Perspective: TPP
Ronin and Gloria sat shoulder-to-shoulder at a rickety wooden stall, the air thick with the sizzle of oil and the sharp tang of fried spices. Their plates brimmed with golden, crispy morsels, steam curling upward in the warm morning glow. Ronin speared a piece with a splintered wooden stick, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savouring the moment’s simplicity after days of chaos.
“Uhm…. Although a bit bland, it’s better than eating what I did in the Forest,” Ronin said, closing his eyes. His lips curled faintly as he chewed, the subtle sourness and spice tingling on his tongue, stirring memories of leaner, grimmer meals. There was a quiet gratitude in his voice, though his words carried a blunt edge.
Gloria’s head snapped toward him, her eyes flashing with indignation beneath her mask. “Are you insane? How can you say that straight in front of the shopkeeper? And it’s perfect, I love its taste—what do you mean bland?” she snapped, her voice rising as she leaned forward, nearly knocking her plate off the counter. Her cheeks flushed, a mix of embarrassment and defensiveness, as she glared at Ronin, who instinctively leaned back, his mouth still stuffed with food.
Ronin’s eyes widened, caught off guard by her outburst. He forced the bite down his throat, swallowing hard without chewing, a faint grimace crossing his face as it lodged briefly. “Don’t disturb me while eating—I almost choked on it!” he scolded, his tone sharp but laced with a playful undertone, his lips twitching as he tried to hide a smirk.
The young man behind the counter, Yotu, wiped his hands on a stained apron, his soft laugh cutting through the tension. His eyes crinkled with amusement. “I don’t mind at all. My mother always says, if your food isn’t liked by someone, then that brings an opportunity to try a new taste.” His voice was warm, unbothered, carrying the easy confidence of someone used to pleasing crowds.
Ronin raised an eyebrow, intrigued, and took another bite of the fried veg lollipop, its crisp exterior crunching satisfyingly. “Your mother must be a fine chef,” he said, his tone softer now, a nod of respect as he savoured the aftertaste.
Yotu grinned, leaning forward with a spark of curiosity. “Yes, but that’s not what I want to hear. Please, tell me how you’d like your next plate, sir?”
Ronin’s lips quirked into a sly smile, sensing a challenge. “Oh, a business mind, huh? Fine, indulge me. What do you add to this dish for spiciness? Do you use chili?” he asked, his voice carrying a teasing lilt as he propped an elbow on the counter, genuinely curious.
Yotu tapped his chin, his brow furrowing in thought. “Well, chili’s an option,” he said, “but I use chiro herbs. Good for a little spiciness, and they’ve got magical herbal effects.” His eyes gleamed with pride as he gestured to a small jar of vibrant green flakes.
Ronin’s interest piqued, his fingers drumming lightly on the counter. “Give me a board, some chili, and a knife. I’m a fine chef myself—let this be a lesson,” he said, rolling up his sleeves with a flourish. His voice carried a confident edge, but there was a flicker of excitement in his eyes, a chance to prove himself in a new arena.
Gloria nearly dropped her stick, her jaw falling open. “You can cook!?” she choked out, her voice a mix of shock and disbelief. She leaned back, her mask tilting slightly as she stared at him, trying to reconcile the warrior she knew with this unexpected revelation.
Yotu chuckled, his laughter bright and infectious. “This is so bizarre—you’re telling me a warrior knows how to cook? This’ll be a fine tale to brag about when I get home tonight.” He handed Ronin a cutting board, a small pile of red chilies, and a gleaming knife, his movements quick and eager as he watched the scene unfold.
Before Ronin could respond, a booming voice cut through the chatter of the stall. “Oi, lad! You have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused me? Sil nearly killed me, thinking you ran off somewhere, ungrateful as ever!” Warzheil stormed toward them, his heavy boots thudding against the cobblestones, drawing curious glances from nearby patrons. His beard bristled with exasperation, but his eyes glinted with relief at spotting Ronin.
“Oh, if it isn’t Master Thundersmith!” a passerby called, waving enthusiastically. The greeting sparked a chorus of recognition—townsfolk nodded, whispered, or shouted their hellos, some murmuring about the “legendary crafter back in business.” Warzheil’s scowl softened slightly, though he waved off the attention with a gruff huff.
Yotu bowed his head slightly, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re as mighty as ever, Master Warzheil.”
“Yotu, I need a taste of food, not pleasantries. Make the usual, please,” Warzheil said, slowing his pace as he reached the stall. His tone was brusque, but there was a warmth beneath it, a familiarity with the young chef.
Ronin glanced at Warzheil, a smirk tugging at his lips as he sliced a chili with precise, practiced flicks of the knife. “Turns out our old dwarf’s quite famous, huh?” he said, his voice carrying a playful jab.
Yotu nodded, his hands busy flipping another batch of fritters in the sizzling oil. “Yes, there’s no one in this town who doesn’t know Mister Warzheil.”
Warzheil’s eyes suddenly widened, darting between Ronin’s hands—deftly chopping chilies—and his face. “Wait! Ronin?” he said, his voice thick with surprise, as if seeing the man anew.
Ronin didn’t miss a beat, his knife moving steadily. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it for four,” he said, his tone calm but laced with confidence, a quiet assurance in his skill.
Warzheil’s grin widened, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. “A dish made by a household hitman? I’ll savor it,” he said, wiping a bead of drool from his chin with the back of his hand, his excitement almost boyish.
Yotu tilted his head, curious. “He’s that good, Master Warzheil?”
Gloria, still nibbling on a fritter, licked the wooden stick clean beneath her mask before tossing it aside with a flick of her wrist. “I can’t imagine any fried puffles better than those made by Yotu,” she said, her voice firm, a touch of loyalty to the young chef shining through.
Warzheil chuckled, leaning back with a satisfied nod. “Although a bit spicy, it’s the best to chill off—a perfect blend of spices. Even I was baffled,” he said, his tone carrying a rare note of admiration.
Gloria’s mask tilted slightly as she shot him a sidelong glance. “Why do you sound so proud about it, though?” she asked, her voice flat, a hint of suspicion creeping in.
Warzheil’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he leaned toward Gloria, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “By the way, kid, you’re being awfully close to Ronin for someone who wouldn’t even let us pat her head.” He paused, watching her stiffen. “You—don’t tell me… you like the lad?” His tone was teasing, but there was a genuine curiosity behind it.
Ronin’s knife paused mid-chop, his gaze flicking to Gloria, though his expression remained carefully neutral. He knew Warzheil was poking fun, but a small part of him wondered how she’d respond. Gloria froze, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her cloak, a faint flush creeping up her neck. “I-…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, caught off guard.
Warzheil’s jaw dropped, his teasing grin faltering. “What? Don’t tell me you do! I was just joking!” he shouted, his voice booming with disbelief, drawing a few amused glances from nearby patrons.
“By the gods, what spell did you cast on our Gloria, lad?” Warzheil asked, grabbing Ronin’s shoulder and shaking him lightly. Ronin tensed, his focus wavering as Warzheil invaded his space, but he kept his emotions in check, slicing another chili with deliberate calm.
“I did nothing. Must’ve been some kind of drug,” Ronin replied, his voice deadpan, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he deflected the question.
Yotu’s eyes widened, and he let out a sudden yelp, scrambling for a small glass bottle on the counter. “Oh no!” he said, holding it up, its amber liquid glinting in the lantern light. “This is a new sauce I bought from a merchant. He said it enhances the taste, but it looked suspicious to me. I tasted it, and it made me… well, I liked every girl I saw. Couldn’t work for half the day.” His voice was sheepish, his gaze darting nervously between Ronin and Warzheil.
The two men froze, their eyes slowly turning to Gloria, who was now gripping the edge of the counter, her knuckles paling. “D-d-don’t worry, I’m a goddess! This much won’t do anything to me,” she stammered, forcing a laugh, though her voice trembled slightly as she tried to compose herself. Her mask hid her expression, but the way she hunched her shoulders betrayed her unease.
Warzheil’s grin returned, wider and more mischievous than ever. “Kid, go home and rest. You’ve got a hunt tomorrow, and I’ve got tasks to complete with Ronin,” he said, his tone mockingly gentle, though his eyes danced with amusement.
“No way! I…” Gloria started, her voice rising in defiance, but Warzheil cut her off with a raised eyebrow.
“Or do you want to spend more time with the lad, hmm? Seems the drug’s got its hooks in you,” he said, his voice dripping with provocation.
Gloria’s shoulders slumped, her usual fire dimmed. “Guh…” she muttered, out of excuses, and turned to leave, her cloak swishing behind her in defeat.
“Wait,” Ronin called softly, his voice cutting through the chatter. He held out a freshly made puffle, its golden crust glistening with a dusting of spices. His movements were careful, almost tender, as he offered it to her.
Gloria paused, staring at the puffle, her throat tightening. She gulped, then took a tentative bite, the crunch loud in the sudden quiet. The flavors burst across her tongue—bright lemony notes balancing the heat of the chili, warm and comforting.
“I added some lemon-like ingredients too, so it should be a fine piece,” Ronin said, taking a bite of his own puffle. A rare, gentle smile curved his lips, softening the hard lines of his face for just a moment.
Yotu, already sampling one of Ronin’s creations, let out a delighted moan. “Oh, Ma! This is such an exquisite taste—ummph!” he said, chomping eagerly, his eyes wide with awe.
Warzheil laughed, clapping Yotu on the shoulder. “Told ya, he’s still better than you, Yotu. You’ve got ways to go,” he teased, though his tone carried a note of pride.
Yotu nodded vigorously, wiping crumbs from his chin. “Yeah, to think a warrior can cook so well! I’ll use this dish now. It’s excellent—not too spicy, enough to linger on the tongue for a prolonged period.” His voice was earnest, already mentally cataloging the recipe.
Ronin glanced at Gloria, his expression softening further. “Gloria?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.
She tossed the stick aside, letting out a small burp as she turned away. “It’s… fine,” she mumbled, her voice barely audible, but the faint tremor in it hinted at something more—appreciation, perhaps, or something she wasn’t ready to name. She walked off, her steps quickening as if to outrun her own thoughts.
Ronin’s gaze lingered on her retreating figure, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “You must’ve upset her,” he said, turning to Warzheil, his tone carrying a gentle reproach.
Warzheil shrugged, unrepentant. “She’s still a kid. When’ll she grow up if we let her do whatever she wants without any restriction?” he said, though his voice softened slightly, betraying a hint of fondness.
Ronin grunted, his jaw tightening as he returned to cleaning the knife, his movements precise but heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Warzheil clapped a hand on his shoulder, steering him away from the stall. “Let’s go. I want to talk about your abilities, what your next task is according to the book, and whip you up some gear,” he said, his voice brimming with purpose.
Yotu waved after them, his grin wide. “Do come back, Master Warzheil, Master Ronin!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the hum of the bustling street as the two men walked away.
A Garden in Shevalon
The garden was bathed in soft morning light, dew shimmering on the blades of grass like tiny jewels. Birds chirped from the treetops, their melodies weaving through the air as a small girl swung a wooden sword with fierce determination.
“Hiyaah! Heyaah!” Kirilya’s voice rang out, her strokes wild but earnest. At only five years old, her movements lacked finesse but were brimming with raw enthusiasm.
The gates creaked open, and Karma and Ava stepped out of the house, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. White fabric peeked out from beneath their leather plating, saffron-colored sleeves adding a touch of warmth to their otherwise imposing presence.
“Kirilya—sweetheart,” Karma called out gently as he approached her. His voice carried both affection and reprimand. “Mother and Father are heading to the temple for work. Go inside to Gariko. Didn’t we tell you not to touch weapons or do unnecessary exercise?”
He reached for the wooden sword, his grip firm but careful. Kirilya stretched her fingers toward it in protest but ultimately relented, her shoulders slumping as she let go.
“But who will I play with?” she asked, her voice small and plaintive. “You both go off to beat bad guys while Kirilya is left all alone.”
Ava crouched beside her daughter, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her smile was soft but tinged with sadness—a mother’s silent grief hidden behind a brave facade. “Don’t worry, honey,” she said gently. “Once we defeat the demon lord, we’ll find a cure for you. Then you can come with us and fight bad guys too.”
Kirilya’s pout faded, replaced by a bright smile that lit up her face. “Really?” she asked eagerly.
“Really,” Ava assured her, though her keen eyes wavered for just a moment.
Before Kirilya could respond further, Gariko appeared at the mansion’s doorway, her apron dusted with flour. “Lady Kirilya? Come on in—I’ve made snacks for you!” she called out warmly.
“Yay! Snacks!” Kirilya squealed with delight, darting past her parents without another word. “Bye Mother! Bye Father!”
Karma watched her disappear into the house, his brows furrowing as tension etched itself onto his features. “We must kill the demon lord as fast as we can,” he muttered under his breath.
Ava sniffed quietly beside him, tears pooling in her eyes despite her efforts to hold them back. “The priest… the healer… even the wizards have given up,” she whispered hoarsely. “They say she has only around a year to live.”
Karma’s jaw tightened as he clenched his fists. “Trust me,” he said firmly, his voice like steel. “Just like I found the cure for you years ago, I’ll find one for Kirilya.”
The Temple Meeting
The city bell tolled loudly in the distance as Karma and Ava clasped hands and stepped into shadow—a swirling darkness engulfing them before spitting them out at the temple gates moments later.
The guards flinched at their sudden arrival but quickly composed themselves. One muttered to his companion under his breath: “No matter how many times I see it… I can’t help but feel uneasy.”
“Well,” came the reply, “that’s the Hero of Darkness for you.”
Karma ignored them as he strode forward confidently. “Bissa, Corltel—open the door,” he commanded.
The guards nodded briskly and pushed open the massive gates adorned with glowing magical patterns and intricate gold engravings. The room beyond was bathed in divine white light, statues of gods standing solemnly around its perimeter.
At its center sat a round table polished to perfection, surrounded by heroes and cardinals dressed in priestly robes or gleaming armor.
“You’re late,” one of the cardinals remarked sharply.
“Yeah,” Ava teased lightly, shooting Karma a sidelong glance. “Someone overslept.”
“It’s fine,” boomed a large man seated at one of the bigger chairs. His deep voice carried authority that silenced any further comments. “Let’s begin.”
Karma and Ava took their seats as Cardinal Diodis rose to speak—but before he could finish his first sentence, Feiney interrupted from across the table.
“Cardinal Diodis,” she drawled in a soothing voice tinged with frustration. Her ninja outfit blended seamlessly into the shadows around her as she leaned forward slightly. “I hope this meeting is worth my time—I had to sacrifice precious hours staking my crush just to be here.”
Dratnir snorted from his seat nearby. His armor clinked softly as he leaned back smugly. “Shut up, Feiney—or I’ll tell your crush who you are.”
Feiney scoffed loudly in response. “You’re one to talk, Tin Man! Why don’t you shut up instead?”
“Enough!” Diodis snapped irritably before continuing his announcement. “It’s about the location of the demon traitor…”
Ava shot up from her seat before he could finish his sentence fully. Her eyes burned with disbelief as she shouted: “You found him?!”
“Yes,” Diodis confirmed with a solemn nod.
The room fell silent for a moment, tension thick in the air. Then a deep chuckle broke through from the far end of the table. The hulking figure of Dratnir leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Our leader seems awfully invested in this guy,” he teased, his voice a low rumble. “Karma, you might have competition.”
Ava shot him a glare, but before she could respond, Karma spoke up. His tone was calm but carried an edge of steel. “He is a hitman,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the room. “An expert in precision kills. The best in his field.”
His words hung heavy in the air, met with puzzled looks from several cardinals seated around the table.
“Hitman?” Cardinal Cruth finally asked, leaning forward with a furrowed brow. “If I remember correctly… isn’t that what Leader Ava was when she lived on Earth?”
Ava’s lips pressed into a thin line as all eyes turned to her. She sighed softly before answering, her voice steady but tinged with weariness. “Yes,” she admitted, her gaze unwavering as she met Cruth’s eyes. “Although I was an assassin, not a hitman. There’s a difference.” She paused for a moment, her expression hardening slightly. “But that was a long time ago.”
The room buzzed with murmurs as the distinction hung in the air like an unspoken challenge.
The garden was quiet except for the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Kirilya darted out from the mansion, her small figure barely making a sound as she slipped past the gate. The maid’s frantic voice echoed from inside.
“Lady Kirilya! Where are you? Come back this instant!” Gariko yelled, her apron fluttering as she searched the house.
Unseen by either of them, two cloaked figures crouched in the shadows of the bushes. Their eyes gleamed with malice beneath their hoods as they watched the little girl wander toward the edge of the garden.
“There’s our Uru Mine,” one of them whispered, his voice low and gravelly. “Let’s finish this before the heroes catch wind of our plan.”
The other hesitated, his fingers twitching nervously. “What if the demons betray us? You know they can’t be trusted.”
The first figure adjusted his mask, his tone cold and dismissive. “As long as we can distract them, it’ll do.” He raised a dart gun, its tip glinting faintly in the dim light. With a soft thunk, he fired.
Kirilya moved at the last second, her instincts sharper than expected for a child her age. The dart whizzed past her ear, embedding itself harmlessly in a tree trunk. The cloaked man cursed under his breath.
“Damn it! She dodged!” he hissed.
“Gariko! Someone is….” Kirilya tries to yell out in her sweet but stressed voice, dodging more darts.
But this time, two darts flew at once. Kirilya managed to avoid one with a quick twist of her body, but the second struck her ankle. Her small frame wavered before she collapsed onto the grass, her breathing shallow as unconsciousness claimed her.
Before the figures could move to retrieve her, a deafening explosion shattered the stillness. One of Shevalon’s towering walls crumbled into rubble as if struck by a volcanic eruption. A plume of dust and debris shot into the sky, blotting out the sun.
“That’s our queue! Let’s get out of here.” The kidnappers say as they grab unconscious Kirilya.
The city’s alarm bells rang out in panicked urgency. A loud siren blared across Shevalon as shadows began to ripple unnaturally along the ground. From those dark voids emerged demons—grotesque creatures with glowing eyes and twisted forms—stepping through portals of shadow. The heroes and cardinals come out of the temple.
Upon hearing Kirilya’s voice, the maid rushed out with a sword but as she turned toward the source of a giant shadow stretching over her, her eyes widens.
As karma watched, A massive boulder hurtled through the air and crashed into their house with devastating force. The structure groaned before collapsing entirely under its weight.
“No! Kirilya!” Karma’s anguished cry tore through the chaos as he stood amidst fleeing townsfolk, his eyes fixed on where their home had once stood.
Ava’s voice followed, raw with agony. “No!!” she screamed, sprinting toward the wreckage without hesitation.
“Fight! Fight! Destroy these demon filths!” Cardinal Diodis roared from atop a nearby platform. His command galvanized the paladins and cardinals into action. Swords clashed against claws as divine magic illuminated the battlefield in bursts of light.
Ava and Karma vanished into shadow, reappearing within moments at what remained of their home. The sight that greeted them froze them in place—a sea of rubble stretching endlessly around them.
Underneath a broken beam lay Gariko, her body battered but still faintly alive. Ava dropped to her knees beside her maid and placed trembling hands on her chest.
“Gariko…” Ava whispered, tears spilling freely down her cheeks as she activated her ability. A faint glow enveloped Gariko’s form, reviving her just enough to speak.
The maid coughed violently, blood staining her lips as she struggled to focus on Ava’s face. “M-Mistress…” she rasped weakly.
“Oh, Gariko… I’m so sorry,” Ava sobbed, leaning closer to hear her fading voice.
“They… cough... they took her… kidnapped… little lady…” Gariko managed between labored breaths. Her words came in broken fragments, each one costing her dearly.
Karma knelt beside them, desperation etched into his features. “Kirilya is alive? Where did they take her? Tell us!” he demanded urgently.
Gariko tried to respond but faltered as death tightened its grip on her fragile body. Her lips moved soundlessly before an arrow suddenly pierced through her skull with brutal precision.
Ava gasped in horror as blood splattered across her hands. She looked up sharply to see a massive demon descending from above, its wings casting an ominous shadow over them. The impact of its landing sent rubble flying in all directions.
“Must have been quite a shock for you weak humans,” the demon sneered as it straightened to its full height. Its voice was deep and mocking, filled with cruel amusement. “To see your precious kingdom crumble so easily under our might.”
Dust swirled around them as Ava shielded her eyes with one arm while Karma stood unmoving, his expression darkening with fury. His clenched fists trembled at his sides as he stared down their foe.
“Genamura…” Karma growled through gritted teeth, his voice low and venomous.
Ava’s gaze hardened beside him as recognition dawned on her face. “He… he’s become too strong,” she murmured.
Karma stepped forward without hesitation, his presence radiating cold determination. “You go find Kirilya,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll deal with him.”
“Karma!” Ava protested sharply. “Whoever took Kirilya will use this against us! But right now—protecting Shevalon must come first!”
Karma turned to face her then, his eyes blazing with anger and pain. “This is our daughter we’re talking about!” he snapped fiercely. “Don’t you dare talk patriotism to me right now! Go--NOW!”
Ava flinched at his tone but quickly steeled herself. She knew he was right—this was not a moment for debate. Without another word, she vanished into shadow once more, leaving Karma alone to face Genamura.
The demon grinned wickedly as it spread its wings wide against the backdrop of destruction. “Come then,” it taunted mockingly. “Show me what your so-called ‘heroic resolve’ is worth.”
Karma raised his blade slowly but deliberately, his expression unreadable save for the storm brewing behind his eyes. “You’ll regret setting foot here,” he said coldly before charging forward into battle.
Back in Newin Town
The Wooden door creeks open as light illuminates the dimly lit forge. Two figure, one small and one big enter through the light, their shadow casting across the structure.
“You know, that fire in that Heart is an eternal fire.” Warzheil says
“Eternal?” Ronin echoes the word back
“Yes, Drax gave it to me. His strongest Flame. it’s been lit since I left, Still burning after 40 years.” He continue in a sad voice
“Stop sulking” Ronin says as he summons the book that combined with drax’s diary.
“Oh, I can see the text now too.” Warzheil says as he climbs Ronin to look at the text.
“Get off me so I can put it down on the table.” Ronin says with a poker face.
“Tch, it was fun riding on your back on the bridge. I may just commission you as a vehicle instead of a hitman.” He says mockingly as he climbs down.
“So, my next destination is to gather info on the upcoming calamity in Clodian kingdom? Where is that?” Ronin asks as he gently tosses the book with the page open on a table with tools.
“That is too specific to be a coincidence. Geolard asked you to kill the king there didn’t he? Its possible that he might have something he is hiding.” Warzheil speculates as he rubs his chin covered in beard.
“Yeah…..well—lets see about that later. First, I want to get my dress fixed and my mask back.” Ronin demands as he extends his hand.
Warzheil scuffles through his dimensional pocket and hands Ronin his scratched mask.
“Don’t expect a dress for you. I don’t know how to weave. And given how your body changes, that kins of fabric you can get when you go to Clodian empire.” Warzheil says
“I assume elves are skilled in making clothes with fabrics?” Ronin asks
“Yeah, they are second best after sheep trolls, but like us dwarves, they are a species that’s near extinction” Warzheil says as he tosses two metal bars in a big pot and slides it into the hearth.
As soon as the pot is set in the hearth, the fire blazes in shades of blue and white.
“Extinct? You mean you are the only dwarf left?” Ronin asks with a hint of uneasiness in his otherwise calm demeanour.
“Not necessarily, but yeah I may be the only dwarf left who knows the craft of legendary weapons and runes.” Warzheil says casually as he leans in support of the table, pulling out 2 cups and a jar out of his pocket.
“You carry tea around?” Ronin asks, his nose twitching
“What’s a tea? Oh this, it’s just a normal herbal tonic. Its famous for its refreshing taste.” Warzheil says handing one to Ronin.
“That’s what we call them on Earth.” Ronin replies “And enough with that what happened to dwarves? And other races?”
“Hmm” he grunts taking a sip “We were hunted until recently, by demons and humans. Every time a war happens between them, most races get swept in because of them, due to promises, and due to being threat.” Warzheil says
“Threat?” Ronin asks
Warzheil Laughs “Why are you so concerned anyway?” he says
“Tell me, I have always loved learning about history, it helps connect with people I would otherwise have hard time with.” Ronin requests
“You know what? that’s a damn fine reason you got. But I have a condition.” Warzheil says on which Ronin returns a questioning Grunt.
“You will learn how to be a blacksmith and Rune craft from me. Keeping my legacy with you.” Warzheil says
“W-what?! Do you realise what you are asking of me? That’s not your legacy! That’s the legacy of an entire Race!” Ronin recoil
“Hey, I said dwarves are extinct on this continent, there are still dwarves out there somewhere. If you happen upon someone talented, pass this on to them is all I am asking.” Warzheil explains
Ronin hesitates, thinking of it for a while “I already have contracts, a world to save from something I don’t know about and now the burden of another race.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about blacksmithing?” Warzheil asks
“I do know a little.” Ronin says
“Yeah why would….” He pauses for a moment “Wait what?” he yells in shock.
“Well I did little of many things on earth, alchemy, blacksmithing, although for bullets and knives. I had to be self proficient you know.” Ronin explains scratching his head
“I see, then… that makes it easy. Let me see the form of your hammer then” he says
“Well, don’t expect too much, I am not as proficient as you.” Ronin says.
Warzheil picks up a bar of metal, latches it on to a meal rod, heats it and then starts beating it on the anvil near the table.
“Go on, I have some basic swords to make---that’s how I warm up my muscles and
hammer.” He says beating with his Dark Uru hammers.