Quote from stormchaser6>>

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."

Bründir smile wide, as though he were a prized student under a prestigious mentor. "I'm happy t'hear yer approval. T'be fair, I wasn't plannin' on our whole tale comin' out t'night. I'll have a better tellin' fer th' king. Hopefully the others'll fill in my gaps, too."

Quote from stormchaser6 >>

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.

Valaith stares at Rook as she listens to the words of Thorek when he speaks about the weapon, her appreciation of his knowledge climbs higher. Perhaps he could also teach her about her family's hammer. She holds the weight of his words in her hands as if feeling them like she would the stones of a land bridge before crossing or a hand hold on the face of cliff she wanted to climb. And this choice... it was that cliff, she felt it. She had a choice and it would forever change her. Climb to the heights that her brother could have achieved or... turn and remain Valaith. She feels Larkin there more than saw him, felt his nod within her very soul. No, this was no choice. She was destined for this. Every obstacle she had ever faced she had overcome. She had lived danger since the moment of her conception. And this was dangerous, the gravity of Thorek's words made that very clear to her. In her mind she grabs the first handhold on that cliff face as she extends out her massive hand to Thorek. "I swear this, by my gods, by my family, by me." 

Quote from Barlow >>

Bründir smile wide, as though he were a prized student under a prestigious mentor. "I'm happy t'hear yer approval. T'be fair, I wasn't plannin' on our whole tale comin' out t'night. I'll have a better tellin' fer th' king. Hopefully the others'll fill in my gaps, too."

Odrik smiles, his beard shifting as he dips his chin.

"Good," he replies, his voice low and gravelly. "A king’s hall deserves a telling with weight and polish, not the scatter of first words. Let the tale settle in your bones tonight, so that when you speak it on the morrow, it rings like hammer on steel. Your companions may shape the tale where you cannot. No loremaster worth his ink trusts a single tongue for the whole of history."

The dwarf leans a little closer.

"Remember, when the king listens, he'll hear more than your words. He'll weigh the truth of your bearing, the strength of your conviction and the ties that bind you to those who walk besides you. Hold fast to that and the telling will carry itself."

Quote from Lyrel >>

Valaith stares at Rook as she listens to the words of Thorek when he speaks about the weapon, her appreciation of his knowledge climbs higher. Perhaps he could also teach her about her family's hammer. She holds the weight of his words in her hands as if feeling them like she would the stones of a land bridge before crossing or a hand hold on the face of cliff she wanted to climb. And this choice... it was that cliff, she felt it. She had a choice and it would forever change her. Climb to the heights that her brother could have achieved or... turn and remain Valaith. She feels Larkin there more than saw him, felt his nod within her very soul. No, this was no choice. She was destined for this. Every obstacle she had ever faced she had overcome. She had lived danger since the moment of her conception. And this was dangerous, the gravity of Thorek's words made that very clear to her. In her mind she grabs the first handhold on that cliff face as she extends out her massive hand to Thorek. "I swear this, by my gods, by my family, by me." 

Thorek doesn’t hesitate when Valaith extends her hand. His own scarred, stone-like fingers close around hers and, although the dwarf's grip is nothing compared to the goliath's raw strength, there is a weight to it like that of the mountain itself. The weight of an oath spoken before stone and sky. Their surroundings fall still. The smell of forge-smoke and the echo of hammer strikes fade, leaving only the deep, resonant thrum of the earth beneath their feet. It travels up Valaith's arm and into her chest, until it's hard to tell whether the sound is in the air, or in her bones. Thorek's eyes never leave hers.

"Then the path that you take is no longer just yours, Valaith Kalukavi," he rumbles. "You’ve set your hand to the climb and the mountain has heard you. The hammer that you carry will answer differently now. You'll feel it, as you feel the ledge under your fingers before you leap."

The runesmith's free hand comes up, briefly touching Rook's haft. A pulse of warmth radiates from the metal, like the first flare of a forge brought to life.

"From this moment on, it will also test you. It will show you what your brother reached for... and what he feared. If you falter, it will not break, but it will remember. If you rise, it will become more than it was."

Thorek releases Valaith's hand and the faint hum of the earth subsides, replaced once more by the muted roar of the forge. At the edge of her awareness, she feels Larkin, like a steadying hand on her shoulder, and Rook has grown subtly heavier, its balance shifted as though waiting to be swung in a way that it hasn't been before.

Val knew that contracts held power, she had witnessed the power wielding by Vark for many moons now since his pact with the entity he named Matthew, but it was not until this moment that it became real. As the sounds around them become back to life she glances at Thorek, then at Rook as she absorbs the words of her new mentor with the solemn gravity this moment required. She grips the handle tighter as she feels the weight of Rook subtly shifting being changed at the exchange of vows. She could feel it differently, the mountain. It felt like... it was alive, breathing... a force. She grins at Thorek. "When do we begin?"

Thorek studies Valaith's grin for a long, silent moment. Although his face is carved from the same stern stone as the mountain itself, the corner of his mouth tugs upwards. Not much, but enough. The dwarf lets out a low breath through his beard, like a chuckle muffled by gravel.

"Spoken like a true hammer-bearer. Eager to swing before the forge is even lit."

The runesmith turns back toward the workshop, motioning the giantess inside with a flick of his thick wrist. The interior is a cave of heat and shadow, the air heavy with the tang of iron and the sweet bite of charcoal. Rows of chisels, each etched with their own tiny, perfect runes, line the walls like soldiers in formation. Plates of metal gleam on racks, faintly glowing where characters have been cut into them, pulsing with a quiet rhythm like heartbeats.

At the back stands an anvil, blackened with centuries of use. Its edges have been worn smooth and its face is scored with ancient marks that shimmer faintly in the forge-light. Above it, carved directly into the stone, are runes that might be older than Thorek himself. Some are half-faded, while others blaze bright as though they were chiselled yesterday. The dwarf wipes his hands on his leather apron and then folds his arms.

"We begin now, if ye’ve the will for it. First, ye’ll learn to listen. Most think runes are about the chisel, the hammer and the shape of the stroke. Wrong. They’re about silence. About hearin’ the name that the stone already carries, the name that the steel whispers when it’s born of fire."

The runesmith gestures toward a block of raw stone sat on a low table, its face smooth but untouched.

"Sit. Put Rook aside. Forget yer strength for a moment. Lay yer hand on that stone and tell me what ye feel."

Behind Valaith, Larkin’s outline flickers faintly. She can hear his voice, soft as the wind in deep caverns.

"You know this, Val. Like the cliff face. Like the ice under your boots. Trust it."

Val's keen eyes taken in all the details from the tiniest imperfections to the variable brightness of the runes. Even as her eyes sweep over everything, she listens and takes in everything Thorek speaks on. She opens her mouth to ask a question, but he then gestures towards the stone and instructs, so she closes her mouth and moves to comply. She sets Rook against a nearby wall, but always within eyesight as she moves over to place her hand upon the stone. As she does, she can hear the voice of her brother gently urging her on. She feels a tightness in her chest that she doesn't trust so she closes her eyes and lays her palm onto the perfectly smooth surface of the stone. 

She holds it there for several heartbeats, focusing too hard on what she can feel with her hand; the surface was cool to the touch, smooth yet textured, hard and unyielding. She holds her hand there longer, not feeling anything but the physical features of the stone itself. She huffs angrily, the cold mists of her anger puffing into the heat of the room. 'They're about silence.' Thorek had said. Maybe not just silence of the mouth, but... the mind? The spirit? She takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly this time. She let's go of her thoughts, let them drift on the wind like she sometimes would back home during those frigid, still mornings as she would stand at the precipice of the mountains and watching the dawning of the day. She felt a stillness waiting for her there, a presence that wasn't a presence, but an absence? It did not make sense to her, but--- 'Quiet.'

Val let's go of her thoughts once more, allowing the stillness to return. It made her feel strange, but calm. In that stillness she feels a quiver from the stone, not in her hands, but in her spirit. Something was there in the stone, a presence that she could sense now in her stillness. It whispered so quietly to her, but it was too quiet and she could not understand what it was saying, but the presence felt comfortable it felt like... "Home." She whispers aloud, her eyes opened and she looks at Thorek. "It feels like home."

Thorek watches Valaith the entire time. His arms are folded and the orange glow of the forge dances across the deep lines of the dwarf's face. He doesn't interrupt when she huffs, or when the mist of the giantess's breath curls against the heat, instead letting the impatience burn out of his would-be apprentice like a forge-fire consuming dross. When she finally stills, the barbarian's tone turning quiet and reverent, Thorek steps closer, his boots grating softly on the stone floor. The runesmith lays his thick hand besides Valaith's on the untouched block and her palm dwarfs his own.

"Aye," the dwarf tells her. "Home. That’s the mountain. Not the peaks, or the mines, or the halls that we carve, but the heart of it. Every stone ye'll ever touch carries its own name, its own memory. Some are as harsh as the glacier winds and others as soft as the hearthstone, but all of ‘em belong. That's what ye felt."

The runesmith pulls his hand back, looking the giantess full in the eye.

"That's the first step. Don't mistake it for a small one, mind ye. Most never hear anything but the chill in their fingers, but you… you heard where ye come from, even if yer blood’s not o’ the mountain. That means ye can listen an’, if ye can listen, then ye can learn."

A deep silence follows, broken only by the crackle of coals. Then, with a grunt, Thorek turns and begins pulling a chisel and hammer from a rack. He sets them down before the barbarian with deliberate care. The metal rings faintly, as though the tools themselves are acknowledging the moment.

"Tomorrow, we begin the work proper, but, for now, remember this feelin'. The stillness. The home ye found in the stone. Ye'll need to call it again, when ye strike yer first mark."

Behind Valaith's shoulder, Larkin lingers like a shadow of warmth, his expression softer than she’s seen since his death. For the briefest flicker of a heartbeat, she even hears him laugh with quiet pride.