#grogda

Grogda held her tongs firmly, their arms grasping a large piece of red-hot iron. With the small hammer in her other hand, she gave the metal a gentle tap in a very specific spot. Suddenly, a larger hammer crashed down on the same spot, a loud bang that reverberated around the large room.

 “Oi, hit it harder, yeh dumbass!” the dwarf screamed, sweat pouring from her brow. The large felguard on the other side of the anvil grunted loudly, but said nothing. Grogda tapped the iron again with her hammer, which was immediately followed by another large strike from the felguard. “Much better, keep it up!” She kept tapping the hot iron, and the felguard kept striking it, gradually shaping it, warlock and demon functioning in tandem. The metal slowly cooled, losing its red color.

 “Increase the heat, the forge is too cold!” Grogda barked without even looking at the forge, feeling the lack of heat on the back of her neck.

 “What?! How hot do you want this forge to be?” came the screeched response, which made Grogda furrow her brows.

 “Hotter than it is now! Get to it!” The forge light increased, further illuminating the room, and warming the back of her neck again. “Much better!” She turned her head, looking at the imp channeling a jet of flame into the forge. She smiled, and chuckled briefly. “Ha! See? Do as yer told, and this will work out just fine.” Grogda set down her hammer and grabbed the tongs with both hands, placing the cooled metal back in the forge. “More heat, yeh bastard!” she snapped at the distressed-looking imp.

 “How much fire do you think I got?!” he chittered in return, exasperated.

 Grogda shook her head, and turned to look at the imp for a few seconds. “Bah, I’ll do it meself!” Her eyes glowed brightly, an intense orange light surging from them. She raised her hand toward the forge, and released a bout of fel fire into it, turning the inside of the furnace into a raging inferno. After a moment, the inferno subsided, leaving the forge much hotter than it had been previously. “Perfect,” she said to herself, satisfied. The dwarf waited until the metal bar was once again glowing hot, and repeated the same process several times. It slowly took shape and form.

 There were several dark iron bars neatly piled in a corner, with many other bars of all types and colors stacked upon them, waiting to be used. The forge room was well equipped and served Grogda well, even if she had sacrificed the largest room of her house to build it. She had also earned the ire of Fenella Darkvire, one of the head architects of Shadowforge City, by altering the lava flow so she could use its heat to warm her forge. But it had been all worth it, because she now had one of the best private forges in all of Blackrock Mountain. It was no Black Forge or Black Anvil, but here, here she could work at her own leisure, in whatever way she preferred. There were no other dwarves here to heckle her for taking too long, or for “damaging” the forge with her... peculiar methods.

  The smithing continued for several more hours, the thick metal bar slowly taking the shape of a beautiful, ornate hammer. Grogda inspected her work against the forge’s light closely. She had a reputation to uphold, after all-- and delivering a flawed commission could spell the end of her name. She had to make sure no weak points or impurities threatened her creation. Her eyes lit up again, but this time they didn’t glow red. Instead, they were suffused with a sickly green and purple light. She raised a hand, using her particular brand of magic to open a portal into the abyss that was the Twisting Nether.

  It didn’t take long for an observer to float through the portal and into her forge. “Ah, calling me again so soon, Grogda?” he chuckled, amused.

 Grogda simply held the hammer out to the demon. “Yes. I need yeh to inspect this hammer for me.”

 The observer blinked at the object several times, and then turned his gaze back upon the dark iron. “This is not enchanted, Grogda. There’s no magic I can learn from this.”

 Grogda sighed. Observers were supposed to be among the smartest demons there were, but sometimes they were amazingly obtuse. “Because I want yeh to analyze the hammer's integrity, not observe magic! Now get to it, it’s part of yer contract.”

 The observer rolled his several eyes, clearly annoyed, but obeyed. As he focused on the hammer, his eyes began to emit rays of light, which connected with the hammer. The rays scanned it several times, without seeming to affect the object in any way. The observer relaxed, and looked at Grogda again, his head bouncing in the air as he nodded. She grinned.

  The warlock walked over to a special table she had built just for enchanting, and gently set the still hot hammer down in the center. The table was covered in specialized engravings, painstakingly hand-carved into the hard stone. Arcane wasn’t her forte, of course, but she was still well-versed in the delicate magic of enchanting.

 Beside the table was a large metal chest. Grogda grunted as she opened it, looking inside. She took a few small cloth bags and placed them upon the table, opening them one by one. Each contained something different; some were filled with pieces of crystallized mana, while others held enchanting dust. Using the table's carvings to guide her, she meticulously placed crystals at key points. She sprinkled the hammer with enchanting dust, making sure it was fully covered, then connected all the crystals with a trail of dust. She beckoned for the observer once more, who floated toward the table, appearing slightly more interested in this part of the process.

 By this time, the forge's heat had subsided, and the felguard and imp were resting. Grogda lifted a hand, conjuring a small, flickering flame on the tips of her fingers. She carefully touched a line of enchanting dust with her fingertip. Being no ordinary fire, it spread quickly through the trails of dust as if they were oil, engulfing her carefully-placed crystals, and finally the hammer itself. Though they burned bright, the flames were eerily cold. The crystals began to dissolve, their liquefied mana following a fiery trail toward the hammer, bubbling like melted wax.

 Grogda's hand remained steady as she manipulated the enchantment. The process itself could take several hours, and everything had to be perfect for the magic to properly take hold. Even the smallest mistake could ruin her work at any moment. But there was a reason why she charged a premium for her weapons. Her creations were no poor smith's shoddy craftsmanship. Grogda had spent decades honing her craft.

 As the last of the crystals melted down, she controlled her breathing carefully. “Here. Watch this.” She snapped her fingers, a dancing green fel flame sparking to life at her fingertips. Though small, it seemed very much alive, as if desperate to break free from the warlock's control. She slowly lowered it toward the last remaining crystal, her muscles visibly tense. This was the hardest part of the process, as fel magic was too chaotic and unstable for most enchanters to work with. Grogda, however, was willing to take risks that others might not. She had learned to add her own flair to her enchanting, empowering the magic beyond its normal capabilities-- that is, if she was successful at binding the fel energy. At best, a failure would result in the magic breaking free from her control and consuming her creation. At worst... Well, there would be a raging inferno where her forge had once been. It was best not to contemplate that just now.

  As the fel flame touched the crystal, the lines of fire consuming the dust flared brighter, shifting in color and temperament. It grew, becoming aggressive, trying to escape from the bounds of the dust trails in order to consume the table. Grogda was faster, taking control of the situation. She deftly wove the fel and arcane together, binding the innate order of arcane to the ineluctable chaos of fel.

 The demonic observer barely blinked, intent upon observing her technique and her methods as the magics met and combined. While it was not unusual to use both together, and using one often led to using the other, it was still a unique process, and he seemed to find it quite fascinating to watch.

 The enchantment took hours, and by the time it was done, the fire had burnt down to ash, the dust and crystals completely consumed. The stone table was left looking quite singed, but the hammer stood proudly in the center, covered in a fine layer of dark ash.

 Grogda lifted the hammer carefully, finding it to be heavy and well balanced. She had used a special alloy of her own invention, and was quite pleased with the results. She stood back and gave the weapon a few test swings, the muscles in her arms flexing, then handed it back to the observer. The demon appeared quite eager, and needed no further commands. He inspected it closely, his eye beams hungrily scanning the hammer, perhaps more thoroughly than strictly necessary. He kept his gaze on it for several minutes, then finally chuckled.

 “Another masterfully crafted item, Grogda. Congratulations.”

 The dark iron picked the hammer back up with her callused hands, and inspected it for herself, the shine of the metal reflecting the dim light of the cooling forge.

 “Imp! Clean the table.” The demon groaned reluctantly, but knew there was nothing he could say that would change his fate. He grabbed a bucket and brush from the corner, clambered onto the table, and began to scrub at the ash and scorch-marks.

  Grogda found that she was grinning, proud of her work. The observer floated back to her side, curious. “Tell me, Grogda. Does this hammer already have an owner? How much did you sell it for?” Grogda kept her eyes on the hammer in her hands, drinking in every detail, remaining silent as she felt its weight and imagined its power. “Because, well, if you are still looking for a buyer, I could make an offer for it instead. I’m sure you’d find it generous-- more generous, I imagine, than even a wealthy dwarf could offer you.”

 Grogda shook her head, her eyes glinting. “This is not a mere commission, Xhultarc.”

 The demon took a long look at the hammer, unable to conceal the longing in his gaze. “I can still make my offer. Perhaps I could change your mind?”

 The warlock finally looked up, and stared directly and fearlessly into the demon's largest eye. “No, Xhultarc. This hammer is not for sale.”

 He shook his head, bereft, and heaved a sigh. “Very well,” he grumbled. “And who is it for? Or are you going to wield it yourself?”

  Grogda smiled, letting out a soft chuckle. “No. This is a gift.” She looked into the hammer again, her smile widening. “You see, in a few years, Dagran II will need a weapon that is befitting of his station... And his throne.”

What? Oh, big girl like you? No way. Then why would you want to eat me? Oh, I don't want to eat you. I want you to eat. Look, I brought your favorite food. Anchovies in mustard sauce. Oh, my God. Only my therapist, my pizza delivery boy or my mother would know that. You are my mother. But I thought you were dead.

DISENCHANTMENT 4.02 - The Good, The Bad, and the Bum-Bum

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