(OOC NOTE: One week has elapsed since the last post at Wulder's Hall. Both Witege and Kælin have been busy at Weyland's Smithy.)


From the bright morning, I enter the Great Hall and allow my eyes to accustom themselves to the relative dimness inside. Wulder sits in conversation with Beowulf and a small band of warriors. I wait a polite ten paces from his seat until it is obvious that they are finished with their exchange of words. Finally, they finish with the business at hand and Wulder looks up with an anticipatory grin. He signs for me to approach, then nods toward a darkened corner.

Kælin emerges from the shadows carrying a blade which is near as tall as himself. An unlovely thing it is, all hard and cold, gray iron. In contrast, the edge is keen and bright, having just been honed this very morning. It is a plain and serviceable weapon, as opposed to my own creation, which could be hung on the wall for a decoration. Before Kælin can reach the high seat, I unsling my weeks work and, kneeling, lay it at my liege lord's feet. Wulder accepts my offering and slides the blade smoothly from the scabbard. He runs a covetous finger over the designs.

"These are powerful magicks that you have worked into this!" he observes. He plucks a hair from his beard and drops it onto the edge. He smiles as one half of the hair drops to either side of the blade. With a smile, he slips the sword back into the scabbard and returns it to me. I take it and step back, to allow room for the Dwarf to approach.

"And what do you bring us, Kælin?" Wulder asks of the Bristling.

Kælin presents his offering, hilt-first, and Wulder lifts the heavy thing to upright with a single smooth movement. The blade is a good three or four spans longer than my own, and the thing must have near twice the weight He raps the flat of the blade with a knuckle and listens to the pure tone given off. Laying the blade horizontal, he repeats the test with another hair. The edge is keen but, If I were to guess, would not long remain so in a heavy fight. Seemingly satisfied, Wulder hands the blade back to Kælin. "Now!" he announces. "I would see a demonstration of these two weapons in action.

Neither of us were expecting such a request but, as a man of the north, I am always prepared for battle. Kælin steps back and swings his great blade through a series of arcs. Though heavy, the muscular Dwarf handles the thing well. I slip my sword from the scabbard and toss the latter aside. Tables are pushed aside to form a small arena, with the onlookers on the other side. Kælin rushes at me with a guttural roar, blade whirling in a figure of eight. There is no way I can stop the momentum of that slab of iron, so I nimbly dodge to one side and slip the blow down the length of my own blade. His point scrapes the flagstone floor in a shower of sparks, but he recovers immediately and dances backwards as my tip nicks a hole in his jerkin.

Since I am in no great hurry to have my head split, I let Kælin bring the battle to me, once again. Time and again, I use the leverage of weapon to deflect his attack. At each tremendous impact with the floor, I am expecting the Svartling blade to shatter. It does not happen, and my arm begins to tire from the warding of the blows. It is time to take the battle to the Dwarf. On his next mighty swing, I dodge and deflect as he has come to expect. However, instead of putting another notch in his vest as he retreats, I swing my sword in a great, overhanded blow to the base of his blade. The glowing chip from the notch this has created, flies the length of the room and lodges in the hand of an unfortunate spectator. The ringing of the impact is horrendous to all ears. Kælin recovers and whirls for another attack. This time, I strike the opposite edge of his blade. There is no ring! There is no spark! There is only a dull 'clunk', as blade and hilt part company.

Kælin throws the hilt on the floor beside the blade and curses mightily in the Dwarvish tongue. "You will have to teach me these 'magicks' of yours!" he exclaims, looking at my unmarred blade.

"That I will do," I reply evenly, "but at a price." I pause dramatically, to resheath my weapon. "The Forge and the Smithy are MINE! By right of inheritance and, now by right of conquest! You and yours will swear an oath, on your Grandfather's beard, that you and yours will work willingly for me and will not divulge the secrets to your brethren. If the pledge is broken, I vow that I will soon see seven Svartling heads as decorations for the door to the Smithy!"