A Land Far Away

Scimitars was his favorite weapon of them all. How could you not enjoy a curved blade that decapitated anything and could chop into and through heavy armor and scales?

For Rugnar Mounden of Clan Battlehammer scimitars were beyond a mere weapon. It was a tool of entropy, a life taker that outshined all other weapons. It was simply the weapon of choice, the grandest tool a warrior could have.

A scimitar hilt felt differnt from those of an axe or longsword, those weapons were clumsy weapons fitting thugs and elves. A scimitar hilt always had a soft silky touch to Rugnar and the weight of the blade always fitted him. To swing a scimitar was more then just a swing, it was a graceful move that cut through air, flesh and bone.

And to kill with a scimitar was an art. To kill with an axe was a sweaty and putrid murder but with a scimitar... When you killed with a scimitar it was bloody and yet it was clean. It was brutal and yet civilised since no one survived a blow to the neck from a good sharp scimitar. A quick good death for anyone exept the most wicked.

And Rugnar Mounden didnt fight with bad scimitars. He only fought with scimitars crafted by his own hands. Steel, silver or cold iron shaped all into the fantastic shape of a curved blade, the shape that no one could see without thinking of death.

He made them long or short, heavy or light, sharp or sharpest. All of his scimitars were grand and no one could miss to see the true mastery that it had taken to make them.

Scimitars, scimitars and more scimitars. How he loved them.

There was much sadness in this smith. A lost son and a ruined legacy, the death of two human priests in such a short time that he both called friend. His heart that had been filled with rage and strife had shattered from those hammer blows and if he hadnt his new found faith in Moradin, his will to live would had been shattered as well.

Instead his heart was mended with each struck of a blade he did while training. It mended with each blow against a gleaming hot unfinished scimitar that he struck with his blacksmith hammer. He was getting stronger and more skilled but also happier, more people reconised him and he did more good every day.

He had made a chainshirt of finest steel to Itishi, weaving the metallic rings perfectly and doing as many dragon illustrations at it that he could. Every bit of leather had dragons or draconic features carved into them. Belt buckles looked like dragonheads and the thing oozed with a smiths artful hand.

He had also made a spear of oak and steel to Keren. He would hand it to his priestly friend as soon he met him again. The shaft was of finest oak, prayers of Lurue carved into it to make sure the priest would never forget his work. The speartip was fashioned by silvery steel and was easily reconised as a unicorn horn, at least looking like one. But one could never truly believe that it was a true horn, it didnt spark with healing touch or gave a good feeling. This horn was made to be a deadly weapon and its keen tip would pierce flesh and bone.

Now he would work with mithral, he had a single bar of mithral to work with so what would he do? The answer was of course easy, this one was for himself. He would make a scimitar of mithral!

Loud and clear did Rugnar Mounden of clan Battlehammer pray to his god, the soul forger that some knew as Moradin. It was not the first time Rugnar did this and it would not be the last, that he swore on.

But Rugnar prayed louder today then he had earlier. He was even able to do this without sounding forced or bad, he did it like a true believer. His hammer was smashing down on a piece of mithral formed into the blade of a scimitar. He was tempering the blade, mastering it with all of his focus. He poured out his soul into it and he did it only to honor Moradin.

Sparks would fly around as the dwarf worked so hard but he wore little protection. He needed to feel the sting of the smithing to remember that he was alive. The smith gave him all what he needed really. Warmth and inspiration, an outlet for his frustration.

And now with a combination of it all. The frustration of his lost friends, the faith found again and the hatred for the orcs were all combined into one beautiful mithral blade. The blade would be more then just a weapon. It would be the foe of all dwarven foes, the slayer of orcs and giants, of goblin and duergar.

He sighed as he stepped onto the boat and looked over his shoulder at the Silvermarches. He had learnt much about these lands but yet again lost something to them. He came here to find his people, to rejoin with his god but when he did he lost his friend to the orcs. He missed Rothar Hall above all, even if he had found new people to befriend and ally with.

To those he had written simple letters, hoping the errand boys and girls would find them. With another sigh he turned around to get down into the boat, not wanting to look on the lands of the Silvermarches for a long time again.

"Dear Keren" he had started the letter with, a bit shakingly even.

"Im leaving the lands of the Silverymarches for a while or forever. No matter what I do I lose my friends and I must defend a few of those I got remaining. I will go the isles far to the east to find one friend there and hopefully I can convince him to come with me but sadly there is the chance of him convincing me to stay."

"May Keren's horn, your spear, always strike true. Dont let the orcs win and dont let all the ladies get to you."

"Your friend, Rugnar Mounden of clan Battlehammer. A dwarven scum."