RP:Marked At Birth

Summary: After countless sacrifices, Stain[1] is born.

Frostmaw Towers

Frostmaw is, even in the dim pre-dawn hours, a testament to the hardy determination of it’s inhabitants. The Office Building Complex, eloquently named Frostmaw Towers, strikes the sky line. A foreboding block of grey-stone and other decorous features that Alvina doesn’t pay any attention to. Little rivets on the corners? Or rose shaped windows? No, no that’s not right. Alvina stands in the shadow of the Towers (it’s only one tower, why is it plural) and tries to gather her thoughts. Today is pivotal. Only her A game will do.

A handful of clerks guard the entrance. The bard hands a stack of ‘red tape’ paperwork to the young feline at the front and explains what she needs. An Avian named Thamalys will come here looking for her. She has an office on the 3rd floor. She will not be in that office. Instructions are scribbled out beneath the talking points. She can’t afford to linger. Up, up, up she goes to prep what she hadn’t been able to prep the night before. When the spellblade arrives, a feline wearing office attire approaches. He is not hard to distinguish from the others here. Avians are a rare thing, nowadays. Especially avians with blue tattoos.

After flagging him down and apologizing that Alvina could not be here herself, the woman (her name tag reads ‘Honey’) leads him up to the very tippy top of the towers. The entire floor is one large studio. Sparsely, along the back wall, small partitions hide their contents from sunlight and prying eye. Honey and Thamalys should be able to see clear through to ice and snow from any other direction. Honey politely points Thamalys to the right of the stairwell; a frigid furnace devours that corner of the room. Nearby operating tables have been lined up, toe to toe, in a wide berthed semi-circle surrounding the furnace. Each table has a distinct ‘style’ of parts. The first table displays blade lengths and width. Nothing decorative or frilly. As the table line progresses, however, things break down into more specific detail. Such as, the third table houses different burned leather handles or guards or even wraps. Alvina’s provided every possibility for personalization.

The core pieces that will make up the spell blade’s newest companion will be right next to the furnace itself, glowing a faint blue. On that same table, the feather in it’s jar. Alvina is, as of yet, nowhere to be found. Honey scans the corner, then the spellblade and then the corner again. No Alvina has appeared and Honey, low ranking in the Towers staff, does not have the luxurious amount of time required for small talk. “She…said she’d be up here. I’m sure if you just wait a moment..” The feline’s tail twitches anxiously. “J-just a minute!” Honey adds before she, and all her monotoned attire, scamper back down the stairs. Dawn begins to filter through the first set of windows, basking the top floor in warmth and light.

Thamalys , for once, opted for a walk. With long, measured strikes, he reached the Towers at what he thought was precisely the right time. The Blacksmith may not be there to welcome him in person - or so he is told by a rather chatty girl - but the Blue expected nothing of the sort: he could only begin to imagine the scale of the complexity involved with the monumental challenge ahead. Clad entirely in black, the Avian would have duly followed directions and quickly climbed up impossibly steep flights of stairs - as if daydreaming. Not so far away from the truth. He, seasoned T’Zur, host of a Black Dragon, forged into pain and sorrow and hardened by countless dances with Death itself, he was bloody nervous, make no mistake. Cautiously, he set foot into the studio, immediately taking notice of the supreme order dominating upon the Blacksmith realm. He froze, stupidly trying to label everything at once - an impossible task. In the end, and while the feline kept apologising about something the Spellblade barely registered, the Winged Beast shook his head and move on, slowly circumnavigating the wooden setup laid down by the Bard. His attempt to not knock down anything seemed to have succeeded - only a few of the many ivory tresses decorating his cranium managed to brush against the tables, perhaps displacing a tool or two. He did not notice. “Fine! It is - fine - …” eventually conceded the Blue while suddenly turning toward the feline. There is nothing in is voice - just ice, but it is not meant for anyone in particular, it is just the way it is. The girl did take offence, though, blushing as only a feline could (which is to say, very little) and soon after turning on her heels and scampering downstairs. The Spellblade realised his mistake - as per usual - a tad bit too late. “I mean, I will gladly wait, there is no need to…” he stuttered in vain. Alone, he made a conscious effort to recreate in the quietest corner of the room. And yet, the blueish gleam of the elerium shard calls him back - there is little he could do to oppose that pull. One foot after the other one, the dark, towering features of the Winged Beast made way toward that particular bench. Not so far away, now, perhaps a couple of steps only. Was that the very hand of the Avian, reaching toward the elerium? “It has been so long…” he would have confessed, much as a saddened lover in view of some happiness forever lost.

When Thamalys finds himself alone and lured by the haunting otherworldly majesty that is Elerium, Alvina is there. Cat-like emeralds watch him serenade the shard of his soul with rich investment. Could he call this piece back, if he wanted to? With a sigh, a short humanoid figure near the back bulk of the furnace flips up it’s welder’s mask. Behind the barrier of more glass and steel, Alvina’s eyes will be waiting to greet Thamalys properly. Her face is puffy - a good indicator that she hasn’t slept nearly as much as she should. Her hair is spun back in a complex, can-you-tell-I-have-daughters braid and the rest of her outfit is truly unremarkable beyond the fitting black. It ties the room together. “ G’morning stranger.” Her tired grin tilted when she bows. Not many left that bow, she thinks now as she has each time before. “Hope you don’t mind that I got a bit of a head start without you -” Her pale, grease speckled arms gesture to the tables. “But not everything!” It had taken days...more days than she was comfortable admitting, to get everything together. No matter how much help Hudson hired, there was no substitute for her attendance. Despite her exhaustion, she is rarin’ to go. “Oh! And don’t worry about Honey,” Alvina shakes her head awkwardly, the weight of the welder’s mask distorts it’s balance. “Nice girl but a scaredy cat - no pun intended.” She coughs before continuing. “We’ve started asking her to guide visitors around to develop her...people skills but….she always runs off and leaves them.” Another sigh and she steps forward, beside the table where the bare guts of his weapon are displayed. “Are you ready?” She wanted to make a joke, as if this was a child of his brought into the world, but she could not remember the avian word for father. Cerinii told her once, she’s sure but, best not to make all these jokes now. It’s the sleep deprivation, does it every time.

Thamalys snapped away from the blue temptation the very moment the voice of the Blacksmith carved its way through stone and glass. He stumbled, trying to regain some of his poise. “Ah… morning, yes. Indeed… ” there is little sense in his words at the moment, the overwhelming majority of his mind set upon a sole thing in Lythridel. The Spellbalde dared a step closer into Alvina’s rocky den. Even he could tell the woman is fatigued - no surprise there, just laying out that display must have taken the work of ten, for days. “All of this… thank you…” just managed the Blue, casually brushing away some greyish dust which dared to set upon the otherwise perfectly dark background of his black shirt, where complex patterns of flames and trees merrily run in an elegant harmony the Avian himself cared little about. But a part of him knew this hour was pivotal. “Ready… well, yes - I suppose. I must confess I… struggled to feel… whole, shall we say, so far away from that feather…” he noted, pointing a bony finger toward his piece-of-soul-in-a-jar. “Truth be told, I am… glad to just find myself in this room. Anyway…” he went on “… I am no Blacksmith, but you must know that I wish to help, to the extent and in the manner you see fit. It is the least I can do.” And with that, the Blue found himself standing upright, assuming the perfect posture of an old-fashioned butler. Silly old bird. Was he about to produce a tray of appetisers? Maybe not - surely not by judging from his face, a mask of chalky steel transfixed in that dire moment. Not even the merry welcome and the outstanding energy of the Bard managed to shook the Winged Beast.

Alvina’s eyes brighten when Thamalys reports for duty. She can’t help it and has a little laugh. “Well, I’m the blacksmith here so leave that part to me. I’ll reunite you two love birds - “ Again, no pun intended “-in no time.” She sighs, pointing out each table and what it holds. “I need you to pick some things first and foremost. Honestly, it’s all aesthetics. Form and Function were pre-ordained in the design. This leather strap won’t make the sword lighter than that metal strap. This filigree guard won’t slow down his parry speed less than one without. He’ll be asked to deposit any custom bits and bobs on the other side of the furnace and when he’s done, they can regroup before the final step. “I know we talked about how this was going to work, and I made a couple little tweaks to the final design so...this is the part where I ask you to trust me -” She has to lean back a little to see him. He’s so damn tall. “-And give me one of your feathers.” She blinks. “Not, that one.” Her head tilts toward the soul-feather. “Another one. But ONLY when you’re ready to start. There won’t be time for questions afterwards.”

Thamalys was genuinely lost when it came to confront the Bard’s banters - so much of her was totally alien to him. Luckily for him, a series of tasks followed the wit soon enough. The Blue did not have in mind the details of the Blacksmith’s project, but trust was not an issue. Nor, in fact, fashionable choices: “metal, not leather, and no filigree - please” he states in a split second. With infinite care - probably unnecessary, but the last thing he wanted was to bring some of his famous clumsiness into the mix - the Healer proceeded to pick said details and position them as instructed. A short, and yet quite tidy, line of ornaments - he loved symmetry in every aspect, and that studio had quite some potential in that respect. || That’s it, fix the details whilst you can… || giggled the Black, silently laughing at the care of the Avian. The latter, however, had a whole different caliber of a problem to deal with. “One of - my - feathers! How can you even think - ” bellowed the Spellblade, turning whole to face the emerald stare of the Bard. His face was the definition of outrage, a masterpiece of indignation. He managed to stop mid-sentence, though, the rims of his wings twitching with a hint of rage. In perfect silence, he walked back till he found himself standing in front of Alvina, a branch of ivy-shaped ink blossoming on his neck, tainting the ivory skin in less than an instant. “Very well - so be it, then. You are gifting me something which has no price, and as such I shall bend my pride for you - this one time…” there is no threat in his rough voice, merely truth. Nothing was more sacred to the Blue that his wings - even a single feather would have meant a gaping wound for him. “And yet, it is not as easy at it may seem. Each one of my feathers has been coated by eldritch silver…” explained the Spellblade, cautiously unfolding a little his right wing as to show to the Blacksmith the craft of Artia. “Nothing can break them, nor cut them. You will have to carve into my flesh to pluck one out. No one has ever even tried. Again: there is nothing I would not do to see Stain coming to life. My pride and flesh is nothing - here, Alvina. Steel yourself and maim an enchanted wing, if you dare. A proper tale for a Bard to be told in some hall someday.” And with that and a mad grin painted on his lips, the Blue kneeled, unfurling both wings - half of the room was then shining with silver, the monumental extent of that Avian pride lightening up the Frostmawian furnace as dragon fire of old.

Alvina’d expected a heavy reaction. The look on his face, the scuff in his tone! She'd prefaced it with a call to arms! Trust her! Trust me! What she -hadn’t- expected was to be told to carve it out. “Eh..?” She watches his kneel and feels a blip of uncertainty. His speaking of this encounter like a battle. Like a heroic deed to be marbled and marveled. His wings extend and Alvina's eyes widened. This can not be real. It's so beautiful she would weep! But… There is work still to do. Carving. Carving? Well that seems extreme Alvina. Let's find a work around - “No time!” She shots to the delusioned doubts buzzing in her ears. The tray was ready, he was ready, and now she must join them. Elderich silver, madness this man. Pure and utter madness. Tools clash on a nearby tray. Alvina hovers overhead, hands obscured and flipping the welder's mask back down. “You remind me of somebody I used to know…”

No matter how difficult the task, Alvina will carve this feather free unless Thamayls should stop her at any point. If so, she'll wave whatever he says off and move to the next step. If she is successful, she'll run diagnostics while she offers him a place to sit. Undrain how difficult the process would be, she'd prepared a pillow pile in the floor. Or maybe she just thought she'd need a power nap. Either way! “I can handle the rest.” She promises before banishing him (politely) to the otherside of the pillows. If moving isn't an option, she'll put a blanket on him. “Rules are rules.” Gotta protect those state secrets.

Five hours will pass. Honey would check on them once, per Alvina's instruction, and bring the spellblade anything he should ask (within reason). The furnace will roar to life again in the absence of banging, grinding, and cursing for the first time in what felt like lifetimes. She had a bad habit of forgetting her left hand isn't metal anymore. Luckily, the werewolf curse keeps her skin in tact. Not painless. As the furnace gives one final sigh and the blue flames within die away, the blade in it's completion will come into focus. The metal ‘lives’, rippling with heat and promise. “Thamalys…” She whispers, even if he can't hear her. The sword is shadowed in the still stomach of the furnace. Only the occasionally silvery echo of where the flames had kissed the steel.

Thamalys did not inquire further. Instead, he would have muttered an old litany in an even older language, while the Bard proceeded to retrieve the silvery feather by blade and butchery. The pain was nothing if compared to the humiliation - a non-Avian could not begin to imagine. Concealed from Alvina’s eyes, blue tears rolled down the Spellblade’s face - he himself gasped in surprise when they reached the stony floor, sealing the deed. Through gritted teeth, the Blue remained silent, while that human manoeuvred around his wings. The mere touch of her skin, which not a few would have probably paid some solid gold to feel, stirred a mad rage well within the deepest recesses of the Blue. In his head, Korkhoran never ceased to scream. And yet, while most would have either refused the challenge or butchered bone and tendons, the Bard did managed to obtain the feather she needed without any visible damage - such was the skill behind those green eyes. As the ink rushed to stop the bleeding, sizzling the gaping wound, only the keenest eyes would have managed to notice a misstep in the silvery array decorating those wings. “I understand…” accepted the Blue soon after, not really wanting to rest, but still respectful of the Frostmawian mysteries. On the other side of the fluffy barrier he would have stayed, standing, torn between his wounded pride and the anticipation for the blade to be.

When Thamalys did not answer her, Alvina turned towards the blanket mass and frowns sympathetically. While the weapon stabilized it’s temperature, Alvina approached the blanket fort. Bending down, she rests her hands on her knees. “Forgive the intrusion.” Her voice is low but present. Meant to draw him back to this day and time if his heart or mind had wandered elsewhere. He had lost so much, more than she could imagine, for this weapon to exist. There is only one moment in which she feared being face to face with the Black and it is now. “Thamalys…” She tries again, “It’s time.”

There is something about the Blue that was different to the even-tempered, if quite stubborn, Avian who the Bard had met not so long ago. As a being naturally wired into suppressing emotions as much as possible, this journey was putting the Spellblade to the test. Even as Alvina reached through blankets and pillows, he could not describe the mixture of relief and dread the swept into him. Only one way forward, though. “Is it already?” he asked, despite the long hours Alvina had invested into the making. She was covered in glimmering dust - he lost a feather along the way. Stain would not come into Lythridel without some fuss, it would have seemed. “Well then…” he offered the Avian, nervously trying to eying the elerium by peeking on top of an immaculate avalanche of pillows.

Alvina waits. “Not yet. I’m just a blacksmith, I can’t do this part.” A fabrication; she could. But -he- should. Outside the blanket pile, the room is covered in light and shimmering metal. She brings the tray with the stained feather and sets it on the floor beside the fort. The sword is next, handled carefully with two large mitts. Mitts for a Frost giant, more like small blankets for Alvina. When he emerges, she’ll be kneeling near the tray, sword in hand. Ripples of blue still pulse through the blade. It is what he’s asked; no filigree, no leather. There’s a thin fluted slot right above hilt. “On your mark.” She smiles.

Thamalys cobbled together something close enough to a smile - a nervous one, despite his outmost trust into the Blacksmith’s skills. “Thank you…” he nodded, anxiously waiting to behold the blade. “It is… perfect…” whispered the Blue in awe the moment he set eyes on the metal, its innards twisting still, a unique blend of colour and reflexes toying on its surface. Slowly, he would have bent forward, caressing the flat of the blade - perhaps impossibly hot, but the Avian simply would have not noticed. He lifted his head to meet the stare of the Bard. “Time to stain this perfection, then…” went the Winged Beast, sighing while picking up the elerium feather. With infinite care, he set it into the slit - Alvina’s skill was such that it fit without fail, as if moulded upon its shape. Within the arcane material, some darker shadow constantly floated, as if desperately trying to reach out. Worryingly enough, the Black clicked its tongue, satisfied, while the Blue would have rub his index finger onto the boundary between elerium and blade: gushes of blue fire surged forward, running through the slit, sealing, blending. Closing his eyes, the Avian would have called upon the magic within him - he could feel the two parts and the whole, and desperately wanted never to be held apart from Stain any longer. However, he was no blacksmith: fire and magic may seal, but to make the bond one doomed never to fail, the Blue had to call on the Bard again. “I did what I could…” noted the Avian, with two hands collecting the blade and offering it to Alvina - not without some pain. Such a strange feeling, to be tied onto an instrument of death.

Alvina chuckled. Stain the perfection. Let this be a moment they remember. She watches, listens, and feels the pulse of magic in the room. “It is your vision” was her returned mark of gratitude while he went about sealing himself within. The flames cut along the seam and she shakes her head respectfully. Whoever should cross his path with these blades in his possession will not fare well. “Amazes me still,” She sighs as she wiggles her way back upright. “You finished it.” She smiles down at the sword as if she held a child. “I will prepare it for you. Please rest.” Once upright, Alvina will take the blade back to the forge. There in, she’ll take the feather cleaved from his wing and cast it into the frigid flame. It would seal his magic, protect both blade and master. She prayed it might someday offer him help in other ways she can’t imagine. Avians are tricky that way. There is much they know but little they share. The finishing touches take no more than another two hours. The sun’s indifferent path began to cast the light through the opposite set of windows, granting new angles and miniature spectrums of light to twinkle through the space. She’d swear it was fairy magic, had she not shaved the metal herself.

Upon completion, once the blade is set and sturdy, Alvina calls to him again from outside the blanket cave. “It is done.” Followed by a sigh of relief and joy. The blade looks just the same as it had when she’d taken it from him last, save for a single vein of black that cuts it’s own seam through the otherwise flawless blade.

Thamalys accepted gladly the Bard’s suggestion: he would have loved some rest after all. The Blue could not avoid to feel quite guilty, though, thinking about Alvina, still working - how many hours in total by then? Way too many for a human to bear without simply passing out at some point. And yet, covered in dust, plainly dead tired, she kept going, largely smiling throughout the whole day - food for thoughts. Sit down, somehow crosslegged, the Spellblade waited: he felt each and every blow the Blacksmith brought to the newborn Stain; not a painful sensation - just a very odd feeling to withstand as the connection between blade and Spellblade took shape. Even the Black stirred, obviously not oblivious to the process. When Alvina called on him, the Blue basically run towards her. “Yes, it is done indeed…” would have whispered in awe, still not daring to touch the blade itself. “Thanks you, Alvina - is everything I can put together for now… can I?” and with that he would have picked up Stain from the tired hands of the Werewolf. The moment Avian and blade came together, the latter almost came to life: tongues of blue fire covered the metal, roaring with an eerie glee. The blade felt as light as the very silvery feather set into its seam, and the Winged Beast gave it a solid go, proceeding to slash the air around him with a measured sequence of downward blows. Something cried within his head, as the Black surged forward, happily partaking into directing the paths of Stain through the dusty air - the Blue had to make a conscious, painful effort to convince himself to stop. Panting, he turned to Alvina, Stain still in his right hand, still glowing with an ominous blue aura. “What… what have we done? Deadly beautiful, and indeed, you somehow… managed to… craft a reflection of myself. I will never ask you to do the same - ever. I fear we have brought into Lythridel yet another threat…” he shook his head, almost as in disbelief. He had anticipated something more than just an impossible light sabre, but this… but there was no way back. “I can only hope Stain will stay with me till I will be no more… I cannot begin to imagine what she will do in somebody else’s hand. I will think long and hard about this…” he went as to put own the blade on a table nearby, but found himself still holding it after all. That day marked the beginning of a lifelong damnation for the Blue, then more then ever before forced to constantly rebuke the corrupt enthusiasm of the Ageless One within him. “For the moment, though…” concluded the Winged Beast, “…let me at least help you to tidy up the place - you have worn yourself out, for me. I still cannot quite believe it…” and with that, and very much following the directions of the Blacksmith, the Avian would have proceeded to do what he could - yet again, without even thinking about unravelling the mysteries of Frostmawian forging hidden in the furnace. Perhaps Alvina had questions, perhaps she even dared to ask a few. The Blue had very few answers, though: he only knew what he felt. He could not fully understand it, nor describing it to the Bard. Somewhere in the deep of his bones, something still ached, remembering the one feather now set into Stain. He lost something, he gained much more - for good or bad, he could not tell. Was the Werewolf now tied to the fate of Stain as well? A blade, that sort of blade, remembers. Riddles for no one to be tackled, as the sun eventually decided it was time for the moon to take over. The first for Lythridel with Stain into it - a dreadful beginning, a momentous shard of existence cast into life. What then? The Blue, quite simple, did not know.