[center] ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ C H A P T E R ONE Dreams of Doom Theme [url]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kBZ3Uw3fabo[/url] ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ [i]"The hottest fires, forge the strongest bonds.[/i][/center] [center] Djerád Thymár [u]Smith-halls[/u] ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ [/center] The mighty blows of hammers to hot iron echoed throughout the great vaults that were known only as the Chambers of Making. Here miracles of metal were woven into meticulously well-crafted works of art that proclaimed the skill of their artisans. Jahun-ka smiths armed with numerous tools and shirtless but for their work aprons and great gloves toiled away while seemingly immune to the intense heat of the chamber. Forging, like smelting, was a refined art in Karkarth. Nearly every technique used by men and beastkin alike were utilized here, together with a myriad of specialized processes known only to the Jahun-ka. Theirs was a craft unmatched by any other peoples; nowhere was such more apparent than within the forgeworks of the great Chambers of Making. Rows upon rows of master smiths worried away at their stations, twisting, melting, beating, and brewing works of iron and steel. The sound of their work held a kind of sublime tune all it’s own. All bolstered by the crackling of flames and the hissing breath of steam when hot metal met cold water. Built deep within the great Dread Mountain itself, such fuels as coal and wood were scarcely needed and at best redundant. Through Jahun-ka ingenuity, rivers of molten lava were funneled away from the core of the sleeping beast, it’s heart giving the fires they needed for their craft. Out of great archways built high into the walls came great assembly lines holding freshly made ingots, all operated by extensive pulleys that turned the Chambers of Making into a true machine of industry. From the lower levels that twisted throughout the under depths of Djerád Thymár, were the great mines that feed the needs of the Chamber of Making. Achvyn of House Orlious was appointed Master of Crafts of the Chamber, and worked closely with Clan Orlious’s far land traders. It was the Orlious who were responsible for a great deal of the Karkarths trading wealth. Achvyn position meant he oversaw the most lucrative sources of income for the Scorched Lands. Thus, Achvyn held the position with much pride. He watched the proceedings on his usual inspection walks down the chambers long hall, smiths on either side working away. Ingots were dropped within overhanging melting crucibles, each resting just over red hot flames which slowly melted down their cargo, once mostly liquidated, the smith pulled on a chain to tip it thus pouring its payload into finely made molds at the makers choosing. At Achvyn’s side marched his assistant carrying a flat wooden tablet with leafs of paper upon it and armed with a quill, was jotting down various bits of information as Achvyn directed. Replacement tongs or where levers and pulleys needed fresh oiling. He also jotted down various quotas that still needed to be met. They began passing by a rake of newly forged Karkarthian blades. Achvyn raised a hand to call a stop, and walked to one of the swords. Having only reached the phase of making before they received their hilts and handles, the swords seemed markedly naked. Despite this, they still held undoubtable sense of beauty to them, and each revealed the mark of their marker. As every smith in Karkarth made sure to leave their sign on their works. Each blade was deeply engraved with ancient Draconic symbols, etched into the very soul of the weapon. The smiths of Djerád Thymár were a superstitious lot and believed every blade held it’s own spirit, it’s own personal legend. One did not forge a new weapon so much as allow it to take the shape it wanted. Achvyn didn't know what to make of their strange practices, but he could not deny their efficiency. A nod of approval sprung from Achvyn as he traced the lines of the runes with a dark finger. “How many newly born are ready for shipment to Otnemarcasan?” Achvyn asked. “Given our current output this month and today's progress, we should have as many as six hundred ready by weeks end.” Orvo, his attendant, answered crisply. “Our quota will take another month to complete, taking into account our efforts to meet Charlin’s growing needs in their current wars.” Achvyn nodded. As expected the Chamber of Making within Djerád Thymár was excelling expectations. Theirs was the premier foundry within Karkarth, and easily outpaced the works of other great forges elsewhere in Karkarth, and very likely all of Avara given the Jahun-ka’s advances in metallurgy. Still, even the skill of Karkarths forgemasters would be hard pressed in the coming times. War often meant a surplus of work and trade for smiths throughout all of Karkarth. Yet even in all the centuries of warfare it had faced, Avara’s needs for armor and weapons had never pushed Karkarth like this in the past. The timing was good, considering the lackluster harvesting of shroom’s this year. Due in no small part to the working of a particularly large Ash storm. Something that would hopefully be fixed in the coming days with trade. However, if rumors were true, Karkarth might not be able to risk getting such much-needed foodstuffs from Charlin their closest ally in these trying times. Not if the plague spread any further or grew even worse... The two continued on their way. “Let us hope those grains from Charlin arrive soon then. Preserving us from famine is the least they can do given our aid in their conflict.” “The hottest fires forge the strongest steel.” Orvo chirped, quoting a popular Jahun-ka saying. “I’m sure our allies will hold. Their nothing if not resolute.” “That's putting it mildly.” [center] ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Irrál Feth [i][u]Northern Fortress bordering the Great Waste [/u][/i] ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ [/center] He stood atop the treeless hillock that sat between two running rivers of magma and he waited, his eyes glued to the eastern horizon, to the tiny sliver of light heralding the approach of dawn. He was naked, every hair, every nerve feeling the tickle of the hot breeze. He was naked and he was free, and as the horizon brightened a bit more, he lifted his sword, a large but well-balanced weapon, into the air before him, both hands clasping its long hilt, the muscles of his arms bulging. Sparks of fire wafted through the air and met flesh, but the sword wielder neither hissed in pain or made any note of feeling them. Fire Prince Kelnzo brought the sword across in a gentle sweep, his weight lifting gradually with the movement of the outstretched blade to keep his balance perfect. Up went the blade over his left shoulder. He stepped right foot forward, then brought the sword back, again slowly, perfectly balanced. His left foot came forward, then went out to the side, blade and right foot following, turning the young man as if he were now facing a second opponent. Strike, parry, strike, all in harmonic and slow motion, and then he dropped his right foot back, coming around in a fluid movement to stalk back to the left. Strike, parry, strike -- the same routine. Then he dropped his right foot back again and half pivoted, so that he was facing exactly opposite from where he had started. He came ahead in three strong strides -- strike, strike, strike with the blade as he moved, then repeated the same motions he had used, left and right, from this new position. "Bi'nelle dasada," it was called, the sword-dance of the Iron heart discipline. The young man continued for nearly an hour, his arms and weapon weaving ever more intricate patterns in the empty air. This was the bulk of his physical training, sparring rarely but gaining a memory of the movements within his muscles. Every attack and parry angle became ingrained in him; what had been conscious battle strategy melded into a reactive response or an anticipatory strike. From under a great shroom across the eastern river of fire, Thurirl’ver and some others watched the sword-dance in sincere admiration for their prince. Truly the muscled young man was a thing of beauty and grace, a combination of pure strength and uncanny agility. His sword swished with ease, as did the long braids of his midnight black-colored hair. Never losing the slightest edge of balance, Kelnzo’s muscles worked in perfect harmony, perfect fluidity, none battling, flexing and complementing each move. And his eyes! Even from this distance, the others could see the olive-green orbs sparkling with intensity, truly seeing the imagined foes. The young Kelnzo’s movements improved with every day, and so Thurirl’ver had gavin him more of the sword-dance, the most intricate battle movements known to the Jahun-ka, who collectively were the finest swordsmen in all the world. Kelnzo mastered the intricate movements, every one, soaked them into the sponge he had become and held them fast in his heart, mind, and muscles. No longer did any, even Jatil, question his prowess or his bloodline. Never again in Irrál Feth were the words "Blood of the Dragon" spoken derisively where young Kelnzo was concerned. For he had passed through the "wall of nonperception," as Thurirl’ver called it, had shrugged off the common view of societal inhibitions of consciousness, had become one with the greater powers, the natural powers, about him. On those occasions when he did spar, he not only understood how to defeat any attack, deflect, dodge, or block, but also knew which tactic would offer appropriate counterattacks or would keep his defensive posture strong against subsequent attacks from that foe, or even from others. Kelnzo now won far more often than he lost, even held his own when battling two against one. His routines became more varied, more deadly, resembling in many instances the motions of an animal predator. He could put a dagger in his hand and curl his arm in such a way that he might strike as the viper. Or he didn't even need the dagger but could stiffen his fingers that he might drive them right through any obstacle. And every morning, before the ash veil blanketed Irrál Feth, Kelnzo came to this spot and watched the dawn, weaving his sword-dance, building the memory. There was no doubt Kelnzo was his father's son in every way. [i]The Blood of The Dragon.[/i]