Draken30000 wrote:When Marcus heaved himself out of the bed, Vovin moved to aide him, even if he objected. "Your greatest creation? Of course, I would love to. Lead the way." he replied, only letting Marcus walk freely once he was sure he would not collapse. Then they stepped out into the hall. [/color]
Despite the attempt to help, and the honest good nature of it instead of the usual 'old man pity' that most would associate with the scenario, Marcus grumbled and tried to wave the young boy away only to realize that it wasn't going to happen until there was certainty that the old forgemaster wasn't going to have another fall. So instead Marcus decided to accept the help while silently grumbling things along the lines of, "Ain't that old.." and "darn kids and yer'..." with a few lighthearted curses thrown in here and there when he started to slip a bit. Fuzzy slippers and polished floors do not mix.
As Deacon and Vovin conversed lightly about what he assumed was events after his injury, Marcus continued to walk to the nearest exit, only to be stopped on more than one occasion by the priests and the various guards needed, as far as Marcus could tell, to restrain the more violent patients.
They were a little short staffed apparently.
Down the hall was shouting and cursing as half a dozen strong grown men had all but tackled Marcus, trying to bring him to the floor and back to his room till he could heal over the next few days, but were finding out rather quickly that this was one old man who would never lay down. A fierce right hook took a guard square in the face and dropped the unfortunate fellow out cold on the floor, while his left hand swept out in a backhand strike that did likewise to another man struggling to get close. Two men charged in as Marcus' arms went wide in an attempt to bull-rush him in the stomach with both shoulders back to back.
They would later recount the story of how they struck a man built like a mountain.
Marcus' elbows dropped them senseless a moment later.
More of the local priests and nurses were rushing out of the rooms to see what the noise was about.
Outside of the local infirmary
Great tall doors of iron and polished wood gleamed in the light on a rather still morning. The doors fell off their hinges as two muscular men in white were ejected through the closed doors with disturbing force. Out of the hospital strode an elderly man with a long grey beard and hard eyes, squinting casuall with hands on his hips, as he stopped at the doorway to take a large intake of fresh air.
Or at least as fresh as it would have been if he hadn't been smoking his pipe at the moment. There before but the grace of the watching gods stood Marcus Hammerstrike, wearing nothing but a low-cut white gown and his fuzzy slippers.
Marcus walked up to only guard not unconscious and booted him across the head, finishing the job so to speak, and started walking off. Oblivious to the calls of the actual guardsman and hospital staff shouting to arrest him.
Nearly 100 gold pieces would later appear to cover the damages, given by an apprentice by the name of Cyphe.
Marcus stared up at the old building infront of him, the stench of burnt metal and smoke was heavier than usual in the air in the forge district than he remembered but was otherwise unbothered. The sign hung on silver chains above him, depicting a hammer striking the anvil, labeled "The Bronze Hammer". Marcus' first forge he'd ever built. Many years ago he'd opened shop and made a good living, gaining his reputation piece by meticulous piece, until finally he'd wandered off in search of adventure and business at other growing towns, leaving his shop in the hands of an old apprentice named Ruito Dreg. Apparently he was still doing well.
Within the first 10 minutes of his visit to the store, Marcus had been met with less than stellar reception. Ruito Dreg had taken on his own apprentices and had tried to overthrow the old forgemasters right to ownership of his own forge, believing that he'd been dead and the place had been left in his care after 'legal documents' had claimed that in the case of Marcus' death he had left his forge(s) in the hands of his trusted apprentice.
Marcus just simply laughed.
"Ye think ta replace me just because ye got some thief ta write you some parchment?" Another laugh escaped his lips before he lunged across the large office, that had not existed before, and picked up his old apprentice by the scruff of his shirt to lift him effortlessly from the floor. His eyes were deadly serious and his frown deeper than usual. "I trusted ye, its true, but you forget.." Dropping the boy, he turned to look at the apprentices working below. Marcus shouted down, his voice clear across the thunder of hammers and the roar of the billows. "Who do ye serve, apprentices!"
The unanimous reply was bolstered by each and every apprentice, some 20 strong, stopped their work to salute up to him as they shouted in unison, 'Marcus Hammerstrike'.
Ruito went pale when he understood what had just happened. Not only was Marcus alive and well enough to deny the claim fully, but he had enacted the forgemasters rule that every apprentice he took on must sign. The right to declare a leader over any 'rightful owner'.
So it was that Marcus, Vovin, and Deacon all sat in the newly cleared out office, most of the old files and such had been tossed into the fires below when Ruito had fled, and put his feet upon the desk, still in his fuzzy slippers but wearing what was left of his damaged gear. "Now that we got that out of the way, I suppose its time I told you what was my greatest creation."
Marcus leaned back and brought the picture to his mind. A schematic for a weapon he'd never had the right equipment or materials for. "I have the means to create a powerful weapon made of pure mithral, coated with a rare crystal I unearthed in my travels through the deserts that the natives believed could harness a fighters spirit and create an effect through the crystal. If I am correct, you can channel your dragon spirit through the blade and transform it into a powerful flame weapon that will never rust or become chipped from clashing steel."
Marcus leaned forward in his chair, fuzzy slippers back on the floor. "But I need both of your help to make this happen. Deacon, I can make you new gear to compensate for the work since I can only make one of these swords.. Sound fair?"