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A Smith's Song (Percy Jackson / ASOIAF / Game of Thrones)
- Thread starter Pineappl3
- Start date
jgwhentworth877
Not too sore, are you?
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Good chapter, but some advice for the future. You already wrote down a summary of what happened through the three eyed Raven on what Baldur went through. We really didn't need to go through it again from his perspective.
You basically just wrote half a chapter twice.
You basically just wrote half a chapter twice.
Chapter 6
Pineappl3
Getting out there.
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As Baldur ventured deeper into the barrow, he couldn't help but reflect on what he thought was excessive caution. Perhaps it was the months spent navigating the treacherous Labyrinth or the fact that these passageways were designed for mortal adventurers, but everything seemed surprisingly effortless.
Despite the ease of his progress, Baldur occasionally paused to admire the intricate architecture surrounding him. The crypt loomed large, its grandeur evident even with the sections marred by cave-ins. Every nook and cranny enticed him, beckoning him to explore further.
Eventually, Baldur reached a peculiarly vacant chamber, shrouded in a number of countless cobwebs. A single metal grate adorned the center of the room illuminated by a dim glow from the lantern in Baldur's hand and the faint light that spilled in from the hallway he had just traversed.
Suddenly, Baldur's instincts kicked in, propelling him forward in a swift roll. The ground quivered beneath him as he spun around, facing the source of his hair-raising alarm. Standing before him was a colossal figure adorned in an ancient suit of bronze plate.
Its eyes appeared devoid of life, and it's back was interlaced with pulsating roots, as if they were manipulating its movements. The massive being gripped a formidable runic battle axe, its efforts concentrated on dislodging the weapon from the floor.
Determined not to grant the creature a second opportunity to strike, Baldur swiftly activated his ring, summoning forth his trusty tomahawk. Simultaneously, he pressed the release mechanism on his shovel, causing it to morph into a sturdy shield. "Prepare yourself, you fiend."
With unyielding resolve, Baldur lunged forward, raising his shield high to obstruct the creature's field of vision. Employing a mighty shield bash, he forcefully pushed the adversary backward, causing its grip to falter and the axe to slip from its grasp. Keen on capitalizing on the advantage, Baldur pressed on, utilizing his shield to maintain pressure and strategically positioning his foot behind the figure's, causing it to stumble and lose balance.
Seizing the moment, Baldur relentlessly pounded the creature's face with his shield while deftly maneuvering his axe. Each blow punctured the armored torso, creating sizable gaps with every impact. One of the pulsating roots wriggled, indicating the armored man's attempt to rise once more.
Recognizing the significance of the roots, Baldur shifted his focus to hacking at them. Combining his demigod strength with the keen edge of his axe, he effortlessly severed the connection between the ivory roots and the armor.
As the final root was severed, the figure fell motionless. "Seems I must remain more vigilant in open spaces from now on..." Ignoring the ruined armor, which he intended to return for later, Baldur approached the abandoned axe. With exertion and determination, he managed to dislodge it from the floor, his eyes fixated on its every detail. "An intriguing technique... Not one I would employ, but it certainly sparks some ideas."
Usually, when Baldur enchanted his gear, he inscribed runes that explicitly detailed the specific properties of each enchantment. This method ensured that the enchantments were focused and potent, tailored to their intended purpose. However, the bronze axe he now held was different. It had been enchanted with a narrative in mind, its enchantments alluding to a story rather than explicitly describing its abilities.
"An axe for slaying giants. Wonder why it is so heavy," Baldur mused aloud. Carrying the weighty axe, he divided his attention between studying its intricacies and remaining alert for any signs of a large open room where he might face another formidable opponent.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Baldur encountered no more adversaries like the previous one. He only needed to disable a few additional traps before stumbling upon a grand set of bronze double doors. Adorned with ornate carvings and inscribed runes akin to those on the entrance door, these doors were enchanted to open once a puzzle was solved.
The puzzle at hand comprised three intersecting circles, forming a pattern reminiscent of a Venn diagram. Drawing upon his divine magical prowess, Baldur commanded the door to open. He watched intently as the discs began to rotate, eventually aligning to reveal an image of men engaged in a fierce battle against zombie-like creatures.
With a creaking sound, the doors slowly swung open, revealing an expansive audience chamber beyond. Along the sides of the room stood six pillars, each adorned with a magically ignited flame. Entering cautiously, Baldur scanned the surroundings, wary of encountering another armored puppet.
Following the network of pulsating roots, Baldur's gaze fell upon a regal figure seated atop a throne, seemingly carved from a majestic white tree adorned with vibrant red leaves. Resting across the figure's lap was a blade of profound craftsmanship. As Baldur's foot touched the chamber floor, an inexplicable sensation washed over him, plunging him into a seemingly endless loop of his most haunting nightmares.
Try as he might, his attempts to break free proved futile, as the nightmarish sequence played out repeatedly. Fueled by mounting frustration and anger, an immense fire erupted, consuming everything in its path. Just as Baldur felt trapped within the spell's grasp, an abrupt end came, and he caught a glimpse of the figure on the throne twitching, hinting at the spell's disruption.
"You're going to regret subjecting me to those memories," Baldur declared, raising his tomahawk defiantly toward the figure.
In response, the armored man ascended, his voice resonating through the chamber. "You... are... not... worthy."
As the words escaped his lips, a surge of movement erupted as roots snaked their way toward Baldur, aiming to ensnare him. Unbeknownst to him, a seething inferno surrounded him, pulsating with an intensity that matched his determination. Without hesitation, the flames, under Baldur's subconscious command, intercepted the encroaching roots, reducing them to mere ash in an instant.
Drawing a deep breath, Baldur extended his senses into the roaring inferno, embracing its essence in its entirety. Tapping into his hidden reserves, he channeled his power outward, birthing a fierce ring of fire that erupted with tremendous force. The roots in the vicinity were instantly disintegrated, and the figure who had provoked Baldur moved forward to face him.
"You… cannot... be... allowed... to... live," the figure stuttered, his voice trembling and raspy.
"You talk too much," Baldur retorted, issuing a command that summoned the flames back to envelop him once again. Shielded and empowered by the fiery aura, he charged forward to confront his adversary. Conjuring his axe, Baldur hurled it with precision, only to witness the puppet-like man raise his dark silver blade, expertly deflecting the incoming strike.
The tomahawk veered off its course, but Baldur skillfully summoned it back into his grip. Swiftly raising his shield, he deflected a retaliatory blow from the adversary's blade. In that brief exchange, Baldur managed to glean a closer look at the figure he faced.
Silver locks cascaded down their back, a mummified countenance revealed a hint of shock, and their resplendent bronze armor bore a sinister black hue. Capitalizing on their momentary surprise, Baldur deflected and battered the hand that clung to the blade.
Seizing the opportunity, Baldur swung his tomahawk toward the figure's face, but before his strike could connect, the roots attached to their back violently yanked them backward, dragging them toward the throne. Sneering at the feeble attempt to flee, Baldur drew upon the flames that encased him and the braziers nearby, directing their scorching heat toward the pallid tree.
A formidable wall of entwined roots surged upward, intercepting the searing blaze, and amidst the crackling inferno, Baldur could discern faint, raspy screams. The agonized cries were almost masked by the sizzling of the smoldering roots, but they echoed in his ears nonetheless. As ash gently descended, cascading to the ground like a melancholic snowfall, Baldur cautiously advanced toward the throne.
The warrior seated atop the regal perch appeared to grasp the inevitability of its demise. In a surprising act, it flung its blade with force, embedding it into the very tree behind. Intrigued by this unexpected maneuver, Baldur momentarily paused, his curiosity piqued. Observing the blade gradually sinking into the tree, a realization dawned upon him—the figure sought to prevent Baldur from claiming the weapon.
Determined and swift, Baldur dashed forward, deftly leaping over the mummified opponent. Retrieving his tomahawk, he transformed it back into its ring form and swiftly gripped the hilt of the embedded blade. The pommel radiated with a golden flame-like design, while the crossguard undulated in a captivating wave of gold. An exquisite ruby adorned the center, infusing the weapon with an aura of undeniable allure. The blade, cast in a dark silver hue, bore a mesmerizing wave-like pattern reminiscent of the damascus steel.
Harnessing the power of his flames once more, Baldur directed their scorching intensity toward the towering tree, fiercely determined to reduce it to ashes. Yet, as he struggled to extract the blade from its trunk, grasping hands emerged from the darkness, reaching out to seize Baldur's armored back. Their touch recoiled in agony, repelled by the searing heat emanating from his flames.
Putting his unwavering trust in the protective embrace of the inferno, Baldur planted both feet firmly on the trunk and exerted all his might. With a resounding effort, he finally wrenched the blade free, causing him to fall down onto the floor, his breath momentarily taken away. Gazing upward, his eyes met the sight of the mummy, now fully engulfed in relentless flames, its scorched form stretching out imploringly toward him.
"This... is... not... the... end..." it shrieked defiantly, its words piercing through the infernal chorus. Yet, even as the final syllables hung in the air, the figure succumbed to the engulfing conflagration, collapsing into a smoldering heap of charred remnants, forever silenced.
As the last remnants of the mummified figure dissolved into ashes, consumed by the relentless flames, Baldur took a moment to collect himself. He inhaled deeply, allowing the rush of adrenaline to subside, and exhaled slowly, feeling a sense of accomplishment mingled with lingering tension. In the wake of the fierce conflagration, the room fell into a profound stillness, broken only by the soft crackling of the dwindling fire and the rhythmic thumping of Baldur's own heartbeat reverberating in his ears. The once majestic throne room now lay in ruins, transformed into a scorched chamber that bore witness to the ferocity of their battle.
With cautious steps, Baldur rose from the floor, his gaze fixed upon the blade he had triumphantly wrested from the clutches of the tree. Grasping the hilt firmly, he marveled at its uncanny lightness. The absence of runes etched upon its surface intrigued him, sparking a sense of wonder and curiosity. It suggested to Baldur that the blade's enchantment might have been woven into its very essence, forged using spells or crafted from a rare and magical metal.
As he turned the blade in his hands, examining its intricate details, Baldur knew that a deeper study would be required to unravel its true nature. The moment he returned to camp, he resolved to immerse himself in extensive research. Perhaps the fortuitous discovery of this blade, and the enchanted bronze equipment, held the potential to ignite a breakthrough in his own enchanting abilities, no matter how implausible it seemed.
Excitement stirred within Baldur, fueled by the prospects that lay ahead. He envisioned unearthing hidden knowledge, deciphering the blade's secrets, and honing his craft to new heights.
-----
After the intense battle had concluded and Baldur had gathered his spoils—a pair of intricately enchanted bronze suits of armor, an enchanted battle axe, and the enigmatic dark silver blade crafted from what Baldur believed to be damascus steel—he made his way out of the barrow, leaving the remnants of his adversaries behind.
As he walked beneath the open sky, Baldur couldn't help but reflect on the turbulent emotions that had consumed him during the confrontation. In a strange twist of fate, he found himself harboring a begrudging appreciation for the mummy and its puppeteer. With a subtle flex of his magical abilities, a small ball of flame materialized, hovering above his palm. Testing its limits, Baldur attempted to channel his anger into the fiery sphere, only to witness it transform into an uncontrolled inferno, devouring everything in its path. It served as a stark reminder that he could merely guide his anger, not truly control it.
A heavy sigh escaped Baldur's lips, echoing the weight of his inner turmoil. The pursuit of balance, he realized, was an arduous journey. Deep-rooted traumas and visceral anger threatened to consume him, overshadowing his noble intentions. The path toward letting go of his anger seemed elusive, for true forgiveness was something he could not currently grasp.
Amidst his contemplation, a sharp caw broke the silence, capturing Baldur's attention. His gaze shifted upward, drawn to the sight of a crow perched atop a lofty rock. The bird's presence, far removed from its natural forest habitat, struck Baldur with a profound realization. A surge of determination coursed through him as he directed his threat toward the avian observer. "You're next."
The crow, recognizing the underlying meaning of Baldur's words, swiftly took flight, disappearing into the expanse of the sky. Although uncertain of the sender of the mysterious journal or the orchestrator of the treacherous barrow, Baldur held steadfast in his belief that their paths would inevitably intersect, leading to a reckoning.
However, for the present moment, Baldur understood that there were more pressing matters that required his attention. The spoils he had acquired, laden with enchantments and untold mysteries, beckoned him to delve deeper into their secrets. With resolute determination etched upon his face, Baldur set his sights on quickly returning to base.
Despite the ease of his progress, Baldur occasionally paused to admire the intricate architecture surrounding him. The crypt loomed large, its grandeur evident even with the sections marred by cave-ins. Every nook and cranny enticed him, beckoning him to explore further.
Eventually, Baldur reached a peculiarly vacant chamber, shrouded in a number of countless cobwebs. A single metal grate adorned the center of the room illuminated by a dim glow from the lantern in Baldur's hand and the faint light that spilled in from the hallway he had just traversed.
Suddenly, Baldur's instincts kicked in, propelling him forward in a swift roll. The ground quivered beneath him as he spun around, facing the source of his hair-raising alarm. Standing before him was a colossal figure adorned in an ancient suit of bronze plate.
Its eyes appeared devoid of life, and it's back was interlaced with pulsating roots, as if they were manipulating its movements. The massive being gripped a formidable runic battle axe, its efforts concentrated on dislodging the weapon from the floor.
Determined not to grant the creature a second opportunity to strike, Baldur swiftly activated his ring, summoning forth his trusty tomahawk. Simultaneously, he pressed the release mechanism on his shovel, causing it to morph into a sturdy shield. "Prepare yourself, you fiend."
With unyielding resolve, Baldur lunged forward, raising his shield high to obstruct the creature's field of vision. Employing a mighty shield bash, he forcefully pushed the adversary backward, causing its grip to falter and the axe to slip from its grasp. Keen on capitalizing on the advantage, Baldur pressed on, utilizing his shield to maintain pressure and strategically positioning his foot behind the figure's, causing it to stumble and lose balance.
Seizing the moment, Baldur relentlessly pounded the creature's face with his shield while deftly maneuvering his axe. Each blow punctured the armored torso, creating sizable gaps with every impact. One of the pulsating roots wriggled, indicating the armored man's attempt to rise once more.
Recognizing the significance of the roots, Baldur shifted his focus to hacking at them. Combining his demigod strength with the keen edge of his axe, he effortlessly severed the connection between the ivory roots and the armor.
As the final root was severed, the figure fell motionless. "Seems I must remain more vigilant in open spaces from now on..." Ignoring the ruined armor, which he intended to return for later, Baldur approached the abandoned axe. With exertion and determination, he managed to dislodge it from the floor, his eyes fixated on its every detail. "An intriguing technique... Not one I would employ, but it certainly sparks some ideas."
Usually, when Baldur enchanted his gear, he inscribed runes that explicitly detailed the specific properties of each enchantment. This method ensured that the enchantments were focused and potent, tailored to their intended purpose. However, the bronze axe he now held was different. It had been enchanted with a narrative in mind, its enchantments alluding to a story rather than explicitly describing its abilities.
"An axe for slaying giants. Wonder why it is so heavy," Baldur mused aloud. Carrying the weighty axe, he divided his attention between studying its intricacies and remaining alert for any signs of a large open room where he might face another formidable opponent.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Baldur encountered no more adversaries like the previous one. He only needed to disable a few additional traps before stumbling upon a grand set of bronze double doors. Adorned with ornate carvings and inscribed runes akin to those on the entrance door, these doors were enchanted to open once a puzzle was solved.
The puzzle at hand comprised three intersecting circles, forming a pattern reminiscent of a Venn diagram. Drawing upon his divine magical prowess, Baldur commanded the door to open. He watched intently as the discs began to rotate, eventually aligning to reveal an image of men engaged in a fierce battle against zombie-like creatures.
With a creaking sound, the doors slowly swung open, revealing an expansive audience chamber beyond. Along the sides of the room stood six pillars, each adorned with a magically ignited flame. Entering cautiously, Baldur scanned the surroundings, wary of encountering another armored puppet.
Following the network of pulsating roots, Baldur's gaze fell upon a regal figure seated atop a throne, seemingly carved from a majestic white tree adorned with vibrant red leaves. Resting across the figure's lap was a blade of profound craftsmanship. As Baldur's foot touched the chamber floor, an inexplicable sensation washed over him, plunging him into a seemingly endless loop of his most haunting nightmares.
Try as he might, his attempts to break free proved futile, as the nightmarish sequence played out repeatedly. Fueled by mounting frustration and anger, an immense fire erupted, consuming everything in its path. Just as Baldur felt trapped within the spell's grasp, an abrupt end came, and he caught a glimpse of the figure on the throne twitching, hinting at the spell's disruption.
"You're going to regret subjecting me to those memories," Baldur declared, raising his tomahawk defiantly toward the figure.
In response, the armored man ascended, his voice resonating through the chamber. "You... are... not... worthy."
As the words escaped his lips, a surge of movement erupted as roots snaked their way toward Baldur, aiming to ensnare him. Unbeknownst to him, a seething inferno surrounded him, pulsating with an intensity that matched his determination. Without hesitation, the flames, under Baldur's subconscious command, intercepted the encroaching roots, reducing them to mere ash in an instant.
Drawing a deep breath, Baldur extended his senses into the roaring inferno, embracing its essence in its entirety. Tapping into his hidden reserves, he channeled his power outward, birthing a fierce ring of fire that erupted with tremendous force. The roots in the vicinity were instantly disintegrated, and the figure who had provoked Baldur moved forward to face him.
"You… cannot... be... allowed... to... live," the figure stuttered, his voice trembling and raspy.
"You talk too much," Baldur retorted, issuing a command that summoned the flames back to envelop him once again. Shielded and empowered by the fiery aura, he charged forward to confront his adversary. Conjuring his axe, Baldur hurled it with precision, only to witness the puppet-like man raise his dark silver blade, expertly deflecting the incoming strike.
The tomahawk veered off its course, but Baldur skillfully summoned it back into his grip. Swiftly raising his shield, he deflected a retaliatory blow from the adversary's blade. In that brief exchange, Baldur managed to glean a closer look at the figure he faced.
Silver locks cascaded down their back, a mummified countenance revealed a hint of shock, and their resplendent bronze armor bore a sinister black hue. Capitalizing on their momentary surprise, Baldur deflected and battered the hand that clung to the blade.
Seizing the opportunity, Baldur swung his tomahawk toward the figure's face, but before his strike could connect, the roots attached to their back violently yanked them backward, dragging them toward the throne. Sneering at the feeble attempt to flee, Baldur drew upon the flames that encased him and the braziers nearby, directing their scorching heat toward the pallid tree.
A formidable wall of entwined roots surged upward, intercepting the searing blaze, and amidst the crackling inferno, Baldur could discern faint, raspy screams. The agonized cries were almost masked by the sizzling of the smoldering roots, but they echoed in his ears nonetheless. As ash gently descended, cascading to the ground like a melancholic snowfall, Baldur cautiously advanced toward the throne.
The warrior seated atop the regal perch appeared to grasp the inevitability of its demise. In a surprising act, it flung its blade with force, embedding it into the very tree behind. Intrigued by this unexpected maneuver, Baldur momentarily paused, his curiosity piqued. Observing the blade gradually sinking into the tree, a realization dawned upon him—the figure sought to prevent Baldur from claiming the weapon.
Determined and swift, Baldur dashed forward, deftly leaping over the mummified opponent. Retrieving his tomahawk, he transformed it back into its ring form and swiftly gripped the hilt of the embedded blade. The pommel radiated with a golden flame-like design, while the crossguard undulated in a captivating wave of gold. An exquisite ruby adorned the center, infusing the weapon with an aura of undeniable allure. The blade, cast in a dark silver hue, bore a mesmerizing wave-like pattern reminiscent of the damascus steel.
Harnessing the power of his flames once more, Baldur directed their scorching intensity toward the towering tree, fiercely determined to reduce it to ashes. Yet, as he struggled to extract the blade from its trunk, grasping hands emerged from the darkness, reaching out to seize Baldur's armored back. Their touch recoiled in agony, repelled by the searing heat emanating from his flames.
Putting his unwavering trust in the protective embrace of the inferno, Baldur planted both feet firmly on the trunk and exerted all his might. With a resounding effort, he finally wrenched the blade free, causing him to fall down onto the floor, his breath momentarily taken away. Gazing upward, his eyes met the sight of the mummy, now fully engulfed in relentless flames, its scorched form stretching out imploringly toward him.
"This... is... not... the... end..." it shrieked defiantly, its words piercing through the infernal chorus. Yet, even as the final syllables hung in the air, the figure succumbed to the engulfing conflagration, collapsing into a smoldering heap of charred remnants, forever silenced.
As the last remnants of the mummified figure dissolved into ashes, consumed by the relentless flames, Baldur took a moment to collect himself. He inhaled deeply, allowing the rush of adrenaline to subside, and exhaled slowly, feeling a sense of accomplishment mingled with lingering tension. In the wake of the fierce conflagration, the room fell into a profound stillness, broken only by the soft crackling of the dwindling fire and the rhythmic thumping of Baldur's own heartbeat reverberating in his ears. The once majestic throne room now lay in ruins, transformed into a scorched chamber that bore witness to the ferocity of their battle.
With cautious steps, Baldur rose from the floor, his gaze fixed upon the blade he had triumphantly wrested from the clutches of the tree. Grasping the hilt firmly, he marveled at its uncanny lightness. The absence of runes etched upon its surface intrigued him, sparking a sense of wonder and curiosity. It suggested to Baldur that the blade's enchantment might have been woven into its very essence, forged using spells or crafted from a rare and magical metal.
As he turned the blade in his hands, examining its intricate details, Baldur knew that a deeper study would be required to unravel its true nature. The moment he returned to camp, he resolved to immerse himself in extensive research. Perhaps the fortuitous discovery of this blade, and the enchanted bronze equipment, held the potential to ignite a breakthrough in his own enchanting abilities, no matter how implausible it seemed.
Excitement stirred within Baldur, fueled by the prospects that lay ahead. He envisioned unearthing hidden knowledge, deciphering the blade's secrets, and honing his craft to new heights.
-----
After the intense battle had concluded and Baldur had gathered his spoils—a pair of intricately enchanted bronze suits of armor, an enchanted battle axe, and the enigmatic dark silver blade crafted from what Baldur believed to be damascus steel—he made his way out of the barrow, leaving the remnants of his adversaries behind.
As he walked beneath the open sky, Baldur couldn't help but reflect on the turbulent emotions that had consumed him during the confrontation. In a strange twist of fate, he found himself harboring a begrudging appreciation for the mummy and its puppeteer. With a subtle flex of his magical abilities, a small ball of flame materialized, hovering above his palm. Testing its limits, Baldur attempted to channel his anger into the fiery sphere, only to witness it transform into an uncontrolled inferno, devouring everything in its path. It served as a stark reminder that he could merely guide his anger, not truly control it.
A heavy sigh escaped Baldur's lips, echoing the weight of his inner turmoil. The pursuit of balance, he realized, was an arduous journey. Deep-rooted traumas and visceral anger threatened to consume him, overshadowing his noble intentions. The path toward letting go of his anger seemed elusive, for true forgiveness was something he could not currently grasp.
Amidst his contemplation, a sharp caw broke the silence, capturing Baldur's attention. His gaze shifted upward, drawn to the sight of a crow perched atop a lofty rock. The bird's presence, far removed from its natural forest habitat, struck Baldur with a profound realization. A surge of determination coursed through him as he directed his threat toward the avian observer. "You're next."
The crow, recognizing the underlying meaning of Baldur's words, swiftly took flight, disappearing into the expanse of the sky. Although uncertain of the sender of the mysterious journal or the orchestrator of the treacherous barrow, Baldur held steadfast in his belief that their paths would inevitably intersect, leading to a reckoning.
However, for the present moment, Baldur understood that there were more pressing matters that required his attention. The spoils he had acquired, laden with enchantments and untold mysteries, beckoned him to delve deeper into their secrets. With resolute determination etched upon his face, Baldur set his sights on quickly returning to base.
Not-very-creative
Making the rounds.
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Bone steel and Valyrian steel seem to be produced similarly. I wonder what the difference is.
Shaedy Hoe
Thicc Shaedy
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Dragon fire. Valyrian steel is made with human sacrifice and dragon breath.
17453
He Who Reads
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The sacrifice for Bone steel doesn't need to be human (ideally it would be whatever you want to use the blade on the most often as it makes it subtly more effective against whatever that is), nor does it need to be a single type of blood and bones used, and it isn't nessesarily imbued with fire magic.
Valyrian steel likely requires something to do with dragons (maybe dragon-breath, maybe the sacrifice of a baby dragon, maybe dragon blood, we don't know), and is connected to fire magic.
Lucid Lunacy
Seeking the Threshold
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This story is well written, but it's hard to care about a character that has no real empathy or reason to interact with, much less connect with other people. At present, he'd happily just tinker in his workshop in the ass end of nowhere until he died, and without some impetus for character growth, that's gonna be the end of any story.
Even just having him decide to move south for, presumably, more abundant resources and then having to deal with the inevitable interest he'd garner, and from there politics and having to develop actual social skills would help immensely. Or at least some method of making him not be a maladjusted hermit.
Even just having him decide to move south for, presumably, more abundant resources and then having to deal with the inevitable interest he'd garner, and from there politics and having to develop actual social skills would help immensely. Or at least some method of making him not be a maladjusted hermit.
CreepyUncleLuke
Superior Shut-In
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That was what was going to happen in the first chapter. Then Baldur decided to go caving for some reason, and found iron to build a settlement. I get that wildlings don't exactly inspire empathy but holy shit he just went straight to lets use this guys bones as forging materials.
Nevermind that he's on a different planet with new gods and monsters. He literally could have created his own downfall because he didn't give him a proper burial. He did think he was in a Norse adjacent culture and Draugr rise from disrespected dead!
He comes across as stupid evil. His first respones to things seem to be kill it or enslave it, at this point i'm cheering on the wildlings to kill him. Honestly i'm quite sure he isn't actually a PJO demigod at all because none of them are this cruel naturally,
Pineappl3
Getting out there.
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Thank you for your input, and you are exactly right. Baldur is content to just tinker away all day. I understand how...unlikeable he is. It wasn't my intention to keep him like this, I'm just trying to figure out exactly what would be the catalyst for his change. Hopefully this next chapter moves things in the right direction.
Baldur is prideful, and tends to think himself above most due to things that happened from the time between the orphanage and when he died. Not to mention him having been one of the longest surviving modern demigods didn't help this at all. The only defense I could give towards the possibility of him raising a Draugr is the fact that there was no body left to be raised after he was done using them. Regardless, he is quite short sighted and will end up making mistakes that he will have to learn from.
Chapter 7
Pineappl3
Getting out there.
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The journey back to base was a relatively uneventful one for Baldur, the demigod's steps guided by a mixture of caution and anticipation. However, the tranquility of the night was shattered by an inexplicable disturbance that plagued Baldur's shields. In the cover of darkness, the assaults began with small, seemingly deranged animals, but soon escalated to the brazen charges of larger predators, their frenzied attempts to breach his protective barrier evidence of something amiss.
Baldur couldn't help but suspect the source of this vexation, the prime suspect being the individual who took offense at his departure from the barrow. The acquisition of the sword, a bonus amidst the turmoil, seemed to have added fuel to the fires of resentment.
Yet, Baldur was no ordinary enchanter, and the swarming creatures, although disconcerting, posed little threat to his fortitude. Employing his newfound pyromantic abilities, he had forged a series of layered barriers using the remnants of the ruined bronze armor salvaged from his initial encounter in the barrow. Against a demigod, such defenses could buy him days, while against lesser foes, Baldur maintained an air of confidence. Still, he remained vigilant, devising additional enchantments to warn him of impending danger. In moments of respite from his travels, he dedicated himself to mastering the control of his inner flame, refining his pyromantic prowess.
During his periods of study, Baldur discovered the unique qualities of the Damascus steel blade he had acquired. It defied his expectations, demonstrating exceptional resilience, razor-sharp edges, and a surprising resistance to heat, stress, and even strikes from his own Bone Steel weapons. As he delved deeper into the blade's nature, Baldur grew increasingly certain that its creation involved a complex ritual or intricate spellcasting. Although capable of such feats himself, Baldur acknowledged his relative shortcomings in spellcasting compared to his mastery of rune inscription.
While the allure of embarking on a grand quest of discovery to uncover the origins and secrets of the blade tempted Baldur, he recognized the pressing need to address the immediate threat posed by the unseen adversaries lurking behind their puppet minions. With a determined resolve, Baldur redirected his focus towards unravelling the enigma that lay shrouded in darkness.
As Baldur arrived at his base and crossed the protective barrier, he couldn't help but smile at the sight of vibrant green grass and the absence of snow. The ground beneath his feet had hardened, and evidence of the progress his diligent workers had made in developing their camp showed. Piles of gathered materials lay off to the side, ready to be utilized, while Arson toiled diligently, flattening the ground in preparation for the construction of the foundation.
Approaching the camp, Baldur was met by Jora, whose once weary countenance now displayed a healthier visage. "Boss! You're back!" Jora exclaimed, a hint of relief audible in his voice.
Baldur scrutinized Jora for a moment, observing the transformation in his demeanor. "Where is Galrum? I don't see him," Baldur inquired, his tone edged with a sense of interest.
"He, um... entered your walled area without permission," Jora stammered, flinching and shrinking into himself as if anticipating Baldur's wrath. The demigod's brow furrowed, a subtle display of displeasure.
"Seems I'm short a worker now. Unfortunate," Baldur stated matter-of-factly, waving his hand to beckon Jora to follow him.
Jora, understanding the gravity of the situation, silently complied, trailing behind Baldur as they moved closer to the camp. Sensing the need to address more pressing matters, Jora spoke up, his voice tinged with eagerness, "We have gathered most of the materials you requested, Boss. We can start whenever you deem fit."
With a nod of acknowledgement, Baldur gingerly unfastened the bronze axe strapped to his back, carefully placing it aside. Simultaneously, he discarded the dyed armor he had salvaged from the puppet adversaries, laying it out for distribution among his two diligent companions. "Divvy this gear between the two of you and take the remainder of the day to rest. Come dawn, we'll start on constructing your very own house," Baldur declared, his voice carrying none of the anger he usually did.
Satisfied, Baldur made his way back to his dwelling. As he approached the entrance, his keen eyes caught sight of a small clockwork soldier, dutifully standing at attention to the left of the door. A rare smile played upon Baldur's lips, a flicker of genuine joy illuminating his countenance. Gently, he reached down and lifted the diminutive creation into his hands, cradling it with a mix of fondness and determination. "It looks like it's time to receive an upgrade, my little friend," Baldur whispered, his voice infused with excitement.
-----
Three-Eyed Crow POV
A diminutive figure with nut-brown skin, clad in a cloak woven from leaves and entwined vines, approached the form of Brynden, whose body was intricately covered in roots. The newcomer's face was etched with a deep frown, reflecting the urgency of the situation. "His protections are impenetrable. We must devise an alternative plan to rid ourselves of him before his power escalates further. We can already feel his magic permeating the world! The Others will awaken prematurely if we fail to remove him!"
Brynden couldn't help but release a weary sigh, fully comprehending the extent of his folly in underestimating Baldur. He had believed himself capable of quelling the threat should it arise, yet he had been sorely mistaken. The young boy possessed an innate gift, with his mastery over flame standing unparalleled in ages.
Had Brynden been younger, he would have readily marched into battle himself, resolute in vanquishing the threat once and for all. However, that was a feat he could no longer accomplish. Painful as it was to acknowledge, he had to call in a favor—an act necessary for the greater good of the realm and humanity as a whole. Baldur needed to be eliminated.
"Leaf, reach out to Torvir. Inform him that if he succeeds in ridding us of Baldur, I shall halt our current hostilities," Brynden grimaced, his expression heavy with the weight of his decision. "And inform him that I will offer him one of my cherished artifacts."
Although the prospect of parting with his precious possessions pained him deeply, Brynden felt better knowing that Torvir's loyalty lay with his people. When the threat of the Long Night loomed, he could be relied upon to aid in the defense against the encroaching forces of the Others.
-----
Baldur POV
Having resided in this unfamiliar realm for a full year now, Baldur couldn't help but feel a surge of pride whenever he gazed upon his thriving base. The walls and warehouse stood tall and sturdy, their construction complete, while the magnificent two-story communal housing building in the worker's camp showcased the collective effort that had gone into its creation.
Jora and Arson, the two individuals who had toiled tirelessly under Baldur's guidance, incessantly sang his praises ever since the project's completion. Through their tireless labor, they had come to cherish and appreciate the gifts Baldur had bestowed upon them. Although Baldur typically maintained a reserved demeanor, his unwavering dedication to his passions had inadvertently fostered a deeper connection between himself and his two companions.
Despite their initial aversion, they had wholeheartedly embraced Baldur's teachings and discipline, and the transformation they had undergone was remarkable. They were barely recognizable from the strangers Baldur had first encountered. While Baldur hesitated to label them as friends—an honor reserved for those he could trust with his life—they were no longer mere acquaintances.
In a surprising revelation, Arson had expressed his deep-seated love for archery and exploring, prompting Baldur to craft an enchanted bronze compound bow tailored to his needs. Jora, on the other hand, had disclosed his burning desire to tame wild animals, envisioning a sustainable source of nourishment that eliminated the need for constant hunting.
Bemused by Jora's aspirations, Baldur had patiently explained the concept of farming, and Jora had implored Baldur for guidance in embarking on this new endeavor. Thanks to their collaboration, Baldur now relished the simple pleasure of savoring eggs for breakfast, a testament to the fruits of their labor.
Despite the remarkable progress achieved in the months following his return from the barrow, Baldur remained frustratingly distant from unveiling the identity of his mysterious adversary. The occasional onslaught of animal hordes sent his way had dwindled, likely due to the realization of its futility. If this elusive foe wished to challenge Baldur within his own domain, they would have to confront him personally—a perilous proposition that promised dire consequences.
Interrupting Baldur's ruminations, a plaintive whine pierced the air, drawing his attention to a majestic metallic sabertooth tiger by his side, affectionately rubbing its head against his shoulder. "Alright, alright, Trini. We can head out," Baldur chuckled, his hand gently caressing behind the automaton's ear and Trini emitted a contented mechanical purr, a puzzling phenomenon given Trini's artificial nature.
Sensing her eagerness to stretch her legs, Baldur effortlessly mounted her back and settled into the saddle. The sabertooth tiger, surpassing the size of a warhorse, boasted an exquisite coat adorned with shades of silver, gold, black, and hints of blue—a captivating amalgamation of interlocking plates forged from Bone Steel and an intricate array of gears. Every component had been meticulously enchanted by Baldur, while the diamond at the core of Trini's virtual intelligence—a gemstone painstakingly crafted over weeks in a specialized forge—emanated an otherworldly brilliance, anchoring the automaton's consciousness.
Gems held immense significance as cores for golems, and Baldur recognized their value in his pursuit of combining the creation processes of golems and automatons to forge something even more remarkable. As a result, he devoted considerable time to gathering and crafting the necessary materials. Although Trini, his metallic companion, may not have matched the grandeur of his younger brother's pet, Festus, Baldur took great pride in having brought Trini to life entirely on his own, without relying on the full might of the Hephaestus cabin.
Extending a reassuring pat on Trini's back, Baldur pressed forward, casting a glance over his shoulder to ensure his other creations were trailing behind him. Two imposing bronze figures loyally followed in his wake—one standing at an imposing eight feet tall, while the other measured a more modest five and a half feet.
The colossal figure, aptly named Bob, drew inspiration from the Dwemer Centurions of Skyrim. However, unlike their weapon-integrated design, Bob sported massive hands capable of wielding an extensive arsenal of weapons secured to his back. Shields, spears, swords and even tools like shovels and picks—Bob possessed a tool tailored for every imaginable task.
In contrast, the smaller figure, Baldur's initial clockwork soldier, had undergone a significant transformation, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a Samurai Gundam. Like Trini, this bronze warrior had been adorned with a vibrant paint scheme, highlighting his exceptional nature.
Dubbed Blue, the samurai-esque figure brandished three katanas holstered at each hip, while his wrists housed two mounted folding crossbows, ingeniously repurposed from one of Baldur's unused contraptions. Unlike Bob and Trini, Blue appeared more attuned to the world around him, capable of engaging in basic conversations. Though Blue's responses remained somewhat limited—reminiscent of early iterations of chatbots—it only served to reinforce Baldur's proximity to bestowing life upon his creations, much like his father had done.
Satisfied that everything was in order, Baldur reached for the gem nestled within the socket of his necklace. The second iteration, known as MK II, unfolded and elegantly enveloped his form. While functionally and aesthetically similar to its predecessor, MK II possessed an additional advantage—it could be discreetly stored within the necklace itself, rendering infiltration a mere cakewalk should the need ever arise.
Arriving at the edge of his territory, Baldur found Arson eagerly awaiting him. The bow Baldur had gifted him was securely strapped to his back. Arson had adorned himself in heavy furs, a departure from his usual attire due to the warm climate within the protective barrier. Squinting up at Baldur, he grinned and exclaimed, "Ready to head out when you are, Boss!"
Baldur furrowed his brow and asked, "Are you certain you want to accompany me? We'll be gone for quite some time." While he didn't oppose the company on his journey, he knew that they would be venturing far from their current location, with their return being a matter of "when" rather than "if."
"And miss out on an adventure? Boss, you forget one thing," Arson chuckled, causing Baldur to groan in response. "You can't speak the southern language!" Arson continued to laugh, and Baldur reluctantly admitted the truth.
Arson was right. Despite Baldur's numerous gifts, languages other than Ancient Greek and the Old Tongue posed a considerable challenge. English had taken him much longer to grasp than others his age, and the thought of having to learn yet another language was daunting. "I'll simply create a translating rune," Baldur grumbled, well aware that the rune would only be effective in translating the literal meaning of what people said.
"Fine, fine, you win. Just don't be a nuisance," Baldur relented, waving for Bob to come closer. Pointing at Arson, he instructed, "You can ride on his shoulder. Otherwise, we'll be moving at a snail's pace."
"On second thought—" Arson began to protest, but before he could finish his sentence, Bob swiftly closed the distance, grabbing Arson's shoulder and hoisting him through the air onto his own shoulder. "Ouch! That hurt, fuck," Arson winced, rubbing his shoulder and rotating his arms to alleviate the lingering pain.
Before crossing the threshold that separated his lands from the untamed frozen wilderness, Baldur cast a final glance back. Jora would be fine; Baldur had even reluctantly granted him permission to allow a few people to settle just outside the protective barrier.
With the fortifications and enhancements he had implemented, Baldur had little doubt that his lands would be raided. As much as he yearned to stay and continue his work, he had made sufficient preparations. The Damascus steel sword at his side taunted him, its creation method still eluding him.
Currently, Baldur's best chance of acquiring more information rested with the Crows, a group that Jora and Arson had likened to a border patrol, based on the stories they had shared. Although Baldur had yet to encounter any of their patrols, he had been advised against heading straight to their forts. The Crows harbored an intense animosity toward northerners.
If Baldur wished to engage with them on friendly terms, he would have to infiltrate the south discreetly, giving them no reason to suspect he was a Free Folk. It seemed like an arduous task, especially when he could simply compel them to reveal what he sought. However, Jora had explained that the south held greater numbers and deep-seated grudges.
Baldur had hoped the southerners were as divided as the Free Folk, but if they stood united, he had to admit that even a multitude of ants could topple a giant. After all, he had played a role in defeating Kronos.
"Boss, aren't you concerned that the person behind the animal attacks might seize this opportunity to strike at you?" Arson inquired from atop Bob as they set off on their journey, tracing the path of the river southward.
"I highly doubt they can breach my barrier, so Jora will be safe. And until they confront me directly, there's little they can do. Especially if we make it to the southern lands. I don't imagine their influence extends beyond the wall," Baldur reassured, his confidence evident. Arson, however, couldn't help but express a hint of worry.
"But what if it does? How would you even know?" Arson's concern was palpable.
"I don't. But I do know that even mortals have limits to their dominion. Even demigods have boundaries," Baldur scoffed, whispering the last part, his hands clenched with determination. Breaking through his own limits was a resolve he held, even if it meant it would be his final endeavor.
"If you say so..." Arson said, his voice slightly trembling as he experienced the biting chill of winter for the first time in a while. The familiar warmth of the protective barrier was now replaced by a frigid breeze that seemed to cut through his furs. He instinctively wrapped his arms tighter around his body, seeking refuge from the cold.
-----
Torvir POV
It was a surprising turn of events when one of the Children of the Forest approached Torvir, considering their history of being at odds with the man they served, the Three-Eyed Crow. The messenger came bearing a proposition, promising treasure and amnesty not only for Torvir but also for his people.
Curiosity piqued, Torvir listened as the messenger detailed their request. They sought his help in dealing with a problem—a certain intriguing individual named Baldur, whom Torvir had observed in his forests months prior. The boy's formidable power was emphasized, and Torvir was warned against engaging him directly.
Torvir took his time to consider the offer, weighing the potential benefits and risks. Finally, he gave his answer, much to the surprise of Leaf, the messenger. "No," he stated firmly, his voice carrying the weight of his years of experience.
Leaf's golden and green eyes flickered with a mix of shock and frustration. "What do you mean, 'no'?" she exclaimed. "Don't you realize the threat Baldur poses? I have felt his power! It surpasses the combined might of me and my kin! You don't understand how dangerous..."
Interrupting her, Torvir asserted his own strength. "I am Torvir the Undying!" he proclaimed, his voice filled with the echoes of countless winters. "I have outlived your current master. Do you think I have survived this long by challenging adversaries you couldn't even fathom? Be gone from my sight. Tell Brynden that saving him all those years ago was a mistake. For someone who claims to see everything, he knows surprisingly little."
Leaf grunted in frustration but eventually relented, stomping her way out of Torvir's humble dwelling. Before she disappeared, she couldn't resist delivering a parting warning. "He has foreseen your fate and that of your mate. If you do not cooperate with him, death awaits you."
As Leaf's presence faded, Torvir's consciousness returned fully to his current host—the direwolf whose body he inhabited. Within the depths of his cave, the sounds of yelps and whines filled the air as his young offspring played.
Standing tall, Torvir's majestic form gleamed under the moon's gentle radiance, his fur a shimmering cloak of white. His eyes, filled with a mixture of pride and tenderness, locked onto his longtime mate as she playfully guided their pups. Leaf's warning held little sway over him. He had already glimpsed his own death, the passing of his beloved mate, and the fate of his offspring.
He knew it was inevitable—a looming fate from which there was no escape. The gradual degradation of his mind, losing himself more and more to the instincts of the direwolf, had made him aware of his own mortality. However, his descendants would carry on, and in the coming years, they would find their way to House Stark, taking his place. Torvir was old, and it was time for the younger generation to take the reins.
His only regret lay in not being able to see his ancestral home, Winterfell, one last time. Its grand halls and storied history would forever remain a distant dream, a poignant reminder of what he had fought to protect. Yet, he found solace in knowing that his bloodline would continue, their connection to the land and their wolfish heritage unbroken.
With a profound sense of acceptance, Torvir settled beside his mate and their playful progeny, savoring these fleeting moments of familial joy. The howling winds outside echoed the passage of time, and as his age-weary eyes closed, he embraced the serenity of the present, content in knowing that his legacy would endure.
-----
Baldur POV
A soft whistle escaped Baldur's lips as he stood before the towering magnificence of the ice wall. Its sheer size and the pulsating waves of magic emanating from its core left him in a state of awe, his eyes tracing the expanse of the structure.
Standing on the western side of the wall, gazing eastward, Baldur strained to see where it ended. The immensity of the wall seemed to stretch beyond the horizon. "I would give anything to meet the individuals who constructed such a marvel," he mused, a tinge of curiosity coloring his words.
Arson couldn't help but chuckle at Baldur's comment. "They're probably long gone, Boss. You must have truly lost your memories, as Jora guessed," he remarked, a hint of teasing in his voice.
Baldur tilted his head, contemplating Arson's words. He didn't lose his memories, he simply replaced the original Baldur. "All right, let's focus on the task at hand. What's the best way to cross this colossal barrier?" he inquired, directing his attention back to Arson.
Arson scratched his head thoughtfully. "Well, most people attempt to climb the wall, but that often ends in tragedy. Alternatively, there's the gorge I've heard about. Crossing it could be an option. However, I'm not sure how your creations will cross," he explained, glancing at Bob, who emitted a puff of steam that startled Arson, nearly causing him to lose his balance on the automaton's shoulder.
Quickly regaining his composure, Arson stammered, "N-not that I doubt your creations, Baldur! Sorry, Bob, didn't mean to offend you," he apologized, patting the metallic shoulder of the towering automaton.
Baldur sighed, his patience tested by the antics of his companions. "Slight offense taken, Arson. Let's put the climbing aside for now. We shall cross the gorge," he declared, making a firm decision. The mysterious allure of the wall's creators would have to wait for another time.
Baldur couldn't help but suspect the source of this vexation, the prime suspect being the individual who took offense at his departure from the barrow. The acquisition of the sword, a bonus amidst the turmoil, seemed to have added fuel to the fires of resentment.
Yet, Baldur was no ordinary enchanter, and the swarming creatures, although disconcerting, posed little threat to his fortitude. Employing his newfound pyromantic abilities, he had forged a series of layered barriers using the remnants of the ruined bronze armor salvaged from his initial encounter in the barrow. Against a demigod, such defenses could buy him days, while against lesser foes, Baldur maintained an air of confidence. Still, he remained vigilant, devising additional enchantments to warn him of impending danger. In moments of respite from his travels, he dedicated himself to mastering the control of his inner flame, refining his pyromantic prowess.
During his periods of study, Baldur discovered the unique qualities of the Damascus steel blade he had acquired. It defied his expectations, demonstrating exceptional resilience, razor-sharp edges, and a surprising resistance to heat, stress, and even strikes from his own Bone Steel weapons. As he delved deeper into the blade's nature, Baldur grew increasingly certain that its creation involved a complex ritual or intricate spellcasting. Although capable of such feats himself, Baldur acknowledged his relative shortcomings in spellcasting compared to his mastery of rune inscription.
While the allure of embarking on a grand quest of discovery to uncover the origins and secrets of the blade tempted Baldur, he recognized the pressing need to address the immediate threat posed by the unseen adversaries lurking behind their puppet minions. With a determined resolve, Baldur redirected his focus towards unravelling the enigma that lay shrouded in darkness.
As Baldur arrived at his base and crossed the protective barrier, he couldn't help but smile at the sight of vibrant green grass and the absence of snow. The ground beneath his feet had hardened, and evidence of the progress his diligent workers had made in developing their camp showed. Piles of gathered materials lay off to the side, ready to be utilized, while Arson toiled diligently, flattening the ground in preparation for the construction of the foundation.
Approaching the camp, Baldur was met by Jora, whose once weary countenance now displayed a healthier visage. "Boss! You're back!" Jora exclaimed, a hint of relief audible in his voice.
Baldur scrutinized Jora for a moment, observing the transformation in his demeanor. "Where is Galrum? I don't see him," Baldur inquired, his tone edged with a sense of interest.
"He, um... entered your walled area without permission," Jora stammered, flinching and shrinking into himself as if anticipating Baldur's wrath. The demigod's brow furrowed, a subtle display of displeasure.
"Seems I'm short a worker now. Unfortunate," Baldur stated matter-of-factly, waving his hand to beckon Jora to follow him.
Jora, understanding the gravity of the situation, silently complied, trailing behind Baldur as they moved closer to the camp. Sensing the need to address more pressing matters, Jora spoke up, his voice tinged with eagerness, "We have gathered most of the materials you requested, Boss. We can start whenever you deem fit."
With a nod of acknowledgement, Baldur gingerly unfastened the bronze axe strapped to his back, carefully placing it aside. Simultaneously, he discarded the dyed armor he had salvaged from the puppet adversaries, laying it out for distribution among his two diligent companions. "Divvy this gear between the two of you and take the remainder of the day to rest. Come dawn, we'll start on constructing your very own house," Baldur declared, his voice carrying none of the anger he usually did.
Satisfied, Baldur made his way back to his dwelling. As he approached the entrance, his keen eyes caught sight of a small clockwork soldier, dutifully standing at attention to the left of the door. A rare smile played upon Baldur's lips, a flicker of genuine joy illuminating his countenance. Gently, he reached down and lifted the diminutive creation into his hands, cradling it with a mix of fondness and determination. "It looks like it's time to receive an upgrade, my little friend," Baldur whispered, his voice infused with excitement.
-----
Three-Eyed Crow POV
A diminutive figure with nut-brown skin, clad in a cloak woven from leaves and entwined vines, approached the form of Brynden, whose body was intricately covered in roots. The newcomer's face was etched with a deep frown, reflecting the urgency of the situation. "His protections are impenetrable. We must devise an alternative plan to rid ourselves of him before his power escalates further. We can already feel his magic permeating the world! The Others will awaken prematurely if we fail to remove him!"
Brynden couldn't help but release a weary sigh, fully comprehending the extent of his folly in underestimating Baldur. He had believed himself capable of quelling the threat should it arise, yet he had been sorely mistaken. The young boy possessed an innate gift, with his mastery over flame standing unparalleled in ages.
Had Brynden been younger, he would have readily marched into battle himself, resolute in vanquishing the threat once and for all. However, that was a feat he could no longer accomplish. Painful as it was to acknowledge, he had to call in a favor—an act necessary for the greater good of the realm and humanity as a whole. Baldur needed to be eliminated.
"Leaf, reach out to Torvir. Inform him that if he succeeds in ridding us of Baldur, I shall halt our current hostilities," Brynden grimaced, his expression heavy with the weight of his decision. "And inform him that I will offer him one of my cherished artifacts."
Although the prospect of parting with his precious possessions pained him deeply, Brynden felt better knowing that Torvir's loyalty lay with his people. When the threat of the Long Night loomed, he could be relied upon to aid in the defense against the encroaching forces of the Others.
-----
Baldur POV
Having resided in this unfamiliar realm for a full year now, Baldur couldn't help but feel a surge of pride whenever he gazed upon his thriving base. The walls and warehouse stood tall and sturdy, their construction complete, while the magnificent two-story communal housing building in the worker's camp showcased the collective effort that had gone into its creation.
Jora and Arson, the two individuals who had toiled tirelessly under Baldur's guidance, incessantly sang his praises ever since the project's completion. Through their tireless labor, they had come to cherish and appreciate the gifts Baldur had bestowed upon them. Although Baldur typically maintained a reserved demeanor, his unwavering dedication to his passions had inadvertently fostered a deeper connection between himself and his two companions.
Despite their initial aversion, they had wholeheartedly embraced Baldur's teachings and discipline, and the transformation they had undergone was remarkable. They were barely recognizable from the strangers Baldur had first encountered. While Baldur hesitated to label them as friends—an honor reserved for those he could trust with his life—they were no longer mere acquaintances.
In a surprising revelation, Arson had expressed his deep-seated love for archery and exploring, prompting Baldur to craft an enchanted bronze compound bow tailored to his needs. Jora, on the other hand, had disclosed his burning desire to tame wild animals, envisioning a sustainable source of nourishment that eliminated the need for constant hunting.
Bemused by Jora's aspirations, Baldur had patiently explained the concept of farming, and Jora had implored Baldur for guidance in embarking on this new endeavor. Thanks to their collaboration, Baldur now relished the simple pleasure of savoring eggs for breakfast, a testament to the fruits of their labor.
Despite the remarkable progress achieved in the months following his return from the barrow, Baldur remained frustratingly distant from unveiling the identity of his mysterious adversary. The occasional onslaught of animal hordes sent his way had dwindled, likely due to the realization of its futility. If this elusive foe wished to challenge Baldur within his own domain, they would have to confront him personally—a perilous proposition that promised dire consequences.
Interrupting Baldur's ruminations, a plaintive whine pierced the air, drawing his attention to a majestic metallic sabertooth tiger by his side, affectionately rubbing its head against his shoulder. "Alright, alright, Trini. We can head out," Baldur chuckled, his hand gently caressing behind the automaton's ear and Trini emitted a contented mechanical purr, a puzzling phenomenon given Trini's artificial nature.
Sensing her eagerness to stretch her legs, Baldur effortlessly mounted her back and settled into the saddle. The sabertooth tiger, surpassing the size of a warhorse, boasted an exquisite coat adorned with shades of silver, gold, black, and hints of blue—a captivating amalgamation of interlocking plates forged from Bone Steel and an intricate array of gears. Every component had been meticulously enchanted by Baldur, while the diamond at the core of Trini's virtual intelligence—a gemstone painstakingly crafted over weeks in a specialized forge—emanated an otherworldly brilliance, anchoring the automaton's consciousness.
Gems held immense significance as cores for golems, and Baldur recognized their value in his pursuit of combining the creation processes of golems and automatons to forge something even more remarkable. As a result, he devoted considerable time to gathering and crafting the necessary materials. Although Trini, his metallic companion, may not have matched the grandeur of his younger brother's pet, Festus, Baldur took great pride in having brought Trini to life entirely on his own, without relying on the full might of the Hephaestus cabin.
Extending a reassuring pat on Trini's back, Baldur pressed forward, casting a glance over his shoulder to ensure his other creations were trailing behind him. Two imposing bronze figures loyally followed in his wake—one standing at an imposing eight feet tall, while the other measured a more modest five and a half feet.
The colossal figure, aptly named Bob, drew inspiration from the Dwemer Centurions of Skyrim. However, unlike their weapon-integrated design, Bob sported massive hands capable of wielding an extensive arsenal of weapons secured to his back. Shields, spears, swords and even tools like shovels and picks—Bob possessed a tool tailored for every imaginable task.
In contrast, the smaller figure, Baldur's initial clockwork soldier, had undergone a significant transformation, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a Samurai Gundam. Like Trini, this bronze warrior had been adorned with a vibrant paint scheme, highlighting his exceptional nature.
Dubbed Blue, the samurai-esque figure brandished three katanas holstered at each hip, while his wrists housed two mounted folding crossbows, ingeniously repurposed from one of Baldur's unused contraptions. Unlike Bob and Trini, Blue appeared more attuned to the world around him, capable of engaging in basic conversations. Though Blue's responses remained somewhat limited—reminiscent of early iterations of chatbots—it only served to reinforce Baldur's proximity to bestowing life upon his creations, much like his father had done.
Satisfied that everything was in order, Baldur reached for the gem nestled within the socket of his necklace. The second iteration, known as MK II, unfolded and elegantly enveloped his form. While functionally and aesthetically similar to its predecessor, MK II possessed an additional advantage—it could be discreetly stored within the necklace itself, rendering infiltration a mere cakewalk should the need ever arise.
Arriving at the edge of his territory, Baldur found Arson eagerly awaiting him. The bow Baldur had gifted him was securely strapped to his back. Arson had adorned himself in heavy furs, a departure from his usual attire due to the warm climate within the protective barrier. Squinting up at Baldur, he grinned and exclaimed, "Ready to head out when you are, Boss!"
Baldur furrowed his brow and asked, "Are you certain you want to accompany me? We'll be gone for quite some time." While he didn't oppose the company on his journey, he knew that they would be venturing far from their current location, with their return being a matter of "when" rather than "if."
"And miss out on an adventure? Boss, you forget one thing," Arson chuckled, causing Baldur to groan in response. "You can't speak the southern language!" Arson continued to laugh, and Baldur reluctantly admitted the truth.
Arson was right. Despite Baldur's numerous gifts, languages other than Ancient Greek and the Old Tongue posed a considerable challenge. English had taken him much longer to grasp than others his age, and the thought of having to learn yet another language was daunting. "I'll simply create a translating rune," Baldur grumbled, well aware that the rune would only be effective in translating the literal meaning of what people said.
"Fine, fine, you win. Just don't be a nuisance," Baldur relented, waving for Bob to come closer. Pointing at Arson, he instructed, "You can ride on his shoulder. Otherwise, we'll be moving at a snail's pace."
"On second thought—" Arson began to protest, but before he could finish his sentence, Bob swiftly closed the distance, grabbing Arson's shoulder and hoisting him through the air onto his own shoulder. "Ouch! That hurt, fuck," Arson winced, rubbing his shoulder and rotating his arms to alleviate the lingering pain.
Before crossing the threshold that separated his lands from the untamed frozen wilderness, Baldur cast a final glance back. Jora would be fine; Baldur had even reluctantly granted him permission to allow a few people to settle just outside the protective barrier.
With the fortifications and enhancements he had implemented, Baldur had little doubt that his lands would be raided. As much as he yearned to stay and continue his work, he had made sufficient preparations. The Damascus steel sword at his side taunted him, its creation method still eluding him.
Currently, Baldur's best chance of acquiring more information rested with the Crows, a group that Jora and Arson had likened to a border patrol, based on the stories they had shared. Although Baldur had yet to encounter any of their patrols, he had been advised against heading straight to their forts. The Crows harbored an intense animosity toward northerners.
If Baldur wished to engage with them on friendly terms, he would have to infiltrate the south discreetly, giving them no reason to suspect he was a Free Folk. It seemed like an arduous task, especially when he could simply compel them to reveal what he sought. However, Jora had explained that the south held greater numbers and deep-seated grudges.
Baldur had hoped the southerners were as divided as the Free Folk, but if they stood united, he had to admit that even a multitude of ants could topple a giant. After all, he had played a role in defeating Kronos.
"Boss, aren't you concerned that the person behind the animal attacks might seize this opportunity to strike at you?" Arson inquired from atop Bob as they set off on their journey, tracing the path of the river southward.
"I highly doubt they can breach my barrier, so Jora will be safe. And until they confront me directly, there's little they can do. Especially if we make it to the southern lands. I don't imagine their influence extends beyond the wall," Baldur reassured, his confidence evident. Arson, however, couldn't help but express a hint of worry.
"But what if it does? How would you even know?" Arson's concern was palpable.
"I don't. But I do know that even mortals have limits to their dominion. Even demigods have boundaries," Baldur scoffed, whispering the last part, his hands clenched with determination. Breaking through his own limits was a resolve he held, even if it meant it would be his final endeavor.
"If you say so..." Arson said, his voice slightly trembling as he experienced the biting chill of winter for the first time in a while. The familiar warmth of the protective barrier was now replaced by a frigid breeze that seemed to cut through his furs. He instinctively wrapped his arms tighter around his body, seeking refuge from the cold.
-----
Torvir POV
It was a surprising turn of events when one of the Children of the Forest approached Torvir, considering their history of being at odds with the man they served, the Three-Eyed Crow. The messenger came bearing a proposition, promising treasure and amnesty not only for Torvir but also for his people.
Curiosity piqued, Torvir listened as the messenger detailed their request. They sought his help in dealing with a problem—a certain intriguing individual named Baldur, whom Torvir had observed in his forests months prior. The boy's formidable power was emphasized, and Torvir was warned against engaging him directly.
Torvir took his time to consider the offer, weighing the potential benefits and risks. Finally, he gave his answer, much to the surprise of Leaf, the messenger. "No," he stated firmly, his voice carrying the weight of his years of experience.
Leaf's golden and green eyes flickered with a mix of shock and frustration. "What do you mean, 'no'?" she exclaimed. "Don't you realize the threat Baldur poses? I have felt his power! It surpasses the combined might of me and my kin! You don't understand how dangerous..."
Interrupting her, Torvir asserted his own strength. "I am Torvir the Undying!" he proclaimed, his voice filled with the echoes of countless winters. "I have outlived your current master. Do you think I have survived this long by challenging adversaries you couldn't even fathom? Be gone from my sight. Tell Brynden that saving him all those years ago was a mistake. For someone who claims to see everything, he knows surprisingly little."
Leaf grunted in frustration but eventually relented, stomping her way out of Torvir's humble dwelling. Before she disappeared, she couldn't resist delivering a parting warning. "He has foreseen your fate and that of your mate. If you do not cooperate with him, death awaits you."
As Leaf's presence faded, Torvir's consciousness returned fully to his current host—the direwolf whose body he inhabited. Within the depths of his cave, the sounds of yelps and whines filled the air as his young offspring played.
Standing tall, Torvir's majestic form gleamed under the moon's gentle radiance, his fur a shimmering cloak of white. His eyes, filled with a mixture of pride and tenderness, locked onto his longtime mate as she playfully guided their pups. Leaf's warning held little sway over him. He had already glimpsed his own death, the passing of his beloved mate, and the fate of his offspring.
He knew it was inevitable—a looming fate from which there was no escape. The gradual degradation of his mind, losing himself more and more to the instincts of the direwolf, had made him aware of his own mortality. However, his descendants would carry on, and in the coming years, they would find their way to House Stark, taking his place. Torvir was old, and it was time for the younger generation to take the reins.
His only regret lay in not being able to see his ancestral home, Winterfell, one last time. Its grand halls and storied history would forever remain a distant dream, a poignant reminder of what he had fought to protect. Yet, he found solace in knowing that his bloodline would continue, their connection to the land and their wolfish heritage unbroken.
With a profound sense of acceptance, Torvir settled beside his mate and their playful progeny, savoring these fleeting moments of familial joy. The howling winds outside echoed the passage of time, and as his age-weary eyes closed, he embraced the serenity of the present, content in knowing that his legacy would endure.
-----
Baldur POV
A soft whistle escaped Baldur's lips as he stood before the towering magnificence of the ice wall. Its sheer size and the pulsating waves of magic emanating from its core left him in a state of awe, his eyes tracing the expanse of the structure.
Standing on the western side of the wall, gazing eastward, Baldur strained to see where it ended. The immensity of the wall seemed to stretch beyond the horizon. "I would give anything to meet the individuals who constructed such a marvel," he mused, a tinge of curiosity coloring his words.
Arson couldn't help but chuckle at Baldur's comment. "They're probably long gone, Boss. You must have truly lost your memories, as Jora guessed," he remarked, a hint of teasing in his voice.
Baldur tilted his head, contemplating Arson's words. He didn't lose his memories, he simply replaced the original Baldur. "All right, let's focus on the task at hand. What's the best way to cross this colossal barrier?" he inquired, directing his attention back to Arson.
Arson scratched his head thoughtfully. "Well, most people attempt to climb the wall, but that often ends in tragedy. Alternatively, there's the gorge I've heard about. Crossing it could be an option. However, I'm not sure how your creations will cross," he explained, glancing at Bob, who emitted a puff of steam that startled Arson, nearly causing him to lose his balance on the automaton's shoulder.
Quickly regaining his composure, Arson stammered, "N-not that I doubt your creations, Baldur! Sorry, Bob, didn't mean to offend you," he apologized, patting the metallic shoulder of the towering automaton.
Baldur sighed, his patience tested by the antics of his companions. "Slight offense taken, Arson. Let's put the climbing aside for now. We shall cross the gorge," he declared, making a firm decision. The mysterious allure of the wall's creators would have to wait for another time.
Demonic-Avenger
Not too sore, are you?
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Okay I'm interested, and wanna see more
ATP
Well worn.
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Brynden would be Brynden.Why he not even try contact Baldur?
And why children do not tried it on its own?
Especially Laefa,Baldur need furry waifu,even if both are unaware of that fact !
On another topic - Why Stark direvolves are arleady born?
and,why Baldur simply do not come to some Night Watch castle? they surely would see,that he is not normal wilding.
Lord Mormont should be smart enough to made deal with him.
And why children do not tried it on its own?
Especially Laefa,Baldur need furry waifu,even if both are unaware of that fact !
On another topic - Why Stark direvolves are arleady born?
and,why Baldur simply do not come to some Night Watch castle? they surely would see,that he is not normal wilding.
Lord Mormont should be smart enough to made deal with him.
Demonic-Avenger
Not too sore, are you?
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- 1,597
Baulder probably doesn't know that it even exists
ChaosSlimeKing
Leaving a Chaotic trail
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Maleficarum
Versed in the lewd.
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While cool, I do think a general inline theme is better than having eclectic styles in what you create. Know what I mean? Just ties everything in together. Anyways, I'd say expanding his domains some by adjacent sciences and crafts(Architecture, Farming Equipment, etc.) would be helpful. Anyways, yeah I will say the whole north the wall bit is boring, especially with the personality your MC has. Things would be more interesting if he did relocate below the wall and had to deal with Westeros proper, especially because he does want to be left alone to craft wonders small and large.
Anyways, I'd recommend him finding a far more attractive land int he north that due to how large and unpopulated was ignored/forgotten with all the various materials a craftsman could want be it metal or plant. Especially if he can draw patronage from the Starks. Also I feel would make it easier for interactions as you have a lot of canon and developed houses and people to fall back on instead of having to constantly rely on totally new OCs, but that's just a personal opinion when it comes to fanfiction writing in general.
Edit: Btw this IS good and interesting, and has potential, even if the north the wall Schtick feels meh to me in general and dragging down on the potential of the story.
Anyways, I'd recommend him finding a far more attractive land int he north that due to how large and unpopulated was ignored/forgotten with all the various materials a craftsman could want be it metal or plant. Especially if he can draw patronage from the Starks. Also I feel would make it easier for interactions as you have a lot of canon and developed houses and people to fall back on instead of having to constantly rely on totally new OCs, but that's just a personal opinion when it comes to fanfiction writing in general.
Edit: Btw this IS good and interesting, and has potential, even if the north the wall Schtick feels meh to me in general and dragging down on the potential of the story.
Flygar
Know what you're doing yet?
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Interesting premise, but the MC reads like several different one-side faceted characters. Heck, I felt more for the Wildling kid that had 5 seconds of dialogue and whose family was obviously of no threat to the Demi-god. He didn't come off as ruthless with killing, but as cruel, petty, and very dumb on context clues. He had 7 minutes to consider the situation as he covered 10 miles distance in snow, and came up with "drown the obvious non-threat in my water supply".
Chapter 8
Pineappl3
Getting out there.
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- 924
Crossing the gorge turned out to be far from the hassle-free journey Baldur had anticipated. As they approached the bridge, a chaotic scene unfolded before their eyes. A fierce battle raged between the Free Folk and the southern Crows, with the former clearly on the losing end. Arson tensed, watching the clash from his vantage point on Bob's sturdy shoulder.
Baldur surveyed the scene, his gaze shifting between the struggling northerners on the bridge and Arson. "You do bear a striking resemblance to them," he remarked, his eyes focusing on Arson's worn hides and furs. "It's possible they might mistake you for an enemy and attack on sight."
A nervous whimper escaped Arson's lips at the thought, and he turned his gaze downward to meet Baldur's eyes. "Do you have any spare clothing or armor I could wear?" he asked, his voice laced with desperation.
Baldur nodded in response, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. "In one of the bags that Bob is carrying, you'll find my old armor. Hurry and put it on. We'll attempt to cross the gorge discreetly," he instructed, urging Arson to quickly put on the protective gear.
With gentle care, the towering bronze figure set Arson down on the ground and offered a comforting pat on the head—an unexpected display of tenderness that left both Baldur and Arson puzzled.
Arson, now rummaging through the bags, mustered the courage to voice an alternative suggestion. "Maybe we should head farther south and seek your information in a sizable settlement. The warriors here are unlikely to have any knowledge about your unique blade," he proposed, his tone tinged with pleading as he continued his search for the armor Baldur had mentioned.
Baldur took a moment to consider Arson's words. The logic was sound; border patrols would likely have no knowledge of a random blade. If the region was as antiquated as Baldur suspected, scholars would be a rarity. His best chance lay in encountering fellow craftsmen or individuals who appeared scholarly, much like those dwelling in the Athena cabin.
After brief contemplation, Baldur made up his mind. Going farther south seemed like a reasonable course of action. While he wasn't one to shy away from confrontation, the prospect of losing Arson, his translator, weighed heavily on his mind.
"Very well," Baldur conceded, his voice firm beneath the helmet he wore. "We shall travel south, navigating through those mountains in the distance. We'll stick to the eastern side and search for any substantial settlements. Just be prepared for sleeping on the mountainside," he added, chuckling at the thought as he observed Arson momentarily pause in his attempts to don the armor.
Arson's voice wavered with uncertainty as he responded, "Sleeping on the side of a mountain? Are you serious? How do people even manage that?" He contemplated their options, momentarily swayed by the daunting prospect. "Perhaps we should reconsider crossing the gorge instead," he suggested, his nerves evident.
Baldur's smirk widened beneath his helmet, his confidence unshaken. "Trust me," he assured Arson, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Sleeping on the side of a mountain can be quite an adventure. You'll see."
-----
"Now remember, your sole responsibility is to translate for me. And I mean exactly what I say. Understood?" Baldur's gaze fell upon Arson, who now walked alongside Bob. They found themselves on the outskirts of a town situated not too far from a massive castle, the imposing structure casting a shadow over the landscape.
Arson nodded enthusiastically, trying to exude confidence. "Don't worry, I've got it covered. You may have forgotten, but we Thenn are renowned on the northern side of the damn wall. We're the best at speaking both the old tongue and the common tongue. I've picked up plenty during my travels outside the clan," he boasted, a hint of smugness in his voice.
A small group of guards began approaching from the town, their hands resting on their weapons, ready to draw if necessary. Baldur couldn't fault them for their caution. If he were in their shoes and confronted with multiple metallic figures, armed to the teeth, he would likely be on edge as well.
"Stay right where you are! Identify yourselves," the lead guard demanded, his words an unexpected English. Baldur turned his head toward Arson, who sheepishly scratched the back of his helmet and confessed, "Boss... I regret to inform you that I can't... uh... understand them."
"You idiot. What made you think the gibberish you were spouting to me before was the southern language? Never mind. Don't answer that," Baldur scolded Arson in the old tongue, turning his attention back to the guards, some of whom had drawn their blades in response to his stern tone. Baldur removed his helmet, prompting Arson to do the same.
"We apologize for intruding. We have traveled a long and arduous journey in search of shelter, and this place was the first of significance we stumbled upon. I am Sir Baldur, a hedge knight, and this is my squire, Arson. Please forgive him, as he is unfamiliar with our language," Baldur addressed the guards, his voice carrying an air of sincerity.
"I thought all of you hedge knights headed south in search of opportunities during the war," he jokingly remarked, a smile dancing on his lips for a brief moment before his expression turned more serious. The question hung in the air as he asked, "Where do you hail from, Ser Baldur?" The front guard, though displaying a slight ease in his demeanor, still retained a trace of tension, as if harboring an unspoken suspicion.
Suspecting that his mention of the war in the south had prompted their caution, Baldur took a moment to devise a believable yet arbitrary location. "I hail from... the Stone Shores," he confidently replied.
"Stony Shore, huh? Must be from one of those quaint fishing villages," a guard from the rear interjected, evoking a touch of familiarity among his comrades, causing their guarded stances to relax somewhat.
However, the front guard narrowed his gaze, his eyes piercing. "You've neglected to introduce the two accompanying you," he pointed out, his suspicion no longer veiled.
"My apologies," Baldur swiftly acknowledged, gesturing towards the silent duo of Blue and Bob. "Allow me to rectify that. This is Bernard the Blue and Bob, friends from my homeland who willingly chose to accompany me upon my knighthood."
The guards took a moment to ponder the explanation, exchanging glances as they deliberated. Eventually, the head guard nodded with reluctant acceptance. "Very well then. You may proceed, but your armored beast will have to remain outside the confines of the town. Your armored shadowcat might scare the smallfolk and I don't wanna deal with the complaints."
Baldur offered a nod of appreciation and slipped on his helmet as they moved away, his keen hearing catching snippets of conversation drifting from the guards. "My bloody face would freeze solid wearing a helmet like that in the heart of winter."
Disregarding their comments, Baldur turned to face Arson, locking eyes with him. "You have a choice, Arson. Stick close to me in the town or remain outside with the others. However, if you decide to accompany me—no trouble will be tolerated," he warned.
-----
As he traversed the streets of the town known as Winter Town, Baldur couldn't help but appreciate the genius of his improvised backstory, the "Stony Shores." The town's peculiar naming conventions seemed to align perfectly with his fabricated origin. The concept of "fake it till you make it" resonated strongly within him, and the success of his ruse reinforced that belief. However, he couldn't shake off his concern about Arson's decision to remain behind. Nevertheless, he resolved that the presence of Trini and Blue would suffice to keep any potential trouble in check.
After a while, Baldur's ears detected the familiar echoes of a hammer striking metal. Intrigued, he followed the sound until he stumbled upon a modest smithy. Inside, an elderly craftsman was instructing a younger apprentice, who was attempting to fashion a horseshoe. "You blundering fool! I explicitly told you to be firm but gentle! Apply precise force!" scolded the aged man.
The apprentice retorted, his gaze still fixed on the piece of metal before him, "How in the hell am I supposed to—" He abruptly turned his head, freezing in place as he locked eyes with Baldur, who stood at the entrance, a friendly smile adorning his face.
The elder smith followed his apprentice's gaze and hurriedly made his way towards the entrance upon spotting Baldur. "Greetings, Ser. How may I be of service to you?" he respectfully inquired.
Baldur rested his hand on his Damascus steel blade, and noticed the old smith's flinch. "Relax. I have no intention of striking you," he reassured, drawing the blade partially to let the elderly man's eyes trace the intricate patterns of the waves on the steel.
"I seek information about the origins of this blade. I understand that you may not have specific knowledge, but any assistance you can provide would be greatly appreciated," Baldur inquired, his tone conveying seriousness.
The smith extended his hands, seeking permission to examine the weapon. Baldur placed it gently into the worn palms of his fellow craftsman, noting the surprise that flickered across the man's face. "It's remarkably light," the smith commented. However, his brow furrowed, and he returned the blade to Baldur. "Forgive me, Ser, but I have no knowledge of the origins of such a magnificent weapon. Perhaps the castle's own blacksmith might possess more information."
Sheathing his blade, Baldur continued his inquiry, "Could you kindly direct me to the whereabouts of the castle blacksmith?"
"He lives in the walls of Winterfell, but he likes to spend his nights at the Smoking Log in town." The man told Baldur.
"I cannot offer coin, but I think I can spare some time to show you and your apprentice a thing or two." Baldur moved forward into the smith and past the older man. He faced the apprentice and motioned for his hammer. "Give it here, I'll show you how a real smith works metal."
-----
Ryden POV
Ryden had been serving as the apprentice to the town's blacksmith, Old man Toren, for several months. Finally, the time had come for him to work with the metal, but his initial assignments of crafting nails and horseshoes proved to be dreadfully dull, much to his disappointment.
Toren, unfortunately, proved to be a less than satisfactory teacher. He constantly emphasized the importance of using "exact force" and being "firm but gentle," leaving Ryden perplexed. How was he supposed to decipher such ambiguous instructions? Every time Toren struck the metal, it appeared as though he was exerting all his strength without any finesse in his strikes.
Perhaps Toren was merely toying with him, Ryden contemplated. Being that old, the blacksmith likely derived amusement from teasing people in a similar manner. On the other hand, the mysterious knight demonstrated a remarkable proficiency in working with metal. The knight's craftsmanship was akin to an artistic masterpiece.
Observing the knight skillfully shaping the molten metal, Ryden gradually grasped the essence of what the old blacksmith meant by "exact force." Each strike executed by the knight was purposeful, carefully coaxing the metal into the desired form. Unlike Toren, who appeared to be forcefully taming a wild beast, the knight guided the metal with gentle precision.
For the first time, Ryden felt a genuine passion for the art of smithing. Previously, it had been nothing more than a means to an end—a trade that would enable him to support a family. However, now a flame of inspiration had been ignited within him, and Ryden found himself getting lost in the intricacies of working with metal. He daydreamed of becoming a master blacksmith capable of taming metal and forging magnificent works of art.
As the knight quenched the freshly forged blade, Ryden snapped out of his reverie and surveyed his surroundings. He noticed that Toren had been equally captivated by the knight's skills.
"Here, a gift," the enigmatic knight declared, extending the blade towards Toren. Though the dagger lacked a grip, Ryden couldn't help but be mesmerized by its majestic presence. The blade was adorned with complex engravings that appeared more valuable than a knight's armor. Intricately woven into the metal was a depiction of a roaring fire at the base of the blade, with a figure holding a hammer within the flames.
Toren was taken aback, gripping the blade with such force that he inadvertently drew blood, despite its dull edge. "S-ser-" Toren stammered, struggling to find words, "how can I accept such a masterpiece? I witnessed your every move, and yet I cannot fathom how you achieved such artistry."
The knight smiled, having long discarded his helmet and placed it aside so he could properly work. "It's quite simple, really. You just need to be firm but gentle," he chuckled, earning a smirk from Ryden in response. It served Toren right.
"Just take it, whether to sell it, study it, or pass it down as a family heirloom. It matters not to me," the knight suggested, picking up his helmet and placing it back on. As he departed from the smithy, passing by the astonished Toren, he patted Ryden on the shoulder and whispered, "Praise Hephaestus."
Frowning at the knight's strange words, Ryden found himself unable to grasp their meaning. Before he could inquire further, the knight had already departed, leaving Ryden to ponder the encounter with a mix of fascination and curiosity.
Baldur surveyed the scene, his gaze shifting between the struggling northerners on the bridge and Arson. "You do bear a striking resemblance to them," he remarked, his eyes focusing on Arson's worn hides and furs. "It's possible they might mistake you for an enemy and attack on sight."
A nervous whimper escaped Arson's lips at the thought, and he turned his gaze downward to meet Baldur's eyes. "Do you have any spare clothing or armor I could wear?" he asked, his voice laced with desperation.
Baldur nodded in response, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. "In one of the bags that Bob is carrying, you'll find my old armor. Hurry and put it on. We'll attempt to cross the gorge discreetly," he instructed, urging Arson to quickly put on the protective gear.
With gentle care, the towering bronze figure set Arson down on the ground and offered a comforting pat on the head—an unexpected display of tenderness that left both Baldur and Arson puzzled.
Arson, now rummaging through the bags, mustered the courage to voice an alternative suggestion. "Maybe we should head farther south and seek your information in a sizable settlement. The warriors here are unlikely to have any knowledge about your unique blade," he proposed, his tone tinged with pleading as he continued his search for the armor Baldur had mentioned.
Baldur took a moment to consider Arson's words. The logic was sound; border patrols would likely have no knowledge of a random blade. If the region was as antiquated as Baldur suspected, scholars would be a rarity. His best chance lay in encountering fellow craftsmen or individuals who appeared scholarly, much like those dwelling in the Athena cabin.
After brief contemplation, Baldur made up his mind. Going farther south seemed like a reasonable course of action. While he wasn't one to shy away from confrontation, the prospect of losing Arson, his translator, weighed heavily on his mind.
"Very well," Baldur conceded, his voice firm beneath the helmet he wore. "We shall travel south, navigating through those mountains in the distance. We'll stick to the eastern side and search for any substantial settlements. Just be prepared for sleeping on the mountainside," he added, chuckling at the thought as he observed Arson momentarily pause in his attempts to don the armor.
Arson's voice wavered with uncertainty as he responded, "Sleeping on the side of a mountain? Are you serious? How do people even manage that?" He contemplated their options, momentarily swayed by the daunting prospect. "Perhaps we should reconsider crossing the gorge instead," he suggested, his nerves evident.
Baldur's smirk widened beneath his helmet, his confidence unshaken. "Trust me," he assured Arson, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Sleeping on the side of a mountain can be quite an adventure. You'll see."
-----
"Now remember, your sole responsibility is to translate for me. And I mean exactly what I say. Understood?" Baldur's gaze fell upon Arson, who now walked alongside Bob. They found themselves on the outskirts of a town situated not too far from a massive castle, the imposing structure casting a shadow over the landscape.
Arson nodded enthusiastically, trying to exude confidence. "Don't worry, I've got it covered. You may have forgotten, but we Thenn are renowned on the northern side of the damn wall. We're the best at speaking both the old tongue and the common tongue. I've picked up plenty during my travels outside the clan," he boasted, a hint of smugness in his voice.
A small group of guards began approaching from the town, their hands resting on their weapons, ready to draw if necessary. Baldur couldn't fault them for their caution. If he were in their shoes and confronted with multiple metallic figures, armed to the teeth, he would likely be on edge as well.
"Stay right where you are! Identify yourselves," the lead guard demanded, his words an unexpected English. Baldur turned his head toward Arson, who sheepishly scratched the back of his helmet and confessed, "Boss... I regret to inform you that I can't... uh... understand them."
"You idiot. What made you think the gibberish you were spouting to me before was the southern language? Never mind. Don't answer that," Baldur scolded Arson in the old tongue, turning his attention back to the guards, some of whom had drawn their blades in response to his stern tone. Baldur removed his helmet, prompting Arson to do the same.
"We apologize for intruding. We have traveled a long and arduous journey in search of shelter, and this place was the first of significance we stumbled upon. I am Sir Baldur, a hedge knight, and this is my squire, Arson. Please forgive him, as he is unfamiliar with our language," Baldur addressed the guards, his voice carrying an air of sincerity.
"I thought all of you hedge knights headed south in search of opportunities during the war," he jokingly remarked, a smile dancing on his lips for a brief moment before his expression turned more serious. The question hung in the air as he asked, "Where do you hail from, Ser Baldur?" The front guard, though displaying a slight ease in his demeanor, still retained a trace of tension, as if harboring an unspoken suspicion.
Suspecting that his mention of the war in the south had prompted their caution, Baldur took a moment to devise a believable yet arbitrary location. "I hail from... the Stone Shores," he confidently replied.
"Stony Shore, huh? Must be from one of those quaint fishing villages," a guard from the rear interjected, evoking a touch of familiarity among his comrades, causing their guarded stances to relax somewhat.
However, the front guard narrowed his gaze, his eyes piercing. "You've neglected to introduce the two accompanying you," he pointed out, his suspicion no longer veiled.
"My apologies," Baldur swiftly acknowledged, gesturing towards the silent duo of Blue and Bob. "Allow me to rectify that. This is Bernard the Blue and Bob, friends from my homeland who willingly chose to accompany me upon my knighthood."
The guards took a moment to ponder the explanation, exchanging glances as they deliberated. Eventually, the head guard nodded with reluctant acceptance. "Very well then. You may proceed, but your armored beast will have to remain outside the confines of the town. Your armored shadowcat might scare the smallfolk and I don't wanna deal with the complaints."
Baldur offered a nod of appreciation and slipped on his helmet as they moved away, his keen hearing catching snippets of conversation drifting from the guards. "My bloody face would freeze solid wearing a helmet like that in the heart of winter."
Disregarding their comments, Baldur turned to face Arson, locking eyes with him. "You have a choice, Arson. Stick close to me in the town or remain outside with the others. However, if you decide to accompany me—no trouble will be tolerated," he warned.
-----
As he traversed the streets of the town known as Winter Town, Baldur couldn't help but appreciate the genius of his improvised backstory, the "Stony Shores." The town's peculiar naming conventions seemed to align perfectly with his fabricated origin. The concept of "fake it till you make it" resonated strongly within him, and the success of his ruse reinforced that belief. However, he couldn't shake off his concern about Arson's decision to remain behind. Nevertheless, he resolved that the presence of Trini and Blue would suffice to keep any potential trouble in check.
After a while, Baldur's ears detected the familiar echoes of a hammer striking metal. Intrigued, he followed the sound until he stumbled upon a modest smithy. Inside, an elderly craftsman was instructing a younger apprentice, who was attempting to fashion a horseshoe. "You blundering fool! I explicitly told you to be firm but gentle! Apply precise force!" scolded the aged man.
The apprentice retorted, his gaze still fixed on the piece of metal before him, "How in the hell am I supposed to—" He abruptly turned his head, freezing in place as he locked eyes with Baldur, who stood at the entrance, a friendly smile adorning his face.
The elder smith followed his apprentice's gaze and hurriedly made his way towards the entrance upon spotting Baldur. "Greetings, Ser. How may I be of service to you?" he respectfully inquired.
Baldur rested his hand on his Damascus steel blade, and noticed the old smith's flinch. "Relax. I have no intention of striking you," he reassured, drawing the blade partially to let the elderly man's eyes trace the intricate patterns of the waves on the steel.
"I seek information about the origins of this blade. I understand that you may not have specific knowledge, but any assistance you can provide would be greatly appreciated," Baldur inquired, his tone conveying seriousness.
The smith extended his hands, seeking permission to examine the weapon. Baldur placed it gently into the worn palms of his fellow craftsman, noting the surprise that flickered across the man's face. "It's remarkably light," the smith commented. However, his brow furrowed, and he returned the blade to Baldur. "Forgive me, Ser, but I have no knowledge of the origins of such a magnificent weapon. Perhaps the castle's own blacksmith might possess more information."
Sheathing his blade, Baldur continued his inquiry, "Could you kindly direct me to the whereabouts of the castle blacksmith?"
"He lives in the walls of Winterfell, but he likes to spend his nights at the Smoking Log in town." The man told Baldur.
"I cannot offer coin, but I think I can spare some time to show you and your apprentice a thing or two." Baldur moved forward into the smith and past the older man. He faced the apprentice and motioned for his hammer. "Give it here, I'll show you how a real smith works metal."
-----
Ryden POV
Ryden had been serving as the apprentice to the town's blacksmith, Old man Toren, for several months. Finally, the time had come for him to work with the metal, but his initial assignments of crafting nails and horseshoes proved to be dreadfully dull, much to his disappointment.
Toren, unfortunately, proved to be a less than satisfactory teacher. He constantly emphasized the importance of using "exact force" and being "firm but gentle," leaving Ryden perplexed. How was he supposed to decipher such ambiguous instructions? Every time Toren struck the metal, it appeared as though he was exerting all his strength without any finesse in his strikes.
Perhaps Toren was merely toying with him, Ryden contemplated. Being that old, the blacksmith likely derived amusement from teasing people in a similar manner. On the other hand, the mysterious knight demonstrated a remarkable proficiency in working with metal. The knight's craftsmanship was akin to an artistic masterpiece.
Observing the knight skillfully shaping the molten metal, Ryden gradually grasped the essence of what the old blacksmith meant by "exact force." Each strike executed by the knight was purposeful, carefully coaxing the metal into the desired form. Unlike Toren, who appeared to be forcefully taming a wild beast, the knight guided the metal with gentle precision.
For the first time, Ryden felt a genuine passion for the art of smithing. Previously, it had been nothing more than a means to an end—a trade that would enable him to support a family. However, now a flame of inspiration had been ignited within him, and Ryden found himself getting lost in the intricacies of working with metal. He daydreamed of becoming a master blacksmith capable of taming metal and forging magnificent works of art.
As the knight quenched the freshly forged blade, Ryden snapped out of his reverie and surveyed his surroundings. He noticed that Toren had been equally captivated by the knight's skills.
"Here, a gift," the enigmatic knight declared, extending the blade towards Toren. Though the dagger lacked a grip, Ryden couldn't help but be mesmerized by its majestic presence. The blade was adorned with complex engravings that appeared more valuable than a knight's armor. Intricately woven into the metal was a depiction of a roaring fire at the base of the blade, with a figure holding a hammer within the flames.
Toren was taken aback, gripping the blade with such force that he inadvertently drew blood, despite its dull edge. "S-ser-" Toren stammered, struggling to find words, "how can I accept such a masterpiece? I witnessed your every move, and yet I cannot fathom how you achieved such artistry."
The knight smiled, having long discarded his helmet and placed it aside so he could properly work. "It's quite simple, really. You just need to be firm but gentle," he chuckled, earning a smirk from Ryden in response. It served Toren right.
"Just take it, whether to sell it, study it, or pass it down as a family heirloom. It matters not to me," the knight suggested, picking up his helmet and placing it back on. As he departed from the smithy, passing by the astonished Toren, he patted Ryden on the shoulder and whispered, "Praise Hephaestus."
Frowning at the knight's strange words, Ryden found himself unable to grasp their meaning. Before he could inquire further, the knight had already departed, leaving Ryden to ponder the encounter with a mix of fascination and curiosity.
Demonic-Avenger
Not too sore, are you?
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Thanks for the update and please update again soon
Emperatriz
Fourth Deadly Sin
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Love it! Will this be some sort of kingdom-building progression on the side? Or just his divine sanctuary? Though I sorely hope he won't be or acting subordinate/subservient to any lords in Westeros.
Bob Uchiha
Getting out there.
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Warning Rule 7: Thread Necromancy
I really like this. I hope you can continue it someday