RP:A Little Flair

Summary: Alvina and Thamalys meet up again to discuss in-depth details about his sword commission. In the process, she comes face to face with a darker aspect of his life and the magic involved in creating the Elerium feather that would be used in the Sword. Despite the dangers ahead, the pair agree to forge forward, until the very end.

Frostmaw Towers

Alvina spent the last several days working. Sure, she’d gone home to spent a few hours with her husband and children, but the elerium feather was there humming like an idle engine in the back of her mind. Hudson could tell she was distracted, endeared by the hobbies that brought them together. He didn’t love her traveling so far to indulge in them but she -was- a werewolf and could easily handle herself. Probably. Either way, she’s stepped outside of the office building that houses her Frostmaw workshop. Getting in was nearly impossible unless your name was listed ahead of time or you worked in the building. It often took the bard herself showing up at the gates for her guests to be granted entrance. The path leading up to Frostmaw Towers is speckled with benches, hardy evergreens and sparse, even cobblestone to paint a walkway. Magic must keep this pathway alone clear of snow, the lines perfect on either side. The middle filled with moist, lazily bobbing blades of grass snagged by a passing breeze. It was overcast and snow stirred off nearby tree tops and houses sprinkled down from on high. The feather was still in her possession - tucked inside it’s enchanted glass jar, while she crunched a neat path to one the benches to sit and ponder. It was too precious a thing to let out of her sight, even with advanced security methods of the building. A black hood is pulled up over her head but crimson strands dances around her face and neck at the wind’s behest. She sits, cross legged, with a parchment journal in her lap. Inside, messy charcoal lines make up various shapes and dimensions of something...it isn’t clear from a distance, even with the best eyes.

Thamalys was fighting against an especially annoying northerly breeze, constantly threatening to lift him up way too high - even for an Avian - into the ivory Frostmawian sky. In most circumstances, he would have welcomed such a scenario, but not then, not when he had an absolutely crucial meeting to honour - and that pesky wind risked to have him late. An impossibility - he was never late, of that he was proud enough. Even his eyes, as keen as those of an actual bird of prey, had some trouble in identifying where and when exactly he was supposed to begin is turbulent descent into Frostmaw. A particular bench, basically lost into the snowy air swirling around everything, both on the ground and up into the clouds, was a rather tiny target to pinpoint, were if not for the slightest hint of bright red that for a moment the Winged Beast thought he glimpsed through the icy mist. “There she is…” said confidently the Blue to no one in particular - and yet he was quite sure indeed he just managed to witness a rebellious lock of the Bard’s hair, about sixty meters below, escaping the shady recesses of her elegant hood. That was everything he needed. Slowly, he twisted the whole of himself, bringing those immense feathery curtains to catch said northerly. He briefly soared into the heavy clouds before furling his wings and plunging from the sky, cutting through watery snowflakes at tremendous speed. A massive grin was painted on his face - that was freedom, unadulterated and pure. At no more than a few metres away from smashing head first into the frosty ground, and in fact a few steps aside from the actual bench where the Blacksmith was indeed seated, the Blue would have unfolded his wings once more, a single swooping motion that halted is mad descent in an awfully short length of time, knocking the four winds out of him. He cared not. Heels first, he connected with the soil - a harsh encounter, upon which the Avian had to crouch soon after, in the vague attempt to dissipate some of the forceful impact across a few more bones. The icy ground cracked and groaned, given way upon the sheer force of the hit brought by the Winged Beast. The latter found himself kneeling, as if paying homage, not even two of those countless dreadlocks framing his bony face pointing toward the same direction. He let go of a loud sigh, breathing heavily, while eventually rising his head to make sense of his landing. He would have been no more than four - Avian - steps away from the Werewolf. The Spellblade traveled light - no satchel, no halberd, no footwear (not a news…), not even Nebb. Only, an almost uncontainable sense of excitement. Most would have not been able to tell, but the Healer almost exhumed the thrill of the moment, a blueish sort of aura hovering upon the whole of his tattoo skin. A good portion of the latter was actually visible despite the obviously chilling weather. A pair of rather battered leathery pants, some ages ago (potentially) black, a loose shirt of what definitely looked like mithril (so much for an expensive taste), and that was it - the cold had plainly very little hold onto the Blue. Finally, and in between the swirling mist, the Spellblade acknowledged she who retained in her hands the fate of that day. “Alvina - thank you for coming…” simply noted the Winged Beast, as he rose on his feet, slowly, as if enjoying the snow piling up already onto his wings, slowly folding into a huge feathery mass. Was that to be the day when a blade without no equal would have found its existence? The Blue had to fight the urge to scream into the sky his turmoil.

Alvina’s ears pricked with awareness at the displaced air current. The blurred line between werewolf senses and humanoid sensibilities allowed her little glimmers of her gifts. It wasn’t a familiar sensation. At least not one she was used to taking advantage of. It’s less intentional, more like a roulette wheel. She got what Little Miss gave her at any given point - no more, no less. The Avian’s landing -was- disarming. The bard didn’t anticipate the force with which he’d hit or how gracefully he’d recover. She blinks in surprise. The wind he’d displaced kicked up enough snow that it drifted, blizzard like, back down on their little patch of ground just off the path. It also serves to knock back her hood and cause her crimson curls to riot in every which direction. On the flip side, the dusting gave him an aura of other worldliness with this additional blue gleam of fog or mist that loitered around him. She didn’t know enough about him to know it’s meaning or to guess. Her coral lips crack in a formal smile upon noting his gard. Another fire kissed individual that shrugged the hold of Frostmaw’s frigid grasp. “Thamayls,” she echoes as she snaps her journal closed and stands to greet him “Thank -you- for coming” A chuckle. “I technically work here so…” A shrug, displacing importance behind who should be thanked for coming. They both arrived, right? She pauses, watching his wings fold with casual interest. “Impressive Entrance, I see where Nebb gets it. I’ll give it a 9 out of 10, points lost for startling.” She wags a finger at him in jest before smoothing out the sleeves of her cloak. More light hearted jokes gather like fallen snow in the back of her mind but they had a mission to tend to! And, frankly, she wasn’t sure if this fellow appreciated convivial delays. “It’s my pleasure to finally meet up again. Since our original meeting, the days have passed in both a blur and a slow crawl.” Surely, she wasn’t the only one anxious! “Elerium is so extraordinary, I feel like I could spend a lifetime researching it.” A forlorn sigh follows, the type that love sick women might use when missing their counterpart. ‘All my life, I’ve waited for such fulfilling perfection.’ She’d say, if this was a (potentially trashy) romance novel and Elerium was the stable hand she was trading her lavish lifestyle for. That’s all well and good, but Engineering fangirling aside, back to the matter at hand. “I’ve drafted out a loose design, I’d like you to look over once we get inside if...that’s all right?” She looks towards the towering concrete structure nervously. “It’s going to be tricky business to balance the blade, so it might need to be a little longer than I’d usually advise. The Elerium will lend itself well to handling but it still needs to have a presence.” After a beat, she looks up at him, previously her emerald eyes were turned to the snow as it settles on the tops of her boots. She waves her hand between them dismissively, “Of course you already knew this -” Because of his halbert. “I just think better out loud. Do come in?” And if he accepts, she’ll turn towards the reinforced, Frost Giant tall double glass doors of the towers. If he does not, she’ll shift back to sit on one side of the stone bench to show him the sketches in her journal.

Thamalys strode forward, closing what little gap remained between landing site and bench. He could not resist - he glanced on the Bard’s journal well before meeting her eyes. Rude - and also useless, as he saw nothing at all. A matter of a split second as a whole - perhaps the Werewolf did not even notice. The Blue was about to put together one of the pleasantries he was instructed to deliver in such occasions, as - all - the occasions for him were formal ones after all. However, Alvina’s words gave him no chance to do that properly. A pun? And spoke in a gleeful merry mood as well… the poor Winged Creature knew nothing of all that. And thus he stuttered, mildly embarrassed. Was he to try and answer in kind? He did not know how! Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he forced himself to at least say something, anything - she was truly to make an attempt at the sword, she deserved as much. “Ah, yes - there is, well, there is a whiff of myself into Nebb’s nosedives, I suppose…” Sven, he was beyond hope! “Anyhow… yes, absolutely, I would very much like to have a look at your design… please, please, do lead the way!” continued the Blue, now slightly more in his element, and thus eventually daring to lift his gaze from the apparently quite intriguing soil to meet the eyes of the Bard. As the duo would have made their way toward the towering building, the Healer found himself basically unable to stay silent - the only indication of his quite incredible excitement. “You are very right about balance, it is going to be an issue, I am afraid, the major hurdle being the fact that the elerium shard would be shorter than the full length of the blade, yes?” inquired the Blue, the rim of his wings twitching nervously. “Which in turn poses of the question of where exactly should we set the feather… close to the hilt, right in the middle, perhaps even culminating with the tip?” By the end of that sentence he was gesturing rather broadly, even mimicking some imaginary lunges. Tiny puffs of snow rose in protest from the frosty ground, marking the path of Avian and Werewolf. The Tower in front of them, the only witness, silent and still.

Thamalys is not the first unfortunate soul to experience the bard’s humor but she, as ever, was oblivious to the possibility that it’s out of anyone’s element. She chuckles politely when he responds, fluid enough to shift out into the open waters of the project itself. While they talk, Alvina helps them navigate the pathway. Two Frost Giants man the entrance and hold the doors back for them to enter without pause. Once inside, several glass encasements act as another line of security. Inside are clerks; their job to turn away unauthorized visitors or grant entrance to those authorized. Alvina steps to one such enclosure, waves to the woman inside and goes through the process of flashing her id and grabbing a clipboard to hand to her honored guest. “You’ll have to sign in, I’m afraid.” Her brows are scrunched apologetically. “Security measures and all.” She shrugs, pretending she didn’t know why it was so hard to gain entrance. The sheet itself demands a full name. The younger woman behind the glasses watches them with patient curiosity. There’s a small container of ink with a quill dipped in on the ledge of the enclosure.

Thamalys slowed down his pace as they approached the titanic guards. Not that he was intimidated - he had nothing to hide - but in time he came to appreciate the fact thatl, with Frost Giants, acting slow is probably the best way forward in most cases; unless trying to evade a decapitating blow from one of their axes, but that is a rather tight corner to be in anyway. The Blue nodded to those bulky figures and to the woman inside, for once not having to squeeze his huge wings into way-too-small doors - one of the actual reasons why the Winged Beast fancied Frostmaw in the first place. “Of course…” simply noted the Blue upon the registration request - a part of him enjoyed every indication of order, and bureaucracy had some of that. Surprisingly nimbly, given the size of those bony hands, the Spellbalde thus grabbed the quill, with infinite care depositing the ink in excess against the walls of the container. He could feel the eyes of the woman - who knows, perhaps those of the Bard as well? - nailed on his movements, and quite righteously so; he never entered that building before, after all. Casually, the Winged Beast leaned forward, trying to accommdate his own features in such a way to enable some decent writing - not an entirely straightforward task, made even more daunting by the annoying mass of ivory dreadlocks continuously trying to get in between hand and parchement, quill and ink. Eventually, he wrote down a long, uninterrupted string of flowery characters, before sort of realising not many Frostmawians could possibly be acquainted with ancient Avian runes. He lifted his eyes from the parchment, just in time to meet the already plainly irritated stare of the woman behind the glass. “Alright, alright…” muttered the Blue, dipping the quill into the ink once more and, without showing any sign of rush at all, getting back to the parchment. This time, both words and characters belonged to the language spoken and wrote at large in the whole of Lithrydel: Thamalys-Tzur ae Feinkthan, that’s what ended up below the first incomprehensible line. The woman did not appear massively relived, but he did nod her approval. By then, the Blue was feeling mildly nervous - names were powerful things… but this had to be a perfectly safe scenario, or so he thought, albeit he did turn to implicitly seek some sort of reassurance from Alvina, potentially not so far away at all. Just a look, an unblinking glimpse of perfect blue tainted with a faint hint of questioning.

Alvina waits, on edge, because she knows how private most people are with things as important as names and secrets. For some, their names ARE secrets and it wasn’t Alvina’s policy to press for things that weren’t offered in their own time. She makes a point not to read his name while the clerk buzzes them in. The Engineer’s smile lights up as they progress through the busy, high ceiling central hub. The bottom floor is littered with partitioned businesses. A small daycare, a cafe, a well known coffee shop. There’s even a bookstore on the across the way! Unfortunately, Alvina is leading her avian companion to a staircase, upon which they’ll climb to the fourth floor. There, a freshly polished oak door will be opened to reveal a small, sparse office. To the right, upon entry, there are two lightly cushioned chairs on this side of the long, cluttered desk. The only items of personal attachment are portraits propped up in little frames. A smiling man and three children clustered together on his lap. Beside him, sits a grinning Alvina. Embedded in the back wall is a single square window to filter in sparse sunlight. Alvina gestures to the chairs, offering the male a seat. This room, like every other room in the building, boasts high ceilings. The bard herself side steps to close the door behind them before approaching her desk to sort through various roughly sketched blue prints. “Sorry for the formalities.” He’d been a good sport. “Where were we?” She tugs a heavy parchment from the middle of the unruly pile and smoothes it out on top so Thamalys can see. The outline of a thin blade, roughly fitting his original description, is etched in heavy charcoal. Beside it are small bolts and bobbles, one of which is the feather. A placeholder for the shard meant to cristen this weapon with personality. She traces the bold lines of the sketched blade, picking up charcoal on the pad of her index finger while she spoke. “We were talking about balance yes?” Upon confirmation, she’ll continue. “I’m worried about two more things. Really, they are fused, but this metal is...finicky. Just from the short time I’ve investigated -” it sounds more professional than poking and prodding “ - too much movement and it gets hot. I might have to find a way to vent that heat so the blade itself doesn’t warp or burn. Then again, I wasn’t sure if that was a feature you -wanted- in the weapon.” Calm emerald eyes lift from the parchment, finger sticking to the sword’s current ‘core’ outline, and looks to him for input or suggestion. He’d know better than almost anyone else how tricky and delicate Elerium must be.

The Bard led, and the Spellblade duly followed, hands behind his back, quietly observing the utterly unfamiliar innards of the Tower. The bookstore stirred his attention - he was clinically addicted to knowledge, and thus especially keen on collecting everything on parchment, the older the better. Perhaps some ancient tomes were waiting for him there? He shook his head and sighed in an undertone - “another day…”. And thus, up they went, climbing stairs for a while. The Blue entered Alvina’s office with some trepidation; that place was clearly more than a shallow workplace - not only it had character, but it showcased some of the Blacksmith’s life as well. What had to be a family stared at the Spellblade from some skilful portrait, bringing to the surface a few emotions the Blue did not know the name for. Envy, perhaps, potentially mixed with a good degree of curiosity: three children? Close to unthinkable for Avians, generally quite keen on fostering a single heir only, at least within the old noble lines. Thamalys was an exception in that sense, but the thought of his own brother was not a merry one || “And how’s that so, I wonder? || boomed the Black, mercilessly interjecting into an already painful memory. The Healer simply turned his attention elsewhere, and precisely to one of the chairs the Bard was pointing to. “Thank you…” he acknowledged the Blue taking a seat; well, sort of. No chair would have ever been able to accommodate the wingspan of the Spellblade, so that Thamalys ended up basically perched on the thing - a posture on the verge to be defined as ridiculous. And yet, it was a good spot. From there, the Avian could follow the hands of Alvina detailing her sketches, as well as getting a decent understanding of the issues she was presently highlighting. “I see, I see…” pondered the Blue, his right hand playing with one of the many dreadlocks swinging slowly across his face. “Well, as long as that would not endanger the strength and the durability of the blade, I have nothing against having the whole thing ablaze. In fact, I usually cover my weapons in liquid flames anyway… “ explained the Winged Beast, casually setting the whole of said dreadlock on fire, as to provide some tangible support to his last statement. Amazingly enough, nothing of the expected smell of burnt hair would have been detectable, nor the braid seemed to be affected in any way by the spell. A matter of a moment only, though, and the flaming blue tongues danced away into nothingness, leaving the ivory tress perfectly intact. “In addition to that, I believe heat dissipation is something closely related to the structural interplay between the elerium and the surrounding metal? Firstly, do you have an idea of what metal to use for the blade in the first place?” inquired the Blue, his excitement badly concealed, eyes streaked by golden shards glimmering in the blue. “The Gossamer Halberd is made of Mithril, but in the case the elerium was mixed into the metal as a powder - this is a radically different situation. You must have noticed that the feather doesn’t really seem to be happy to meld into anything else… I thought that blue iron may represent a solution, as after all there is some blue iron already into the feather… but if I am not mistaken, blue iron does not withstand heat very well, yes? And this blade has to withstand everything in great measures, from extreme cold to flames… ah, but I am digressing already - apologies…” softly concluded the Winged Beast lowering is cranium and waiting for the opinion of the Blacksmith. The task looked daunting - but the combined will of the Avian and the skills of the Bard made for a formidable duo: if that blade was ever to see the light of day, it would have had to be by the hands of Alvina, of that the Blue was utterly sure

Alvina’s eyes move back to the parchment and she nods with understanding. “Oh no, the strength will be -impeccable- if we use blue iron. I wish we could use ice...how cool. An ice sword covered in flame...” She sighs dreamily before clearing her throat and coming back to the matter at hand. Put that project idea away for another time. “It would look damn impressive if it was coated in …your uh...blue fire?” She didn’t know what that was about. Green eyes focus on his dreadlock, her head tilting, perplexed. Is it not..hot? The Engineer can’t restrain her questions any longer. “Is it truly fire? Why does your hair not burn?” He goes on to mention the properties of blue iron and she shakes her head gently. “Blue iron is a very dependable metal and well guarded secret for this reason. It’s -” She catches herself, on the verge of revealing information about how it’s made. Hildegarde and the giants would give her hell for that! “-Just uh suffice it to say, it’s malleable enough to be the strongest of weapons or even...enchanted internal organs.” Her cheeks flush with embarrassment, her empty hand rubbing the back of her neck nervously while she laughs too loud. “Anyway! It’ll be good - and if you can coat it in flames that won’t burn the blade itself, even better! Not just for the metal but for the elerium, I imagine.” When her Avian companion pauses and apologizes, she waves her right hand to dissuade him. “No, no, no - no reason for apologies. It’s all very important to the process. Any little detail will help me craft the blade -just- so, and with substance this precious, it will be the difference in a cherish wall hanging or a beloved counterpart in a battle.” Her eyes soften sympathetically. “Your knowledge surpasses most who make requests. They often say things like ‘Make it look like this’ or ‘make sure it has this small feature’. Nothing as bold as a sword that can survive both ice and heat while being balanced so precisely. Since this Elerium isn’t enough to make IT a sword, we can use it’s properties and strength to further fortify the blue iron as a...root of sorts? I also think it’d be a good idea to have...vents in the center - Small but not delicate. To help with wind resistance. It could be faster, cooler - temperature wise - and would help it handle heat without being overburdened. The Elerium core will keep it from snapping in half WITHOUT the vents but...honestly I think they are functional and gives an intimidating but elegant aesthetic…” There are a lot of thoughtful pauses between what she says. In Between her gaze will shift from the blueprints to Spellblade, and back again. Her confidence wavers only when she’s finished. “OR whatever else you think might be good?” A nervous chuckle punctuates the suggestion.

Thamalys barely moved at all during the entire length of the dialog, squarely perched on the chair, his spotless blue eyes nailed on the fluid shapes of the Bard - who even asked about fire, no less. “It’s… complicated…” sighs the Blue, looking down to his own hands, outstretched, the ink on both of them curling slowly onto his skin. “This ink…” commenced the Avian, twisting his right hand so that one particular ivy-shaped leaf creeped up to the very tip of his index finger, where a single droplet of liquid blue fire would have dropped on the floor, where he sizzled madly for a second, carving an actual dent into the stony tile, before disappearing into thin air. “… transforms into actual fire the moment it leaves my skin. It burns like hell - I am told, and I can do as I wish with it…” kept going the Blue, a massive tattooed branch blossoming all of the sudden on the whole of his face, as if a giant hand covered in blue paint would have brushed it out of nowhere. “It is a part of me, it answers to me…” continued, the ink on his face exuding into what seemed to be a flaming masquerade ball mask, then the open jaws of a dragon, then nothing - the whole display just vanished without any trace. “… and because of that it wouldn’t burn my flesh. Nor that I would notice, I guess - I can’t feel the cold, I can’t feel the heat. I never could. It would burn - you - though…” conceded the Winged Beast, tilting his head in the slightest. “However, that is not the whole of the story… stay still!” he warned, before spatting a line in an apparently not-comprehensible language - following which, the bulky figure of a full-grown hellhound would have materialised in the guise of a terrifying mass of blue fire right in front of the Blacksmith, charging head-first, if silently, into the latter. Whatever the reaction of Alvina, the flaming mongrel would have simply gone through her - as if made of air. “As you can see, I can create rather convincing illusions of my own magic as well…” added the Blue soon after with a note of pride. “Which is a particularly useful skill for a Spellblade, if you think about it.” After this lengthy explanation, the Blue fell silent, leaving the Bard to discuss the usage of Blue Iron. It was quite obvious that Alvina was not keen to dwell too much into the details underlying the creation of that particular material… not a surprise - the Frost Giants made it quite clear that was a well-kept secret indeed, and the Healer did not expect the Bard to fail them. As such, when the Bard caught herself half-a-sentence away from the damage, the Winged Beast limited himself to nod, acknowledging the exclusivity of the trade in question. None of his business - yes, he was awfully curious about it, but for nothing in the world he would have risked to upset the Werewolf. “Ah, this is fantastic news… please, let us go ahead with Blue Iron, then. Genuinely, I believe this design of yours would fit my wishes perfectly - thank you… the vents, particularly… oh, would it be possible to fashion them in the shape of flames? That would be glorious… a sword for champions, a blade to be remembered long after I would have returned my ashes to the Wind…” he was daydreaming by then, his eyes lost into a bittersweet mixture of painful memories and epic ambitions. However. There was a drawback; a stain, a mole, an imperfection, potentially a lethal one. Something that the Blue carried within him - of which he was anything but proud of. A scar of sorrow, a gaping wound into his souls, and one that Alvina - had - to know about. Before it was too late. The Blue cleared his throat, lowering his eyes to the floor - the dreadlocks seconded that move, falling in disordered waves across his face. “Well, it would seem we have settled quite a few details about this sword… which is good. And yet… there is something you should know before attempting to bring this blade into existence. Something about… myself. That very few people know. People that I trust, or, in fact, that I had to trust against my will. I do hope you will fall in the former category, though. Would you… would you listen to a story, Alvina?” inquired the Spellblade with a rough voice marred with sorrow already, eventually managing to lock his gaze again into the emerald eyes of the Bard. Such a graceful, skilled, good hearted creature - os so he thought; Did he really had to gift such a burden onto her? Lesser creatures reacted awfully upon learning of the existence of the Black. What about her? || Only one way to tell, you idiot… || snapped the Ageless One || Or, you could lie to he. Wouldn’t be the first time, eh? But then, what will happen when she’ll actually try to forge that silly feather of yours into the metal, I wonder? Would she see? Would she get to know me? Can’t wait, she looks delicious…” || chuckled the Black, red eyes gleaming fiercely into the darkest corner of the Avian’s mind.

Alvina listens tensely while the Avian explains his fire. The droplet that singes the ground is eyed with interest, the hell hound less so. “I’d prefer –not- to be horribly burned.” She chuckles anxiously. Though her hair was that of rich, wild flame to counter that hotter blue, she had no desire to become it. Enchanted ink. Where had she heard of that before…? The note about him not feeling heat or cold gives her pause. Sadness lingers behind her eyes before she can stop it. When the illusionary beast charges, the bard hunkers down with a wider stance, wrists crossed in front of her body though he’d told her to stay still. It was a knee jerk reaction – she couldn’t stop it. It phases through her, posing no threat in this moment. It takes her another beat or two before she stands up tall again and exchales, it’s easier to brush the embarrassment of flinching aside to talk about the sword instead. She’d only see a handful of creatures (at most) wield illusion with convincing power. Her head bobs in agreement; useful for a Spellblade indeed. She’s silent for a time, as he sorts through her ramblings and offers suggestions. Craft the vents into flames? She blinks, on the heels of a reply when he drifts off into the blade’s legacy. Alvina smiles privately then; a gentle, knowing kindness. A passionate soul recognizing an equally passionate dream. For what beast or man didn’t wish to leave a piece of themselves behind, to influence the future and all it holds? To mark the world different for their existence? She doesn’t disturb him but pretends to look elsewhere when his eyes abandon time and space to reset on the floor. “Flame vents,” She offers in agreement, trying to bridge the gap between his passionate rise and rough return. Empathetically, she recognized pain when she saw it. No matter how alien they were to one another. Her crimson curls are displaced with a nod. They’d bounced many ideas back and forth and she felt more resolve than ever to see this through. His tone dips, his words pulled along gravel and jagged stone, like each word would inflict lethal wounds upon his skin and bone, nay perhaps even his heart, mind and soul. The Engineer’s smile flickers and dies, the blueprint is set aside on the desk so she can lean her hips into the edge of her beck, arms crossed against her stomach. The entirety of her attention rests on the male. Her rounded stare encouraging him to speak before her voice added a gentle, “Of course,” as if she’d waste countless days listening to stories if it might grant him even a fragment of solace.

Thamalys took in every shade of the Bard’s encouragement, and still was not enough. Ultimately, it was the thought of the would-be sword who tipped the balance - the only way to proceed was that of making the Blacksmith aware of the potentially lethal risks associated with the forging. He had to, and so he did. Mostly talking to the floor as opposed to face the red haired Werewolf, the Blue begun his awful tale. He dug deep, recalling the long-gone days of the Avians’ glory, his reckless arrogance, and his mighty fall in the end. Still as a statue, perched on that silly chair much as an overgrown parrot, the Spellblade described the endless sorrow of his imprisonment into the dungeons of Korkorhan, the Ageless Black - the ancient black dragon who broke the Blue and his brother alike. The lack of light, of air, the never-ending feeling of being constrained to chains and cages - barely remembering the Wind on his skin. No greater torture one may conceive to inflict upon an Avian. On the Winged Beats went, to tell of his escape from Korkorhan only to discover the bastard managed to infiltrate the mind of the Blue, creeping into his soul to an extent the two of them literally co-existed into Thamalys at any point in time. “Even now, even in here, while I am talking to you…” noted the Blue, after a long while eventually facing the Bard. “… a part of me has to fight the urge of tearing you apart. I can see him, you know? Every time I close my eyes, every time I get distracted enough to allow the bastard to creep a bit further…” continued the Spellblade, indeed closing his eyes and letting his voice fading away into silence. Then, he looked into her eyes one more time - this time, though, there was nothing blue in his gaze. Crimson slits wounded pitch black eyes, two evil wells digging into the darkest corner of the Avian’s mind - the eyes of a nightmarish creature, the mark of the Black himself. “Truly delighted to make your acquaintance, m’am…” uttered the Blue with voice that very clearly did not belong to him. Some dusty accent speaking in a tone almost too deep to be heard properly, each word dripping malice, each letter a masterpiece of corruption. Thamalys was grinning, by then, a bestial smile twisting his jaws into a horrible result, as if something was dismembering his anatomy from within - which, sadly, was exactly the case. For a moment, it seemed as if the Blue would have sprung on his feet, the rims of his silvery wings shivering with a metallic sound. Had it gone too far? The one creature the Black feared was most likely miles away, and the way back to himself was not always easily found. Even the ink on his skin appeared to be veering toward a much darker, thicker texture, and the elerium feather itself shook, a vein of pure black blossoming on the surface of the material.

Alvina is watching Thamalys with preternatural awareness. Her humanoid ears prick at the beginning of his tale and her expression remains thoughtful and stoic as it grows darker still. Though her empathy made his tale oddly personal, she doesn’t interrupt or speak at all. She’s trying to gather the strands of this story and weave them into a tapestry. The Engineer was no stranger to being enslaved but she did not know the pain in the same way he clearly did. The gears spinning in the back of her mind pause when he mentions this entity existing in this very room with them. What’s more, it wants to tear her apart? A being of chaos, is it? It might surprise the Avian to see that Alvina does not flinch away from his remark nor does she divert her gaze from the Blue. How absolutely terrifying, to never be able to let your guard down, for fear you’ll surrender your mind and body to a destructive force. It very loosely resembled her dip into Lycanthropy. Little Miss, as she so affectionately called her alter ego, was always on high alert. Ready to shred through anything with sharp claws and gnashing teeth. But the wolf’s reactions weren’t malicious. His eyes shift to that inky space and Alvina stands at attention now. She isn’t afraid but there’s familiarity in this being’s arrival. It reminds her of someone she’d much rather forget. A jailer all her own. The Black greets Alvina with farcical manners and Alvina looks neither impressed nor afraid. Even as the thing twist Thamalys’ face into a smile that should chill her to the bone. He springs to his feet but she’s already on hers, no longer leaning into the desk but standing straight and prepared to move if need be. It was the feather ringing inside it’s jar that made the bard break their eye contact. The ebony stress bar makes it’s way into the otherwise ivory texture and Alvina’s attention snaps back to Thamalys with purpose. “Stop.” She says with weight and authority. Like she could be a thing to frighten this beast. It’s presence threatened the spellblade, truly, but it also threatened his dream. His passion. The thing he’d entrusted Alvina with and she would fight for it as if it were her own. The feather could be destroy (or so she thinks) if this creature was allowed to reside here any longer. “We are not acquaintances.” Her tone is still authoritarian. “I am here to do a job and that is all.” She informs him, though if he was in Thamalys’ consciousness, he likely knew she wasn’t so detached. And then, she wondered aloud, a hint of threat in the undercurrents of her tone. “If I’m successful, I wager this part of you will also outlast life, no?” Did malicious creatures fear death? Or idle threats from the mouths of human Engineers?

Thamalys’s draconic section of his own soul was not pleased at all with the reaction of the Bard. Where was the usual panic, the sheer terror, the unparalleled fear the Black customarily punched into whoever encountered him - even in that minimalistic form, i.e. as a forceful guest of the Blue? That evil ancient race fed on dread and despair. And yet, the Blacksmith barely flinched - in fact, she was plainly much more worried about the status of the elerium feather than her own. Some trust in the Spellblade still, an impossibly dedicated-to-the-task-at-hand creature, or just one plainly incapable to understand the risk? The Ageless One did not care at all. “Ah! No fun to be had with you, is it? Pity…” commented the Dragon via the cracked bleeding lips of the Blue. He - they, took another step toward Alvina. What did remain of Thamalys in that binary equation seemed to have reacted to the powerful request - order? - of the Bard, though. “E-enough, bastard…” groaned the Healer, this time sporting an awful mix of Avian and Dragon as a voice, a purely disgusting cacophony. The slender feature of the Winged Beast curled, while he was forced by the internal struggle taking place within him to seek support, leaning on the closest piece of furniture available to him, knuckles white while clutching the wood or stone. “Alright, alright…” the Black went on, teasing, smiling, chuckling, “… I had my moment, I suppose… before I leave, though, listen closely, you tiny human: I very rarely manage to sneak on the valiant Thamalys” - oh, the sneer in that voice! - “… in this fashion… and when that happens, it is because he - wants - me to. You understand this, yes? He - wanted - you to see through him, to see - me. Still sure about going ahead with this, Miss?” inquired the Oldest One, his taste still tangible within the black eyes of the Blue. Then, the last sentence of the Bard fell into place. “Oh, not just a sword, then, but a actual matter of life and death, eh? After all these years… I feel I hardly know the difference between the two anymore!” confessed the Black, the face of the Winged Beast grinning horribly. “Say, there was that one time…” but then, the Avian brought his right hand to cover his face, while falling on to his knees. Some nonsensical gibberish followed, while the whole body of the Blue shook and shivered, obviously struggling to regain control. It lasted a few moments - after which, the Spellblade hit the floor, head first, moaning something along the lines of “so sorry… bastard… too far… ”. There he laid for a while, his face slowly returning his own; when he opened his eyes, there was blue only to be seen - and the same could be told for the elerium feather, although keen eyes would have spotted the slightest hint of a taint, a shadow, lurking deep between the material. Eventually, a rather laboured voice spoke; “apologies - he usually doesn’t come forward that much… I… am not sure, it could be something in you, something he finds… Wind, words are failing me. Apologies, Alvina. I wanted you to know, that much is true. I did - not - want to embarrass myself to this extent, though. I hope I can convince you the making this blade is still worth pursuing? Yes, some part of Korkhoran will live in it… you have seen the evil in him, and what consequences that would lead to, I cannot tell… but as long as I alone would wield it, I would know how to deal with it, of this I am sure. I had for the past half of a century. Please…” concluded the Blue, still unable to stand, groggy and dizzy as a drunken halfling after a proper birthday party. A necessary evil, he thought - cursed be the Avians and their inherent honesty!

Alvina's stalwart reaction to the Black proved beneficial for all involved. It reminded her so much of...what's her name...that she could stand unflinchingly in his ghastly presence. Evil had a taste, a scent. Though Alvina herself appeared young, she had quality experiences to steel her backbone. What's concerned her now are things she has no control over - Thamalys' struggle against the twisted briar, the cracked blood the Black curled into a malicing smirk. She could only watch and listen, a bystander. When the Dragon addresses her again via the title 'tiny human' Alvina cocks her head slightly, not sure what to do with the observation. "I was going to say, it hardly looked like sneaking on your part." She nodded in calm agreement, eyes closed and crimson brows lifted. It's what follows after that sobers her sass. 'He wanted you to see through him, to see me'. Off all the things this monster has spat, this is what sticks to her ribs. A matter of life and death, indeed. The emerald mirrors of her eyes hold them stiffly - the two forces woven together - until the Avian's takes to his knees. The gibberish he mutters becomes a black hole of sound; leaving nothing but darkness and emptiness behind. Though she'd stood firm, Alvina wasn't sure she hadn't lost something in their brief exchange. She waits, crouching down into the floor with her back flush to her wooden desk's front. Her arms curl like frightened snakes around her knees, drawing the long navy cloth of her dress against her chest. 'I hardly know the difference anymore'. When Thamalys completes the fall, head first, Alvina's knees hit concrete and she's there, bent forward with a hand hovering over his shoulder. "Don't..." She whispers, lids lowered in concern. She draws back her hand, pressing it neatly against the top of her clothed knees like a priestess about to engage in prayer. The feather is still atop the desk, but she'd examine it before long. His voice cracks out again and hers follows swiftly after. "Don't.." She repeats, dumbly, while he goes on to apologize and summate the cause of this encounter. Imploring her, even. Did she still dare accept? If the weapon falls into the hands of any others, this thread of darkness could unspool and unleash itself on another individual or worse. Could she live with that responsibility? Before she tries to answer, she'll frown and attempt to assist in bringing Thamalys off the concrete floor. Naturally, she's strong and can handle his weight if he'll cooperate and distribute it her way. "Come now," she encourages against his spinning dialogue. "Before we sort out controlling forces of evil, let's get you into a chair." But the bard knew, before she even tried to hash out the pros and cons of making this sword, what she'd have to do.

Thamalys did not quite take notice of the Bard levelling with him on the floor. His sense were marred, his head spinning, his will still suffering from the gaping wounds inflicted by the Black - he was trying to swallow some pride, and yet to plead for the Blacksmith help, notwithstanding the awful display Alvina had to endure. What truly brought back the Blue, sadly, was the kind attempt of the Red Haired One to help him stand up - a gesture that some part of the Winged Beast would never accept. “I will manage!” snapped the Spellblade, turning to face the Bard, his flat, pragmatic voice suddenly returned, eyes blazing fiercely while jumping on his - bare - feet. Only to sway perilously, as if trying to stand on the deck of a ship buried into an awful storm. “I mean…” added a split second after, with his right hand wiping the blood on his lips, where some tendrils of blue ink would have come to aid already, mending, cleansing, scarring some more; “… thank you - I believe I can manage myself. Albeit… yes, perhaps I’ll take a sit, why not…” blabbered the Avian, plainly not quite recovered fully, yet. Well, an Ancient Dragon trying to crack your skull from within is not something anyone can forget that easily anytime soon. Most likely without the help of the Blacksmith - she would have had the rights of considered herself badly offended in light of the impossibly rude reaction of the Avian earlier - the Blue would have then reached the same chair he was perched upon not that long ago, clumsily leaning some of his weight on it. “You are not easily scared…” commented the Spellblade once he managed to secure some support, mostly hoping that very statement corresponded to the truth. Yes, she was still there - what was brewing under those curls, though?

Alvina withdrew her hands quickly when he snapped, still shifting up to stand at her full height while he wobbled. Cautiously, she watches him, just in case his balance is lost entirely. She didn’t want to personally endure the sight of him hitting the concrete face down again and couldn’t imagine it to be a pleasurable experience from his end either. Her eyes flicker between his and the ink moving to heal his lips. It gives the impression that the man is simply blue fluid composed in the form of an Avian. What a silly thought. He navigates the spell and finds his seat, allowing her to exhale a sigh of relief. He startles her with his observation. She’s not easily scared? “I have children, after all,” she replies casually, as if her motherhood was the sole cause for her grace under pressure. “You aren’t easily overcome,” Her arms cross against her torso and she studies him with sharp emerald eyes. It sounds like a compliment. In the silence that’s born of her consideration and his stabilizing, she wonders why this sword he’s requested is worth all this to him. Passion is one thing, but she’s starting to think this project borders on insanity or obsession. An accomplishment necessary to make one’s life worthwhile. The way a dying man might pilgrimage realms away just to die near his late wife’s grave. A desperate and emotional response. “Are you all right?” She asks instead of the plethora of other questions that skate the surface of her tongue, unsung. “YOU gave me more of a scare than the uh…” She isn’t sure what to call him. “..other guy." She hums through her nose before adding. "We're going to need a name for this thing..." One crimson brow lofts inquisitively towards the Avian. "What would you call it?"

Thamalys appeared to have regained a substantial portion of his usual aplomb. There was some new strength in his voice, while he proceeded to comment on the Bards inquire. “A name… yes, I suppose you’re right…” sort of pondered aloud the Blue, bringing his right hand to move away a couple of dreadlocks presently swaying across his face. “In truth, there is only one way forward, or at least so it would seem to me. No fancy labelling would do the job, no flowery naming will manage to convey the dangers this blade will probably carry within. I like to think of my kin as honest and transparent - if rather proud as well, perhaps - and as such I do feel we should not hide the truth of this sword…” he paused there for a while, idly playing around with the rim of his shirt. “Taint” simply uttered the Winged Beast eventually. “We shall acknowledge its imperfection instead of claiming it flawless; only then we will truly be able to appreciate the beauty of it, while not even for an instant forgetting what dwells within the elerium. And yet, I am the smallest part in this complex equation: your hands will be bringing the blade to life, your talent will make it unique, your skills will make it possible. It is only fit that you should feel this name of mine to be of your liking. In fact, I hope that the feather will like it too - the Wind only knows. What say you, Alvina? Is this a name worthy of your craft? Of this material, of this blade?” The Healer was dead serious about it - he genuinely considered the elerium as something alive. Creepy as might have sounded, he may have been correct. And, the Bard was right in thinking that a part of the Blue was truly desperate for this sword to come to life. Understandably, perhaps, in that an actual part of the Spellblade had been channeled into the feather. He did not want to let go of it - and the same could be told for the Black, even if he claimed the opposite. Never trust the words of an Ancient Dragon…

While Thamalys pondered a name for the blade, Alvina finally turned to gather the jarred feather in her hands. It’s purity is indeed tainted, as his name suggests of both the Elerium and himself. ‘We shall acknowledge it’s imperfections.’ Lowering her lashes, Alvina replays old emotions and memories surrounding imperfections. Her tainted body, her spoiled heart, her corrupted soul. He utters her name and it pulls her back. She exhales; the weight of the present was far heavier than the past. This is where her bardic influences muddle things. “I agree it should be honest.” And she did, but there was a lot of light to this project too. It wasn’t just the darkness that should be charting their course. An obstacle to be aware of, certainly. “Words and names are tricky…” She frowns at the elerium on the desk beside her. “You’ve heard the term ‘artifice’? Or rather, Artificer? Depending on who you ask, it can mean different things. It’s a skillful art to some, used to produce something to make life easier or better. Others might tell you that an artifice is false or insincere behavior. That it’s a well-executed trick; the skillful art of deception.” Her emerald eyes address the floor but then she huffs, waving her wrist to dispel her ramblings. Alvina lifts the jar between them, until she can see distorted snowy dreadlocks refracting off the glass. It blends with the feather’s ivory details, save for one thin vein of shadow. She frowns, winding a thread of guilt around her heart as if she was responsible for the blight that threatened to spread. “What about Stain?” She suggests, but ultimately would grant the weapon it’s rightful name under Thamalys’ suggestion. It was, after all, a living piece of him. “Like this feather, the black vein stains but doesn’t ruin it completely. I feel that holds true for you too. You have a terrible burden but you are still you. Not contaminated, merely…stained.”

Thamalys tilted his cranium just a little, digesting the flavour of the Blacksmith’s lines. “Aye, words are strange things…” he conceded, slowly raising to his feet, as if probing whether he would have been able to maintain his balance after the Black’s interjection. “We Avians tend not to dwell to much on them. I, for one, I am a lover of anything that is clear and transparent, language included. I have no wish to engage with countless shades of meaning, nor with the treacherous significance of intonation and the like…” by then the Blue was pacing up and down the room, setting many a wheel within him in motion. “This term you mention… - artificer - we have no word for it in what we speak now… let alone our ancient tongue the few of us remember. No, this is a job for… well, a Bard, I guess.” he concluded, stopping his twisty ambling to face the Werewolf. “Stain. Taint. Both short - I like that. Most importantly, I am relieved to know you agree with my line of thoughts. If you feel that Stain may bring more light than darkness, more hope than sorrow… why not? Why should we not be hopeful, and cast the shadow as far away as we can? There is no escape from Korkorhan anyway…” he added, this time his tone failing to a whisper, his gaze lowering to the ground. “Stain - the tainted blade…” something not entirely alien to the concept of a smile surfaced within those broken lips, some tendrils of blue ink still creeping on them - not quite pleasant a display. “It would seem I am falling into your ways already, eh? Ah, well - agreed, then. Stain it is - may this name guide your hands, and mine, in the hours and the years to be. The Wind shall listen…” offered the Spellblade, outstretching both arms as to capture some ancient breeze while nailing his perfectly blue gaze on the ceiling.

Alvina has always been a smith of words. It's rooted in her bardic heart since before she ever dreamed to pick up a hammer or shape metal into beautiful or deadly things. She is the woven product of light and dark, and understands the conflict between the two. "I appreciate this about you-" She says, once he's finished giving his blessing for their shared name. If he feels the name doesn't quite live up to the entity that his sword is to become, Alvina'd have no qualms with changing it. Regardless of the name, the spirit and intention are the same. It will harbor the spellblades magic and mystery, no matter how bright or steeped in darkness. She prays he keeps the darkness at bay for as long as possible. She prays this blade might give him more to fight back with, if they are indeed intertwined. "People can use tone and expression to ware all manner of emotional warfare on each other. It's better to leave nothing to chance or interpretation." His eyes fall and rise, like a frozen moon in an otherwise dreary Frostmaw night. "There's nothing wrong with a little flare," she teases, nodding with determination as she regards the feather with apprehensive eyes. The Wind will guide them? If Thamalys says it, it must be so. May the Wind and the gods guide them.