Opening up old runes

Dawn broke on a night of little sleep, fuelled by excitement and imaginations of the brief tour with Lawd de Rolo, 'Percy'. But even in the quiet moments where my mind lost its trails of possibilities into the dark pause of sleep, I could still hear it. The heavy clangin’ of metal, gettin’ louder and louder, I could swear it was as if I was sleepin’ back in the top slab of Kraghammer.

Percy had recommended I pay a visit to one Gardain Greybeard, of the Golden Anvil in the Artisans district of Whitestone. As I understood from Percy, Gardain is a gifted blacksmith who has been entrusted with smithin' for the Whitestone riflemen, as well as providin’ certain magical enhancements. That was certainly a craft that I did not have an opportunity to pursue in my time, as the arcane was reserved for the Dwarves of House Thunderbrand in Kraghammer, and of course the non-divine was frowned upon in Vasselheim. But Percy also made a vague comment, as if he had some read on me that he wanted to test, that Gerdain would be someone who could help me answer the questions that brought me to Whitestone.

Lady Ceridwen, Mr Simeon and Mr Sabali accompanied me, out of curiosity and convenience. Mr Sabali was still luggin’ those broken chains, tryin’ to commission a weapon I find hard to pronounce in common. I had previously perused through the artisans district the first night we got here, there was a beauty to see the warm glows of fire and sparks in the winters' night. But the mornin' light revealed all the wonderous inventions and crafts goin' on. Seein' the marvels of Whitestone's technology and its community of creation, filled me with a sense of belongin’ I've never felt before. A home.

As we moseyed down the district, the beat of metal in my head had moved to my ears, and low and behold was the Golden Anvil. A short dwarf was hammerin' a sword to finish, his strokes matchin’ every clang in my head as if this was fates' siren call. He admired his work, took note of us and pulled out a set of fine tools, similar to engravin’ but almost archaic in their form. A tool long lost but found and put to work again. These were rune carvin’ tools, somethin’ I had only heard in the fadin' tales of my me-maw.

The introduced himself as the Gardain Greybeard, that we sought after on recommendation of the Lawd of Whitestone himself. Gardain, or GG as informalised, showed earned pride in the acknowledgment, whilst his husband Theran playfully cooled down any risk of ego. My compatriots introduced themselves and their respective businesses, whilst I was stunned at the tinges of Kraghammer's burr in Gardain's voice. An accent I haven't heard for decades, and one I was in no rush to hear again.

Whilst my fear paused me, my curiosity pushed me through and I axed him about his tools, if he was what I think he is, a rune smith? He was. Although it couldn't be possible? As far I knew it from the tales of my elders, the rune smiths, or divine artificers in the gnomish tongue, died out when our ancestral home of Wittebak was destroyed 400 years ago.

It was a craft widely associated with the faiths and practices of Wittebak. Me-Maw Boom was just a girl when they had to evacuate, but she still had some memories of Wittebak. A shinin’ beacon of technology and ingenuity, she could remember her father, a rune cleric himself, takin’ her down to the Engine Core to give thanks for blessin’ them with the spirit of invention.

But these tales were hushed before they became faded. The gnomes of Wittebak were granted refuge by the Dwarves of Kraghammer, but they were not granted freedom. Our faith was considered blasphemy as we considered Moradin as one gear in the clockwork of creation, and not as the sole creator that Kraghammer teaches. To the Gnomes, Moradin is an entire workshop of tools and possibilities, like liquid metal he is flexible, ever changin’ and always interconnected. To Kraghammer, he is the hammer and the anvil only, singular, isolated.

So many nights of Carvers raidin’ our house, our neighbourhood. So many opportunities denied. So many watchin’ eyes and intolerant minds. So many prayers unanswered.

All the pain, the shame, the injustice, the anger bubbled in me. These wounds were old, but still not healed.
 
If Gardain had not shown kindness and understandin’ of the zealous oppression, I may have lost my manners. But try as I might to skirt around or counter his words, his humbleness cooled me. He asked for a moment alone between us, I was scared. I didn't know if I could face this, for goodness’ sake I came here for guns, not gods!

But his words struck a chord, to see this Dwarf condemnin’ the trauma inflicted on me and my kin, wieldin’ tools of my culture and heritage; speakin’ words of acceptance, showin’ the love for another so different from himself in faith and features. How could I not follow my own words to Lady Enessa the night we lost Ussi, and keep an open mind at least if not yet an open heart?

GG offered me to teach me his skills, to free myself from my past, and to connect me with my history. I shook his hand and we got to work. It seemed fittin’ that this divine introduction was so humble, no exceptional visits from Exarchs and lost companions returned to us. Just a man, puttin’ his hands to work, seein’ a fellow in need and doin’ good with the tools he has.

It was a long week. Mr Theran shared his teachin’s of the arcane and the lessons of the Arch Heart, which went hand in hand with the practice of rune smithin' with GG. I won't lie there were heated moments, talkin’ through the trauma gave rise to an anger I haven't felt since I was a younger man. It was hard to reckon that these theological thugs could still draw on Moradin's power and blessin’, whilst tarnishin’ the spirit of his instructions. Did he implicitly approve of their actions, as that same privilege wasn't granted to us? It was a question that I had finally stumped GG for an answer!

The beauty of craft is the process, your hands and eyes are workin’ but your mind can find freedom to work things out in the backroom. One night I was cleanin’ and maintainin’ Bayou, and I thought of Percy. This man created these weapons, but he has just been a shaped by them, the clocktower, the guards, the entire city of Whitestone and it's legacy have been touched by Percy's experience with these weapons. As I look at the large, stocky and raggedy weapon, I wonder what would be its own judgement of me? Maybe our creations shape their creators just as much the creators shape their creations?

Maybe Moradin didn't create the dwarves of Kraghammer in his image, but maybe they created him in theirs?

As somethin’ that GG first said to me on the day I met him, still rung with me "no one can tell you how to practice your faith". But they did, and maybe it's time to repay the favour to Kraghammer, tell them how to practice a faith that doesn't harm others. Maybe it was time to stop waitin' for the Moradin of old to find me, and start goin' to find him?

I won't lie, when I went back to GG the next day with an answer to my own question that stumped him, I felt pride in myself when he said "now the apprentice is becomin’ the master".

That night, like most nights of that week, I shared my thoughts with Lady Ceridwen. I could tell she was even more excited for the prospects of my path then I was. I knew it had always been a sadness for her that I could not share in the love and joy of faith.

I look to my friend, my pard'ner in 'Heim, and think of all the years we served together. The victories, the defeats. I remember the first day we met, this awkward but eager young woman, agonisin’ over which weapon to pick in the armoury, the sword, the halberd, the mace? She created quite an irate queue, but she paid no mind to their heckles. She was diligent, thorough, considerate in pickin’ what felt right to her. The right tool for the job, no, the right tool for her duty.

We've been in many perilous and desperate situations before, but I never needed her support more than I do now. I see my Captain, my Lady, and the pride wells in me at how far she has come already on her pilgrimage. It is a curious fate where we have both begun to explore paths, we thought closed to ourselves, one where religion isn't the only holder of answers for Ceridwen, and one where I might turn to the Gods for an answer.

I never had faith in the Gods or even much in myself, because I always had faith in her. Her honour, her sense of justness, her convictions are what make me believe in her. I realise although these are qualities present irrespective of faith, and that her faith doesn't define her, it does shape her.

In the rare moments of doubt, where the burden of faith laid heavy, I said she always had a choice. Even though her faith is in her blood, bein’ born into service through the promise of her ancestors to Bahamut and the Church, there could still be a choice. But it seems a choice can be a priviledge for those without a duty.

Now it seems I have a long overdue debt to repay, a duty I must choose to take on and uphold. Last night I took on my own pilgrimage, carryin’ Bayou and all my tools through the artisan district, givin’ courtesy to those burnin’ the midnight oil pursuin’ their craft into the night. I walked through the workshop of this city and I stopped at its heart, Lawd de Rolo's clocktower. A feat of engineerin’ ingenuity, a moment to a legacy of buildin’ a better world. I knelt down, and for the first time since the last time when I was a young boy who gave up hope, I prayed.