//------------------------------// // Arrival (edited) // Story: The Armaments of Harmony // by Shadowsciver //------------------------------// "BOY, WAKE YER ARSE UP, THERE'S WORK TAH DO!!" Wayland woke with a start, groaning and falling out of bed. He rubbed the new sore spot on his head as he stood up, catching himself in the mirror. His pants were ruffled and his tousled black hair stood up in the back, proving his uncle's point about his restless sleeps. Wayland had been up all night fixing a crack in one of the villager's rifle's. They - Wayland and his uncle - lived in a small village up in the very northern part of Scandinavia, where technology was evident, but the old ways were still going strong. The village had internet and phones, and most regular electrical appliances like fridges and televisions and toasters, but larger icons, like automobiles, were scarce. If one needed to get somewhere, they walked, or took a cart. Cars and trucks were usually reserved for the wealthy or powerful. It wasn't the most advanced of homes, but it was still home nonetheless. Wayland himself was a blacksmith, along with his uncle, Ulric; they handled all of the smithing jobs, from tools to jewelry to weapons. "I SAID GET YER ARSE OUT OF BED!!" Ulric shouted from downstairs in the forge, banging loudly on the anvil. "Yes Uncle, I'm coming!!" Wayland called back, stretching and pulling his clothes on, running a hand through his very short black hair. He slipped on some heavy duty boots, adding a dirty t-shirt on top. A year back, he had reinforced the pants and shirt himself with a few old metal plates for practice, but they made for good decoration, and helped to solidify his image as a blacksmith. He made his way downstairs, grabbing a piece of toast that was set out for him and pulling on the thick leather apron of his kind. stepping out the side door, Wayland entered the shop, which was nothing more than another solid stone room on the side of the house. it was outfitted with everything it needed: forge, anvil, tools, workbench, even a lathe. Walking up next to his uncle, a massive man who had taught Wayland the antiquated art of smithing from a young age, he yawned, stretching and cracking his back. Wayland looked over at his uncle's anvil, seeing that he was working on a decorative sword for the mayor of the next town over, setting gemstones into the hilt. "It looks amazing, uncle," he mentioned, looking it over. It really did; it was razor sharp, and had just enough curve in it to make it deadly quick too. His uncle didn't even bother looking up at his remark, only replying, "Looks? Bah, It'd look better if it could save yer life. All these gemstones are just dead weight.." "Well then i guess its a good thing I spent an hour touching up the edges last night, huh?" Wayland shot back, grinning. Uncle Ulric only nodded, a little gleam in his eye. "Aye, and ya shoulda spent three, boy." Wayland sighed, knowing that was the closest he was going to get to a compliment from the gruff man. He turned back to his workbench, setting out his tools and moving the now fixed rifle onto the table marked 'completed' "By the way, yeh've got a commission today, lad. Some fancy-pants wants ya to make something for him. Its in that briefcase over there." Ulric nodded towards the door, a briefcase and an envelope sitting on one of the side tables reserved for materials. Wayland picked it up, reading to himself. Dear Mr. Wayland Elricsson, Thank you ever so much for repairing my niece Stephanie's bike. Though she may be young, it brings me joy to see her happy. She, however, is not why I am writing.; rather, it is the job you did in the bike. Rarely have i seen such craftsmanship displayed in such an.. old art. As such, I would request of you, an article of jewellery be made. I care not what type of piece is made, be it ring, necklace, bracelet, what have you. I ask only that it be made out of the ingot enclosed with this letter. I came upon it recently in my travels and wish to have it as something I can take with me. If the quality of your work is really what i believe it to be, than you can be assured that you will be paid handsomely. Regards, Sir Arthur Bierly Wayland set the letter down, cracking his neck as he set up the specific tools needed to work in the forge and shape the metal Uncle Ulric spoke up, putting on his jacket and moving his lumbering frame towards the doorway. "Lad, this sword is all ready. I'll be deliverin' it ta tha mayor personally, so ye'll be on yer own fer tha rest of tha day. Don't fuck up the shop again, else it'll be yer hide I make the next saddle out of." He smirked, and walked out the door only to stop before he completely left the portal. Quietly, he turned around. "Yeh'll be the one of us to do great things, laddie," he said, leaving a smudged hand print on the wall as he disappeared out the door. Wayland stared after him, an eyebrow raised quizzically. What had he meant by that? He shrugged, opening the briefcase at last. Inside was a single gray ingot, but yet he couldn't place what metal it was. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands as he examined it. He had always had a way with metal. Ever since he was a child, he loved watching his uncle in the forge. After handing one of the hammers and taking a few hits at a lump of iron, he had had a fascination with taking things apart and figuring out how they worked. Improving and forging even some of the more difficult items was easy for him - he could swear he heard pieces speak to him, as if they were telling him what they wanted to be made into, what secrets they held in them. He had always been like that, ever since he rearranged the toaster into camping stove when he was five. Machines were just his thing; he got along much better with them than he did with people, that much was certain. But this ingot.. it was almost silent, as if it had yet to know what it wanted, or decided on. Well.. armband it is, I guess.. He thought to himself, smirking and setting the coals ablaze, putting the ingot into the fires. After it had gotten to a sufficient temperature, it began to glow, but not the usual white heat he had come to know. Wayland knit his eyebrows together, glaring through the fumes at the anomaly in his oven. This piece glowed black, a deep abbysal black which grew in intensity the farther from the edges he looked into it. The light coming off of it, however, glowed white, but not normally; no, it was more luminescent and pure. The colors contrasted each other so much, he worried the metal would break apart, but it began to fade back to grey as he hammered it into shape. Wayland chalked it up to just being a different kind of metal, as some metals turned different colors when they burned. After a few rounds of heating and hammering, the base shape was finally done. He sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow and admiring the work he had done in his trance-like state of smithing. It looked rather intricate and fancy, but the loops were in fact fairly simple. Wayland sat down and began to carve out the patterns and whorls in the metal. With each line he etched, a little of that luminescent light leaked through the dark steel. He had gotten the inspiration for the designs from old Celtic knots and tapestries, and he was quite pleased with it when he finished. He stood up, slipping it onto his arm to make sure it fit, and that there were no points that could catch clothing or skin. Suddenly, the armband began glowing abyssal black and luminescent white, just like it had when he was initially shaping it. He grimaced, expecting it to burn, but it was still cool to the touch. In fact, it was growing colder every second, until again it felt like it was burning into his skin. His head began throbbing, and he could hear himself screaming, but it sounded far away, like he was listening through a waterfall at the end of a long tunnel. The ground under him began to split into small fissures, and the walls began to pull apart. Wayland stumbled to his feet, falling down onto his anvil as a hole opened up beneath him, and he could feel himself tumbling through oblivion. He fell, and fell, the wind whipping past him as he plunged deep into the void, a tiny pinprick of light seemingly miles beneath him. The blackness gripped at him, causing him to finally succumb to peaceful unconsciousness. It was several hours later. The sun was just setting below the mountain ridge line as Wayland sat up, gripping his head, looking around him in confusion. he was sitting in the dirt, unsure of what he was doing there. "Oh... Thor's banjo, what the hell happened..?" He looked himself over, but everything seemed normal, though slightly bruised. The armband, however, was glowing slightly, a dark, yet warm glow, pulsing on his bicep. Looking around, his anvil sat next to him, and his tools and various pieces of the smith and the house were scattered around the forest clearing he had woken up in. "Aww MAN, uncle Ulric's gonna MURDER me..." And at this point, his brain decided to remind him of the fact that there were now suddenly mountains and a forest nearby, the house had exploded itself into a smear across a woody clearing, and he was nowhere close to what looked like home. Unconsciousness came back to say hi, and figured it'd give the brain the night off. Though this time, it decided to use the anvil as Wayland's pillow.