Archive for the ‘Northern Gor’ Category
North Cove
Friday, June 10th, 2016
Torvaldsland
Tuesday, March 1st, 2016
[16:28] Petra Weksler (Petra) had returned to her work. She picked the censer out of the bucket, still smoking and waved it back and forth in small movements before the opening of the hive, calming the bees so she could harvest the honey without being stung, at least, without being stung too much. She kept her ears open to try and hear what was spoken, even as she lifted the top of hive to begin pulling the honey dripping frames, one by one, shaking the slow moving bees off them and then dropping them into the bucket that sat at her feet, you know, the one that the censer had been sitting in. Hearing the squeak coming from the long grass, she glanced over, paused her work long enough to pinch off just a small corner of honeycomb and tossed it toward the snow lart, hoping to tempt it a little with the sweet chew. She didn’t react at all to the Jarl directing the merchant to another man, simply continuing with her work, though she strained her ears to hear, glancing over when mead was mentioned. (…)
[16:38] Petra Weksler (Petra) paid no attention to the slave girl, as was her habit when dealing with bonds, unless she needed some use of them for heavy lifting. She glanced from the corner of her eye toward the lart, keeping her smile at the behavior hidden by keeping her face turned away from the others, trying to blend into the background by keeping herself busy. She’d greet the Jarl’s kin when the time was right, and that was not this time. (…)
[16:45] Morrgain Blackhawk (мσяяιgαη ÐąŗĸŦǔȓɏ) perked a brow watching the odd slave stand there like a scarecrow, Morrigan would glance at her mate and then to her son keeping her thoughts to herself. She did however reach into the bag her mate held and took a date from it. Popping it in her mouth, it wa sa decent flavor to say the least. Her mate stated what she thought was odd and she simply nodded her head in silence.
[16:45] Petra Weksler (Petra) replaced the full frames with empty ones, taking her time so she could listen, but there was a point where it would become obvious and she did have a lot of work to do before the end of the day if she was going to keep her promise to the Jarl to have a fresh batch of mead within three weeks so, she picked up the bucket of full honeycomb frames and walked into the brewery.
[Playing an animal:]
[16:48] Ignis Wildmist (Mjallhvít) she would enjoy the little honey she would manage to lick from the honey comb that laid at the ground and her dark snout would glistering with a trail of honey and it would seem the little lart had found a new kind of food to her liking. Then she would notice some more humans standing close to her and suddenly she would dash away again as fast she could into the tall grass (…)
[16:55] Petra Weksler (Petra) had woven a fresh reed sieve the night before and had soaked it and let it dry to tighten the reeds so she could press the honeycomb into it and silently sighed as she realized that even though the slats through the wooden walls were wide enough to easily see what was beyond, she couldn’t hear because of the buzzing in the hives now that bees were waking up again from their earlier smoking. Nothing she could do about that so no use grumbling about it. Focusing on her work, she carefully began extracting the honey from the comb.
Tangra’s Blade – A Gorean short story
Monday, December 23rd, 2013
By Lieutenant Atlas Tereshchenko – Port Olni Scarlet Caste
The ringing of metal on metal resounded through the lower market. This was the Square of the Metalworkers and here was the forge of Hamdrid. There were many smiths, all working diligently, scattered about the square at forges and anvils. It was at the back of the square one could find Hamdrid, laboring at his art. Warriors milled about this part of the square, speaking as men of war always do, a jest or jibe between friends, the passing of a bota of paga, and the latest stories of glory and honor from far afield. It was to Hamdrid that all manner of men at arms would bring their swords to be reforged, and a few would bring a desire for a new blade, and a considerable sum, to seek the efforts of Hamdrid at his forge.
That night, when all the other forges were cooling, Hamdrid was to be found next to his. Hamdrid was an immense man, stronger than any three other men combined, with a chest, shoulders and arms grown massive from driving hot metal into the shape he wanted. Beside him stood a youth, tall and strong, formed much like his father next to him. The youth worked the bellows, to fire the wood and charcoal in the forge.
“Lanmar, a bit more heat if you would son, this piece is almost ready to come to my embrace.” The young man pulled even harder against the yoke, the flames burning blue from the intense heat. Hamdrid drew the sliver of steel from the forge, and began to sing as he began to form the metal. This occurred several times throughout the early evening, Hamdrid’s companion bringing him and her son water and small bites of food. She knew better than to try and feed either of them when they were working so late. The effort consumed both of them, a son so much like a father, a father so much like his own.
Long into the darkening night the two labored over the blade, forming, folding, and drawing the steel into a form and length the young man had never seen before. “Father, this blade, for whom is it forged?” Hamdrid took the glowing shape from the forge, having tempered it once and now was busy preparing the edge “It is for Tangra, the First Sword. It is a gift to him from the Ubar himself, for his part in rescuing the Ubar and Ubara’s daughter.” Lanmar nodded, and fell back into rhythm, his Fathers hammer on the steel, matched his pull on the yoke for the forge.
The blade sat quietly, nestled in Hamdrid’s hands, where he slowly worked progressively finer and finer stones against the edge, bringing the blade to a sharpness of unequalled quality. “The effort for this blade is even beyond your normal exacting standards Father, can you tell me why? Why is this one blade so worthy of so much of your skill and heart?”
Looking up, the giant smith said simply, “It is for Tangra, and that is reason enough.” The stone began its painless journey along the edge again, and a few ehn later, Lanmar voiced another question. “You say it is for Tangra, and that is enough, but I must admit I am more a fool than I had imagined, as I cannot comprehend why that is a sufficient answer.” The young man looked at his Father, and watched as the stone slowed, then stopped. The blade glittered in the dull red light of the dying embers in the forge, and it was several ehn more before Hamdrid spoke.
“Tangra is the finest swordsman in our City, and perhaps all of Gor. Yet you will never hear him brag, or lay claim to his title out loud. No, you will find him on duty my son, or in the training arena, and nowhere else. Remember that the will to win is nothing when compared to the will to prepare.” Hamdrid turned the blade in his enormous hands, and then looked back at his son “There will come a time my son, when Tangra will face a situation where there are no options, and only one choice. On that day, when he holds this blade, he will see fear flee and courage rise, because like himself, I have placed all my effort and knowledge into this blade, it is the best of me, it possesses all the honor of my name and caste.” Lanmar sat quietly, and nodded at his Father’s words. Standing, he was about to begin cleaning the shop, when his Father’s voice rumbled through the stones.
“We may be of low Caste my son, but that does not mean we are any less honorable men.” Pointing to the forge, Hamdrid continued, “The fire heats the metal, and we temper it. Men are no less different. Some will find the fire to hot, and withdraw, while others find they are strengthened by the heat. Honor is not a cloak, nor a crown. It is nothing you should be able to take on or put off at will. Honor is our last defense, and our finest weapon. Against the edge of our honor, must we run the deeds of others, and judge if they hold as dear their honor as we hold ours.” The great smith paused, and laid the deadly blade onto a fine cloth, and wrapped it carefully.
“Tangra is a magnificent warrior. He does not require a shiny blade, but one that will not yield, will not break, will not fail when he needs it most. He needs a blade with as much honor in it, as is in him. That is why I have poured so much of myself into this sword, because Tangra fights with my honor.”