Kali's Kiss is born

[Wayland]

Bumph!!

The last blow rang throughout the workshop as Wayland, finally satisfied, drew the blade through the air. Replacing his hammer on the forge he turns the would be sword, looking along it, checking the lay and sweep of the blade. Satisfied he collects his armourers tools and crosses the forge to the workbench. Laying the blade on a sheepskin he slides on the hilt and carefully fits the wooden handle. Finally the pommel is slid down the tein and he fits the sword in a vice. Carefully and methodically he starts to tap the end, curving the tein over and around, making sure everything is tightly held.

Occasionally he rubs the end over with a cloth clearing the burrs till finally he is satisfied with the feel. Releasing it from the clamps he holds it for the first time as a sword, enjoying the weight in his palm, feeling the gentle pull on his wrist. Outside in the fresh air he sweeps the sword in a few gentle moves, checking the weight and balance, before finally taking a full grip. With a heave he spins the blade into the solid oak stump in the farriers yard. Once, twice, three times he strikes, each time the dull whump of steel on wood echoes around Smithy's Gate. The stable boys, recognising the sounds of a sword being tested are soon lent over the stall sides, knowing that this one has been long in coming.

Grinning happily, Wayland hoists his masterpiece up, once more checking the blade and its lie. Happy, he calls for one of the boys to start turninmg the grinding wheel. Sat opposite the boy as he turns the wheel he plays the edge across the stone, sparks flying over his arms. Lunch has come before he is happy but at last the blade is as sharp as can be done with the stone. Stopping to take a draft of ale he sits on the water trough playing a stone along the blade's edge till finally its evil glint sparkles in the afternoon light.

A prepared scabbard of black leather hangs from the forge wall and he slips it over his shoulder, sliding the blade home along his back. Inside the next door ostlers he collects his steed, the destrier serving him well as ever. 'One day you will have to have a name' he whispers in its ear as he pulls himself up. Through town and to the east he rides, a steady pace which brings him back to Bryn Madn. The hall is looking alive once more, his decision to move back lifting a weight on his own shoulders too. Outside flowers run over the walls already, there late blooms setting the house aglow with colours in the sun. Inside the long dead chill has been replaced by the quiet bustle of servants and the smells of cooking.

In his rooms he gathers up a pile of clothes and items he no longer needs, the old riding jacket with the embroidered wolf eating the moon on the arm now just an encumbrance. Sometimes enforced decisions make for the best ones he muses as he slips off his clothes, sliding into something more suitable. Soft black woollen trousers are tucked into his boots before pulling on an expensive silk shirt. The material dances against his skin and he languishes in its caress for a moment, praising his new office and the fact he can now afford the trappings of a councillor. Shaking himself from his reverie he pulls on the new heavy coat, the family crest centrally mounted on his back, distinctive against the black wool. Finally he refastens his scabbard, this time around his waist. Adjusting his belt to compensate for the weight, he slides both dagger and sword into a comfy position and walks around the room a few times, getting used to how the new blade hangs.

A while later, and having only hit one servant accidentally with the swinging extension to his body, he stands outside watching the last of the afternoon turn to evening as the sun sinks towards the horizon, the first clouds starting to develop a pink glow. Over his shoulder he now has a mix of bottles and herbs from the houses apothecary and a small metal cauldron, all stuffed together in a large scrip bag, crammed in with mementos of a past he intends to lose. In his hand he holds a lantern, as yet unlit, and at his feet is curled the hound, Grendell. Trusting he has got everything, he walks through the yard past the stables and down through the small hamlet attached to the manor.

The scars of last year's war are still visible in places, though now many of the rough wooden huts have been rebuilt in stone. At the edge of the homes he pauses to place a flower on the ruins of one such house. He had never bothered to rebuild it, without his wife it had seemed pointless. His own path had not been the safest and so he had sent his son away with Frey and Sorrow to be adopted by their kinfolk. According to Iris she was doing well with his new family, no memories o fthe horrors of that day, of the cannon shot that had ripped through walls and mother alike. On the nights where the cold bit deep he missed her touch and wept for his son, but he knew it had been the right thing and one day maybe he would be able to stand before his son and tell him why that was so.

For now, fresh love filled his life and he was complete again. Soon she would be with him and a fresh course would be planned out for them both, one within the life and politics of this quiet corner of Cymru. Bored of his master's musings the dog pokes his nose against his hand and pulls his sleeve in his teeth. Laughing Wayland turns and follows the dog, almost running in Grendell's wake. Over the hill they trot, past were Sorrow's cannon's had fired from and down into vale towards Flint. As the sky darkens so Mynydd Fflint rises into the air. Together man and dog approach the base searching for the tall oak tree that marked the location of Pwll-yr-Wrach.

Stopping by the oak he looks up through ts branches at the acorns gathering ready to fall. In the heights a pair of squirrels dart through, their red fur almost indistinct in the last glimmers of daylight. The first of the evenings bats can be heard skimming round the branches, their distinctive high pitched noise occasionally marking their flight paths. Sensing the importance of this occasion, Grendell curls himself up in the lee of the oak, the fallen leaves making a comfy bed.

'Good boy' mutters Wayland fussing his ears before moving to the pool side. Despite it's name Pwll-yr-Wrach - the Witche's Pool, is a place of beauty. Wild flowers in a multitude of hues circle the pond, host to a variety of creatures. As he watches a young foxes face appears in the reeds on the other side, its face staring curiously at him before disappearing off into the night. The soft plop of the frogs it was hunting can be heard marking the foxes passage before it is finally gone from the area. The waters of the pond look almost stygian as he take soff his scrip and makes a small fire. Once the fire is burning properly he pushes a metal stake into the ground and suspends the little cauldron over it. With his hands he collects some water and pours it into the pot. Feeding the fire he waits until the water is boling before adding the herbs he has brought along.

'Beladonna for the sight a hunter needs, hemlock for the calmness that justice requires, hyoscine for lightness of the blade, nux vomica for stillness of the wait, aconite for the head of a wolf, hah lets have some extra of that' he jokes as he stirs the concoction. As it boils down into a thick mess he pours in the final phial, the rabbit's blood mixing in with the other ingredients turning it into a thick paste. Stirring it one last time he lifts it from the heat and dips three fingers of both hands into the mix. Grimacing at the pain he draws his fingers acoss his eyes, three bloody lines spreading out from around the orbs into his hair. Another dip, this time with one hand, and he drwas a line down his head, over his nose and across his lips before pulling the sword from its scabbard. Holding the sword in one hand he scoops as much of the mix as possible out of the pot and cups his hand around the blade. Smearing it along the blade he doesn't feel where it cuts into his own fingers, the cocktail of drugs already taking effect as his fingers numb. He lays the sword acoss his knees as he takes a sip from the bowl, then hurls it into the pond before holding out the sword in both hands.

'I name thee Cusan Gan Kali, may your steel bring her name much glory' he calls before kissing the blade.

Standing up is a chore as the more interesting effects of the herbs start to kick in. Mutliple views and perspectives distort his vison as the blood pounds in his ears, voices calling from within his mind. Closing his eyes doesn't help as patterns dance around inside them making him feel ill. Inside his head the voices have developed claws and feel to be itching and scratching their way out. Clutching his hands to his head he falls to the ground screaming, stomach tightening, sweat streaming from his pores. The deadly cocktail keeps him awake, not letting him pass out, as his body wracks in pain till finally as the moon starts to descend once more he slips away.

Dawn's filtered light wakes him up. His body hastens to tell him every ache, pain and cut from the night before and he groans out loud. A damp nose pokes in his ear and he moans in disgust. Struggling to righten himself he finds that the dog makes a handy hold. The act of standing up breaks him out in a fresh pool of sweat and he sags against the bark of the oak, its bark sharp against his skin, every sense apparently still in overdrive. Gathering himself, he slowly crouches down and picks up the sword where it lies in the grass. Wiping off the moisture and remnants of the paste, he slides it down into the scabbard.

Fussing the dog he pushes his head away as Grendell tries to lick his face. 'You really don't want any of that' he tells the dog. Slowly the pair set off back home, 'Remind me not to make myself any more swords' Wayland tells Grendell as they tromp through the wet grass