By late afternoon, Artok returns along the town road with Sera and Katie beside him. The rune-stamped anvil rides on a dragged sledge, while the broken knife and marked iron remain wrapped separately.
The surrendered raiders follow under guard, their weapons gone. The hooded ritualist walks bound among them, silent beneath the darkening hills, while the town’s gates stand open ahead.
Artok looks to Sera and Katie, his daughter and her steadfast friend, then gathers his gear and cracks his neck. Both women remain alert after the short journey.
Sera passes him water. He washes his cut palm, draws a bandage wrap from his thigh bag, and lightly binds the hand before reclaiming his gear.
Sera
The town is safe from this rite’s reach, Da. The anvil and its remnants are back under our eyes.
Katie
For now. The lower mark is silent, but silence is not the same as forgetting.
The gate guards stare at the anvil as it crosses the threshold. Behind Artok, the hills keep their secrets; ahead, the forge waits, cold and empty, for his return.
“I bring the anvil into my forge”
SUCCESS (Great Strength, rolled +2)
Artok hauls the sledge through the forge doors. The rune-stamped anvil crosses the threshold and settles on its stone bed, home again beneath the familiar rafters.
Sera and Katie guide the surrendered raiders into the yard under the gate guards’ watch. The hooded ritualist remains bound among them, while the wrapped knife and marked iron stay apart.
Artok looks to his daughter and her steadfast friend, gathers his gear, and cracks his neck. Their brief adventure has left them tired, watchful, and standing.
Sera gives him water. He washes his cut palm, draws a bandage wrap from his thigh bag, and lightly binds the hand before setting the forge in order.
Sera
The anvil is yours again, Da. Nothing below can call through it now.
Katie
The marks are silent, and the town has its smith back. That is enough for tonight.
Evening settles over the forge. The anvil’s runes remain cold, the rite is ended, and Artok’s craft stands ready once more to guard the people who depend on it.
The forge settled into silence around the rune-stamped anvil. Artok bound his palm, swept the scattered ash aside, and let the familiar heat return to the stones.
The rite was ended, its remnants secured, and the town stood beyond its reach. Artok Rune rested one hand upon the anvil, feeling only cold iron and the steady strength of the forge beneath it. By nightfall, order had returned, and the long road home was quiet at last.