Mochan an' Miasma: Workshop Adventures

[quewye]

The First Re-Forging

“Really? Today?”
“Yes. Today.”
“Y’ don’t wanna go fishin’ or someffin?”
“No.” 
“Aw. Come on. Ol’ fishin’ trip would b’ fun!”
“You can’t be distracted by fun.”
“Can I at least go get some fruit from th’ market?”
“Yes.”

Mochan beamed. With his arms stretched out, the young lad giddily spun and twirled down the person-packed streets of Osrona, whistling a happy, self-encouraging melody. Warm light poured down on his Sun-starved skin. Ah. What he wouldn’t give to always be able to enjoy this warmth.

Ceasing the unnecessary (yet very fun) spinning, he began running, remembering that it was a Thursday. Thursdays are the utter worst for Osrona’s fruit stalls.

He dashed as quickly as he could, slipping between people, doing his best to not bump into and perhaps be mistaken for a deviant pickpocket, lest he again draw the ire of the city’s guard, or worse: its knights.

Caution came at the cost of time, and time cost him apples and oranges. 

“Aw. We’re all out, sweetie,” The kind fruit vendor told him. “I still have pears, though!”

A stuck out tongue would be the only reply necessary. A couple of pears were given -- free ones. Despite Mochan’s dislike of the devious fruit known as the ‘pear’, you couldn’t beat free. A smile and the promise of a future purchase was all the payment the stall’s owner needed from him.

He walked back to the streets, which somehow proved busier than Osrona’s chronically swollen market. 

People were constantly rushing about, pushing him and others in the process. Constant yelling and bickering by the inhabitants were something he could never get used to, nor his Ookami ears. 

He slipped into a shady alley, bag of free fruit in hand. He ran towards the forgotten corners of the city, then down a manhole -- its cover hazardously done away with. Down the ladder, around a few corners and… he was home! 

Cold stone lined the walls, some of it looking like it might collapse at any time. Sure, it wasn’t great, but compared to the rest of the sewers -- it was paradise. He had a warm (but raggedy) bed, eye-helping (but dim) lighting, and comfy (but oh-so slummy) workshop. It was a (depressing) world of his own!

*

“Quetzy… how’d these rats keep gettin’ in here?” It had been the third time this week a rat had jumped out from beneath his bed and attempted to get a good bite on him, thrice now, he had fallen back in surprise. Instinct built by fighting far more dangerous foes allowed him to nimbly avoid the vicious rat, yet despite its size, the beast’s ferociousness always caught him by surprise. 

With his blade, Mochan shooed the rat, steadily backing it until it’s at the entrance door, soon enough it was scurrying out avoiding the poison blade. 

“I’m not a broom, Mochan,” Miasma grumpily stated.

After that he plugged a constant dripping from his roof. Again, Miasma proved to be a sword of many talents. Its deadly poison too proving to be an amazing adhesive, a great plugger of ceiling cracks.

With the angrily gnawing beast banished and the noisy drip-dropping ceiling sealed, there was utter silence except for the roaring of warm flames and…

“Comfortable?” The deep, calming voice of Mochan’s sword.

“Sorry, I can’t concentrate otherwise!”

“You’re shaking.”

“Wha’ if I screw up?”

“You won’t.”

Mochan took a deep breath, with it inhaling courage… and whatever that weird stench was. 

He placed Miasma above the brazier, brazier made of stone, reinforced with layers of different metals, a thick melting pot placed within. He had been working on this for months, all with the express purpose of keeping Miasma as safe as possible throughout the procedure. 

“So… runes first, right?”

“Trust yourself.”

Mochan gulped loudly. Trusting himself was not something that came easy, but Miasma’s voice reassured him. Every time uneasiness grew, Miasma’s words were like rain on the kindling that was the boy’s inherent nervousness.

Runic brush was dipped in mana-infused paint. He took another breath -- it wasn’t enough. Another breath, and another, and again he convinced himself that he’d start after a few more. Truly, he never intended to start, but a: “Cease.” from Miasma was all it took to snap him back.

Inky lines, squiggles, and curves are brushed from the bottom-to-top. As one is finished, it lights a pale blue, and then a fiery red. Mochan is shaky throughout the process, many times having to stop, or grab his wrist with a free hand, lessening the risk of a malwritten symbol.

Shakiness or not, years of practice, reading, and a reinforced belief that this was his duty have created an incapability to screw up this goal -- as much as he believed otherwise.

With each finished rune Miasma would glow redder and redder. Soon, he began to scream.

“YES! YES! THE BURNING SENSATION OF ASCENSION!”

The scream took Mochan aback. Miasma was usually calm, level-headed -- not someone he was used to hearing agonised screams -- and the odd indication of enjoyment from such. He brought the brush down, intent on ruining his mystical writings, before Miasma again spoke up. “DO NOT. CONTINUE YOUR LABOUR!”

“B-But,” Mochan stammered.

“CARRY ON!” Miasma yelled, in between horrid screeches.

A teary eyed Mochan would in fact continue. The heat became intense, drawing sweat and reddening skin. With each rune, the heat would only grow, demanding more of its sweaty, blustery tribute. Despite the burning, he pushed through. Ignoring his shaking, ignoring the screams, each rune was produced with more urgency than the last.

As the last line was struck, he fled the heat. Hands and arms are presented to the cold stone, an initial gratification is supplied, yet stinging in equal measure is quick to ruin Mochan’s momentary appreciation for his home’s chilliness.

“Hah…” He winced, then looked over his shoulder, watching as the red glow would turn into a fully fledged flame. The blade started to melt, steel dripping and down into the melting pot.

Mochan’s heart ached. Physical pain is forgotten, an emotional one dethroning it. Despite having been told several times this would happen and assured that Miasma was in no true danger, nervous ears well up in his eyes. With the heat dying down, the young Ookami rushed back to check up on Miasma. The tears dried as he approached. The sound of cackling welled.

“AHAHAHA! THE SEARING PLEASURE!”

Again, Mochan was taken aback, never had Miasma been so vibrant, he was acting weird, that much was certain.

“Wha’ now?” He asked, before sniffling and ruining his sleeve with snot.

“Now, now you give me FORM!”

“O--”

“LET US LEAVE THE DARKNESS BEHIND US!”

“Okay, bu--”

“TO A NEW, DISEASE-RIDDEN DAWN!”

“Wha’ form do you want?” Worry had been left behind. Mochan stared blankly at Miasma’s liquid body.

“I TRUST YOU.”

“Y’… trust me?”

“Yes. Let idea sprout, let it bear the fruit that shall be me!”

“O-Oh… alright,” An uncertain, confused Ookami ran to his desk, stretching across it paper.

“Maybe I should’ve done this first,” He murmurs. Fearful of the metals cooling into an unusable body, he lit a fire in the brazier, beneath the melting pot, the fire while not enough to have melted it, but would at least keep Miasma at a somewhat stable temperature while he worked. Still, he had to be fast.

Brush is brought down, an outline of a blade made. Spikey silhouettes protrude from the body, at a variety of sizes, but always at a horizontal angle. Then adding an inverse, winged crossguard. Yes, yes, this was looking cool (or at least cool to a sixteen year old).

Instructions written in runes were left around the blade, specifications about various parts of the sword, how the metal was to be manipulated, colors, weight distribution, and just how twirly and rad the grip had to be.

But something was missing -- yes. Something popped up into Mochan’s mind, something he hoped would please Miasma. He ran out the door, a confusing ball of emotions tangled up in his heart and mind. He shoved it all aside, kept running.

A rat was spotted.

Mochan dashed towards it, the poor beast had no time to react, a wolf catching it in its claws. The critter squeaked and bit, unfortunately, Mochan would not be so kind to it as he had been with its kin.

The rat was painlessly killed, skull harvested, and specifications for the pommel added. Yes. This was the design he wanted.

The runic instructions rip themselves from their paper confines and hover. They sluggishly orbit above the brazier, around a yet non-existing body.

Inside the melting pot, liquid metal dimmed, heat having partially died out. It flows upwards, towards the outline of a sword. It wasn’t as he expected, the lower heat causing Miasma to have less of a constant, lava-ish flow, but instead its movement felt more goop-y, several already hardening chunks in its midst. This was going to be a headache.

The runes did their best. The sword looked terrible. It mattered not, he wasn’t done. A few edits were all he needed.

More runes were added. That ‘sword’ (if one could even call it that) again began to glow, not enough to melt, but enough to bend and be manipulated. The runes shuffled, vibrated, Mochan whispered incantations, and violently they began to tug at the craft’s ends, stretching it out like dough, before kneading it back into shape.

Time would pass. The lanterns started to dim, then died. The roaring choir of light became a solo act as only the brazier’s flame remained, until that too perished. His world shrank, containing nothing but the soft glow of the runes themselves. He didn’t know how many hours had passed. It didn’t matter.

Exhaustion, both physical and mental, was starting to set in. The blade was… good enough. Another incantation and the runic design dissipated from reality, their mana spent. The blade dropped down onto the anvil, unfortunately there was still more to be done.

“Final… touches,” Mochan convinced himself that a few more minutes of labour -- a bit of hammering was all it would take. He kept repeating the same sentence to himself, mumbles muted by the sound of a mythril hammer head clashing against the mythril blade. He repeated the lie every few alterations, each time wholeheartedly believing that he was almost done, but every time there was yet another imperfection.

Eventually, the lie became weaker, and weaker, until the looming giant that was tiredness trampled it. Sleep convinces Mochan that his work was (mostly) finished.

“YES!” yelled Miasma.

“You… like it?”

“YES!”

Mochan blinked. He trusted Miasma with his life, but even this stretched his faith. The design looked nowhere as magnificent as it had in mind. Now that it had physical form, even he had to admit that it was a bit too… edgy.

“MAGNIFICENT!” 

“You’re… sure?”

“It is not perfect, but I am certain this design shall blossom into a cruel beauty.”

Mochan slumped down in his seat. Only one thing was left. But… in a bit.

*

Darkness greeted the Ookami. Crash. He stumbled out of the chair. It was so damn dark. Memory guided Mochan to a wall, and towards a-- *crash*. Foggy memory guided him. 

It’d be a few more accidental kicks and a very sore toe later that he finally reached a wall lantern. He fumbled with the latch, forgetting where exactly it was. Click. It opened. He always kept a bag hanging under each lantern, each bag containing spare matches and candles -- after all, this wasn’t the first time.

Fwoosh.

Now he truly did have to add the final touches. 

The grip was smoothened, leather tightly strung around it, glued in place. Miasma then woke up. 

While the glue solidified -- assuring the leather wouldn’t merely slip mid-battle and leave Mochan unarmed -- the two sat on the bed. The young man read up on more Artificing, using books he had borrowed from the Blue Unicorn and never intended to return.

His stomach growled. The glue was definitely done by now… but a little longer wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it? Grub was cooked above a nice flame. He made food for two, despite only one being able to eat.

Mmm. Delicious rat soup.

“Carry on,” said Miasma.

Mochan clapped his hands together, then his cheeks, by the end both were numb. “Right! Right!” He hopped up from his seat, taking a few laps around his home, hyping himself for the endeavor.

Miasma was laid back down on the desk. Clutter was pushed to the sides. His brush dipped in ink. Carefully, smoothly, this time without hesitation, he imprinted the signs. His will being projected onto the blade. Runes glow green. Spots of disease grow in blots, soiling the pristine metal.

Miasma laughed, Mochan frowned. He was still imperfect.

“Worry not, young Mochan, we shall reach a disease-filled paradise. Your blooming mind shall craft a blade that will be the envy of pestilence itself!”

The young man’s lips remained in a downwards curl.

“Smile now, plagueblade.”

Words pull strings like a puppet master, lip corners being dragged upwards. A soft, youthful giggle followed. “Fine,” Mochan responded.