A Journey in Griffonstone

by RangerOfRhudaur

Gilda I

As much as she wanted to deny it, the Runery did give her the creeps.

It was a bloated corpse that refused to die, an undead gravestone to a time long past. Once the center of Groveria's "magical" learning, its glory (and structural integrity, she noted with a nervous glance at a swaying roof shingle) had been ground into the dust by time's march, though it tried to rise from that dust again and again. Nobody had the heart, or the courage, to dissuade it; the Rune-masters were seen as old parents, senile sages who kept giving the same counsel that had been old back when there had still been a king. That senility was still in just enough doubt for them to be taken seriously, though; some people thought that there was still value in what they had to say, or at least that they still knew enough to make an example of those who acted like they didn't. The runes carved in the cracked cobbles up to the Runery's entrance were long rubbed out, but no one could say for certain that they didn't work anymore.

She took a deep breath, then nodded forward. "Come on," she ordered her aide. "Let's get this over with."

He nodded, then followed her up the broken road, flicking nervous glances at the ruined statuary they passed on the way. She would've told him not to be so jumpy, if she wasn't as tense as him. Her sword hand clenched and unclenched nervously as they walked, almost going to her scabbard when she thought she saw one of the statues wink at her. She shook her head, reached up to her phoenix, then pressed on, a few steps faster.

As soon as she reached the door, she prepared to knock on it, wanting to spend as little time in the dead place as she could. Before she could, however, the door eased open, though nobody was there to open it.

"They need to keep a better eye on the locks in this place," she tried to silence her pounding heart. "Not everyone who comes here is as friendly as we are."

"That will not be a problem, my good captain," the Arch Rune-master called, turning her heart into a drum as she whipped around to look at him. "The Runery can protect itself, and its ability to do so grows by the day."

She glared at the willowy man. "If that's the case, then why do you need that armor?"

He smiled infuriatingly as he held up one arm, copper plates jangling as he did so. "Do you like it?" he asked. "I found it while investigating some of my precursors' possessions. According to their notes, armor like this was standard issue for Rune-masters taking the field, providing some measure of protection without interfering with their magic. With our art's renewed strength-"

A sliver of steel glinted near the mouth of her scabbard. "Strength which the Golden Steel are more than capable of matching-"

The Arch Rune-master raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "Don't worry, Gilda Ironclaw," he replied simperingly. "My siblings and I have no designs on the outside world, so long as it does not try to impose its designs on us."

She glared at him, hand itching to smack that sickening smile off his face. Moving a hand to her phoenix, she took back control, and said, "The outside world has no designs on you, either, so long as you keep up your end of the bargain." And stay in here with the rest of your creepy friends.

He nodded back amiably, then stretched out a hand. "I believe you have the fruits of one of those bargains to show me?"

Curtly nodding, she passed him the paper Sir Cloudfloor had given her, the end to centuries of chaos. It had taken a long time, and a lot of effort, but Sir Cloudfloor had finally managed to get the main power groups in Griffonstone to come together and choose a leader they were all willing to obey, someone who could finally start pulling the empire back together. The negotiations had finished up barely three days ago, and it had looked like Maren and the Darkbolts were going to back out at the last minute, but the House of Otto convinced (or, more likely, bribed) them to accept. Now, only the Runery had to accept the proposed leader.

(Her sword hand went to her scabbard again; ideally, the Arch Rune-master would accept of his own volition, but she wasn't going to let Griffonstone keep crumbling just for some old man. If he accepted, great; if not, the Runery would find itself a new Arch Rune-master, one who would accept. If none of the Rune-masters did... the place wouldn't just be half-dead for long.)

Fortunately, the old man hummed in approval as he read, before turning to face her with a smile, slightly less sickly this time. "Guthwin used to come here when he was younger," he said fondly. "For a time, I even thought he had the makings of a Rune-master. Now, I can see that he has the makings of a master of Men. Rest assured, he has the full support of the Runery behind him."

She kept her face stony. "Can you please put that in writing? Don't want anyone denying that you agreed." (Least of all you, if you decide to change your mind.)

He chuckled, a sound that almost drove her to draw her sword. "Oh, I can do better than that, my good captain," he chortled, before reaching into his robes, taking out what looked like a stamp, and pressing it firmly on the paper. He handed it back to her, though she took it warily; she wouldn't be surprised if he did something magic to it, something she would rather not be on the receiving end of. Cautiously, she looked at the stamped glyph, and frowned; it looked...

... normal.

"You had me worried there for a second," she chuckled, shaking her head. "I thought you were gonna try some 'magic' on it."

He smiled back like a cat with a catch. "Oh, I didn't try, my good captain," he smoothly replied. "I did. The seal appears normal, yes, but it's virtually indestructible, and impossible to copy to boot. The device I used to create it makes each seal personal to the wielder, making forgery impossible. If you'd like a demonstration-"

"Nothankyou," she blurted out, hastily storing the paper away before it could explode on her. "I'll... take your word for it. We'll get it to Sir Cloudfloor as soon as we can, so that the appointment can happen as soon as possible. Griffonstone's had hundreds of years to fall apart, it doesn't need any more."

"Indeed," the Arch Rune-master nodded back gravely. "Guthwin must take his post quickly, to save as much of the empire as he can. Including, hopefully," he gestured around at the Runery. "this historic building, which has several repairs-"

"Good-bye," she cut him off before he could finish asking them for money, dragging her aide out behind her. She didn't like treating him like a kid, but she wanted to get out of there as fast as she could.

The place might've been historic, and it might've helped Guthwin start putting Groveria back together, but it still gave her the creeps.

---

The tree marked ten by the time they got back to the palace. The streets were better now, and you could actually trust half the taxis you met, but the Runery was still on the outskirts of the city. The sight-seers who occasionally cruised by might've called it one of the city's outer branches, taking Griffonstone's imaginary tree obsession as far as they could.

She snorted; yeah, the tree was important, big enough to make it onto the city's seal, but they weren't obsessed with it. It was like Manehattan's skyscrapers; important, cool, moving on now. It was useful as a landmark, and a clock if you knew it as well as she did, but it wasn't a hero, and definitely not an idol.

Neither was its creator, whoever that was. The stone was clearly shaped, too finely to be by the wind and water, but there were no defining marks on it, no symbols saying 'Proudly Made by X.' Some people said the legendary King Grover had made it when he'd founded Griffonstone, but those people were probably willing to say he'd made anything you asked them. Others said it was made by the founders of the banking House of Otto, the foundation of their fortune, but if that were true they'd have sued to get it back by now. Most people, herself included, simply shrugged at the question of who made it; it was there, had been for forever, what more did they need to know?

Lately, one of the things they had needed to know was that the palace, carved into it who-knows-and-who-cares-how-many years ago, was occupied again, Sir Cloudfloor and the other rebuilders setting up camp there while they put Griffonstone back together. Soon, Smith willing, Guthwin would join them and they could really get to work.

Speaking of which...

She passed her aide the bag holding the paper. "You take that to Sir Cloudfloor," she ordered. "After that place, I need to go Purge."

At first it looked like he might argue with her, but fortunately Sir Cloudfloor's training kicked in after a moment and he nodded, throwing the bag's strap over his shoulder and marching away.

She nodded as he left; he was a good kid, if a bit mouthy. He never did anything he didn't want to unless you gave him a good reason. But if you did, he did it, and if he wanted to do something, or didn't mind doing it, he was good about doing it. Pretty good in the arena, too, especially in team training; she once saw him win a 2 v. 1, his unconscious teammate draped over his shoulder. Bit more training, rein in that attitude a bit, and he'd go places.

Shaking her head, she began going places, a very specific place to be precise; the Temple of Flame, ten minutes west of the palace, right on the edge of the docks. It had started out small, catering to the Cadmuns that came through to trade or hire soldiers, but over time it grew, eventually becoming the smoke-spewing, flame-colored behemoth she was rapidly approaching. She could even faintly hear some of the prayers, overpowering the squawks and screeches and snarls of the city;

"I am Burned, I fear no trial, for what doesn't break me only builds me higher! I am Burned, I fear no wound, for what doesn't kill me only makes me stronger! I am Burned, I fear no death, for what kills me will only bring me to greater life!"

She chuckled as she heard Gizzard's voice boom out of the temple; all of the Burned tried to strengthen themselves through trials of one sort or another, whether that meant being like Genoa and drinking lemon juice instead of wine, being like Zakkat and going barefoot everywhere, or being like Gizzard and praying as long as you could at one time. His marathon sessions were a local legend, supposedly lasting up to a week before one of the clerics managed to convince him to eat. But there were other voices around the sacred flame as well, ones she began to make out as she passed the pillars of the dead that flanked the entrance.

She knew what they were saying already, though; "Make use of my sore feet, Great Smith," "Use my fear to make me brave, Great Smith," "Make good use of my suffering, Great Smith." Suffering was the fuel that fed the Temple of Flame, the source of its popularity in Griffonstone; being Burned, following the Great Smith, gave meaning to suffering, and in Griffonstone there was little of the first and a lot of the second. If you were Burned, you would still suffer, but the Great Smith would put it to use, forging you and the rest of his creation stronger with it. Some of the more philosophical Burned actually celebrated suffering, saying that the Great Smith was putting them on his anvil to help them, crying out in pained ecstasy as he brought his great hammer, Caster, down on them.

"I am Burned," she murmured as she entered the temple courtyard, the sacred flame burning in the center. "I fear no trial, for what doesn't break me only builds me higher."

She skirted the edge of the crowd around the flame, pausing only to wave at a few friends, making her way purposefully to the clerics' quarters. Like she'd told Gallus, she needed to Purge, and while she could do that alone, she personally found it more effective if she had one of the priests or priestesses help.

One of the clerics was washing the hall floors when she arrived, Kirk judging by the wisps of fiery beard poking out from beneath their hood. She gave him a curt nod, not wanting to distract him from his self-forgings, and made her way over to Guery's room, rapping on the door. "Come in," the priestess replied, an invitation that Gilda quickly obeyed.

The room was small, barely three meters on each side, and less decorated even than the cells Sir Cloudfloor called quarters for newcomers, but still clearly lived in; what little personality Guery allowed herself to keep showed in the small bookcase at the foot of her simple cot, the pot of incense near the smaller sacred flame in the corner, the poster showing an artist's attempt to describe the relationship between the Smith, his creation, and its suffering. The room was too hot to be cozy, but it wasn't the cell some of the Smith's enemies said it was.

Guery bowed to the poster, to the Smith it represented, one last time before turning to Gilda, smoky hair framing her face. Gilda frowned; Guery's eyes looked right, like burning coals, but the last time she'd been here the soot surrounding those coals hadn't been so noticeable.

"Welcome, Gilda," Guery dipped her head to her guest. "What brings you here?"

"I've come to Purge myself again," she replied, still frowning. "Have you been sleeping well?"

Guery shrugged. "The Smith has seen fit to test me with nightmares lately," she answered. "I offer it up as best as I can, but it appears that I have not given up-" She was interrupted by a yawn. "-all of my suffering. But don't worry, I can help you Purge in my sleep. And even if I fail, Kirk is near, he will not allow you to be left unfinished."

Hesitantly, Gilda nodded, then took a deep breath. "Great Smith," she began, closing her eyes. "I offer you all my sufferings, all my pain, all my trials: most of all, I offer you the fear I felt in the Runery earlier today. I accept my suffering, and offer it back to you; may you make good use of it, to strengthen me and the rest of creation."

The sacred flame flickered.

"Let it be," Guery dipped her head, before grabbing a long metal pole and dipping it in the flame. As she waited for it to heat up, Gilda began slipping out of her armor. She set her foam-mail overcoat aside, then began fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. By the time Guery removed the rod from the fire, she was ready, her phoenix open to the Smith's blessing.

Gingerly, Guery held the staff's head, sizzling with heat, against the phoenix, seared into Gilda's flesh when she'd become Burned years ago. She bit back a wince as the brand seared her, but didn't move; the Brand of the Burned was painful to receive, yeah, but pain was suffering, and suffering could be turned into strength.

"You are a Burned woman," Guery chanted. "you fear no wound."

"For what doesn't kill me," Gilda responded as Guery took the brand away. "only makes me stronger."

Steam rose from her skin as she dabbed at her renewed phoenix with the cool, wet cloth Guery tossed her, one of the many safeguards that ensured that Branding made the recipient stronger. The cloth, frequency limits, duration and pressure guidelines that made her head spin... In the past it might've been risky, but now she honestly felt safer being Branded than walking through Griffonstone, though Sir Cloudfloor's work was making that race a lot closer.

"Thanks, Guery," she grunted as she slipped her armor back on. "Hope you sleep better soon. Can't have you falling asleep mid-Branding, can we?"

The priestess didn't laugh. "I hope that your hope is fulfilled," she replied. "but part of me wonders if my nightmares are a gift. Sixtus walking away unharmed from a glass bottle to the head, rumors of things happening at the Runery, whispers about magic from the staff at the Homestrian embassy... given all this, is prophecy really so hard to believe?"

"Don't worry about it," Gilda reassured her. "Like you said, most of that stuff's based on rumors, and you know how accurate those are. Have you heard half the rumors about this place?"

"Maybe I am just being paranoid," Guery shrugged. "The Great Smith might simply be testing me, and eventually grant me succor, hopefully. And yet," she nervously rubbed her hands together. "when I dream, when I see the black star, I can't think of hope. I don't think about hope or succor or light; all I can think of is how afraid I am, and how very, very cold."

"'Black star?'" Gilda frowned in confusion. "What in the world are you dreaming about?"

Guery closed her eyes. "It's the same, every night," she replied. "First, I see a soldier of jade, cloaked in dust, fighting the long defeat. Next, I see two masked Men, one with a mask of their true self, the other with countless masks covering their true self. Finally, I see a graveyard, with tombs for all the kingdoms of the world, and over them all hovers a black star. Then, I wake up in a cold sweat, too afraid to fall back asleep."

"Huh," Gilda whistled, scratching her head. "That is a strange one. I... really don't have any idea what to tell you. I still think it's just a dream, though; if it was a prophecy, what could it possibly mean?"

"A warning," Guery quietly replied, looking at the fire. "A herald of a great trial to come, one which will either lift us to new heights or kill us all. I don't know what that trial might be, or when it might arrive; all I can do is pray that we have the strength to endure it when it comes."

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[Eroraf86]

You've heard of the Day of Black Sun. Now, get ready for the Night of Black Star!