Hammer
The fires of the forge burned low; the day of repairing weaponry had ended. The quotas have been met and exceeded. The Dulfenson Forge was as efficient as any Sky Port Ulik had heard of. Certainly had better quality than anything the sky-bearded cousin species whipped up for their strange rowdy crew. Quality matters much more than quantity these days.
The young Duardin wiped the sweat that gathered on his brow. The cooling runes had done nothing here, no matter how often the other blacksmiths insisted that they helped. It became a habit now that Ulik would wipe his brow exactly 7 hammer blows, precisely 4 seconds after dunking the hot iron into the cooling water. Whenever the weapon was finished, he would take off his leather cap and wipe it with it. No matter how unpleasant the Forges got these habits or the small mannerisms, this keeps a master working.
Ulik looked down at the great sword he had almost finished. All it needed was a handle and his rune signature. After that? He could present it to the king, who was- certainly something. The Captain got a special weapon from the Fyre Lodges, so Irk thought it best to get something of his own. Knowing the slayer cousins, they would not take kindly to requests.
So now he labored, working on a weapon, especially for the king. Ulik Dulfenson, the best smith in Durtarv, is working on a sword for a jealous king. If his ancestors could see him, what would they say? Praise him for a job well done. Or chastise him for wasting his skills on something as petulant as a human king without a beard. By Grungni, he would much rather be making a Chuffin DAGGER than a great sword that would never be used.
Even then- he was never one to deny work.
A silver handle half the length of his beard and as wide as his head was the perfect match for such a blade. Just strong enough to resist snapping after extended use, but the obsidian pommel shows the city’s special insignia. The king would like this one. If he didn’t, he could ask the NEXT best smith to do this work.
As he stepped over to the blade, he prepared himself to slide the two pieces together when the sound of the iron doors opening screeched through the room. A voice like silk drifted through the air to lay on his ears. “So, my beloved has asked how things were coming.”
Ulik looked over his shoulder to see the King’s Advisor. Raven hair and brilliant blue eyes that seemed to glow in the light of the dying flames. A smile that oozed with a stuck-upness surpassed by none the Duardin had ever seen. Ulik grunted in response to the question, instead posing his own, “I believe I told him it would be done within the week; why is he so antsy after a single day?” his voice low and gruff, his annoyance making itself apparent in his tone.
“Yes, well, you KNOW him now, don’t you? He was always one too excited for his own good. That WAS how we got in this little job of yours.”
“It is not my job; it is my duty to the King. One I do happily.”
“Mhmmmmmmm sure, I suppose that is what you Duardin say. But I also thought you do not lie; isn’t that Grimnir’s whole special thing? Besides dying, I mean.”
The blood in Ulik’s veins boiled hotter than the flames of every forge combined into one. This miserable little- “Now LOOK HERE!” The blacksmith spun around with a thickly gloved finger pointing at Danalia’s grinning face. “You cannot just come in here and speak such- such- BLASPHEMY! I am not a Sigmarite, but I honor the Ancestor gods, so keep your trap shut, you WHORE!”
Ulik expected some sort of reaction. Something, maybe even a slap across the face, he would have taken a slap compared to what she did instead. She laughed. The laugh that a stuck-up snob of a woman would use went taunting someone; that accursed laugh rang through the room, assaulting him from all sides.
When silence finally graced the room again, Danalia looked down at the Forge Master as if he was a beardling who raised his voice at a longbeard. A mix of anger and amusement in those blue eyes. Those red-painted lips no longer open in excitement and mocking but put into a closed smirk. It felt like hours before she spoke with such a soothing tone; he had to remind himself it was human, not his mother.
“Dear…are you not the Forge Master?” She asked
Ulik was still shaken slightly by her entire being that he took a moment to answer in a low, shallow voice. “Aye, I am.”
“Then tell me, if you would, why you would think calling me a whore would be a good idea. The King would NEVER want his love to be insulted like that. Why I’d be surprised if you weren’t stripped of your title as soon as he heard-“
“HE CANNOT DO THAT!” Ulik burst out, interrupting Danalia, “I EARNED MY POSITION, AND NO ONE IS AS GOOD AS I! HE ASKED ME TO FORGE HIS WEAPON!”
“Awwww, that’s so cute, but I must ask. Who would a king listen to, his loving partner or a blacksmith who thinks himself above such work?”
Ulik had to take a second; did she know? She had no way of knowing. Was he mumbling out loud? But then, how could she hear outside of the double doors? That didn’t matter; she was in the wrong here.
“Do not lecture me! I was a chair holder since before Irk was born, and before you began to walk, you hooked-nosed freak!”
The Advisor sighed, bent down, and all sense of fake kindness left her voice. Now it was a calm, commanding tone that could stop a rampaging Ox Beetle in its tracks. “Listen, why don’t you finish your work? Take the rest of the week off. I mean, surely if you work too much, your students might stab you in the back…no?”
Ulik was never one for the intricacies of double speaking, where a message was hidden beneath plainly laid words. But one thing was for sure. This woman was not human; she was like an Aelf, sneaky, conniving, and dangerous. This woman wanted him dead.
A grumble and a cough preceded the quiet “Very well.” From the Duardin. Words that stung like poorly made ale, ones of giving up on principles in fear of angering someone further.
The Advisor straightened her back and flashed an expression of cheeriness and excitement. “Oh, I am SO glad that you decided to get some rest. Your beard is absolutely…never mind. It must be the heat messing with my eyes! Ta Ta for now, Ulik Dulfenson.” With a spin of her heels, she left through the double doors. The gears of the opening mechanism turned to close behind her.
Now that she was gone, Ulik grabbed a small hammer behind his beard. The most sacred instrument a Duardin has is the hammer that will bind a rune blade together so that it may never break. The Dulfenson forge’s Rune Hammer was small, but by Grungni, it would make a sword more brilliant than anything the realms have seen.
That witch may think she’s had him beaten with threats. But he would make something to blow Irk of Durtarv away so completely the king would be in debt to him.
He made 6 small hammer blows across the blade, each one breathing life into the runes. Shoving the hilt onto the blade, he gave one final blow of the hammer. Wiping the gathering sweat from his brow.
A Duardin never forgets, a Duardin never forgives, a blacksmith will put his soul into his work, and a Dulfenson will right all wrongs done against him.