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Valaith's question carries more weight than her words alone and the dwarf’s blue eyes narrow slightly. He meets the barbarian's stare, stroking one calloused thumb across the edge of his beard clasp.

"Aye," he rumbles in a matter-of-fact tone. "The name's Thorek Ironbinder. Runesmith, like my father and his father before him. If ye've come t'me door askin' that, then ye've not wandered here by accident."

His eyes flick up and down Valaith's massive frame, taking in the frost-bitten set of her features and the great hammer hanging across her back. There’s a faint twitch in the corner of his mouth, almost a smile, but not quite.

"That’s no common hammer ye carry. Even from here, I can feel it breathin' quiet, waitin' to be given voice. Hnh. So, tell me, giantkin, what is it ye're after? A rune etched for strength? For blood?"

"I am Valaith, daughter of Kanathi, named Wildeye, of Clan Kalukavi and the Acharnost. Named Rimehand, bearer of the hammer Rook. I give you my name and with it my strength." Val watches Thorek for several minutes, gauging him before answering his question. "Truly? I am not sure. My brother could make runes, give them power and life. I want to learn to do the things he could do. As for this," she grabs Rook and holds it out between them. "This is Rook, it was my brother's and our father's before his, and his father's before." She looks at the hammer before turning back to Thorek. "It does indeed live, or something inside it does. Will you teach me?"

Thorek listens in stony silence as Valaith speaks, arms folded across his chest and eyes sharp as whetted steel. The cadence of her words, the weight of her heritage and the name that she gives, earn a faint incline of the dwarf's head.

When the giantess holds out Rook, the runesmith does not immediately take it. Instead, he leans forward just slightly, eyes narrowing as though the great hammer is a living thing that might stir if touched unbidden. His breath leaves him in a low grunt.

"Aye," Thorek murmurs quietly. "It lives, but not in the way ye think. That hammer’s been drinkin’ from the hands of yer blood for generations. Steel remembers, lass. Stone does too. Every strike, every oath, every death… it clings t’the marrow of a weapon like this."

The words hang in the air for a long moment and then the dwarf straightens, his unflinching, flinty gaze meeting Valaith's.

"Runes ain’t tricks of chisel an’ hammer. They’re bargains. Names carved into the bones o’ the world. Yer brother… he had the gift then. Mayhap ye’ve the echo of it too." The runesmith taps a thick finger first to his temple and then to his heart. "If ye wish me t’teach ye, ye’d best know that it’s no easy thing. No craft for dabblers. It’ll demand discipline fiercer than battle and patience harder than steel. Once ye carve a rune, it’s carved in you as well."

Thorek lets his arms fall to his sides, before finally extending one scarred hand up towards the giantess. He reaches for her forearm with the grip of one warrior sealing terms with another.

"If ye’ll swear t’walk that path, then I’ll take ye as a student. Not as giantkin, hammer-bearer, or Rimehand, but as one who listens to stone."

Behind Valaith's shoulder, Larkin’s faint outline shifts, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. He gives her the same nod that he once gave when showing her how to steady a chisel.

A long few moments pass as Bründir's face twists and considers. He wanted to start the work on his gear quickly, but wouldn't it be best to present himself with it all before the king first? What if secrets came out tonight and could be shared at the meeting? What if there were new faces of influence at the council who question the validity of his claims without the surety of ancient steel?

"Eager as I am, I think it's best we wait 'till our king hears th' tale with'em present. Soon as our it's done, though, I'll hand'em t'ye right there 'fore his eyes as a show o' good will. If yer scribes 'n scholars can start lookin' at histories an' clans tonight, though, might be somethin'll come up by then?"

Odrik listens without a flicker of impatience, his heavy brows knitting as he weighs Bründir’s choice. When his response comes, it is as a single, firm nod that carries the air of an agreement carved in stone.

"Wise. A blade unsheathed too soon is often mistaken for a threat. Before the king, with witnesses, there’ll be no question of your intent and, if you hand Dumdrengi into my care before his eyes, then any who’d doubt your honour will have nothing left to say."

The loremaster leans forwards, templing his fingers in consideration.

"As for the scribes, yes, I'll set them to work this very night. Your mother's name, your tales of Sheercleft and the marks upon Karakadrin and Karakalad. These are stones that we can turn without your possessions in hand. I'll have them comb the records of clan-kin, strays and oath-breakers alike. By council tomorrow, perhaps we'll already have a thread of lineage to tug upon."

Odrik's eyes hold Bründir's for a moment longer.

"Bründir, son of Brynja, you've come with more questions than answers. That makes you honest. Better to bring gaps in your tale than to mortar them with lies. Let the king hear it all as it is and let us fill the empty places together. That way, no councillor, no rival, or wandering tale-spinner will be able to twist it against you."