A master Runesmiths work is never done.
By: Jos Riddle
This story was originally submitted to Mythic!

The hammer cut through the air once more smashing down hitting the chisel end. The echo of steel on steel cutting in to dark metal rang out through out the chambers, across the marbled floors, and vibrated off the four massive columns before vibrating back down just in time for another strike. The swirling gold on the columns darted this way and that up to the solid domed roof.

Carvan Silverstrike had been working on the axe since his father died in the second great battle of Kazak Eight Peaks. It had originally been his father’s work, and he had taken up the legacy at once, establishing himself as a master of runes, just like his father.

Stopping to wipe his brow, Carvan looked down at his work. It was not even half done, and looked as if his sons would have to finish it. Grinning, he looked at his own work and that of his father. They were both perfect in every detail. Carvan could not make up his mind who was better. Looking over the mighty axe, he studied it lovingly along the golden runes that ran along the shaft, intertwined with jewels of old and silver runes to hold the powers of the gold in place. Watching them closely, they ran like silver and gold rivers in to each other. Only the trained eyes of a dwarf could see their true powers. The handle, too, was perfectly wrapped in dark black bear skin leather, and with several diamonds pinning the leather in its place.

The axe was as black as the deepest mines. It was almost the silhouette of a weapon. He moved his gaze to the work he was about now, the largest of the runes and a rare one at that. His grandfather had been gifted the plans as a beardling for valour above his age, and for shielding the king’s only son with his body as a shield.

The poisoned blade by the vile skaven that had attacked had wreaked havoc on his grandfather’s body. Most of the healers had said he would not last the night. Only branding himself across the wound with a purification rune had saved his life. The scar from then on was always on show, oozing a vile green for the rest of its days. It blistered constantly, causing fits unexpectedly from time to time. It had been why his grandfather had not attempted the rune, as if at any time he might have slipped the work, and it would have been ruined. Whatever item it had been cast on would have been rendered useless.

Turning, he looked at the ancient parchment once more. He looked at the rules and details of the rune, where it should be struck, at what rhythm, how hard, how deep, what metals were to be used to imbue its power, and what silvers and golds were to be used. If it was all to go to plan, then the weapon itself would be a dreadful one just to look at, but most importantly a purification of chaos.

He counted the runes, making sure for the sixteenth time today all of them were in the correct place, speaking aloud to no one but himself he read them out loud.

Rune of Swiftness allowed the weapon to fly through the air at twice the speed of an axe of the same size.

Rune of Weight allowed the blade to be lifted by even the youngest and weakest beardling, or even a human, for that matter.

“Perfect.” contemplated Carvan, “These two combined will make the weapon like a uncontrolled lightning bolt, allowing for a swift death to any who come up against its blade.”

Rune of Devastation allowed even the most solid of armour to be cut through like hot butter.

Rune of the Grudge caused the enemy to be hit with the grudges of his forefathers calling upon their past deeds, and allowing for them to settle even from beyond their graves.

There were, of course, other runes: ones of stability, channeling, holding, and so on that kept these four in place, and allowed them all to work together.

Then he turned and looked once more at the last of the runes. It was written in the old dwarf’s language, and had taken his father almost his full life to put it all together. Later, it had taken Carvan most of his adult life, and a small fortune in the kings gold to get the correct materials. The words written at the top of the parchment still made a shiver down his spine.

Doorway to Death of A Demon is a rune devised so long ago it had been forgotten. So powerful, it had been locked away awaiting its time. So old that he even wondered if his grandfather could have read the texts.

“Some runes take minutes to create but they last only seconds, days, weeks, or years. Ones like these take more than a dwarf’s life time.” Carven contemplated heavily, and hoped that it would all be worth it.

So with that final thought he dipped his chisel in to a small pot of bubbling blue gold. Then lifted and wiped off the excess before simply raising his hammer once more and began to continue a life time of work.

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