Difference between revisions of "1394/A Wizard Hammers Iron"

Latest revision as of 06:14, 22 January 2015

Loros (303) has posed:
The Wizard, or alternately The Lords Tutor in Magic, lives in a camp a little distance away from both the keep and town of Dún Reáltaí. It started out as just a tent, mostly hidden in the woods. Since then, he has either attracted or brought a brightly colored travelling wagon, the sort Gypsies (or Varisians) of story and song would travel about in. Between the tent and the wagon a number of tables and tarps have been set up for various purposes.

Despite the heavy snowfull, only enough to provide a decorative layer of snow seems to fall within the clearing itself. The path leading up to it has been shovelled clear as well.

Admist the tables displaying dried herbs and stoppered bottles, bits of crystal and odd talismans, the wizard has set up a new work area. Enclosed overhead and on three sides by heavy tightwoven canvas tarps, the joins are covered with tightly wadded cloth to keep out drafts. For within is the forge, anvil and racks of tools of a smith. As anyone approaches, the distinct music of hammered metal rings out, and as one comes around the bend one might see it is the Magus himself working the metal. Dressed more practically than usual, he wears roughspun shirt and trousers, the leather apron of a smith, heavy gloves and boots, and he is, for once, hatless.

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
It's inevitable that the lord of the land would eventually take an interest in whatever it is the Wizard's up to. The acquisition of a partial caravan was bound to attract notice, and it has, which conveniently explains why Loros has a visitor headed towards his camp tonight.

The sky is clear, for once, and the light of the stars and moon filters down through an ink-black sky. It illuminates the snow, and seems to cast all the edges of the world in a fine gilding of silver.

Bedivere comes on foot, clad in the blue steel hauberk that he seems to have replaced his armour of office with. He still wears the mantled white cloak over that, though, fur-trimmed, and articulated plate gauntlets over his hands. He's on foot, and his sabatons crunch every time he puts his weight down on the snow. It's not too hard to find Loros – follow the sound of ringing metal. Or what one might hope is metal.

He comes to a halt not far from the forge and anvil, folding his arms and cocking his head in clear puzzlement. It's a bit unexpected to see one of the otherworldly arts actually shaping metal, since it's a physically demanding craft; something he himself had never been quite able to do.

"I had thought I'd seen something different, here, but I was not expecting to find this." Bedivere waves a hand, faintly. He arches a pale brow. "Trying something new, Master Loros...?"

Loros (303) has posed:
The hammer comes down one last time on the bit of metal on the anvil, at the moment nothing more than a long length of cooling iron. Gripping the metal with his tongs he raises it up, turning it from side to side before turning and thrusting it into the furnace – where a salamander lies, a piece of coal gripped in foreclaws as the firey lizard nibbles around the edges of its treat.

"New? Not particularly." Regarding the bit of metal in the heat, he turns away from the forge and anvil, leaning back against the latter as he regards the Lord of the land. "I suppose it seems odd, from your perspective. I've found, however, that if one wishes to weave magic into an object, crafting the object yourself is the best way to do it. And if you're going to do that, you have to have the skill, and it's a skill that requires practice."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
Bedivere is mortal. He gives no reaction to the presence of iron, although the heat wafting off the forge draws him a little closer, away from the cold night. To be a knight is to be intimately comfortable with iron and steel, using it as both offense and defense. It would take more than proximity to the Fae to coax the knight into swearing off worked metal.

He does glance at the salamander with unmistakable wariness, though, and he's careful not to get too close to the creature. Aside from the fact that it probably has no love of all the metal he's wearing, it looks like it'd probably melt the metal. While he's wearing it. No, thank you.

"A fair enough answer," Bedivere murmurs, though his eyes dart past Loros to regard the salamander once more – and the anvil, with its shaped iron. "I think of a magician, however, and I think of someone not unlike Master Merlin, unconcerned with dirtying their hands with such things."

Another second or two tick by, and he leans slightly to one side, as though to see what's there.

"...What are you crafting, if I may ask?"

Loros (303) has posed:
Loros chuckles softly. "Don't worry about the salamander. They're not of the Fey, they're a creature of Fire, and not overly concerned with Iron. In fact, I've discovered one or two living in the firebox of a locomotive, once." The salamander glances up at the knight with a slow blink, and then goes back to its treat with a disdainful tailflick.

"You mean mired up in a tower somewhere, surrounded by books, esoteric baubles, bits of ancient history and relics here and there? I find that a change of scenery helps from time to time." Stepping away from the knight, he reaches out for the metal with his tongs, lifting up the strip of iron, now glowing a bright orange color.

"As for what I'm making... well." Reaching out he lifts up one of his hammers and sets to work again, speaking between each ringing blow. Turning the metal, the strip slowly elongates and thins, each blow precisely placed. "A shackle. Simple enough, bar bent into a shape. But if you do it wrong, and leave flaws in the metal, the one shackled can easily shatter it. An exercise in control, knowledge and skill."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"Not of the Fey?" Although he doesn't quite startle, Bedivere does take a slow step backward when the salamander suddenly looks up at him. It's the kind of disinterest only a cat could drum up. Since the creature seems so wholly disinterested in him, he lets himself edge back towards the heat.

...Glorious, blessed forge-heat. It's a cold night, and the snowfall is heavier outside of Loros' little ensorcelled camp, with man-high drifts where the lanes have been shovelled. Dún Reáltaí seems more like a subarctic climate, to go by its ridiculous winter.

"Changes of scenery are always good," he agrees, somewhat cautiously. He watches the red-hot iron, squinting slightly. Although he might lack the strength to forge iron, himself, he knows the theories of it well enough. It was a respectable enough trade in Camelot, and one necessary for the livelihood of the kingdom's many knights.

Violet eyes fall on the heated metal, sizing it up even as he has its purpose explained to him, as though trying to figure by size what kind of things it's meant to bind. Hopefully not him. "A shackle? What for?" Sure, the wizard implies that it's just an exercise in practise, but he seems like a practical sort, who wouldn't craft such a thing without some kind of practical use in mind...

Loros (303) has posed:
"Not every spirit or magical being is of the Twyleth."

"In fact, most aren't. Not that the Fey would want you to know that." The bit of metal is examined again, and found satisfactory, returned to the surface of the anvil for a few strikes with a slightly different hammer. This time, in addition to the ringing, there's a faint pulse of something else to the sound. Almost like a gong, or a deep bell tolling, hard to make out.

"As for the shackle? It's for the dead." Loros tosses out the explanation almost off-hand, even as his hands and body move with the rythym of working the metal, his eyes intent upon what is taking shape beneath them.

A faint smile does tug at his lips as Bedivere moves closer to the heat. "And no, it's not for your lesson. That is likely to involve a -very- distant cousin of the fellow curled up in my forge. But one better suited to your Element."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"No, but a great many of them are. Enough so that it's often safer for me to assume that they are." Bedivere regards the salamander thoughtfully, though he glances aside long enough to watch what Loros does with the half-formed shackle. There's something odd about that aloof creature of fire that's almost endearing, although the knight would be the last person to admit it.

He once rejected such things out of hand, the better to fit into the Christian kingdom he served. Yet the old ways were still alive in Dál Riata, although even that place was predominantly Christian. One could find those old ways alive in the shadows and the odd throwback to an ancient age, before the monks had found those cold and windswept lands. Even the filídh, with their traditions of music and magic, were themselves a throwback.

There's a visible flinch when the second hammer rings like a gong against the shackle, belling against the night like the voice of some great, indescribable Other. Bedivere seems to make a conscious effort to avoid trying to listen to it too hard.

Stepping closer and savouring the heat, Bedivere leans to one side to regard the shackle. For the dead? He raises a brow at that, looking a bit unsettled, but at least he isn't gibbering and leaping away from it. Indeed, he's leaning closer, to get a slightly better look at it. It's not every day you get to see a shackle meant for containing the unliving, after all... though why you'd want to restrain them and not simply destroy them is anyone's guess.

"The dead? I should hope it doesn't involve my lesson," he comments, so blandly that he must be trying for a kind of deadpan humour. "I would hear more of a cousin of the fellow in your forge, though. Although Merlin commanded the allegiance and cooperation of such spirits, I can hardly say I had the opportunity to see much of them. And I suppose, back then, I had more of a distrust of such things." He smiles, wryly. "It helped to fit in. I fear I was not a popular man within the king's court."

Loros (303) has posed:
Once the last of the heat seems to have left the metal, the wizard regards the long strip thoughtfully before replacing it once more within the forge.

"Ah, yes. I admit, I'm not entirely unfamiliar with being the untrusted outsider at a court. Of course, my position and yours are very different things. I'm as like to start whispers of my own."

Dusting off his hands, the wizard turns back to Bedivere. "I shouldn't think you had an interest in the dead. In truth, I mislike most necromancy myself. Ghosts, however... can be a different matter. As for Merlin..."

Loros makes a face. "I suspect he and I are both too similar and far too different. And until he and I sit down face to face, I think that it best that be all I say on the matter."

Turning away, Loros strides over to a nearby workbench, picking up a thick wide wooden dowel wrapped in scorched leather along it's length. This is soon dunked and held in the bucket of water nearby. Only when the leather is sodden does he draw it out and fit the base, cunningly carved into a hold shaped almost exactly the same on the anvil.

"Well and all. You are here, now, with her. And while I'll not say anything about your fellow knights, I imagine the nobility and courtiers were as vicious and petty and power grasping as such often are."

The strip of metal is drawn from the forge, only cherry red this time and set against the sodden leather in a flash of steam and smoke. Swift hammer blows bend it about even as it starts to cool, forming the customary open circle of a shackle.

"As for what you'll be interacting with... 'twill be a Sylph, unless the unforseen occurs."

Sir Bedivere (482) has posed:
"The filídh had something of a reputation for witchcraft. While that was certainly true, to a certain extent, fear and ignorance always exaggerate such claims. Most thought that my appointment and victories came of witchcraft." Bedivere flashes a wry, almost sour-looking smile. "Ironic, that; I was the son of a filidh, and yet I never learned the craft they attributed to me. If word had gotten out I was the son of a filidh, I can only imagine what trouble that would have caused for my king."

He looks to the shackle again, frowning thoughtfully. "Aye, you are right. I do not have an interest in the dead. Perhaps in keeping the dead out of my affairs, but no more than that. I would think it safer to destroy such things than to bind them. You have your reasons, I'm certain."

"Ask me again, some time, and I will tell you tales of that place, if you like. Or perhaps I may sing songs. I find that no matter how much I have turned my back on my filidh heritage, it comes to find me all the same." Another shrug, and he half-turns toward the castle, eyeing the distant light of the windows, warm in the darkness. "I do not mind telling you. Perhaps it will give you a better idea of whom you have offered instruction to, mm?"

He inclines his head at hearing what he'll be interacting with. A sylph. Such things were not unheard of; spirits of air, if he recalls correctly. No doubt Merlin would have insight into such things, but he has no intention of asking the king's advisor. Better for him to find out himself. Perhaps there are such books. Better still, though, to go in without any expectations. "I see. I will be prepared, then."

Another look is cast toward the castle.

"Well, I will leave you to your work, then, Master Loros. She will be expecting me, I do not doubt. I only came to investigate." Bedivere manages a wry half-smile, though the expression is easy. Although he doesn't trust Loros, he's at least a little more comfortable in his presence, perhaps trusting the wizard to adhere to the ancient laws. "It is cold, and I am not as inclined to warding off such weather as you are."

He offers a formal and respectful bow. "Good eve."

With that, provided Loros doesn't stop him, the knight turns and crunches off through the snow, back up the hill to the distant citadel.