Ding …… Ding ……. Ding ……… Ding……….

Heavy swung the hammer, its song echoing through the forge. With each note, the blade beneath growing, shaping, forming into the image that the smith envisioned from the block of mithril he started so long ago. Sweat beaded his brow, even as the fires of the forge licked at his forearms, singeing skin and hair. His face, as impassive as stone, sculpted into a visage of concentration, worked close to the blade, finding imperfections,  hammering out impurities. As his arms swung the hammer methodically, his lips moved silently to an ancient dwarven hymn of power, a song of runes of power, known only to the most skilled metal smiths. As the worked the blade, there arose a light from this arms, at first appearing nothing but the sheen of fire off his sweat soaked arms, but slowly increasing in brilliance, snaking from his arms and on to the molten blade, infusing the blade  with a new light. With a sudden move, the dwarven smith pulled the blade from the anvil and plunged it into the oil then water to temper the steel. What emerged from the water was no longer the red molten blade in progress, but instead a shining mithril steel bastard sword, brilliant white light playing along its razor sharp edges. Along  its center ran a series of dwarven runes, glowing with a dim bluish white light. The smith looked upon this work,  and said his first word in a long, long time. “Tharsil”. A true dwarven blade.

Exhausted from his night of work, the dwarf wrapped the un-hilted blade in a blanket, laying it carefully in his chest, laying wards of guarding upon the chest's surface as he muttered his prayers to Moradin. His thoughts wandered for the first time in a fortnight, to the words the Dwarven Oracle had spoken to him those many moons ago. “Ye shall forge from the steel of our people, a blade of honest strength and noble courage. Yet, forged from our people, it shall not stay with them, but instead it will fall to a man, a knight, a red knight, and with him it will protect you, and find its glory and yours.”

The dwarven smith shook his head and muttered something about crazy dwarves as he opened the door to his warm forge. Outside, it was blustery, rain and wind alternating in sheets as the trees danced to the winds incessant howl. The dwarf sighed, and thought to himself, "just another winters night in the Moonshaes”. He grabbed his cloak from the door stand, and wrapped in his own thoughts, headed to the warmth of the nearby tavern.

The One Armed Firbolg broke the darkness and the rain, its windows glowing brightly with firelight as he approached bowed against the wind. Even from here, he could hear the boisterous and cantankerous noises coming from within, above that all the wail of the bag pipes rose in song. As he opened the door, the noises died down as the ever-suspicious crowd stared at a possible stranger. As he pulled back his cowl and cloak the noise started anew, along with some mixed shouts of “Hail friend” and “Good to see ye Rutger”. From the crowd in  front of him broke free his friend and fellow smith, Ezekiel. As they sat down to some dwarven spirits and  Moonshae Ale, they spoke of smithing, and the weather so odd for this time of year. They talked mostly about  business, and how well their products sold to the mainlanders. As Ezekiel laid out their next trip to Waterdeep,  the doors of the inn opened again, streaming in wind and rain as the crowd quieted again. Standing there, framed  by the door, was a wizened man, shrouded in his own darkness, dressed in robes of deepest red. A wizard no  doubt and even now he could hear hisses and wards whispered by the superstitious island folk. Almost instantly,  Rutger’s holy symbol warmed, giving off feint light. A sure sign of trouble, as Ezekiel well knew as he glanced  over, and Rutger saw his hand dropped to his blade. As the wizard entered the inn, a man entered behind him.  Rutger heard immediately the hiss of blades drawn from sheathes. This newcomer was a barbarian, and there is  little love lost between the Folke and the Northmen. A few words from the wizard and the innkeeper settled the  rising tempers, and the duo took a seat in the back of the inn. As Rutger peered at the wizard and his guard, a  sudden insight flooded his mind. He didn’t know how or why, but the fate of this barbarian was somehow locked  with his own. Rutger had enough wisdom than to hope Moradin would show him more, but he would be on his  guard. These two outsiders meant trouble, and would bear watching.

  oc Above you see my hastily written account of the first meeting between Rutger and Farynd such a long time ago, in the Forgotten Realms, in the Moonshaes, when we were still pups. I got inspired by Anton  and wanted to  share a little of the history Rutger has. Excuse the lack of dialogue and the ill-chosen words *grins* I dont usually write so decrepit. I hope to see some more of you posting some "background" on your characters, real or not (Rutgger started as Rutger a long time ago in a paper and pencil AD & D RPG)