The Weaponeer's Forge [LOCATION]

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Volksgeist
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The Weaponeer's Forge [LOCATION]

Post by Volksgeist » Fri Jun 14, 2019 4:02 am

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THE WEAPONEER'S FORGE
Gorroth, the Weaponeer.

In the Golden Age of the Eldest, the Eviscerator was one of the Nation-Spirit's closest allies. The similar alignment of each God-Kin and their penchant for destroying the lives and realms of mortals led to their inevitable bond and close collaboration. There are the stories, of course, in which Volksgeist spurs the worlds of the Unterwelt on to acts of total war against one another, their complete destruction wrought with weapons gifted by the gods themselves-- all built by the hands of the Weaponeer.

Gorroth was a craftsman above all else. His competitions against what could be considered a local antithesis, the World-Forge, were nothing short of awe-inspiring; memories of the All-Salter and its seemingly limitless capacity for decimation lingered in the Nation-Spirit's mind, even now. The armaments which were crafted under the Weaponeer's keen eye and deft hand were uncompromisingly effective in their single function of total annihilation-- and though they were often as offensive in appearance as they were in usage, there were certainly exceptions; Blutweber is a shining example of beauty and death walking hand in hand.

In the wake of the War Among Eldest, the Weaponeer remained within a fragmented Jenseits as Volksgeist fell down to the Unterwelt in pursuit of the Rot-Eater. The two never saw one another again past their fateful, final meeting within the remnants of a longhouse; it was there that Gorroth gifted him the Blutweber, so that the Earthshaker might one day use it in the Eldest name. For millennia, that construct begged to be used, and in the wake of its destructive missile, it had triggered a reawakening. The weapon led him here, to the consecrated grounds of the Weaponeer-- for what purpose, Volksgeist did not know.

Until he laid eyes upon the forge.

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Far beyond the boundaries of mortal civilization lies the beginning vestiges of the earthbound smithy. Much like the Divine Sanctum, the Weaponeer's realm is guarded by a habitat bordering upon unlivable.

The quagmire which surrounds its entrance encroaches upon all directions, stretching out into the distant horizons as far as the eye can see. The land itself seems to carry on for an eternity-- mere entrance into the sprawling mud-laden plains seems to warp all manners of cognizance and perception, no matter the resistance or mental fortitude of the intruder; it is not the mind that is being clouded and changed, after all. It is the very land itself, the anomalous properties of the region aiding in its nigh unrecoverable nature. Mortal souls have not set foot within the crooked marsh for centuries, if not millennia.

None that have lived to tell the tale, that is.

Traveling within the tall grass and through the twisting, monolithic trees reveals a world untouched by man and time. The Mire itself seems prehistoric and incongruous from the modern world, the hues of both flora and fauna appearing far different than that of any other place upon earth. The mossy crags and nooks within the moistened ground are often shades of vermilion and crimson, and the rotting trunks which guard the forge for miles around all appear with tinted orange stumps. The sky itself seems to be hung in a state of permanent daybreak, the soft pink and yellow hues of a sunrise dancing upon the murky waters and never changing, never moving.

Of course, those who wish to find the forge would need to brave all these factors to proceed. Putrefied skeletons of explorers long passed and unmarked remains of foolish mortals dot the landscape, reminding trespassers of the fate that awaits them.


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Eventually, the trek through the mire inevitably leads to the cave in which the Weaponeer's Forge was constructed. Unassuming in both appearance and functionality, the small mouth of the passageway is so easily missed that many mortals have simply overlooked the location in sheer ignorance, only to die from their lack of a keen eye. Those who died of starvation or exposure to the elements, however, could be said to have suffered a more desirable fate than those who pressed onward.

The cave itself is winding and circuitous. A true labyrinth in every sense of the word, only the best-equipped or highly-skilled spelunkers hold a slim chance of progressing forward. The closed pathways of rock eventually give way to horrifying, endless expanses of darkness, the very ground, walls, and ceiling opening up to pitch as if the world fell away into nothingness. Conventional reality appears broken, the depth of the cliffs betraying how far the cave had truly descended in its serpentine path; shortened ledges and truncated platforms dot the trail downward, an apparent spiral into the darkness being the only true way forward.

It is here that the walls-- what remain of them, at the very least-- appear to grow patterns and technology which seems embedded into the very stone itself, dictating a presence that had once resided within the crushing expanse. Continuation of the journey not only hints at this notion further, but confirms it.


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Though no mortals have truly survived the arduous descent, the efforts of combating and overcoming each obstacle of the Forge are rewarded with passage to the Inner Sanctuary. Cut off from the world with only a single hallway denoting an exit from the lived-in quarters, the chamber is dotted with ancient written tomes and banners which once flew high over the beautiful constructs of Jenseits. So far removed from mortal society are its walls that the very space itself is like an Eden to the two surviving Eldest which reside within it, the Sanctuary serving to be a subtle microcosm of what had once been the Golden Municipality.

It is the last remnant of the God-Kin upon Earth. Truly. Untouched by human influence or entropy, it is pure. Innocent. The walls themselves are living murals, the destruction and rebirth of worlds and universes playing upon the stone and unleashing wondrous, awestruck flashes of light and color. Suns dying, fields blooming-- life and death, the natural cycle, all kept within the walls of the Inner Sanctuary.

The innocence of such a place is lost, however, upon entering the realm of the true crucible.

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"You call this a god-tool? What is this youth god of? He bears no title, not truly. I am mightier than he, and a better builder as well; I shall prove it."
- Gorroth, The Legend of the World-Forge and the Weaponeer


What treasure had been kept within these sacred walls for untouched eons, what power lay beneath a blinded world; the Weaponeer's Forge is an incomprehensible source, a indescribable catalyst for which the deified armaments of the Eldest can be wrought upon the world.

The construction of such a smithy is simple, rudimentary, yet uncompromisingly effective in its objective and true intended abilities-- such was the manner of all constructs which were molded by Gorroth's hand, and so shall it always be under the Weaponeer's watch. The triangular spires which collapse into a singular entryway-- not just a doorway, but a gateway, a portal into what may very well be another dimension. An approach to the Aether-Forge is marked by the blinding presence of its Star-Core, with the Nation-Spirit himself shielding his own eyes with every echoing footfall into the spacious chamber-- because all sound is heard, all heat is felt. The room, the world itself falls silent to listen to the gentle hum of the ancient sun, the soft whispers from an archaic remnant of when the Eldest were truly gods among the lower-verses.

So intense is the heat from the divine fires of the Aether-Forge that even the metal of the God-Kin, nigh-invulnerable in its unbreakable composition, melts at the simple touch of the smithy's flame. The holy inferno imbues such deified strength upon the treated metal that only the same blessed armaments may even hope to scratch the surface of each artifact of war birthed from the Weaponeer's hearth. Within the actual pyramid of the smithy, the temperature of the space is heightened to such ludicrous amounts that mortals would sooner burn in the presence of the Star-Core than accomplish any act of value; Volksgeist himself is charred by the consecrated light of the Sun-Crucible, his hands and arms blackened to pitch after hours of work.

All suffering under the Aether-Forge is forever worth the consequences, however, for the product of such hardship is truly deserving of the word divine.


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Volksgeist
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Forging the Star-Blessed Armaments

Post by Volksgeist » Fri Jun 14, 2019 6:49 pm

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THE AETHER
There was nothing akin to the enrapturing presence of a star. It was a whirling vortex of heat, beauty, and to the Nation-Spirit, life. It was the flame-born tempest, after all, that pulled his wife back from the veil of death and filled her heaving breast with the essence of the Eldest; Volksgeist, too, retained a semblance of power from the fires of agony and conviction which so endlessly coursed through his restless form, his own divine force of will having been propelled by the inferno which raged deep within his very concept.

The Aether was no exception. Merely existing in its presence brought an indescribable solace to Volksgeist's mind; the coursing bands of plasma and super-heated essence danced across his vision in a beautiful array of color and life, the blinding hues of orange, crimson, and gold casting flickering, warping shades upon the cavity which housed the Dawn-Core. The Nation-Spirit did not shield his eyes, nor did he avert his gaze during his approach-- no, the breathtaking expanse of what remained before him deserved to be viewed in full. Only a true Eldest could appreciate such a sight; any other life-form that laid eyes upon the Aether would be blinded in a mere instant, leaving only a singular image within the mind's eye-- and even that was more than what mortals deserved.

The scathing air only increased in its intensity with every echoing footfall that reverberated through the subterranean smithy. The pyramid's entrance invited the Nation-Spirit to step within the hallowed forge; had it not been for the weakening mortality which had rooted itself across the Eldest's form and decreased his grandiosity, his towering stature, he would have had to duck to enter the geometric shrine. Losing a fraction of his own height served only as a reminder of Volksgeist's curse, and the lengths he must reach in order to quell the tide of fate which so fervently swept against him.

The shattered remnants of his armor and Stahlzahn were already laid bare upon the anvil of the Aether. The Star-Furnace, the only gateway with which to find access to the Archaic Sun's surface, lay closed to the altar's right. Billowing currents of air which circled through the forge's interior cast the tattered remnants of the Wolven Cloak into soft flutters, the furred cape blackened and shredded from the events of Krakatoa and Newark-- as well as the unholy battle against the Gatekeeper.

He would be weakened no longer. The shackles of entropy would be crushed underfoot and harnessed. With his conviction strengthened by the divine flames of the Aether, the Nation-Spirit set himself to work.

For three days, the mighty Volksgeist toiled over the fires of the forge, the sound and reverberations of his labor echoing out from the Star-Furnace, through the miles of ground which separated his sanctuary from the surface of the world, and out into the christened firmament; the very earth shuddered at each mighty CLANG of his tools, the hammer-form of Hefnir utilized as a mechanism to shape his tarnished armor and shattered weaponry, form the metal into hallowed artifacts that would by wielded by his hand. The ground quaked with every heaving cry of the Earthshaker's exertion, his efforts doubling with every swing, every hit of metal upon metal. These redounding shockwaves echoed across the continent-- nay, the world, their precise location unknown but felt nonetheless.

Upon the first day, the Nation-Spirit forged his Star-Blessed armor, christened Lebensnerv;

Upon the second, Volksgeist returned the almighty Blutweber to the hearth, forming new life under the tomes of the Weaponeer.

Upon the second, he smelted the form of Stahlzahn and gave it new life under the form of a divine saber; at the final moment of the holy axe's rebirth, the Eldest felt the heat radiating from his form and raised the holy blade skyward; flame splayed from its sharpened tip and echoed smoke into the great beyond, with the Nation-Spirit roaring triumphantly into the night a declaration and vow.


"HEAR MY CRIES, O MODERN EARTH--"
The Eldest boomed, his echoing invocation piercing the heavens upon the point of Stahlzahn.

"--FOR I AM VOLKSGEIST, BLADESMITH, AND THE STAR-BLESSED!"

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