User blog:Leea/The Tale of Voronwe, Chapter 7

Previous Chapters
1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th

4th Era 100, 23rd of First Seed, Summerset Isle
By mid-day Curwe had finished the greaves, which were woven in a similar fashion as the undershirt. Stopping for a lunch of bread and cheese, they discussed how she was going to create the rest of the armor set.

"The same materials for the undershirt and greaves won't work for the helmet, boots and gloves," Balasian had said. "While the arms and legs need more motion, the head, hands, and feet need leather to bind them together, as it is tougher, and lasts longer on the soles of boots and the palms and fingers of gloves."

"But what about the helmet, then?" Curwe asked. "It is made from the same materials as the gloves and boots?"

"Yes, though no great flexibility is needed for the helmet, so leather used for its creation only ensures its longevity, personalized fit, and something for the glass plates to adhere to."

Curwe looked puzzled. "You sure know a lot about armor for being a translator."

He smiled out of a corner of his mouth. "I ought to. I used to be the captain of the Harbor Guard, before I was chosen to be in the King's mage guild, the Hydromancers. Then, later, I was handpicked to be his translator."

She raised her eyebrows. "You've been around, then."

Balasian nodded slightly. "Yeah. I have." After a pause, he continued, "Every Harbor Guard assists in making his or her own armor. It makes them familiar to it right away. That way, when minor repairs are needed, they can fix it themselves, instead of bringing it to the smith for costly repairs."

Sipping from her mug of cider, Curwe asked, "You say there are glass plates on the other pieces of armor. It is like glass in windows?"

He shook his head. "No, not at all. The 'glass' in glass armor is much sturdier than that stuff in window panes." He paused in thought. "Have you ever seen the Altmeri soldiers wearing a greenish armor?"

Curwe looked down at her plate, deep in thought. "Well, I think so. When I was a child, my parents took me to Firsthold, and there was a guard there, protecting a noble. He was wearing a greenish gold armor. Is that what you're talking about?"

"Exactly. That's Glass Armor, but made from a material called Malachite and fused together with Moonstone. Since there were no veins of Moonstone and Malachite in Pyandonea, we had to improvise. Melted sand, while not as pretty to look at, makes almost as hard plates as the 'glass' of Malachite, but with the upside that it melts at a much lower heating point. That's what we'll make the plates for the rest of the armor set out of."

Curwe tilted her head. "But I don't have any smelter here. How are you going to accomplish this?"

Balasian winked. "You'll see."

While she worked on washing the iron pots, Balasian made the fire pit. He dug a pit four feet deep in the dirt in her front yard, then built a domed wall over it, with a hole in the top for the smoke to be let out. As Curwe came out with the pots, he told her to fill them up with water.

"Why?"

"Because, if you left them to air dry, it's take you a good long time to create the armor. With water involved, that time is halved. Leave me with the sauce pan, I'll need it to pour the molten material." He paused to smile mischeviously at her. "Don't worry. You can still cook with these when we're done."

While she bustled off to fill the pots, he began to make forms in the dirt for the plates, then carefully smoothing them to make sure they were of identical shape and thickness. Bending down to the opening in the smelter, he stared a fire in its base, then replaced the rock covering the hole. As Curwe returned with pot after pot of water, he told her to set them down near the smelter, while they sat on the ground and waited for it to heat the sand to the melting point.

She looked quizically at the smelter. "You sure this is going to work?"

His white eyes came to hers. "When I was getting my first set of armor, the smith's new apprentice stoked the smelter fire too hot, and so the whole thing cracked asunder. I thought that I wouldn't get my armor, but the smith had the apprentice and I build a makeshift smelter just like this one." He waved his hands in the smelter's general direction. "It melted the sand as if it were a real smelter. It'll work."

Tilting her head, she asked, "What happened to the apprentice? It seems like he didn't know what he was doing."

There was sly amusement when he answered, "He went back to his first job: weaving baskets."

She frowned. "Then how did he become a blacksmith's apprentice? Basketry and smithing are quite different professions."

Balasian smiled knowingly. "He knew someone who knew someone who knew the blacksmith."

Her face fell. "Oh."

Hearing a spitting sound, he looked up and checked the sand. "Its time. Get me one of those pots of water."

While he cautiously poured the molten sand into the moulds, Curwe stood by with the water. Stepping back, he motioned for her to pour a little water over the liquid sand. "Not too much, or we'll have to start over," he said.

Gently pouring the water, and praying she didn't mess up, she watched as the water hit the mould and clouds of hot steam rose up to her face. He motioned to stop, as he pried the plate from its resting place with a set of tongs and gently manipulated it into shape with another set.

* * *

After they had made the rest of the plates, he took them up and laid them by the door before returning to the smelter and putting out the fire with a thunderclap.

"Okay," he said, as he watched wisps of smoke rise into the air from the now dead smelter, "Now to finish the rest of the armor."

Standing next to him, also watching the smoke, Curwe asked, "Where are we going to get the leather?"

"You don't have any lying around, by chance?"

She was starting to say no, when she remembered that she did indeed have some. "There is one piece, my father's old fishing apron. Would that work?"

Balasian looked down at her. "Depends on how big it is. May I see it?"

"Sure. Its in the shed. Follow me."

Walking with him to the shed, she motioned for him to wait outside while she got the apron. Opening the door and entering the small space, she found it on the old bench near the window. Gathering it up in her arms, she couldn't resist burying her face in its deep folds one last time, like she had done many times when she was a little girl. It still smelled of him; the woodsmoke and that small sprig of lavender he always kept in his pocket. Coming into the light outside, she cradled the apron in her arms as if it were a newborn, and shut the door behind her.

"Are you allright?" Balasian asked, jolting her out of the past.

"Hmm? Oh, I'm fine...why do you ask?"

He stepped closer. "You have tears running down your cheeks."

Touching her cheek with one hand, she brought it away and saw that her fingertips were wet.

"Curwe?"

Jolted out of reverie again, she looked up at Balasian and saw concern on his face. "No, no, I'm fine. Just...memories of my father, is all."

"If it means that much to you, I won't--"

She shook her head. "No! No...It would...It would be best used instead of languishing in a corner."

Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked down at her and asked gently, "Are you sure?"

Meeting his eyes, she made herself smile and said, "Yes. Father would have wanted it to be put to good use."

He squeezed her shoulders. "All right."