73 Ash, 122
The season was growing late, and darkness had fallen over the land when Torin returned to his home. Despite the dangers he had wanted to be with the people he loved, so he'd asked Kala to send him back on one of her city's airships. The journey had been tense, but successful. The Whispers were set up in his well Negated basement, which was set up to act as a small apartment for them, just in case the shadow creatures came to attack their apartment. These enemies of unknown origin seemed to avoid the light cast by the Illumite lamps, so both were kept on and at their widest, brightest settings at all times now. The city streets were all but empty, except for the guardsmen and army reserves that had been called in to constantly patrol. Food was sold but from inside shops only, no more were the street markets selling all manor of goods. Guards were posted at all times outside any shop that had decided to keep its doors open for business, which at least made it easy to tell where you could go to buy.
The shop that fronted Kilvin's forge was closed up tight. If anyone wanted to buy magical items at such a perilous time (not an unlikely prospect) they would have to send word or come knocking on the stout gate that allowed access to the yard and forges directly. Anyone coming to have an item made would find that he was already quite busy working on the last of the season's order for House Leukos, and on one or two private projects. So, technically, he was still working, but he wouldn't let Timon sit in his customary place in the shop, and he had had a stout beam bar installed to keep the solid door closed. The fence already had a solid bar, not to mention that Aurin had been using it to practice now that the basement was well in hand. Hopefully the combination of the magical wards and the light of the lamps would encourage any shadow fiends to search elsewhere for easier prey.
The thought made Torin shudder, for he could not stomach the idea of the things he'd fought in Starfall falling upon his neighbors. His widened sense of Semblance was on high alert to the lifeforce of all those lives he'd grown used to having nestled in the furthest back parts of his mind. Should any of them waver he was prepared to call the guards attention to it, and, if needed, take up his polearm and one of the lamps and fight the creatures off himself. With that in mind he had quickly designed a harness that would allow him to wear one of the lamps, leaving both his hands free to defend himself and others.
Timon was under strict instructions not to leave the fenced in property without Torin, Aurin, or Sivan accompanying him. The rule would be expanded to include Kala and Kaus, should they return before the end of the troubles... if they were to end. If this was just the new reality, well, there would be a lot of trade for the Illumite Starfall provided, and for Torin's lamps. Perhaps, eventually, whoever ended up ruling the city state would commission runesmiths to make beacons of the largest of the sun dragonshards to cover the whole city so life could return to a semblance of normality. That life would go on, that sentient folk would find a way to continue was never something Torin really questioned. In the village where he'd grown up hardship and setbacks were commonplace, expected and adjusted to as best as could be. A prolonged eclipse that spawned creatures that couldn't be harmed unless they were attacked within the light of suns stones were no worse than a blighted crop or a swarm of locusts, and, in some ways, easier to defend against.
These were the thoughts that accompanied the smith to the forge where sat a neatly folded and carefully packaged length of the finest linen gold could buy in Kalzasi or its surrounding fiefdoms. With the future uncertain and practicality yet again rolling over to crush luxury Torin was attempting to give his friends a little of both in the wake of such tumult. Cloth of Comfort would protect them from weather of any kind, should they have to flee the city, keep them warm and at ease should they have to sleep out under the stars with little more than their clothing to see them through. The creation of the garments themselves he would leave up to the ones who he was gifting the miraculous fabric (and paying an excellent tailor to make to their specifications), but for his part, and he suspected most of the others, a cloak would be the shape the final product took. Enough to wrap around his whole body, with enough glamour magic seeped into the very threads that the wearer could adjust the cut, style, and color to their preferences. Kala might choose to have hers as a shirt, dress, or other garment and Torin would not question her choice, might not even be aware of it should she choose a more personal piece of attire. The choice of cloak was more for how it would feel; the protection would be gained regardless, but pulling a hood up against the rain or cold felt natural, as did wrapping the long sides about yourself as you fell asleep. The cloth would also be toughened to turn blades and at least partially absorb the impact of a blunt attack, intentional or accidental. It would not be as strong as Aurin's bracers, but it would also be active at all times. The project would take him more than one season, and if he wanted the gifts to be ready for the celebration of the new year (if there was any kind of celebration that year) he needed to begin now.
The fabric he had ordered to be made specially, woven exclusively for him, but in a large enough quantity to make it worth the time of the weaver. It had taken months on its own, but it had been delivered at last. He could have gone with silk, but a silk cloak always drew attention, a plainly cut linen one was something even a poor shopkeeper or tradesman could afford, a finely cut and designed one with a high quality fabric was not uncommonly seen on the shoulders of lords and ladies. Versatility was the goal in every aspect of the creation, even before he'd gotten his hands on it. Making the fabric was a well known technique, though few attempted it without a noble patron's request, and he did wonder if it had ever been made from linen, even so fine as this, before.
The magic for the Comfort enchantment would come from himself and from the raw, refined aether of atherite transformed into vicerite. The magic for the protection and the glamour would come from Aurin, who was as much helping in his forge now as Renault or Sivan, though each had their own specialties. Thus Aurin would know what was being made, but, probably everyone would before the New Year, seeing as nearly everyone he was making the gifts for was in and out of the forges at least several times a week, if not every day. That would be alright, the pieces would be a master work in a way nothing Torin had yet made were and sometimes knowing you were going to get something was better in anticipation than the brief, flash-pan joy of a surprise.
Carefully, work roughened hands untied the strings holding closed the waxed wrapping that kept the cloth from any damage while it had been transported. The urge to pull the whole length of lovely fabric out so that he could run his hands over the softness was suppressed, he would only get it dirty in his forges if he did so before the magic that would keep it always clean and impervious to any tear or wear was instilled. He let his eyes observe what he uncovered for a minute, admiring the weave before taking it off the marble workbench and carefully placing the whole bundle, sands the wrapping, into the runeforge. He had carefully cleaned the inside, not wanting any form of mar or blemish to mark out the cloaks even if he could give himself the one with whatever damage. It wasn't as though the aether forge was like a blacksmith's one, so it hadn't actually been dirty, but, for this, he would take all the extra care he could think of.
When the many yards of fabric were placed just how he wanted them he closed the main door of the forge and spent some time examining what lay inside through his Semblance. When he concentrated with his rune the bubble of his awareness narrowed down to the size of whatever he was studying. Understanding the true nature of the raw materials (or worked material, in this case) was vital to him being able to adjust it, mold its essence to hold the massive amount of aether that he would soon begin pouring into it.
When the smith was satisfied he stepped back, retrieving tools from where they hung in their places above his workbench, tongs to pull the vicerite from the kiln, and smaller, more delicate implements to begin the weaving of magic into the woven threads. It would be a long, difficult road to achieve the end product he envisioned, but he felt ready for it, in a way he hadn't been any time he'd set out to create something new to him before. It might have been the men and women who he could not accept loved and respected him, it might have been the knowledge that he was coming fully into the promise that had lain on him like a weighted mantel all his remembered life, or it might have just been that he now felt like the man people saw him as. Whichever, or all three, as he began to pour the vicerite through the opening in the forge, down to be soaked in by what it cradled, a smile graced his face, and a sense (despite the darkness and dangers assailing the city) of rightness suffused him as the magic suffused his goal.
The season was growing late, and darkness had fallen over the land when Torin returned to his home. Despite the dangers he had wanted to be with the people he loved, so he'd asked Kala to send him back on one of her city's airships. The journey had been tense, but successful. The Whispers were set up in his well Negated basement, which was set up to act as a small apartment for them, just in case the shadow creatures came to attack their apartment. These enemies of unknown origin seemed to avoid the light cast by the Illumite lamps, so both were kept on and at their widest, brightest settings at all times now. The city streets were all but empty, except for the guardsmen and army reserves that had been called in to constantly patrol. Food was sold but from inside shops only, no more were the street markets selling all manor of goods. Guards were posted at all times outside any shop that had decided to keep its doors open for business, which at least made it easy to tell where you could go to buy.
The shop that fronted Kilvin's forge was closed up tight. If anyone wanted to buy magical items at such a perilous time (not an unlikely prospect) they would have to send word or come knocking on the stout gate that allowed access to the yard and forges directly. Anyone coming to have an item made would find that he was already quite busy working on the last of the season's order for House Leukos, and on one or two private projects. So, technically, he was still working, but he wouldn't let Timon sit in his customary place in the shop, and he had had a stout beam bar installed to keep the solid door closed. The fence already had a solid bar, not to mention that Aurin had been using it to practice now that the basement was well in hand. Hopefully the combination of the magical wards and the light of the lamps would encourage any shadow fiends to search elsewhere for easier prey.
The thought made Torin shudder, for he could not stomach the idea of the things he'd fought in Starfall falling upon his neighbors. His widened sense of Semblance was on high alert to the lifeforce of all those lives he'd grown used to having nestled in the furthest back parts of his mind. Should any of them waver he was prepared to call the guards attention to it, and, if needed, take up his polearm and one of the lamps and fight the creatures off himself. With that in mind he had quickly designed a harness that would allow him to wear one of the lamps, leaving both his hands free to defend himself and others.
Timon was under strict instructions not to leave the fenced in property without Torin, Aurin, or Sivan accompanying him. The rule would be expanded to include Kala and Kaus, should they return before the end of the troubles... if they were to end. If this was just the new reality, well, there would be a lot of trade for the Illumite Starfall provided, and for Torin's lamps. Perhaps, eventually, whoever ended up ruling the city state would commission runesmiths to make beacons of the largest of the sun dragonshards to cover the whole city so life could return to a semblance of normality. That life would go on, that sentient folk would find a way to continue was never something Torin really questioned. In the village where he'd grown up hardship and setbacks were commonplace, expected and adjusted to as best as could be. A prolonged eclipse that spawned creatures that couldn't be harmed unless they were attacked within the light of suns stones were no worse than a blighted crop or a swarm of locusts, and, in some ways, easier to defend against.
These were the thoughts that accompanied the smith to the forge where sat a neatly folded and carefully packaged length of the finest linen gold could buy in Kalzasi or its surrounding fiefdoms. With the future uncertain and practicality yet again rolling over to crush luxury Torin was attempting to give his friends a little of both in the wake of such tumult. Cloth of Comfort would protect them from weather of any kind, should they have to flee the city, keep them warm and at ease should they have to sleep out under the stars with little more than their clothing to see them through. The creation of the garments themselves he would leave up to the ones who he was gifting the miraculous fabric (and paying an excellent tailor to make to their specifications), but for his part, and he suspected most of the others, a cloak would be the shape the final product took. Enough to wrap around his whole body, with enough glamour magic seeped into the very threads that the wearer could adjust the cut, style, and color to their preferences. Kala might choose to have hers as a shirt, dress, or other garment and Torin would not question her choice, might not even be aware of it should she choose a more personal piece of attire. The choice of cloak was more for how it would feel; the protection would be gained regardless, but pulling a hood up against the rain or cold felt natural, as did wrapping the long sides about yourself as you fell asleep. The cloth would also be toughened to turn blades and at least partially absorb the impact of a blunt attack, intentional or accidental. It would not be as strong as Aurin's bracers, but it would also be active at all times. The project would take him more than one season, and if he wanted the gifts to be ready for the celebration of the new year (if there was any kind of celebration that year) he needed to begin now.
The fabric he had ordered to be made specially, woven exclusively for him, but in a large enough quantity to make it worth the time of the weaver. It had taken months on its own, but it had been delivered at last. He could have gone with silk, but a silk cloak always drew attention, a plainly cut linen one was something even a poor shopkeeper or tradesman could afford, a finely cut and designed one with a high quality fabric was not uncommonly seen on the shoulders of lords and ladies. Versatility was the goal in every aspect of the creation, even before he'd gotten his hands on it. Making the fabric was a well known technique, though few attempted it without a noble patron's request, and he did wonder if it had ever been made from linen, even so fine as this, before.
The magic for the Comfort enchantment would come from himself and from the raw, refined aether of atherite transformed into vicerite. The magic for the protection and the glamour would come from Aurin, who was as much helping in his forge now as Renault or Sivan, though each had their own specialties. Thus Aurin would know what was being made, but, probably everyone would before the New Year, seeing as nearly everyone he was making the gifts for was in and out of the forges at least several times a week, if not every day. That would be alright, the pieces would be a master work in a way nothing Torin had yet made were and sometimes knowing you were going to get something was better in anticipation than the brief, flash-pan joy of a surprise.
Carefully, work roughened hands untied the strings holding closed the waxed wrapping that kept the cloth from any damage while it had been transported. The urge to pull the whole length of lovely fabric out so that he could run his hands over the softness was suppressed, he would only get it dirty in his forges if he did so before the magic that would keep it always clean and impervious to any tear or wear was instilled. He let his eyes observe what he uncovered for a minute, admiring the weave before taking it off the marble workbench and carefully placing the whole bundle, sands the wrapping, into the runeforge. He had carefully cleaned the inside, not wanting any form of mar or blemish to mark out the cloaks even if he could give himself the one with whatever damage. It wasn't as though the aether forge was like a blacksmith's one, so it hadn't actually been dirty, but, for this, he would take all the extra care he could think of.
When the many yards of fabric were placed just how he wanted them he closed the main door of the forge and spent some time examining what lay inside through his Semblance. When he concentrated with his rune the bubble of his awareness narrowed down to the size of whatever he was studying. Understanding the true nature of the raw materials (or worked material, in this case) was vital to him being able to adjust it, mold its essence to hold the massive amount of aether that he would soon begin pouring into it.
When the smith was satisfied he stepped back, retrieving tools from where they hung in their places above his workbench, tongs to pull the vicerite from the kiln, and smaller, more delicate implements to begin the weaving of magic into the woven threads. It would be a long, difficult road to achieve the end product he envisioned, but he felt ready for it, in a way he hadn't been any time he'd set out to create something new to him before. It might have been the men and women who he could not accept loved and respected him, it might have been the knowledge that he was coming fully into the promise that had lain on him like a weighted mantel all his remembered life, or it might have just been that he now felt like the man people saw him as. Whichever, or all three, as he began to pour the vicerite through the opening in the forge, down to be soaked in by what it cradled, a smile graced his face, and a sense (despite the darkness and dangers assailing the city) of rightness suffused him as the magic suffused his goal.