“Do you know why the Goddess is so interested in you?” Gethin asks, “She seems to have taken a personal interest in you.”
“Aside from what we were able to carry out, you mean? I suspect she knows about the pact that was made,” Emlyn shrugs. “When we were in the Reaches, standing in the ruins of Midir’s home, we made a pact to seek vengeance and end Rigan’s reign of terror. Part of that pact was that each of us would teach the other three the secrets of their Houses. With our Houses destroyed, keeping those things a secret seemed… wasteful since we had no way of knowing which of us might be able to strike. Not knowing who might get some slim chance, it seemed prudent to ensure that no matter which one of us got the chance, that person would have the benefit of every trick of combat and battle that we knew. Collectively, it’s quite a lot. Not only am I heir to everything Melfyn and my father taught us, but everything that Gwladus, Midir, and Neit’s Houses all knew as well. Four of the greatest of the Great Houses of the Cymry that honed their battle skills over more generations than I can count.”
Gethin sits there, mind reeling at the implications, while Emlyn continues, “Had any of them survived, we’d have founded a new House and called all the surviving Cymry to our banner, but now there is only me. I have no suitable mate to found a new House with. So Rigan has killed the Cymry twice over. Now do you see why I say his death was far too easy for what he’s done?”
“Surely you could still do that,” Gethin says, “There should be some Cymry left still.”
“None of anything near my status,” Emlyn shakes her head, “We searched extensively, but we were, as far as we could tell, the last of the Great Houses. We wanted to find other allies for our fight against Rigan. Even younger third or fourth children would have been a help. In all my searching, you are the only other one I have come across. Even so, you aren’t suitable either since you were injured and never reached your full status.”
“I am,” Gethin chuckles, “a bit old to become a father now. Surely some of us must have escaped?”
“Perhaps so,” Emlyn shrugs, “There was a persistent rumor that the king paid a mage to open a portal and send the Royal House and many of the other Houses through it. I sincerely hope that this is why we were unable to find them: that they fled our world for a safer place. However, if the piles of bones are any indication, they are long gone, and not through some portal. Even if the Great Houses have fled, with so few of them left, this alone will bring about great change. There will have to be a great many marriages outside the Cymry, or the Houses will become inbred in no more than a handful of generations. Bringing in that many outsiders that quickly will change the Cymry. Who knows how many of our customs will alter or disappear because of it? If I am correct, even our language will change a lot in the space of a hand of generations.”
Gethin sits there, pale and shaken by her account, and Ember nudges him ‘What has she said that’s upset you so?”
Gethin recounts her story. “A whole people…just…gone,” Ember says aghast, “because their god went mad and slaughtered them. No wonder you asked for your vows to be modified. We assumed it was arrogance or a way to weasel out of your vows if they become inconvenient, but in light of this…”
Frowning at Ember, Emlyn says darkly, “I. Do. Not. Weasel. I will not be subjected to another lunatic deity, either.”
“If even half of this is true,” Ember muses, “it would explain the Goddess’s interest in you.”
“It is all true—every word of it. Bring me my blades, and they will tell you the truth of it themselves. Between them, they have been with me since we returned from fulfilling Rigan’s edict. Or ask your Goddess.”
“Benger mentioned your insignia,” Ember says, “when the two of you sparred during your dream. Just how highly ranked were you?”
“Second Awst,” Emlyn smirks.
“At your age?” Gethin says, “Surely you exaggerate.”
“I do not,” Emlyn says flatly, “I earned that position by defeating everyone else, but the First Awst and the Geward Awst himself both in individual combat and melee. I would have displaced the First Awst, too, but we struck a deal. He was planning to retire when the next rainy season came, and he promised to name me as his replacement. How do you think I came to be more tattooed than most of my own House? You must have seen my parents’ tattoos at some point. I believe that you attended their wedding. You know quite well that my tattoo is more extensive since I was able to earn rank and status outside my own House.”
“But why would you go to that much trouble?” Gethin asks her.
“Because,” Emlyn shrugs, “I wanted more of a life than a pampered broodmare whose sole reason for existing is simply squeezing out more children. I wanted more than that for my sisters, too. Increasing my status was one of the simpler ways to shut many of the boys with those kinds of ideas out of contention for a position as my husband. I wanted a husband who saw me as more than a status symbol or quick influx of cash into a poor House. I wanted a husband who wanted me for who I am. Midir came closest to that. I’m fairly certain he followed me into Rigan’s service to remain near me, in hopes that I would choose him when the time came. Had everything not gone haywire, I might well have chosen him. We were always close, even as children...”
She trails off, looking wistful for a moment. After a moment, she refocuses herself. “Now, can I have my blades back?” Emlyn asks, “I really would like to confer with my father and grandfather. We have a great deal to discuss.”
“I will find out where they are,” Ember offers, “and return them to you.”
“Ask the Goddess,” Emlyn suggests, “since they were with me when she brought me here, she may know what has become of them.”
Gethin bows his head and begins to pray, “O Goddess, the girl is asking for her swords. She has asked us to find them. She is hoping that you might know what has happened to them so that they can be returned to her.”
Chuckling, the Goddess answers, “Of course I do. I sent them to the Temple Smiths to be reworked. They needed new hilts and scabbards, since they were burned almost as badly as she was. I think they’re almost ready. I wanted to give them back to her myself. A gift to welcome her.”
“She is most anxious to retrieve them,” Gethin prays, “She wants to confer with her father and grandfather. It appears that they are now housed within those blades. She’s been quite persistent about asking for them. I think that the healers feared giving them to her in case she harmed herself with them. I doubt that’s an issue with her. She’s been quite definite about wanting to live. Suicide now seems…unlikely. “
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“The smiths are telling me that the blades themselves have been kicking up a fuss,” the Goddess laughs, “Give me a moment. I’ll be along with them shortly. The scabbards aren’t finished yet, but they no longer need the blades to complete them. Had anyone mentioned she was asking for them, I would have had them returned to her sooner.”
Gethin looks at Emlyn, “It seems our Goddess has taken even more of a personal interest in you than we originally thought. She sent your blades to the smiths to be repaired. They were nearly as badly burned as you and in need of new hilts and new scabbards. She says to tell you that the blades themselves appear to be intact and have given the smiths quite a time. She says that the scabbards aren’t ready yet, but she’ll be along with the blades themselves shortly.”
Almost slumping with relief, Emlyn sighs, “Thank you. I have missed them so. They are all the family I have left.”
Deep inside the temple, one of the smiths is being harried to finish the wrappings on the hilt. The temple smithy pulses with heat and reverence, its air thick with the scent of soot, incense, and purpose. Situated far to the rear of the great stone temple, the chamber has no windows, only narrow slits in the vaulted ceiling that funnel smoke and whispered prayers to the gods of metal and war. The walls are obsidian-dark, covered in soot that no one’s ever bothered to clean.
The area is lit by an ever-burning brazier shaped like a flame-breathing hammer. Smithing stations line the perimeter, each an altar in its own right—an anvil flanked by prayer-stones, bellows carved with holy script, tools hung with care beneath icons of the Goddess of this place in her various aspects. In the center stands the Master Anvil, massive and rune-etched, set into the ground itself. Offerings of coal, oil, and raw metal are piled nearby in neatly arranged bins, each sorted by purity and use.
A basin of quenching water stands beside it, ringed with ash-covered stones—one for each vow taken by the temple’s smiths. Even the tools have been sanctified: Tongs are wrapped in cloth dyed with temple colors, and smiths wield hammers passed down through bloodlines of faithful artisans. Chants hum low and steady from unseen mouths, more rhythm than voice, blending with the hiss of hot steel and the roar of divine flame. Here, in this sacred forge, every strike of metal is a prayer—and every blade or shield, a blessing born in fire.
Lokrag strides through this, looking for his chief apprentice. “Benduri, get a move on with that wire wrapping,” Lokrag yells, “What in the name of Hades is taking so long? It’s just two sword hilts. How difficult can that be?”
“I am going as fast as I can. Since the Goddess herself commissioned the work,” Benduri explains, “I don’t want it to be sloppy. I want to do it right, but without the scabbards, it’s tricky. These things are razor sharp, and they seem to have a mind of their own. They slip around at the most awkward moments and… aaah….” Benduri gasps as the blade slips again, nearly cutting him.
“What else?” Lokrag asks, “You never take this long on something so simple. The hard part of building new hilts around what was left of the old ones is already done.”
“Well, you might think I’ve gone mad,” Benduri says slowly.
“Out with it,” Lokrag orders him, “If there’s some problem, I need to know.”
“They whisper to me,” Benduri says with a shiver, “and the more of the hilts I complete, the louder they seem to talk. Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m not the only one. I let Glammoth try a few wraps, and he can hear them, too. There’s something… unnatural about those blades.”
“Ignore it,” Lokrag orders, “and get them finished. The Goddess wants them now. The sooner you get them finished, the sooner they go back to their owner.”
“If it means we can get them out of here,” Benduri nods, “I’ll finish them as fast as I can.”
Benduri sits back down at his workbench and stares at the blades for a long moment. “I don’t know if you can hear me or not,” he says slowly, “If you’ll just cooperate with me a bit and let me finish up these new hilts, you can go back to your proper owner. I think we’ll all be happier when that happens. At least I know I will be.”
Benduri bends over his work, unspooling more of the carefully twisted silver wire and carefully wrapping the leather-covered hilts with the wire. This time, as he works, the swords seem cooperative. They don’t move until he’s ready to move them and they’ve stopped slipping about and almost cutting him. He’s finished in short order. “Lokrag, they’re done,” Benduri informs him, “You can tell the Goddess to pick them up any time.”
Sometime later, Emlyn is napping only to be awoken by something she can’t quite place. Sitting up, she looks around the room and spots the Goddess lounging in the corner of the room. “Ah... Good… You’re awake. I believe you have been asking for these,” the Goddess says, “I hope that the work is acceptable. They seemed to be important to you, so I asked the smiths to repair them. We were unable to determine the original colors. I wasn’t sure what colors you would choose, so I asked the smiths to use our temple colors. I hope that the work pleases you.”
“May I see them?” Emlyn says shyly.
"Here,” the Goddess offers her the blades, “I do hope you like them. I wanted to do something to welcome you among us. To let you know that we care for you. If you don’t like anything, we can change it.” Emlyn grabs the blades and nearly weeps with relief at having them back in her possession. “Look them over and tell me if anything needs to be changed,” the Goddess says quietly, “I asked them to build the new hilts over what was left of the old ones. I had them wrap the hilts in the best leather we have and to wrap them again with silver wire. Since we sometimes hunt infernals, it seemed like a logical precaution.”
Emlyn examines the blades closely and taps the golden guards with a fingernail, listening to the sound. “Gold is much too soft to be useful,” Emlyn says, “but these don’t sound like gold. Are they plated?”
“Not precisely,” the Goddess replies, “it’s something of my devising. It’s stronger than steel but doesn’t rust. It won’t scratch or dent. Just clean it with soap and water. These bits were left over from some things I made before The Conflict, when magic was stronger. I had been saving them for something… special. That seems to be you. I’d have brought them back sooner had I known you were asking for them. I was going to present them to you once the scabbards were finished. I didn’t mean to cause you any distress. I wanted to give you a present.”
Teary-eyed, Emlyn looks at the Goddess and bows formally, “They are quite beautiful. The smiths who did this seemed to be skilled in their craft. There isn’t even a strand of wire out of place on the wrapping.” Wrapping her hands around the hilts, she senses both her father and her grandfather. Tears streaming now, she bows again to the Goddess, “If you would be so kind as to excuse me.”
“Of course, child,” the Goddess says, “Take your time with them. I am certain that it will be a reunion for all of you.” Before Emlyn can respond, the Goddess fades from view.
Melfyn is the first to speak, “Terwyn, I told you that our girl would survive. And here she is.”
“Emlyn,” Terwyn says, “is that truly you?”
“Of course, it is, Father,” Emlyn replies, “but I have a lot of things to discuss with both of you. I wish Mama were here. She’d know what to do, but she’s not, so you two will have to fill her shoes. I can try to find a mate among the Cymry, but I don’t think I can find anyone even close to my status. I can see if I can find someone suitable here, wherever that may be. They will not be Cymry. I know I have a duty to rebuild my House, but there are no good choices, so I am left trying to decide which one is less bad. If he is Cymry, then he will at least have some understanding of what is expected of him. If he is not, the children might well be stronger. So, what should I do?”
Melfyn roars with laughter while Terwyn splutters. Finally, Melfyn calms enough to reply, “Lovely Emlyn, if you are correct then the House is not an issue to consider just now. We need to get you back on your feet as quickly as possible. If they came for you right now, you can’t defend yourself. How far can you walk now?”
“Only six steps,” Emlyn admits, “before I have to turn around and come back.”
“Then tomorrow we try for seven,” Melfyn tells her, “And once you have done seven for three days in a row, we try for eight.”
“What are you eating?” Melfyn asks.
“Whatever they bring me,” Emlyn replies, “but not all that well. Certainly not like you and Nana taught us to eat.”
“Let the soft city people have their soft city meat,” Melfyn says, “Have them bring you elk, deer, bison, whatever the hunters get that’s been running wild and eating as it should. Get some fresh fruit and vegetables. If it’s the same form the Gods created it in, then eat it. Otherwise, it’s not feeding you so that you can heal. City people tend to overcook things. Magic isn’t the only way to heal, you know.”
“I know, Grandfather. You and Nana taught us well,” Emlyn sighs, “I will ask to see what they can do.”
Emlyn continues conferring with her father and grandfather for quite some time before she falls asleep, still clutching her blades. The next morning, Vanya finds her still sleeping, clutching her blades, and chuckles to herself. Vanya’s chuckle wakes Emlyn, “Come on, sleepy head. I have a treat for you today. Benger is coming to take you out to the gardens. Let’s get you presentable. I had one of the acolytes go shopping so you’ve got something to wear besides hand-me-downs for your first public appearance.”
- Emlyn’s lost people, lost Houses, and the consequences of a mad god continue to unfold.
- Her true rank—Second Awst—is revealed, stunning even Gethin and Ember.
- She describes her ambitions, her near?betrothal, and her refusal to be anyone’s “pampered broodmare.”
- The Goddess herself steps in, revealing the blades have been repaired with divine materials—stronger than steel and ageless.
- In the temple forge, the smiths struggle hilariously (and fearfully) with blades that whisper and wiggle until they cooperate.
- Emlyn reunites with her swords in a scene both emotional and reverent.
- The Goddess admits she intended the blades as a welcome gift.
- And for once—Benger remains safely offstage.
Coins:
Last total was 275 coppers.
Add +10 coppers for divine smithing, emotional resonance, and blades with personality.
New Total: 285 coppers
Random Object:
A silver wire twist leftover from the hilt—still faintly humming, as if it remembers the blades it once touched.
Snips the Crab:
Snips arrives with:
- A tiny blacksmith’s apron
- A miniature hammer (for "helping"—gods help us all)
- A sliver of divine gold?not?gold strapped to his shell like enchanted armor
He strikes anvil?poses. It’s adorable and mildly dangerous.
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