RP:Lamented Elerium

Summary: A Spellblade and an Engineer walk into a Frostmaw Smithy...

Frostmaw - Smithing Supplies

Thamalys made way - hastily, and not without gifting a sort of a grunt to the onlooker. The latter was, for a change, very much taller than the Blue himself: in fact, one could safely say that Blugrus, fifth in command within the ranks of the Frostmawian Guard, was exceptionally bulky even for a Frost Giant. “Just move, would’ya?” said the massive humanoid while trying to get past the Spellblade so as to regain the much ample space of the East Hall. “Well then…” simply answered the Healer with a sigh, stepping aside, his gaze solidly nailed on the slender shape of some blade skillfully wrapped into an ivory fur, the latter presently resting into the left hand of the Giant. Up to then, the visits of the Winged Beast into this realm of frosty blacksmiths had been rather unsuccessful indeed. The Giants would simply not utter a single word related to their craft, nor will allow the Blue to witness the creation of any of their masterpieces - not even a bloody fork. “Too bad…” whispered to no one in particular the Healer, ambling around the room while casually resting his hands, from time to time, to the many beautiful crystals scattered around the rough wooden tables. Here and there, some tool way too heavy to be ever brandished by an Avian would break the symmetry of the bedazzling arrangements of stones, metals and various materials only a tiny fraction of which the Spellblade was able to identify. Eventually, he stopped, facing away from the entrance, the long cloak embracing his lanky features dancing around his knees. Of a deep dark blue that heavy fabric was, embroidered with silvery motifs telling of flames and stars. Black leathery pants and a rather plain shirt of the same colour completed the picture, made a tad bit peculiar in light of the usual barefooted attire of the Healer - together with an outrageous attempt to pull the waist-long ivory dreadlocks decorating the bony face of the Avian into a massive comb (with horrendous results). Across the length of his shoulders, neatly laced via leathery strings, stood the metallic presence of the Gossamer Halberd, her blade playing strange games with the light already broken into countless shades of silver upon hitting the immense mirror provided by the silvery wings of the Blue. As per usual, a battered satchel that once upon a time may have been of a bright green, rested on the left-hand side of the Winged Beast, plainly burdened with a non-negligible weight. What was the Spellblade up to? Hard to tell - at that point in time, most Frostmawians, particularly within the walls of the Fort, got quite used to the sudden apparitions of the Avian, chiefly due to his interest into the library - or so they say. His punts toward the smithery, though, were much more recent, if hardly acknowledged by the Giants…

Frostmaw's smithing supplies and smiths (really, the whole damn city!) often held more questions than answers. Their tools were odd, their tongues were tight. Their eyes were ever watchful. It made sense that an ancient war-centered race would hold their secrets not just close to their chests but buried deep beneath frigid earth and hardened stone. Alvina was lucky in one regard; that Queen Hildegarde saw fit to grant her permissions to work with the Frost Giants, who had come to lend only the most necessary information to the bard in the study of their particular craft. It was through this blossoming (as richly as anything did in the winter addled town) relationship with the locals that Mrs. Landon found out about a man - Avian in particular, who was flittering in and out of the castle smithery and making a moderate ruckus. To be fair, a ruckus to a Frost Giant is likely not comparable to a ruckus that might be noted by someone more humanoid. Who can say; cultural differences. And so she goes, with no rush but a notable intention to her steps, towards the smithy. She'd come to the Fort on business but had to stay to satiate her curiosity about this interesting character she'd heard about. Creative types are easy to distinguish from the rest of the world. They are often branded differently and in this branding Alvina felt a kinship. Their views of the world are so different than level headed business owners or vain socialites. It's why she missed Linn so much these days. Cerinii too. She stops at the guard's station that the healer had just passed through to make an inquiry. They pointed her navy cloaked figure further in and she traced the stone flooring with loving affection for it's structure. A dying sentiment, curling up like an old blueprint that were browning and folding in on itself. It didn't take her long to find the doorway, through which she caught a silvered gleam and a shred of dark blue before approaching in earnest. And there she stood, quietly, cast in the refracting light of his halberd. In truth, she was prolonging an introduction but when she saw his face, a jolt of recognition seized her. He'd asked her...something once. They'd spoken briefly. Very briefly. A lifetime ago. She casts her emerald gaze to the jewel littered table before skimming the rest of room and it's contents casually. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" She asks, in her most polite hostess voice. It's not a voice she uses neither on her children, nor with her husband unless she's attempting a jest. He never did appreciate it. It was refreshing to exercise it, the way the words felt against her tone and how her tone rang out like a dinner bell. Inviting and encouraging, but not overly familiar.

Thamalys would have had to admit he did not hear - at all - the Bard entering the room. Perhaps his ears were expecting to withstand the loud thumping of a Giant, or maybe the steps of that peculiar Blacksmith were bound to be particularly soft as a rule … “or you are getting old”, concluded sourly the Blue, muttering some apparent nonsense while turning whole to face the Bard with a liquid sound of fabric fighting against leather. “Silvery Bard…” acknowledged the Spellblade without thinking twice; was it the right title? Avian customs, he mastered fully more than one century ago, but the ways of the Humans still eluded him more often than not. Thankfully, the Winged Beast did manage at least to offer a decent bow - solid progress, that was. Now for an actual dilemma… || Waiting for something, you idiot? Tell her, and be done with it! ||pressed on the Ageless Black into a silent rant the Blue only had to bear. Convincing a claim, but the Avian knew better than indulging into the suggestions of the Dragon sharing is brains. “Truth be told, Ma’am, I found myself quite intrigued, of late, by the craft of the Frost Giants…” begun the Blue, both of his hands slowly meeting on his back. Ah, the awful contrast of his voice, flat and rough as anything, cruel, almost, if compared to the measured, clear tone of the Bard. His grey lips barely moved within the inhumanly still frame of his face. “Sadly, it would seem that, despite my best intentions, there is no chance for me to even get a glimpse of their art. A pity, a real pity…” commented the Healer, shaking his head as he went along. A few of those dreadlocks, thick as ropes, escaped the impromptu bun and found their way across the bony face of the Avian, pale as chalk. One gesture of his right hand, and they were gone, while he would have started pacing toward a huge table nearby. “If I remember correctly, though, I may have heard the same cannot be said about you? Bard, they say, and yet blacksmith also, some others would add. How odd…” added the Winged Beast, stupidly interrupting his sentence so that the Silvery One could have very well thought he doubted her skills in the first place. Chances are the average idiot may have dismissed the work of a she-blacksmith. The Avian, obviously, knew better: after all, the very Halberd resting across his wings came to life thanks to none others than Leone herself. In any case, he knew very well the answer to his own enquiry - Sven, perhaps he was counting on the Bard to show up eventually? Surely he had more substantial hopes to reason with her than with the like of Blugrus? He was not sure - secrets are secrets, and apparently that room held many. And yet, none of this turmoil would have shown in either his voice or his posture. Still as death he remained, much as a bird of prey screening the horizon, solid blue eyes piercing the murky air - silently begging for a glimmer of hope.

Alvina can’t help but smile at the title he grants her. It’s unusually now. She’s known for other things more prominently now. Her work was riding shotgun to Cenril’s rotating door of dramas. Not to mention the irony of the name - it never escaped her, being a newly turned werewolf. Well, not ‘newly’ but still it felt new when he said something so old. She mirrored his bow, though not as proper. It surprised her that he’d bow at all. Once she’s righted herself, she stays in the doorway. Leaning casually into the wood as if holding the entirety of the structure with her diminutive stature. She waits, warm and all attentive while his explanation rolls coolly off his tongue. What a proper yet detached gentleman. Her attention flickers from his face to his hair as it only serves to draw attention to the sharp shape of his face. Harsh, one may say. Rigid? While she tries to perfectly place the impression he gives, he’s pausing with dubious implications. “Bard, blacksmith, healer, mother, wife, friend, liar.” She filled in his silence with her own mirthful tones. Then she pauses, letting the last bit linger in her mouth, bitter sweet but the way her lips draw up it would be framed as a joke. She’s no stranger to doubters, being a woman still had its disadvantages. It isn’t like she could brandish her accomplishments like a hero’s sword. No, her work was more subtle. The heart of a Queen, built alongside Leone. A bow wielded by a Vampire turned human that froze any creature to the core with a touch. She doesn’t ask why he’d find it odd that her titles blurred so readily. Instead, she asks “What brings about this...sudden interest?” It wasn’t a layered answer that she knew the skills. It was presumed of any blacksmith in Frostmaw. Black Ice. Blue Iron. The metals and crafts were exclusively Frostmaw’s property. Then, as an afterthought she adds “You can call me Alvina…?” The end of her name curls the silence up like a question. She was waiting for his name in return. “Are you also a blacksmith?” She examined him again but found that hypothesis lacking. He was tall, almost TOO tall for the room except that it was built for Frost Giants. “It’s rare that anyone comes so openly asking questions about these things…” Any time she speaks, it’s with a confidence found in one who feels at home in a space. Only the slightest undercurrent of apprehension might make itself known if her companion was a particularly attentive listener.

Thamalys listened in perfect, potentially unnerving silence, the only indication he was actually breathing given by a barely noticeable twitch, at times curling the rims of his silver-coated feathers by the smallest of the extents. The voice of the Bard filled the room with intent and purpose, much like a rare wine poured skillfully into a glassy chalice - not even the Blue, thoroughly uninterested in most things of beauty, would have managed not to appreciate that. Healer, she said… that was mildly unexpected - and of potential interest as well, as the ranks of the Guild were presently thinning dangerously… a matter for another day, though. || Liar, eh? Who would have guessed… || chuckled the Black meanwhile, while a faint layer of liquid blue fire would have dripped from the tattooed skin of the Avian, unable to even entertain the possibility without clenching his jaws. “Alvina it is…” conceded the Spellblade soon after, his words underlined by the disturbing sound of the few flaming droplets which managed to reach the floor, sizzling madly into the frosty air before disappearing for good, “… as long as I can return the favour - Thamalys, may it please you”. || Oh, come off it, would you? || yelled the Ageless One deep within the head of the Spellblade, the spiky fiend definitely annoyed by the pleasantries. In any case, those was done and dusted by then, as the Blue was offered an opportunity to make his case. The change in his manners was amazingly sudden: gone was the stiff posture, his hands started waving around, the ivy-shaped tattoos covering most of him would have curled endlessly in convoluted patterns, even the wings - Wind forbid it! - threatened to unfurl. “No no, I am no blacksmith at all, I am afraid…” begun the Blue, picking up the closest piece of metal he could find within those long, scarred fingers, “… but I have been working on something…” - and here his right hand would let go of said piece to instead more or less consciously pat the leathery satchel swinging along his side - “… that I would love to set into a blade” continued, his eyes now positively flashing, golden streaks building up into the otherwise perfect blue of his eyes. “The Giants won’t have anything to do with it, for some reason… perhaps I can show you, yes?” concluded the Blue, unsurprisingly knocking over quite a collection of crystals while stepping away from the table, aiming straight for the Silvery Bard, picking up some serious momentum as he moved along. Clumsy as per usual, with the added bonus of a badly concealed enthusiasm fueling his movements, his approach had something teetering along the verges of being defined menacing - imagine a huge warrior of old, entirely covered in flaming tattoos, hurrying towards you on the basis of a not-so-entirely-well-specified “something” to be set into a would-be blade. Manners, for Sven’s sake… would have probably rebuked the Wintry Lady in witnessing such a display. But she wasn’t there, and as such it fell on Alvina to try and cope with an overly excited Tzur.

Alvina had an appreciation for Avians; their minds were puzzle boxes and their elegance was always a sight to behold. They were, in her experience, flames in a cooling world. Having worked with various temperaments and creatures, she isn’t unnerved by his silence. Attention is a fine tuned thing. It takes something of great importance to capture it properly. She doesn’t miss this layering or dripping of blue fire, though she isn’t positive WHAT it is. Just that she’s witnessing it, actively, unable to make mention in the silence that crests between them afterwards. Would it be rude to inquire? Was it something she’d said? Instead, she opts to ask if he’s all right in low, easy-to-miss maternal tone. He offers back his name and she disturbs crimson curls to nod appropriately at their concluded introduction. She’s unsettled, though she doesn’t know –why-. She has no fear of strangers but the whiplash between his two attitudes leaves her head spinning. Are his tattoos swirling? His stiff stance melts into one of fire (literally?) and passion. Not a blacksmith though. Her lips purse together, watching his handling of the metal hammer (or was it?) that he picks up and then drops to pat his satchel. What did it contain? Was this a statement of passion or insanity? Were they so different in appearance? Alvina inadvertently stiffens her hands while attempting to maintain her casual posture in the door frame. Her brain is buzzing, repeating his words back through multiple times to glean a more complex understanding. Something he’d love to set into a blade. The gem stones scattered on the table top? Or something akin? The giants won’t help? That’s not surprising… “They are more function over form-“She starts before various strains of light are thrown through the room by the tumbling jewels. It casts a cloak-like backdrop against the stranger as he advances and Alvina felt herself revert to a younger, more panicked state of being. Fear should summon her wolf defenses but just now she’s stumbled back and away with narrowed pupils while gloved arms create a barrier between them. “-Just a moment!” She’d call, a little too loudly as if he were a well-intentioned mastiff. “I want to hear more!” She encourages breathlessly, straightening herself a few steps outside the door frame. Her Frostmaw Navy cloak settles while a cautious sweep of the hall reveals it’s still empty. “But I’d like to see just what you intent to set?” It’s more of a question than a demand. A tick of silence knots her lips shut before she adds, “It makes all the difference…” in a way that disguises a murkier, intangible sentiment.

Thamalys, or a part of him at least, acknowledged Alvina’s words indeed. As such, the Blue would have stopped his trot - just a couple of steps away from Bard. “Oh, absolutely, absolutely…” eagerly nodded the Avian, not even remotely concerned about the possibility that his behaviour may have had the ring of madness to it. Without hesitation, the bony fingers of the Winged Beast went to the satchel at his side, playing with the apparently cumbersome knots of leathery strings sealing the content. Somewhere in the East Hall, raspy voices were building into a sort of a conversation - Giants, most likely. Meanwhile, in the much tinier - if still quite enormous by most standards - smithery, the Spellblade eventually managed to undo the above mentioned laces. With a single, fluid motion, then, the Blue produced from the satchel… a feather? It definitely looks like one, albeit quite incredibly long and slender - about the length of an - Avian - forearm. Thamalys, suddenly very much more calm again, flipped the thing into the air, where… it stayed, simply neglecting gravity. Blue eyes tried to meet those of the Bard, while something not too dissimilar to a smile surfaced within the stony features of the Spellblade. “Well, this is it…” begun the latter, perhaps the faintest note of pride in his voice. “Elerium, painfully shaped into this form thanks to some blue iron, raw and pure, and a magic I thought I had forgotten…” his voice faded toward the end of the sentence, as if carried away by the weight of the past itself. The Ageless Black, quite content to feed on remorse and sorrow, soaked the thoughts of the Blue with renovated glee. With the tip of his index finger, right hand, the Avian would have thus gently poked the tip of the feather, which in turn starts spinning, ever so slowly, casting a remarkable variety of blueish reflexes on Bard and Spellblade alike. “See, the Giants seem to believe this is the byproduct of some tainted piece of old lore… elerium and blue iron, they won’t touch it for the life of them. I can assure you, though, this is not the case. Old lore, sure, but there is no evil into it - just a tiny splinter of my soul, that’s all.” || - Your - soul, you say… perhaps. Don’t you ever dare to forget who shares that with you, though… || coldly reminded The Black - this time, quite righteously indeed. “As you might imagine…” continued the Blue, unfazed, his voice low and yet not completely flat this time - Alvina’s influence? Hard to tell. “… It is my wish to set this creation of mine into a blade. It would be its core, it would be its heart. A - long - blade, slender as flame, light as the wind - a blade worthy of an Avian. The long-awaited companion, in fact, of this…” went on the Winged Beast, canting his head on one side while, with a single swooping motion, freeing the Gossamer Halberd from his laces and without no effort at all twisting the impossibly long pole in such a way to present the latter to Alvina, the length of the shiny metal resting on both hands. A few rooms would have allowed for such a motion, which involved challenging the height of the ceiling as well as the partial unfolding of the monumental wings of the Avian, who then seemed to offer the huge weapon to the Bard. If Alvina would have decided to accept said offer, she would have found that, amazingly, the massive halberd weighted close to nothing. Mithril, of course, but elerium as well, masterfully amalgamated by Leone time ago. This time, though, the Spellblade needed someone acquainted with the mysteries of blue iron… and with that though in mind, the Blue feel into a silence dense with hope. He would have tried to contain his eagerness, fueled by the memory of the endless hours he devoted to the creation of that single elerium feather, but his tattoos betrayed him. Dancing, they were, countless blue branches creeping all over him, seemingly twisting his features into something positively ominous.

Alvina exhales relief privately beneath the distant chatter of giants and shuffling of leather straps. When Thamalys produces the feather, she looks on curiously but when he flips it up and it stays…her face freezes and drains to a more intense pale. “Elerium –“ they say in unison, the female mystified and almost frightened as her wide emerald eyes remain transfixed. The back of her consciousness hears the rest – blue iron and old magics but she can’t stop her lips from blurting out her first, blinding thought. “Elerium isn’t supposed to be possible anymore.” Taking a step closer to where it hovered, she would ignore the personal space of the avian if he remained nearby. Her hands hover in the air around it, not daring to touch it, but still exigent. It was clear that beneath those crimson curls the cogs of her brain ticked fast enough to put off smoke. The male prods the feather and it spins. She gasps, a child confounded by the appearance of a coin from behind her ear. The light stains pale pockets along her cheeks, encouraging freckles to the surface where they met each other, and painting her eyes a false teal. The mention of his ‘soul’ brings her back to the room. Alvina was dizzy with disbelief. Elerium. ELERIUM! “It’s not possible…” she mutters again, unable to process the fact that it WAS possible and it WAS right in front of her. “Giants don’t trust much of anything…” She says quietly. “Especially not magics that are supposed to be dead.” The phrasing makes it sound darker than she’d intended. The blacksmith is afraid to look away from the feather for fear it will vanish, a mirage. He goes on to explain and she listens while hungry eyes flickering like an uncertain flame between him and the oddity. He explains the purpose – a sword, rapier possibly, that could house the miracle feather – and prove companion to his other weapon, which landed in her hand just now. Her fingertips closed around the pole arm gently, the pad of her thumb caressing the surface as one might pet an anxious cat. She’d ached to touch it since she saw it but manners and politeness dictate one should never just bluntly ASK to hold a weapon. Especially if it did not belong to you or someone close to you. Quite rude, usually. The weight is less surprising and she twists and flicks it through a narrow space to further examine it. “Cerinii spoke of such things, knew more than anyone what metals and substances melded together…” The words float into the room, directed at no one. Her expression is quiescent, abnegation threatening to remove this fantasy as simply that; fiction. A trick. But the halberd was the backing! Alvina takes one last damn near loving look at the halberd and offers it back silently to it’s owner. Again, the tattoos steal her attention long enough that she thinks of asking about them. Again, she does not. “There are only two people I know who could weave such a weapon into existence.” In these lands anyway. “Lady Cerinii or Madam Priestess Leone.” An elongated title, as they were not intimately acquainted. His unspoken question (or so she desperately hoped) hung in the air – could she do it? Was that doubt she saw in his face? Had he changed his mind because she lost all air of confidence in favor of wonderment? Could Ranok or Leone be better suited for the task? She felt humbled, odd when she was so accomplished. “I’ll do it.” Though he hadn’t officially asked her. Without provocation she added. “I have to. You have to let me.” As if she had such rights to make demands.

Thamalys watched not without some trepidation the diverse sequence of emotions unfolding within the Bard. He could not get the details, he could not appreciate the subtleness of her reactions, as despite his best intentions, still an Avian he remained - and thus mostly impervious to the complexity of human passions. “In a way, you are very right, you know?” softly commented the Blue, for a brief moment turning his head away from halberd, feather and red haired onlooker to apparently contemplate the wall not too far away, his gaze lost somewhere or some when mightily far away from Frostmaw indeed. “All of the very few who knew the mysteries of elerium are dead, now. Those who are not, have forgotten - I, did forget as well… for a long, long while…” || You don’t say… || roared the Black, perfectly aware of his own role in the matter. “… but I digress.” cut short the Winged Beast, rather abruptly taking back the halberd from the hands of the Bard and sheeting it within the laces across his shoulders and wings with a gesture that smelled of endless hours of practice. Mechanical, precise, cold, as the Blue tried to digest the words of the Blacksmith right in from of him. Cerinii, a name that was new to him… || She called herself a liar, and now demands your elerium… perhaps you should bleed her instead? || suggested the Ageless One with a good measure of horrible glee. Sadly, the Dragon did have a point - how many would have gone to any sort of length in order to lay their hands on a rare trophy such as the feathery craft still hovering mid-air between Human and Avian? Planting doubt was one of the Black’s specialties indeed. Some fraction of this inner dilemma percolated even through the posture of the Blue, who shifted his weight a tad bit more on his left foot, perfecting balance. A split second only, though, then the Spellblade would have lowered his massive cranium, shaking his head slowly, a good fraction of those ridiculous dreadlocks swaying across his chest, sawing strange patterns throughout the dark background of his heavy cloak. This was Alvina, the Silver Bard, Blacksmith of Frostmaw - the Icy One would have punched him in the face for having even dared to doubt her. And yet, tinkering with Avian pride, notwithstanding the best of the intentions, was an obvious recipe for disaster. A delicate balance was taking form, and the final words of the Blue carried much of that contrast within them. “I, do not - have - to do anything at all…” growled the Winged Beast as several tongues of liquid blue flame would have blossomed from the tattoos on his forehead to engulf his knotty hair, “… but yes, yes indeed, I would be forever grateful if you would try to work your craft on this…” he added in a non-entirely unpleasant tone, with infinite tenderness retrieving the shiny feather in his right hand. A moment of potentially perfect silence would have followed, that span of time the Avian needed to make a painful choice. “Here, take it.” offered the Spellblade flatly, stepping forward while stretching his arm toward the Blacksmith, the weightless shape of the elerium dancing in his fingers, ethereal, unnatural. “I cannot ask you to embark in such a delicate endeavour basically blindfolded. You have the right to at least get to know what you would be dealing with. This is no lifeless piece of steel, mind you - the history of a whole race is condensed into it, the memories of many, the lore of many more, and even a very piece of myself. Take it, I said, before I change my mind. Nebb will find you within a fortnight - then, and only if you would find yourself still willing to go ahead, we shall talk details. And fees, of course - this is not a matter of gold to me, it is the crystallization of an old dream. Anything I can give to make it happen, I will gladly separate myself from. In the meantime, though…” and he paused there for a while, as if trying to muster the strength to continue. “… Thank you, Alvina. For even considering to transform this hope of mine into reality. I spent so long in trying to bend the will of the Giants in vain… I must say, I was about to desist. And yet, is it not both a privilege and a duty of Bards such as yourself to bring some unexpected hope when the times are ripe?” It may not have seemed as much, but to extract this sort of words from the mouth of the Winged Beast was no mean feat at all. As the flames dancing on his head would have quietly vanished, the Avian would have challenged his pride once more by offering a bow marginally deeper than his opening one. Several of the countless silvery feathers decorating his wings rang accordingly, as to signify trust and highlight gratitude - a most rare occurrence with respect to the agenda of the Blue.

The shock of his emotion, or his imagined emotion, settled Alvina’s instability. He wore the contemplative gaze of a being who had seen and done and lost. Who had tried. Who had one time or another failed. Or so she thought when he talked about the mysteries of Elerium. The feeling solidifies when he mentions he had also forgotten. Chest tight, she wonders how he’d managed to remember. But again, they don’t know each other well enough for her to jettison questions like a roily child. The halberd leaves her hand. She feels emptier for it but she’d offered it back hadn’t she? It’s tucked away thoughtlessly and before she can marvel at the time spent perfecting such a skill, his head lowers and her energetic call to action deflates alongside her confidence. She’d been to opaque and eager with what she’d said. In his shoes, would she trust herself with this task? With this priceless and lost fragment of history? Silence blossomed and rotted between her outburst and his reply. “No, of course not, I only meant –“ she rushes to fill in the blankets, to re-write her original statement in a less casual way. He didn’t have to do anything! No one ever did! She was a fine supporter of one’s own agency and decisions. His long, snowy locks mark his clothing like rolled furs and she wonders another of her ridiculous and irrational quandaries – was it soft? The flickering flames rose to steal that and all other thoughts away. Was it culturally insensitive to ask still or was it a warning in and of itself? The Master did not look pleased with her frankness and when his lips part again, she steels herself for a reprimand. ‘This is now how high ranking officers should speak to individuals’ or maybe ‘just who the hell do you think you are’. Both of which –would- be acceptable. Alvina’s shoulders twitch, the motion ripples through fur trim, heavy navy cloak and the feather light (well, not -Elerium- feather light) crimson curtaining of hair that fell across and beyond. Silence swells again; he really did…want her to try? He offers her the feather and her first reaction is to step back and away, palms up defensively to refuse. “I couldn’t…Not after making such a fool of myself.” Apology tries to weave itself into her eyes but he continues and she feels powerless to stop it. He explains, almost like an agitated tutor, the significance and history. Did she imagine a certain pride there, beneath his tongue? Her eyes softened with compassion and inspiration before he insists more pointedly that she take it, now. Would it be better if he changed his mind? Her gloved hands stretch to take the feather, digits shaking anxiously before it’s in her grasp. “Nebb?” She asks without thinking. Here, she should be saying ‘thank you’ and ‘of course’, spilling reassurances on the stone flooring to ease any doubts either of them had about the transaction. When he paused before thanking her, she stares up at him. Fees? It’s too early to talk money or make promises but … “I wouldn’t charge a damn thing.” Conviction bled into her voice once more. Bards and Blacksmiths are both dreamers, by trade. Constructors of ideals and theories. But together the professions could be dangerous. It was easy to catch contagious passion and want nothing more than the experience itself. Easy for Alvina, anyway. “Everyone needs hope –“ Even she. “ –and you’ve brought it to me in such a small package. “ A pause before she can continue “ Thank you for trusting me. I will treat your dream as my own.” As precious and dear as a child, a lover, or a dear friend. Her words and actions have all appeared earnest and vulnerable. Why then had she told a near stranger that she was a liar? She exhales with emotion. He bends to bow and she feels out of place until his feathers –rang-. Who is this avian…? After a beat she speaks his name - “Thamalys” to answer her own query aloud. Alvina offers her own bow while investigating the way his strange name felt on her tongue before committing it to memory.

Thamalys held his breath till the very instant the Bard got hold of the weightless feather. It was done - he could almost feel the sharp pain of that separation, the perfect anguish of that divide. As if a splinter of who he was just separated from the whole. He nodded slowly, his eyes filled with something halfway between longing and tenderness, transfixed onto the thin shard of elerium and blue iron first… and then moving on the Blacksmith herself. There was no lust in the Spellblade gaze - he simply did not know the meaning of it - , there was nothing to be read in between the lines. Only, her words rang true, and her beautifully shaky movements carried the mark of genuine emotion - or so the Blue thought. “A fool would have either refused the challenge of took it too lightly. You, instead…” pointed out the Healer, stepping back slowly, as to highlight the distance between himself and the elerium, “… would not allow fear, nor doubt, to hinder your will. This is why I - know - you have in you what it takes to bring this blade into life. By the Wind, I can - feel - it, even…” added in a slightly alarmed tone the Blue, as the elerium would have cast an especially fierce glare upon the wavy red background provided by the locks of the Bard. The mere presence of that unique material in the room seemed to have modified somehow the lighting in any case, but there was probably more to it. Even the Ageless Black stirred with a rare uneasiness. Luckily, the next word of the Bard would have managed to break that sort of eerie tension. “Ah, of course. Apologies. Nebb… very well, if you would wait just a moment…” went the Avian, soon after producing a clear, powerful whistle which cut through the air like a blade indeed, carrying the sound through the halls of the fort with the unmistakable note of a calling. Interestingly, very little moved as a result within the face of the Blue, who in turn kept moving away from the Bard - for no apparent reason. Alvina went on. It had been a long time since the Blue had been gifted by such kind words. Her voice might have helped, but her intentions really did seem crystal clear as well. “I am sure you will, and I am glad to hear that - GET DOWN, NOW!” yelled the Spellblade all of the sudden, while a deafening shriek shattered the peace of the Fort as a huge, feathery shape flew right through the door, threatening to smash into the Bard head first. “Nebb, for the love of…” tried to utter the Blue, as a swirling vortex of brown wings and talons landed some when in between the outstretched arm of the Avian and the chest of the latter. With some luck, what was wolf within the Bard would have been able to avoid the playful (if quite lethal…) welcome of the massive red kite, also known as Nebb, presently trying to peck the Spellblade with no mercy at all. “Alright, alright, I am sorry! Happy? Now, - be - quiet!” roared the Winged Beast, as, eventually, the bird apparently content with that impromptu apology would have settled upon the right shoulder of the Avian, yet another towering presence to be added to the metallic one of the Halberd. “Utterly sorry, Alvina, I… usually, I mean… anyway, this is Nebb…” sort of stuttered the Blue, stupidly poking the kite - who reacted with a rather frosty glare. The bird canted his head in exactly the same fashion of what the Avian managed earlier on, adding for good measure a rather decisive cry. By then, the entirety of the dreadlocks falling from the cranium of the Spellbalde would have found their own way through cloak, shoulders and wings alike, with a net result of a chaotic display of ivory ropes. What a mighty mess… not an unprecedented one, though - not when Nebb was to be involved. If needed, the only help provided to the Bard to recover from the areal invasion would have been a hand - quite literally, as the Blue would have moved a couple of steps in her directions, his hand outstretched to offer some leverage.

Well that settles that. She laughs, eyes closed and head tilted with embarrassment. “I had a bad reputation for that too.” Being hindered by neither fear nor doubt, for most causes. Most often ending splendidly or disastrously. Let’s hope this is not the latter. She feels nothing in his stare beyond civility and her passion is contained to the project and a possible friend for the future. Avians. She missed Cerinii. Misses Brennia. Alvina can’t grasp the glare off her autumnal curls but she’d been privy to the freckling blue that touched the room before; a stark contract. By the wind. She smirks, endeared by his confidence. Yes! They would be successful! No doubt! The bard blinks when he presents a whistle that slices through the air cleanly. Her left eye twitches, she hadn’t been prepared for the pitch. Tensely, they waited. The avian more prepared for what follows. He inches away and Alvina watches him with intense interest. Was she about to erupt in flames?! Or was he?! Her animal instincts sense a shift or sound and she’s halfway to the floor when he screams. Pre-emptively meeting his call, her frame drops to the floor, a small ‘oof’ stealing the breath from her lungs as she remains humanoid in appearance save her wide, azurite stained eyes. The feather in her hands is cradled between her palms, protected beneath her abdomen. Woof, what an entrance. Once the proverbial dust settles, she rights herself to her knees only minutes ahead of his offered hand and watches with something akin to adoration of the pair’s interactions. How cute! In fact, she –laughs- with bright glee when he apologizes. “How thrilling!” She shrieks, only then accepting his hand and standing at her full (albeit short) height beside the male. “Nebb, pleasure to meet you.” The feather resides safely in her right hand while her left hand tugs at the hem of her dress to offer the kite a slight bow. “What an enchanting creature.” She chirps, as if he hadn’t just been pecking at his presumed owner. If he didn’t look so energetic, she’d ask to ruffle him! “One moment,” She calls to the room at large before unbuckling her enchanted satchel and encouraging the feather into an enchanted bottle for safe keeping. It went back into her satchel but neither the weight nor shape changed from the addition. The same would have happened if she’d put the Halberd in! That done, she dusted her hands, weaving her fingers together and pressed the ball of digits to the underside of her chin to admire the kite. “Gods, he’s splendid.”

Thamalys was desperately trying to reach some sort of compromise with the pesky bird - precisely while the eyes of the Bard, for an instant, revealed a yet untold piece of her puzzle. Would the true nature of the Blacksmith have unsettled, Wind forbid, perhaps even enraged the Blue? Not at stage, no, not anymore. He learned the hardest way to disregard the prejudice naturally embossed into the minds of any Avian with respect to anything wingless - he owned his life to a vampire, after all, and an especially shadowy one indeed. Anyhow, the cerulean glitch in her eyes went duly unnoticed - but not quite so the impossibly quick reflexes by which the Bard managed to recover her balance in less than a split second. The trained judgment of the Spellblade was working fast, and the Black did not remain silent either: || Quite phenomenally fast a move for just a Bard, eh? || chuckled the Old One, feeding some more doubt into the thoughts of the Healer. The latter paid very little notice, the only result of all that being a curious tilting of his head, immediately replicated by Nebb, by then solidly perched upon the shoulder of the Blue. The bird was plainly quite flattered - or at least curiously complacent - by the words of the Blacksmith; Thamalys could tell, as the kite was, for once, actually silent, gauging the scene with measured contempt. “He… oh, very well, I suppose he is…” conceded the Winged Beast, only to tone down the concession by hastily adding “… when he cares to listen, that is. Which is not always…” a remark that costed him a quite frosty glare from the feathery companion. “However.” continued the blue, patting his cloak in an absolutely vain attempt to get rid of the kilogram of dust and more gifted to him by Nebb himself. “Unless one does not want to be found, Nebb can usually spot anyone or anything in the space of a couple of days, whether is Frostmaw, or Larket, or Cenril. I’ll send him to call on you soon, with your permission, that is. A tiny piece of parchment is all you would need to come back to me, see?” explains the Blue, pointing to an elegant - if quite small - cylinder squarely secured to the left talon of the kite. “Also, I should probably point out that Nebb can definitely behave… with anyone but myself, in all fairness.” A loud shriek sealed that point quite nicely. “I shall await for your news, Alvina.” spells out the Avian, sort of experimenting with her name as he went along. Sounded very much like a foreigner trying to guess the right pronunciation - not too elegant, a tad bit childish, even. Alright, probably quite funny as well. “In the meantime… you have my thanks…” mutters the Blue, already moving the first of the very few steps he needed to reach the much wider space of the East Hall nearby. If the Bard had nothing to object in that sense, the Spellblade would have then marched through the door, his towering shape decorated by halberd and kite alike, some sort of flying (literally) circus condensed between the silvery curtains of those massive wings. The satchel still swung quite merrily at the Healer’s side - what else was in there? One more question doomed to remain unanswered still. And yet, the Bard managed to carve her way through several layers of Avian pride and prejudice - in the remarkably compressed time scale of no more than a few minutes. || Old and soft, this is what you have become, silly… || teased the Black, nothing receiving in response. In fact, the whole fort seemed to pause for a while as if to celebrate the departure of the Blue, who would have slowly ambled past the Blacksmith, eyes planted ahead of him already. A pragmatic mind, his thoughts were sawing plans for near and far future alike already; the matter of an instant, and the only thing left of the Spellblade in the smithery would have been a vague, if definitely metallic scent of aniseed. And silence, perfect silence, his bare feet softly measuring the frosty floor of the Frostmawian fort.

Alvina didn’t make it a secret that she was a lycan, but it was also a new edition to her inflated list of titles that she didn’t add to the introduction she gave earlier. There’s a pungent werewolf and witch racism running around Cenril these days anyway. Better to keep it under wraps, but she wouldn’t lie if she was asked. Certain types could smell it on her or in her blood. Bard, Blacksmith, Engineer, artificer, blah blah blah. She made things, she felt things, and she could fight things if so inclined. She could also chew on sticks but that didn’t make her any less of a damn good tinkerer. She fawns over Nebb and ignores any potential odd stares or reactions. He. Is. Cute. It. Is. Fine. “Gods above, my mount is just like that. Such a brat.” Thamalys goes on to mention Nebb’s unique ability to find people and Alvina nods in agreement; what a useful skill! The bard’s attention turns back to the Avian as he speaks, explaining the process of getting in contact with one another again. “Of course. I grant you and Nebb –“ She grins at the kite, “Full permission to seek me out and take parchment pieces.” In her mind, she’s already imagining the surprise of a visit. Surprises are marvelous, when they bring good things. She only laughs when Nebb adds a shriek to their conversation. Her expression shifts to a serious one when he mentions waiting for news. “Of course, please feel free to jot down any hopes or specific details you’d like included on the rough draft. It isn’t abnormal to request custom flare like engravings or stone work.” She thinks of Meri’s bow with pride. “Even special effects, sometimes.” Like Khitti’s black ice bow, dubbed Diamond Dust. Another fine project. “Thank YOU for trusting me with such an important task. I’m thankful for the opportunity to work with something so rare. And someone so pleasant as yourself.” A proper gent. She has nothing more to add but waves her goodbyes as the male starts out the door and practically glides down the hallway and out of sight. The bard had been too distracted to pay much attention to his satchel or question the contents therein. The gossiping of the giants lulled into quiet and she strained to listen for footfalls like a child tilts it’s ears to the night near Yule time. What if this man was a ghost? It wouldn’t be the oddest thing she’d ever heard of. With a hopeful spirit, Alvina picked up the spilled gems he left behind and headed back to Cenril but only once she was satisfied with the state of the Smithy.