time for the stablemaster to have a formal sale contract prepared. The dwarf stopped at the referred smithy before returning to the inn. It appeared he wasn't the only one spending the day on errands. Good thing, that barding wasn't going to be ready until the day's end anyway.