Smith Time
Tenebrae - Friday, October 10, 2014, 7:41 AM
-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=<* A03: Arena District *>-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
When the Champion walked, the earth trembled. Legend by some states that His strength was so mighty that He naturally clove in two, creating the twin gods of Angoron and Kor. Other legends tell other tales, too, and the tour guides are quick to spin them, while at the same describing the history of the Arena, a tribute to both gods as well as, they say, the glorious and competitive spirit of all creatures and even Alexandria, Herself.
The structure stands imposingly massive, a great stage crafted from a time when the oruch and khazad worked in tandem. It displays perfectly the contrasts and strengths of each culture in its carved stonework, from the oruch's tribal frenzy to the khazadi strength and solidarity.
Vendors, shops, surround the arena, and turn this into a place of commerce. At any time, a number of Warriors, Heralds of Angoron or Kor may be seen, offering advice and the wisdom of the Twins. For all its serious, it is a place of laughter as well. Tarien's taverns and trickery makes its home here, and the too-proud warrior may quickly find him or herself on the opposite end of a banana peel.
Salt, sand, fire and blood - the perfume of the arena is thick in the district, filling the nostrils of all who pass through. And why not? It is, after all, in the footsteps of the Champion that those who come here walk - sometimes warriors, sometimes soldiers, and sometimes...support staff.
Fazahd is such a one, choosing to divest himself of his priestly robes in exchange for rough pants and a smith's apron. He toils in one of the many khazad-owned booths here, working steel on the flat, octagonal block of a dwarven anvil; dripping with sweat, the youth's lean figure bristles with muscles, which in turn swirl with the dull blue geometrics of kazhadi tattoos.
This is a kid who is serious about dwarves. Apparently.
"Ah balls. LOOK OUT BELOW!" It's with that brief warning that Munch the Golem drops in. Literally, of course. To be fair, it's a rather gentle dropping. The stubby little wing upon the metal man's back have swollen up like baloons, causing more a gentle drift than a dangerous plumet. It also makes the golem drift in the sudden breeze, which can make for an unexpected landing zone.
As numerous as the smells in such a place as this are the sounds -- the music of anvils such as the one on which Fazahd is working, vendors hawking their wares, the sizzle of meat, the hum of commerce, the clang of sword on sword and thunk of a thousand weapons on wood. It's enough to overwhelm Arlean's increasingly tuned ears, but the bard shows no signs of cowering ... or indeed, going anywhere except down the street, looking from place to place and shop to shop, drinking in the atmosphere as much as looking for an upgrade to his weapon.
That is, until a giant golem shouts above the hubbub. His head snaps up, and he quickly scrambles to one side along with several others, staring openly.
Clang, clang, clang, goes the tro--wait, no. The anvil. ANVIL. And the clanking is loud enough that Fazahd does not hear the shouting of an incoming golem, at least for a moment - and then, between beats of his hammer, the bellowing comes through.
He looks up from his work, past the eaves of the shopfront, and sees the slow descent of a machine-man with ridiculous swollen wings. Puts the hammer aside. Reaches for a pole, to the end of which he begins lashing a loop of rope.
Munch may be falling slowly, but he's still falling. So there's a bit of a thump and a skitter when he hits the cobblestones, clawed toes seeking purchase as the wings begin to deflate with a hiss of vapor. So far as landings go, it's not a bad one, but could have been unplesant had shoppers not cleared out of the way. "...right. Sorry 'bout that. Those cross-winds can get tricky..." As if anyone is going to argue.
Certainly Arlean shows no sign of arguing, and makes sure to give the golem /plenty/ of clearance. Eventually, though, after another minute or more of staring, he just shakes his head and turns to continue on his way -- much closer to the shops this time. He does pause at a vendor selling hunks of beef skewered on sharpened wooden sticks.
Oh, good. He won't need to fetch the golem. Fazahd puts the stick aside, but strides out to meet the metal man as his wings...ah...deflate. Those are some wings.
"Sir," he calls, fists on hips as he approaches, "Are you suffering from a mechanical issue? Do you require assistance?" Priest of Reos on the march, ladies and gentlemen.
Munch shakes his head, running a clawed hand to herd his leathery 'dreadlocks' back into place, and takes a slight step back. Enraged bulettes or fiesty wyrms he'll face without hesitation, but curious artificers he's learned to be cautious about. "Nah, I'm okay. System worked fine until the breeze came up. Not that I was in any danger, but don't feel like talking with the Guard again today."
Over by the meat vendor, Arlean's eyebrows go up into his blonde hairline as he cocks an ear at the conversation. Artifice is /so/ not his bag, though, and once coin and juicy meat has changed hands, he shoots a last glance at the pair before ... taking himself elsewhere.
Ah, but this is a priest of Reos - he wouldn't suggest tinkering for the sake of tinkering, not with another man's systems. But he /does/ make a suggestion. "Perhaps a system to supply finer control. There are some suggestions in the journals of the engineers of my homeland, if you would like to see them." Giving you the choice and everything. Imagine.
Munch nods a moment, then shakes his head. "Was last expulsion of the vapor storage anyway. Drifting is fun, but yeah, no real control. I've a micro-fiber shedding route that's generally superior. Suits my more recent upgrades better anyway."
Dove-gray cloak pulled around her against the brisk and biting breeze this morning, Iuriel's walk this morning takes her in the direction of the Arena District, and her eyes have gone a little wide as she realizes what this area is all about ... and wider still when she spots the massive winged thing in the middle of the street. And ...
Her eyes narrow, just a little, as she spots Fazahd talking to the winged thing. So arrested is she that she's quite stopped in the middle of the street, for a moment.
"As you will, then, my child." The priest gives him a single nod. "But should there be any issues in future, please feel free to seek me out at any shrine of Reos." Fazahd offers Munch a tattooed forearm. "I am Fazahd son of Bhurhad, of Clan Masterbuilder. I believe that we have met before, if briefly."
Munch accepts the offered forearm, his grip expectedly powerful. "Munch TerrorMaw. Might have, but really, humans kinda all look alike to me. And changing the majority of your visible surface, or clothes, kinda throws things off too."
Fazahd inclines his head. "I can see how that would be the case," he replies, and then with his free hand indicates the amulet around his neck. "Well, this is a unique piece. Perhaps in future you may find it easier for purposes of identification."
Still with narrowed eyes, Iuriel watches the pair for a moment, but mostly Munch, then takes a few steps closer, considering the pair shyly.
Munch shrugs. "Everyone had a unique piece. Usually several. But some stand out moreso than others. Like stareing. It sorta stands out, though I do get a fair bit of it." He doesn't look towards Iuriel, but is apparently aware.
Silver and blue are the flowing robes that envelop this slip of a half-Sil woman. She misses the five-foot mark by an inch or two, her frame short for a human and willow-slender in the way of the sildanya but a hair too tall to be likely to be one of them. Dark hair is neatly braided back from pointed ears and falls in a single multi-strand braid down her back, but dark grey-blue eyes are more round than almond and deep-set in a fair-skinned face. A steel crescent moon hangs from a simple leather thong around her neck, prominently visible amid the simple cloth robes, and a leather belt wrapped around her waist holds a dagger and a few pouches.
"Of course. I must go back to the anvil, however; the shopkeeper requires my assistance." Fazahd nods over his shoulder to the empty shopfront. "Will you excuse me?"
At least Iuriel has the grace to blush in embarrassment, looking down with a start. Apparently she heard that, and coughs, approaching a bit more closely. "Pray forgive me," she begins, carefully. "I must have left my manners at the temple this morning." One finger moves to brush a stray lock of hair back into her braid. "Alexandria holds many wonders indeed."
Munch blinks with a soft click at Fazahd. "Your excuses are your own. But if you want to leave I won't stop you. Though if you don't mind a bit of company may be better than standing in the street." Turning to nod to Iuriel, the golem shrugs. "No insult taken. I did enough stareing myself years back. You're welcome to join us, if you like."
"Of course, you are very welcome to join me," Fazahd replies, stepping back from the golem - and seeing Iuriel there, gives the woman a nod. "As are you, my child. It is only that the smith has broken his leg, and I am needed to help keep his forge stoked and his wares stocked." He turns without further word and heads back toward the shop, smelling of sweat and leather and soot.
"Join you ..." Iuriel answers slowly, apparently a bit puzzled, but her expression clears as she spots where Fazahd has gone. And then, he answers, and the tentative smile fades. She says nothing, though, other than, "It is chilly out." The massive golem probably close to doubles the diminutive woman in height, and she paces towards the shop, making sure to give Munch room where needed.
Once close to the shop, she surveys the wares thoughtfully ... and is that a tinge of regret that colors her features? She shakes her head, though.
Munch nods, and keeps a bit off to the side, fairly well adjusted to keeping out of the way despite building not really made for someone of his frame. "The smith... think I know him. Bigger guy, no hair, sorta wispy beard? Nice guy. If you could use a hand, I've no place else to be."
"Certainly. Have you much training as a smith?" The priest takes his place at the forge, frowning slightly at the degree to which the fire has already died down. He stoops to work the bellows; the flames leap and crackle, replenished, and sparks swarm from the mouth of the furnace like blazing moths.
For her part, Iuriel seems quite content to stay out of the way, wandering the wares, although she does look back at the other pair now and then. She isn't dressed for smithy work, nor is she trained or suited for it, it would seem.
Munch shakes his head. "Alchemy if anything, and that mostly internal. But I can follow commands, don't tire, and am strong enough for whatever you care to think of." Glancing to Iuriel, he inquires. "You're new around here, right?" Okay, so it's not so much a query as a statement.
Fazahd looks from Munch to the furnace, and nods. "Excellent," he says, "Please tend to the furnace - apply the bellows when necessary so that the heart of the coals are medium white in heat." It's a simple arrangement; the bellows are controlled with a foot pedal, after all. That done, he plunches a bar of steel into the fire, where it begins to heat.
Fazahd does so after drawing on a pair of heavy leather gloves, that is.
Munch nods, and works the bellows. It takes him a little bit to get the rythmn just right, but the metal man has a sharp eye for detail, and dull, repitivie work? Well, that's the sort of thing golems excell at.
Fazahd proceeds to work in silence for a bit - after all, he has a good assistant, and this allows him to get into the rhythm of it. He takes the bar out of the furnace with a pair of heavy iron tongs, turning the hot end around and placing it on the edge of the anvil. He begins to hammer out the tang of what is apparently going to be a blade; heavy, rhythmic strokes flatten out the end of the steel, compressing the metal into a narrow tongue. He takes the other end of the bar and inserts it into the furnace then, and begins to heat it as well.
"I am a machinist," he explains as the steel begins to grow red in the coals. "It is the trade that I was trained in, besides blacksmithing of course. Are you familiar with it?"
"A visitor only," Iuriel finally looks up at Munch as he and Fazahd work together on the smithy. "I do not know how long I will be here, though," she adds, as if it is an admission, and a somewhat uncomfortable one.
Munch nods. "Kinda. Helped out with a lot of different stuff right after I was activated. Bunch of old guys still smart, but couldn't do any real lifting. They weren't big on explaining details, but I picked up a few things along the way. Mostly that a lot of the stuff was nuts, and sometimes pointless." Nodding, he glances to Iuriel. "Where ya from, then?"
"We are all stones that shift in the earth," replies Fazahd to Iuriel's last statement, then nods to Munch. "If it will be of help to you, I can of course educate you in mechanical principles - purely mechanical principles, that is. I would not attempt to tinker with your arcane workings." The priest tends to the soul, but maybe not directly and with tools.
"Rune," Iuriel answers Munch, suddenly ... a little shy? She pauses by one of the counters, watching the pair with some interest. "They brought me back here from the front lines ... but haven't said anything about me going back." Now what would a slip of a thing like her be doing in a war zone? "Perhaps, and yet we have a place on this earth as each of Her stars," she points out.
Munch buzzes softly in amusement. "Nah, I've two skill sets. Break things, and hurt people. Might interest Reaver, but he's still working on conversation." Reaching over his shoulder, Munch grabs hold of the GreatAxe there, tearing it free. A thin layer of leathery skin had grown overtop the weapon, holding it firmly in place, and a few shreds still cling to the long handel. Actually, a great many layers of golem skin have grown upon the haft; layers that pulse and quiver of their own volition.
"Then may whatever place that you may find give you satisfaction, however long you are in it." The priest doesn't blink as Munch tears his axe free, act of biological nightmare though it might be - in his business, he's probably seen worse. "That's a good blade," he says as an aside to Munch. "Who made it, do you know?"
Meanwhile the bar is glowing hot again, and Fazahd brings it back out to the anvil to hammer on again. Really, smithing is ridiculously loud and sweaty work.
If Fazahd is unfazed, Iuriel is most certainly not. She stops cold, holding her breath until it is clear that the process does not in the least harm him, then releases the breath and relaxes. She lapses into silence, watching as Fazahd works.
Munch hesitates, clicking softly. "Not sure his name. Guy I used to know worked the star-metal. Kind of a nutter, but still knew his way around a hammer. Haft started as just a soild piece of oak from the Mythwood. Binding and enchantments I did myself." A blink and glance to the blade. "Okay, yes, -we- did -our-selves."
"An excellent piece of work," Fazahd replies between hammer strokes - three per inch, it would appear; the dwarven hammer has a broad head, making it easier work than would something that a human smith might normally use. The steel glows and flattens, sparks and smoke swirling around his forearm.
Munch mmms, pondering a few moments. "You've heard the term 'swan song', right? How about 'Sage Brew'? It doesn't seem as common around here."
"I cannot say that I have," says Fazahd, though he pauses in his hammering to squint at Munch. "Are you referring to the axe? Your friend didn't die, did he?"
At length, Iuriel considers the wares one more time and turns away, with a last glance at the pair. "I should go," she tells them. "I hope we meet again ... until then, may Her stars light your path." With that, she turns and slips out of the shop.
Munch nods. "He did. Not too long after, anyway. Never been real clear... if the effort of a really great work actually kills, or if it's other stuff around it that finishes old people off. I mean he -was- old. Senile, kinda nutty. Figure even if it did him in, was happier working again before he went."
"Then I am sorry to hear it. Let us take a moment to reflect upon the last work of a great smith." The priest sets down his work and lays a gloved hand over his heart, lowering his eyes and turning even more somber than before.
Munch stands still and quiet for a few moments, then ticks harshly. "At what cost, though? I take it you don't know Sage Brew?"
Fazahd opens his eyes and goes back to his hammering, pounding at the steel once more; flattening out, the ribbon begins to form the basic shape of a blade, though certainly without a point or edge just yet. "I do not," he says between strikes. "What manner of draught is it that you refer to? Some kind of wise elixir?"
Iuriel has disconnected.
Munch nods. "Something like that. Mild, is a bit like beer, or that coffee stuff. Helps you get ideas, ways to do things. Illegal, but not nasty. But, you brew it strong, and makes you super smart. Like, apprentice having master level insights stuff. But, when it wears off, you crash. Get dumb. Dumb as you were smart. And if it's strong, you never quite fully recover. Well, if you take another hit, you don't crash. You stay buzzed. But the eventual drop is bigger. Seen more than a few old timers, want one last swan song. Make up a big batch of Brew, hope it lasts until whatever great work they're doing is done. And then the crash make 'em too dumb to appericate the result. Four one time leaders of the Academy got together with a big stockpile, more resources than could fit in most labs. What notes were left changes entire fields. When the dust settled, I was activated, and they were too dumb to remember to breathe."
"Mmmm," replies Fazahd with a slow nod. "Wisdom won so cheaply is bound to harm. I exalt alchemy, but like all knowledges, it can be abused to terrible ends. Then again..." He pauses to flip over the ribbon of steel and pound it at the other side, "...it can give life to the most wonderful things. Like you, my child. What a miracle you are."
Munch mmms. "Still, hell of a childhood, first memory watching your parents die, before understanding what that means. Would have liked to talk to them for a bit, if only to find out just what their plans were. Why they did things they way they did, that sort of stuff."
"Have you spoken to the clergy of Vardama?" He says it very gently, aware of the weight of your experience and of what he suggests. "Perhaps they may be able to establish some form of communion. If you would like, I could speak to them on your behalf - it may come a bit more gently from another representative of the Great Faiths."
Munch shakes his head. "Wasn't local. Back in Gustav, years ago. I mean yeah, would be nice, but not the sort of thing to rouse the dead over. Figure if I've real troubles, can go straight to the source, ask the GearFather."
Fazahd nods once, not saying anything further on the subject. "I wish you peace and success on your path, my child," he says instead, and moves to put the steel back in the fire. "And of course, if I may be of assistance, I am always easily found."
Munch mmms. "Been muddeling through okay so far. Not dead yet, so can't have done to back." The golem blinks, and slums a little. "Was dead there for a little while. Not plesant, but kinda nice to know for sure there is something after for me."
"The confirmed existence of the divine certainly does a great deal to take the weight of philosophy off one's back," the priest agrees. "I cannot imagine what it would be like if the gods were only unproven shadows. At any rate, I am pleased that you remain on this world a bit longer." Out comes the steel again, and he's back to hammering. Swords take ages to make, apparently.
Munch buzzes amusement. "Nah, gods I never doubted... well, not much. I mean, I met my makers. Nah, was if was any part of me that would last beyond a body. Hard to be sure when you were made, not born."
"In the book of Khazad-Agar, it is said that the moment an object is crafted, be it of flesh, metal, or stone, it is imbued with the spark of creation and thus the possibility of a soul. Living creatures are created by the gods and are sustained by their power, thus ensuring that they have souls simply by being born. Works of craft are different, but the capacity is the same." He begins turning the blade over and over, hammering away. "Obviously you have been imbued with a soul. We would not be able to have this conversation if you had not."
Munch ehs. "Not so sure on that. Seen some clever device that mimic a conversation pretty slick. But that's not the point. Those crafted -can- have souls. But if a specific one actually -does-... is that sliver of doubt."
"I would know." He looks up, giving you a level look. "I say that you do. Trust what you will, of course." Back to the pounding. "May I ask if you can update your body? Does it require repair, or will healing magic seal wounds?"
Munch nods firmly. "-I- do. Other golems... some do, some don't. And both. I've made several upgrades to my frame and body, had work done for me as well. A few things beyond what I can really follow. I can self repair, but spells are a heck of a lot faster. And are a few spells made for machines that work on me, but wouldn't work on you." ((Or there were, last time I checked. Repair Light Damage and such are a bit of a grey area.))
Fazahd has disconnected.