Magic Fades
Ceramic DM – Summer 2004
Round 1, Match 8, Taladas vs, Graywolf-ELM'
Magic Fades
Fildon ForgeHammer stared at the piles of reports covering his desk, his face a picture of mute disbelief. The pot-bellied and grizzle-faced mage stroked his braided beard and ornamental beard hammer absently. The desk was hand carved from green granite with elbow grooves, and flagon holders inset. Fildon’s chair was also hand carved, this from stout Oak with four solid posts, with concave fittings at each base allowing it to rest on smooth round stones. An old battered shield hung, on the wall behind the desk, in quiet representation of an early and long stint at Seeking, in the Hammer’s younger days. He grumbled his displeasure at the crystal globe mounted in the center of the ceiling. It emitted a soft white light throughout the room and clearly illuminated the accursed stacks of reports.
Fildon glanced at the door, expecting his assistant to come rushing in with a new batch of reports and complaints at any minute. Giro XornBite was not your typical Forge-Mage’s assistant. At a young age his left foot was grabbed and phased into solid rock by an angry Xorn. Giro’s friends managed to hold him from being pulled further under, but he’d lost the foot. Giro and his friends had been mining all of the gems in the Xorn’s favorite snack supply.
With a resolute harrumph, the old Dwarf released his beard, and snatched up a letter for examination. It was written on parchment, of obvious human make, with dibble-berry ink laid down by quill. The hand was strong and purposeful; it began:
My dear Master Fildon ForgeHammer,
It is with great sorrow that I must write this letter to you. If you recall, our town commissioned a work of magic from your esteemed family of Forge Mages. If you recall, we are a small town and saved the earnings of all our divers for many years to pay for your services. Everything worked fine until Three days ago. The diving apparatus that we desperately needed to harvest the giant clams and deep-water delicacies has failed during an expedition to claim pearls. The young woman Ellistia Waterstil perished in the accident.
Fildon paused for a moment, remembering the
young woman who was testing the diving apparatus. Fildon has insisted on being there when the magical suit was tested the first time. Three human men were instructed from the shoreline in the proper procedure for donning of the suit. The brave look in her eyes and the tender touch exchanged between her and the other diver, her heartbound. The poor woman, she was a brave one.
He shook his head to clear the thoughts, and continued on with the letter.
The apparatus was found with Ellistia inside, using the old diver’s bell. Testing has determined that all traces of magic have stopped working. We understood that the magic was to be permanent for the benefit of the entire town. The only way we have been able to compete with the other towns is through the use of this suit.
The letter went on to request repair of the suit, and wergild for the remaining heartbound man. Fildon made notes to have the wergild sent, and the apparatus returned for examination. Parting with the gold would be difficult, but this had to be investigated, all of these would need investigation.
Flipping the letter over into the depressingly-small completed pile, he reached for another one. This one was penned with a Dwarvish quill of never-ending ink. By the color and texture it was made by clan SilverHand. The wood-pulp material was made by the same artificers, but non-magical. This author was somewhat less levelheaded than the previous. In a swift, determined, and angry hand,
ForgeHammer,
I Delacy ni Calendess, declare undying hatred for you and your clan.
Fildon sat back in his chair, eyes wide at the war invoking nature of the letter. Allowing himself to calm down a little, he returned to the letter. Grief could make a man say or write things he would regret later.
My beloved Benicia is dead because of you. She loved the dancing assistant you devised for her, not knowing the pain and sorrow it would cause. You stood in my very home, and watched her first performance with that horrid device. Guiding her through dance steps, balancing her during flips and spins. She was gorgeous that day in makeup and silks; your eyes should be plucked from their skull for what you have done. The last you saw of her, she was standing in front of your creation. My last sight of her, was the crushed and mangled body being pulled from that monstrosity. It crushed her in the middle of a performance, with hundreds of people watching. She may yet be raised from the dead. I am petitioning all of the good churches in the city. Though it leaves me coinless, I am hiring a champion to seek you out and carry out my vengeance. You have been warned! The writing trailed off at this point, only to be followed by a tirade about the Dwarven quill failing, this in a different ink.
Having read enough, Fildon wrote some comments for Giro to have the construct tracked down for study. It would not do for this thing to kill others and bring more shame to the ForgeHammer name.
Fildon set the paper aside and looked at the incoming stack of letters, “Something is horribly wrong with even my most potent Runes.” Making a decision, the dwarf pushed back against the table, his chair easily sliding on the its’ stone feet. Easing himself down to the floor he reached up under the desk, and tripped a hidden trigger. A Forge Hammer fell into his hand with a familiar smack of flesh on leather-bound handle. The head of the hammer was squared, angling down from the haft to a business area of 3in x 3in square. Runes adorned the haft and both sides and top of the ancient Hammer. It was old when Fildon ForgeHammer was still young. The aura radiating from the old magical forger of weapons was still strong after centuries of use. Hefting the welcome weight up to his shoulder, Fildon heads out the door, only to find Giro rushing towards him.
“Master ForgeHammer, there is a problem in the secondary workshop, something is terribly wrong.” Every other step is made with the soft thud of a solid mithral foot, the lack of a metallic echo due to the Xorn hide affixed to the bottom. “Please this way sir.” Giro leads the way to the leatherworking shop to show Fildon what sent him in such a hurry.
“The hats of disguise, of charm, and of change. Master, none of them work. All their magic is non functional.” The Dwarves working here look up from their shoes and hats. “What has happened?” Giro is on his way to a frenzy at this point.
Ignoring the frantic state of his assistant, Fildon waves to his assistant. “Come along Giro, I go to the forge to seek answers.”
Climbing down stairs, opening hidden doors, with no visible seams when shut, and across a rope bridge, the pair finally arrive at the forge. The sacred clan forge had been handed down generation to generation, for nearly three thousand years. There were improvements to the bellows, back in the time of Gilly ForgeHammer, and a new anvil just a generation ago by Fildon’s Father. So well built, are the dwarven forges, that they rarely need repairs from normal use. Fildon directed Giro to the bellows. “I need a four beat-er Giro, no more, no less.” Fildon raked the coals, and set the hammer down to load up the forge with fresh coal. After several shovels full, Fildon picks up the hammer and points it at the coal. “
HADAREN”. The Dwarven word for fire is spoken, a rune flares on the side of the hammer, and fire leaps up to light the coals. Reaching over, Fildon grabs an iron rod and stabs it into the coals to heat up. Giro dutifully and rhythmically pulls on the bellows to heat the coals in the Forge.
Soon the coals and iron rod are white hot. Fildon slides on the gauntlets hanging by the forge, and brings the rod around to the anvil. He takes up the hammer and begins tapping out an even rhythm on the rod and anvil. Some say Dwarven Rune Magic is like any other, a call upon the weave with the right runes, similar to a call using bits of diamond or animal parts for spell components. Others know the truth of it. A melding of Arcane and Divine magic with strength of will to gather them together is a more accurate depiction. The runes help focus the will and the magic.
Fildon begins chanting along with his hammering. Sometimes louder, at others lower, and never deviating from the rhythm of the hammering and the bellows blowing air. The chanting continues in a deep dwarven rumble and runes flare up as their powers are called upon. He could cast the spells himself, but the aid of a good bellows man made it much easier.
“
Gods of Fire and Light
Gods of Earth and Dark
Vessel worthy to Mold
Bring me out from Cold
I forge weapons to fight
Bringing forth your spark
Vessel worthy to Mold
Bring me out from Cold
Hammer made of centuries
Deliver me answers please
Vessel worthy to Mold
Bring me out from Cold
Hammer made of centuries
Deliver me answers please.”
Giro watches the old mage continuing to hammer, and reheat the iron when needed, his casting never stopping. The old Dwarf goes into a trance, and with all outward appearances of forging, begins communicating with the hammer that holds the spirit of his family.
“
WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE OF ME FILDON, LAST OF THE FORGEHAMMERS?”
“Gilmtor ForgeHammer and ancestor, I seek a boon. What is happening to my magic? Help me to find the reason behind my failure.”
“
EASY ENOUGH FILDON. THE ANSWER IS IN YOUR PAST AND YOUR WILL.”
“How so ForgeHammer? I have led a long life of Seeking when my goals did not match those of my family. I returned with new ideas, and brought prosperity to the guild.”
“
YOU LOST YOUR WILL IN THE CAVES OF ILL MUIR. YOU STRUCK A BARGAIN THERE, WITH A MONSTER IN HUMAN GUISE.” AND NOW YOU USE FORGEHAMMER TO MAKE TRINKETS TO SELL. I WAS CREATED FOR CRAFTING WEAPONS NOT THIS IGNOBLE FATE.
“What? How is that possible? I did not know. That was two hundred and fifty years ago. Trinkets? I craft wondrous items with you.”
The memories start flooding back, to a time when the Dwarf was off adventuring with humans in the Caves of Ill Muir. Falling down a well-disguised chute, the dwarf landed in an inhabited cave.
He looked like an old human shaman of some kind, sucking on a pigs knuckle, and he spoke to Fildon in perfect Dwarvish. “I see you dwarf, falling in my cave. Will you die today, or shall we strike a mutual bargain?” The presence behind the eyes filled the stout dwarf with dread. Some time later Fildon was pulled from the chute with the aid of a rope, his friends none the wiser about his encounter.
“
YOU TRADED SOME OF YOUR WILL, LATER IN LIFE, FOR BUSINESS KNOWLEDGE, TO BRING HOME FOR YOUR CLAN. NOT MUCH, BUT JUST ENOUGH TO AFFECT THE FINAL BINDINGS OF YOUR RUNES. ”
“I didn’t know. This has ruined my honor, and the reputation of my clan. How do I regain my will, and my honor if I can.”
“
YOU MUST TRAVEL TO THAT CAVE AGAIN, AND REMEMBER WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A DWARF. YOU MAY NEVER USE FORGEHAMMER TO MAKE TRINKETS AGAIN. ”
With that pronouncement in his mind, the next blow of the hammer leaves it cracked in half like a ripe melon on rock, the sound in the forge, like that of two Iron Golems trading hits. The dwarf comes quickly out of his trance with pain and shame evident in his eyes and etched upon his face.
“Giro, prepare my armor, and the old shield. I have something I must do.” As he stalks by the shaken assistant, four words startle the dwarf even further. “The Forge is yours.”