Private Solidarity in Vein and Stone

[Ingenieur Waltz]

MHEAREA MOUNTAINS

Just as the stone had not yielded, the six born of the Runes did not crack to the freezing. They did not falter to the sudden demands of the pressure upon them, upon the mountain of crag and rock deep seated. The snap dragon jaws of cold teeth that sliced with incisors of ice, crushing molars of chill press death, they did voracious chew in circular motions. East, West, North, South, From Up to Down, and on it did pummel and gnash and grind in repeat.

These six, so hailing from the Rune, resembled solidarity in their quick collection, assembling by need and drive to shelter. Their individual journeys now crashing together, no words initial, for the wind did rip the sound as they found themselves together, here, in this narrow artery of stone, narrow heart of no-where, crag to them, and perhaps their numbing rest.

Were it not for their action cleft as powerful as the chisel on the motherlode, upon the vein that set a sheet of wealth cascading down to make a mine a venture worth the digging. Sure as the blizzard did send it's waves, the six Runefolk did hammer back as immediate team.

From strangers to soldiers against the tide of tumults of frigid blasts they did find themselves enlisted by kinship of their circumstance and more. From their quick retreat individual, to collection in finding common shelter they did what was natural. Pooling their wits, their resources and vigours against this monster engulfing. As if shepherded by the crook of cold, they amassed in flock of all they had. Tarps did amass and raise as quick as one reacts to blaze to smother, dwarves standing in turn to give another a chance to toil. Gloves donned, boot prints sure in treading. Rigged as windbreak all things did go, windbreaks lifted as shields in all directions. The unprepared made ready by those who carried all and constructed survival. Skills spread to stabilise, frost gathering at the beard, numbness risked to save another. None would indulge in passive dread when five other Runefolk eyes met theirs with all the hearth they needed see to blaze on.

Just as the mountain's nature was to refuse to yield, so it was these six stood true to their nature. Resisting the freak weirding weather that did make them wayward to their causes original, but staunch in their survival together.

And as stubborn as the rocks to shatter against the howling blizzard so sudden and trespassing, they stood together by windbreaks, of quick assembled fire. Each taking duties now the cardinal directions routine assault had been built against, the cold given distance as they tested their voices in closeness. Things set to brewing, rations metered out, the timing of the moment now allowing for cordial sounds beyond approving hums and grunts. Before the first full circle of conversation, a stroke of luck did gallop wild and fearful, cloven feet against the crag stone.

At once, one of the six, did stride out beyond the windbreaks, gleaming with the pick, needful to need of the group, into wind which now was lashing east.

From that east to west, sound drowned by howling.

From that west to north, a yelp and gurgling of goat like throat sliced.

From north to south, sound drowned by howling.

From skyward to groundward, the wind did wheel, and the Runefolk known as Morris did arrive back, dragging the carcass of a blubber bound beast with mass of horns about the head, triangle pupils having shed their vision from the pick puncture direct. It's cloven hooves designed for crag, it's brain lacking the discipline to resist the panic that sent it. Morris of silvering hair, frost kissed for his exposure, lips that seemed bruised for it's battle with time, hand clenched with pick that did not release, other hand passing kill to working friend. Breastplate wide and broad, much repair perfect in rivers of fine forging, some less so by need, no less serving.

Quick butchery from one known as Balik, chopping with blunt ordinary nature, eyes quick to the blubber as resource, steel carving meat and fat to tide them over. Balik's blonde and green furs amassed about his shoulders, bulbous nose that remained ruddy despite the exposure.

Behind, one Waltz, was brewing in stern kettle that did produce the nettle scent. Gloved hands did season the boiling basin with further warming remedies, to lend the voice a power to utter. Chop on did Balik, as Waltz passed cups that were given and returned with another's, ladel working, arm encumbered with device of the Ingenieur. Fresh vapours and fire from alchemy to brew restoring all social speaking order.

Sip now they did as the urgency set to introductions, their needs met in the heartbeats required of them to drum.

“Freakish weather this,” Morris said, after so supping, as if all was small talk in warzone well experienced, “ice that bites like it was done wrong by us in particular. My loyal knee gives me pain when the rain does soon pelt. My teeth do itch when a wave of heat is aboundin'. But ice? Aint nothing in all my stoutness that warned 'o that.”

“Don't think this creature I'm cutting up knew of the ice coming in neither,” remarked Balik, hand deft to operating with a drink in the other, chopping and quaffing without spill of blood or brew errantly. “Me thinks it was confused as did bounder in to our quick assembled and needful narrow camp. Both by us and what air did drive it to us. And they have blubber, their bones surely speak to them of incoming frost, if there's any reason in their marrow. But those with horns I dare not understand as well as I do us folk of Runes.”

Slide on stone the bone, flesh and blubber. Stripped by narrow blade, pairing the fat. Handed to another station, to use as fuel and insulation layer to tarps perhaps.

Morris went on as others drank deep.

“Much thanking the stone that did grow their hooves to tread it, and donate their hides to help us against this baling frost. Not the stone's fault I think for blizzard's bringing. Something else. Something else entire.”

Morris' voice was restored, yet silence he took now after speaking so, knowing hot vapour to be a scarce thing to be wasting.

Wild in canvassed maps and tools of the crag tracker, thick wool and swathes of leather, the Runefolk known as Ludis did speak, so refreshed by ladel doled to him. Black of hair, ringlets in his beard stiff from cold that clung to silver bands that marked their fashion of cartographer guild. He spoke as his eyes did glance at the fire now being nursed between them all by Waltz, the brew so brewed, now fire so stoked by quick chopped blubber and pressing of his arm device to churn ignition. Orange eyes of Ludis flaring up as fire did catch and thrive in similar hue, anecdote enkindled by the sight.

“Weave is what knitted us to be rooted to the cold fronts surrounding us so. You feel the weather in your bones, I feel the weavin ways in my thick foot soles is what. Itching and shifting and tingling and fussing like my toes was drenched in moving moss. I feel it so when there be a weave in the forge, even in so small a thing as igniting ring pull snap and woosh. And I feels it now, working the winds to batter us, waggling my digits, waggling me nails. Only so when there's ill intent. Working the spite in the bitterness that sets my beard to freezing rigid. I do wager an etch of gold upon my statue, may I be deserved in hall revered, it be so today.”

A pipe produced by another, as if the gesture was giving credence to the wager by smoking. Wide mouthed as war horn of menfolk, stout as the dwarves surrounding, quick punch of tobacco and borrowed flashpoint from the rising fire gifted to match set for this purpose. None begrudged this indulgence, for a wager had been made in oath. The tobacco flared up, the fingers releasing the spent match to become as ash. Teeth of brilliant silver metal in his maw, hands designed to heft lanterns and a jaw that resembled, a beard goat white and adorned with copper chains, greened with rust. The oldest did pontificate, Gottio by name, deep pulls and release of the pipe between his sentences, the clank of silver on silver as he spoke reassuring to all born to love the presence of precious metal.

“May we all be deserved in hall revered," Gottio clanked and intoned. "Quick hands to quick refund of fate, against quick situation turned against us all. Folks of taller nature and lesser solidarity in blood may have found themselves strangers in the moment. We found ourselves as comrades, as is right by minerals. May the mountain preserve us despite the working of the weaver who hates us, collateral damage or no, give us stone and we shall lay our foundation within and upon.”

Nods, and further words incanted.

“May we all be deserved in hall revered.”

The butchering continued, more words from Balik, who worked the knife and word.

“Pray more bounties of blubber and meat come trundling through the sleet and provide us fuel. I dare not think how long the embers will keep us shy from shiverings. Keep what hatchets you hold fresh for chopping and hurling at solo stampeding bleaters. Don't think I could stomach a gift from the mountain leavin us if we were dull to seizing. Think of 'em as gold silt, let not your eyes be gloomed. Hear a cloven hoof? Let us be worthy to cause red ribbon.”

Waltz, who hunched over the circle of stones that did encase the sufficient flame, did set a piston to moving upon his wrist mounted device. A green flame slow did creep into the heart of the heat, and danced alchemically away. Standing, he did give sigh, speaking as he lit his own cigar, tight wrapped and diminutive in contrast with Gottio's impliment. Waltz's cigar chewed often and smoked thinly shrewd. He gave report as best he witnessed it, offering small frowns as his cigar struggled, as if shamed by Gottio's wide slow burn.

Waltz spoke on, cigar chomping, feet stamping to restore feeling.

“With some reagents of ignition, some good cover through our tarps cornered so, with blubber stoking my fuel injectors with organic fuels, we can survive a better part of a half day I do calculate crude like 'fore we need act again. My brew to keep the cold at bay, and our throats in speaking order will be rationed. Fret not. The patience of rock to guide us to our duty to separate ways.”

Nods from all.

And a space in time given the sixth to speak their piece and place, and mayhap their name to encourage others to share their own.

@Zephetto Ston'Glum

 

[Zephetto Ston'Glum]

Curiosity was a fine tool on moments like this. First, the weather bared its fangs, and yet nature so giveth them a gift to warm them even for a small measure. Packed as he had come, there were a few things he could offer in the aid of such a situation. Having left his thrasher gear back at home, Zephetto had come with his basic heavy armor this time. A bit of a custom fit made for mining deeper and an improvement on survivability should there be a cave-in. Nevertheless, he paced the crag in which they camped, his fingers tracing damp stone from heat and cold.

Muttering beneath his breath, he weaved and explored the back wall, pick in hand just in case. More fuel would be needed; their time here was unknown, as their stock of food and supplies was limited. Thankfully, the snow would melt into fresh water granted by the land itself. Zeph had not taken any brew, he had drunk a liquid from his pouch which was used to slick on his armor. It set a fire in his gut, warming his body to the point that his steaming green eyes flickered left and right as he listened to the stone.

Smirking, the stone whispered as he reached further back. He did not hesitate, taking a stance, he swung. Sparks flew as the stone cracked under the force. Several more solid thumps, the crag floor shuddered, but did not lose stability. There was more behind this stone than the eye could see. Looking back, he offered them all a mere nod.

"She whispers there is more.. Amidst the storm and cold, the stone speaks that there is more to be found." Zephetto combed a bronze hand through a crimson, briaded beard. Offering it a slight tug, he stepped back, giving another strike, this time, more of the wall in the back cracked a bit. A gust of stale air was spat out, followed by a deep inhale through the small gap in the wall. Such a space could offer more cover, yet for now, it would be best to sit still and let the passage breathe. Whatever was in the space could be explored later on after some more rest time was given.

Taking the hide, he sat down and began cleaning the pelt to make it into a cloak of sorts for someone. Bones were set aside as his hands worked with ease, taking the discarded corpse, he cleared the skull and popped out the horns. Setting them aside, he hummed to himself lightly. "I reckon, there will be much good to come once this weather lets up.. I trust that the mountain will provide us all that we need, kinfolk. We need only do what we always have and step forward with faith." Reaching into his pouch, he produced the same fiery liquid he had drunk to warm himself. To those who knew of the Thrasher fighters, they would recognize the symbol on his pouch.

A remedy and work of ointment for the gear to prevent the sticking. Scarred hands worked swiftly as he put the bones to the flames to burn in place of the carved-off fat. Wrinkling his nose, he saved himself a small bone to chew on in the meantime; he wanted the marrow from its core. Looking from one to another, they each seemed to one each other, yet Zephetto had not known them. Still sitting with them felt like a reunion of bonds unspoken. "Zephetto be my name, it be a great pleasure to be traveling with you.."

@Ingenieur Waltz

 

[Ingenieur Waltz]

The others who had known each other in quick passing or long slow work in their years did each nod in respect to Zephetto's introduction, the mention of the stone speaking and being heard did their bolster their values well. The fires crackled as the winds did howl, and many runefolks were about their pipes as their bade their wisdom learn, their eyes glimmering with the fire before them, by the glowing of their pipes. It was Balik who placed down chopping implement and quaffing instrument to grow closer to Zephetto, and in passing looked to Ludis, who was pawing at protective tube to his myriad of maps did understand the need. Ludis rose and placed his palm to heft of sword, short and stubbed, manoeuvrable and agile as the Runefolk himself.

Balik planted a hand on their shoulder in comradery as Balik did move to the whispering stone, introducing himself as he surveyed what Zephetto spoke of.

“Well met Zephetto, I'm Balik. I know how to sustain a stomach so that it might fuel a cause rightly. And more besides. If you be finding a cause to strike the earth about, well. Once this weather passes we can lend what is ours to your listenin' and searchin'.”

Balik knew of food more than he did of prospecting for what bounty the mountain did hold within it.

Ludis moved his boots uncomfortably, shifting his weight as he peered through the swathes of movement within the blizzard, their orange eyes fiercely fighting the white noise for further foods. Further dangers, or hint that the blizzard was abating in any way.

The campfire issued out it's smoke, and Gottio with his age and vast smoking pipe did challenge the campfire to issue as much smoke as he did with his last pull and release. He added to Zephetto's comment, the sound of his voice like rocks rolling at the bottom of an oak barrel, punctuated by his teeth of metal lashing against themselves.

“This mountain shifts within itself these last few months. There is indeed more to be found as you say, Zephetto. The name carved upon me is Gottio. Perhaps the mountain provided us this blizzard so we would gather so. To attend it's need to unearth the precious from itself.”

The one who drank deep, who had taken the fleeing goat thing into camp nodded. Smacked their lips and found their voice returning, found sensation creeping back where ice had clung and bitten. His silver hair showing sign of turning white as Gottio's, not yet not there by decades.

“I'm Morris, and I say this weather be freakish, aye?”

Gottis did not care to argue. Another pull of smoke, rumination and listening to the group. Mottis drank the warming drink that had been given by Waltz, and held back a sneeze.

Ludis stamped his feet, eyes still peering, appearing beset by fidgeting in his quick redressing boot prints.

Waltz had finished tending to the fire, placing stone to radiate warmths within it, sealing engineered feed lines of copper to make the most of the heat to power their needs to come. He came to Balik and Zephetto, regarding the sheet of the mountain that Zephetto spoke on. Waltz chomped at the cigar, the flame firmly dead for quick sideswipe of air as if it meant to deny him. Waltz seemed unfettered by this.

“Zephetto, you said the mountain provides, well,” Waltz said, and turned his wrist and did turn cogs upon it to shift it's attention from thermal ears to deep rock hearing, his eyes on the marks of the pick Zephetto had struck. The wrist device did flick flick with internal clicking, sensing something of note in simple understandings. “I dare say you're right, real right.”

Waltz turned eyes from his wrist born device, the sign of an Imgenieur, someone well versed in the meld of magitech devices to their proper function, and many more fundamentals of the physical was within his intellect. He pressed a gloved hand into Zephetto's hand and shoot firm once, the handshake of the labourer, the hammerer, the quick thinking solid grip of one who enjoyed fellows at a project.

“I'm Ingenieur Waltz, and while I don't have your ears to hear the stone, I can tell you that there's something beyond for sure. What the mountain didn't give me in instinct, I did earn by learning. And reading,” Waltz said, and made a gesture with his arm to show off his wrist born instrument. He tapped a single panel, which held a holding pattern of flickering greens and oranges, a blend of Zephetto's own eye colour and Ludis'.

“You see, what this here tool of the trade is saying about your finding, is that there's an overwhelming lurking of-,” Waltz said, before he was interrupted.

A sharp yelp of cursing, a flurry of feet retreating from the cold from Ludis. The perimeter abandoned for need of the fire, more curses from Ludis in oath marking the painful occasion.

Gottis inquired, tobacco horn placed down for nearing the grip to his hammers. No suddenness in his movement, but efficent duty to the alarm in Ludis' voice. “What is it lad?”

Ludis put his boots as near as he dared to the fire. Saw that the heating impliment that Waltz placed down was a safer place and more efficent for quick warming.

“It's the weave! I've had my feet itch when there was casting around, but never biting! Something be building fierce, something stronger than frostbite, damn and foresake it, I can't stand this! It's getting closer, more insistent, I'm telling you, this blizzard is against us!”

Mottis made to stand, refused to give in the frost still against him. Spat out a furthering of his earlier comment. “Freakish weather, made by some weaving bastard! I won't let him, I won't be made frozen by someone who's never gripped a weapon! We must sally out!”

Gottis pondered, calm as the statue he was a few decades yet from becoming. Balik moved back to the campfire, to tidy his effects and be reading for some kind of direction or action, leaving Waltz and Zephetto to their talking. The rest of the Runefolk were becoming more animated, the blizzard growing as insistent as a marching army shaking the ground in approaching battle lines, the rest consuming in quick grumbling debate.

Waltz looked to Zephetto, serious and rapid in his talking.

“Listen, if there's a weaver out there sending this blizzard against us, I'd much rather seek refuge deeper. If we do fight 'em, we don't fight in the elements, where they can end us with exposure. We fight within, with what we know, on our terms, in the rock. And I know your ears are telling you true. We can tunnel through this,” he gestured at the sheet quick struck by Zephetto's pick, “we have the means. I have the tools, I'm an Ingenieur, this can be done. This lot,” he thumbed to the others quick gathering their weapons and speaking on taking down weavers, “they're more warriors than miners, but we can convince 'em fighting whoever is weaving in their element aint as good as fighting in ours, and unearthing what's below is a bonus. And, there is something rich below, something that I aint even seen readings for. What say you Zephetto? Can you convince 'em?”

Waltz smiled devilish and challenging, the prospect of setting his tools to blasting the rock far better in his mind that trying to fend against someone who beset the howling winds from afar.

And those howling winds were gaining motes of scowling growling malice of someone who did scan their winds for hint of the very thing that Zephetto had heard whispering, below, below.

@Zephetto Ston'Glum

 

[Zephetto Ston'Glum]

“Well met Zephetto, I'm Balik. I know how to sustain a stomach so that it might fuel a cause rightly. And more besides. If you be finding a cause to strike the earth about, well. Once this weather passes we can lend what is ours to your listenin' and searchin'.”

Smirking Zephetto chuckled in acknowledgement of Balik's words. His chest swelled with excitement and pride. To be offered such a Boon was no joke.

"You honor me greatly Balik. I shall not forget this. A full belly and adventure are always best spent in company."

“This mountain shifts within itself these last few months. There is indeed more to be found as you say, Zephetto. The name carved upon me is Gottio. Perhaps the mountain provided us this blizzard so we would gather so. To attend it's need to unearth the precious from itself.”

Turning, he faced Gottio, bowing his own head in acknowledgement. A look of merriment played across Zephetto's face at Gottios words. Poetic in their own right, the youth could not help but agree that the fates had conspired to bring them together.

"Ahh, Now yah done it and cracked the stone wide op'n! Now we get to the meat and potatoes of it, aye? I dare say Gottio, what have you got in that pipe?" he chuckled with a twinkle in his eye.

The one who drank deep, who had taken the fleeing goat thing into camp nodded. Smacked their lips and found their voice returning, found sensation creeping back where ice had clung and bitten. His silver hair showing sign of turning white as Gottio's, not yet not there by decades.

“I'm Morris, and I say this weather be freakish, aye?”

"I agree, tis like finding iron among diamonds." Rubbing his beard slowly, Zephetto mused about the Mottis and his drink. It was all coming together a bit at a time; each member was a necessary piece to a party's survival in their own way.

“Zephetto, you said the mountain provides, well,” Waltz said, and turned his wrist and did turn cogs upon it to shift it's attention from thermal ears to deep rock hearing, his eyes on the marks of the pick Zephetto had struck. The wrist device did flick flick with internal clicking, sensing something of note in simple understandings. “I dare say you're right, real right.”

Turning to look at Waltz, his face broke into a huge smile. Giving a solid thumbs up to Waltz, Zephetto zoned in, thinking about what might be found below. Truly, this was a present unto them all. Yet when Waltz shook his hand, the connection was made. Shaking, the excitement could barely be contained as he jumped high and clicked his heels.

“I'm Ingenieur Waltz, and while I don't have your ears to hear the stone, I can tell you that there's something beyond for sure. What the mountain didn't give me in instinct, I did earn by learning. And reading,” Waltz said, and made a gesture with his arm to show off his wrist born instrument. He tapped a single panel, which held a holding pattern of flickering greens and oranges, a blend of Zephetto's own eye colour and Ludis'.

"Thank you so much for confirming Waltz! You're a bright bulb! Your gadgets do fascinate me, my colleague. I would love to hear about your own studies and how you work with your gizmos." Zephetto eyed Waltz's arm with curiosity mixed with wonder all in one. Fingers glided over the device but did not touch.

Just as Waltz began to explain, his attention snapped towards the front. Ludis looked relatively chilled from the perimeter. Wiggling his toes, all he could do was listen to the group talk alongside Waltz. Fighting outdoors was already a bad call, a severe disadvantage. Wrinkling his nose, Waltz spoke again of a plan and a mission given! Nodding curtly, Zephetto took up his spiked thrasher helm. Stepping before the other three, he eyed them firmly.

"Comrades, I hear the metal of your hearts ring for combat. Yes, it is our nature to confront the enemy. Especially these weaver folks, yet when did we abandon our natural advantage for anger aye? You want to fight em! Then we bring 'em to our cage! Our home where we fight toe to toe! This way, we may look them in the eye as we folk do. Unbreakable and unyielding, we shall fall upon them hammer to anvil. I say, just wait and let us make ready! Further in more secure!" Zeph stood before them, arms wide and head bowed low, and the many notches and dents in the spiked helm became more visible.

"That aside, behind you, beyond! There is something within this mountain. A precious of our own to be unearthed within. Even Waltz has seen nothing like it before! Have ye not had many wondrous adventures when Waltz finds a new mystery! Let's share in both victory and discovery. When the weaver comes within, I will fight at the front with yah.."

Pointing with one hand, he gestured for them to turn about. As he had done many a time before, fully clad and messy.

@Ingenieur Waltz