Runebound Reverse Tower of The Dead

"This thing shouldn’t even work. Weight’s all wrong, balance is a mess, who taught ye this craft? The mesh’s been hammered like a drunk ogre did it. Leather’s untreated, gods, it’ll rot in weeks. And this chain, what in the nine forges is this even for? " he then looked at the other gauntlet. "And this one’s worse, by a long shot. Don’t tell me ye made this scrap yerself? " Andre asked.

Every sentence hit like a slap. Not cruel for cruelty’s sake, more like a man offended by the idea of sloppy work existing in his presence.

Kael’s jaw clenched under the helmet.

"You know, I feel rather annoyed right now," Kael said.

"Ye oughta be ashamed, layin’ hands on craft ye don’t understand," Andre said.

"Never would I feel ashamed of making tools that allowed me to survive."

That was the truth, and it came out colder than Kael intended. He didn’t care. Survival wasn’t a debate topic.

"Survive, eh? Then ye’re that new whelp... the nameless one. The one cleared the first floor, aye?" He said.

Kael frowned.

He didn’t like hearing himself described as gossip. "New whelp." "Nameless." Like he was a rumor instead of a person.

"yer boots, yer gauntlets, that coat, aye, I see it clear. And this piece? Still garbage."

Kael’s annoyance sharpened into something more dangerous. He could take insults. He could take skepticism. But "garbage" tossed at something he bled for was pushing it.

"What do you mean? I understand the shoes part, the bartender said the same... but what do you mean about my armor?"

The smith looked behind Kael and pulled him inside the smithy. He then closed the door.

The sound of the door shutting was louder than it should’ve been. Not because the door was heavy, but because the place was silent enough that any noise sounded like an announcement.

"The materials... I can see ’em plain. Atrax carcass. Silk. Basilisk scales. Leather, youngling, heat-treated. Sinew... and somethin’ else, iron... fire-touched iron, eh? I wrong?" he asked.

Kael’s eyes narrowed. The man wasn’t guessing wildly. He was reading

the gear like it had labels. "Yea..."

"All o’ that comes from the first floor. Any fool knowin’ better would climb higher for cleaner stock. And no one reachin’ those heights would be wearin’ junk like this. So either ye’re the luckiest bastard I’ve ever seen... or ye somehow felled beasts that should’ve torn ye apart,"

Kael held the dwarf’s stare through the helmet slit. The truth was both, and neither answer was safe to give.

"Maybe both."

"ye... both. Luck’s smilin’ on ye, lad, no doubt. But she won’t smile long if ye keep wearin’ that scrap."

Kael exhaled slowly. The dwarf’s words weren’t wrong, even if his delivery was a hammer to the teeth. Gear that screamed "first floor miracle" was a beacon.

"It’s not like I learned any of this before," Kael shrugged.

"Don’t jest with me, boy. I can see the hammerin’ plain as day. Ye expect me t’ believe ye made this on the first floor, in what, a week? No forge, no hammer, no proper tools? Hah... ye’re hidin’ more than a few secrets, lad."

Kael didn’t deny it. Denying was pointless. Also dangerous. He kept his expression flat and let silence do the work.

"Didn’t need a forge."

Andre frowned for a bit, "An item, then... one that bends t’ yer will, shifts shape as ye need it. Only way this makes sense. Brokk’s Hammer... ye found it, didn’t ye?"

Kael’s eyes tightened.

He didn’t like how quickly Andre landed on the answer. It meant the dwarf had seen things. Done things. Lost things.

"Sharp."

"Ye get sharp when ye’ve lived long enough. Still... wasted on a lad who don’t know the craft."

Kael could’ve snapped back. Could’ve told him to go drown in his own piss-bottles. But the dwarf was the first person on this floor who looked at Kael’s work and saw possibility under the mess.

"Anyone else would think that you’re reprimanding them, am I to understand that you’re willing to... help?"

The dawrf’s face reddened a bit, it seems like he’s a person who wants to help but doesn’t wanna say it outright.

"Never seen runes worked like this... that’s truth enough. But I’ve no interest in climbers no more. Take yerself a pair o’ boots," he pointed at a corner, "They’re free. Call it payment for showin’ me somethin’ worth seein’. Then be on yer way."

Kael’s gaze flicked to the corner. Boots sat there half-buried under junk; some looked usable, some looked like they’d bite his feet. But "free" wasn’t what caught him. It was the fact Andre noticed the boots problem without being told.

"Wait," Kael said. "You sound like you know a bit about runes. I’d like to know too."

"That knowledge ain’t rare, ye’ll find it anywhere. Don’t pester me for it."

Kael’s patience frayed. He was tired of being sent in circles by "go somewhere else." He’d climbed a floor by himself. He’d killed a boss by himself. And still he had to beg for scraps of information like a stray dog.

"C’mon, old man, help a brother out."

"Name’s Andre... and I’ve no brothers left. Dead, the lot of ’em."

The words landed heavier than the dwarf intended. The annoyance didn’t leave his voice, but something raw peeked through it, an old wound refusing to close.

Kael felt a bit awkward for making Andre remember his past, but then said, "I’m just a newbie man. Just got here, got a mother to take care of and my own life to save..."

He didn’t dress it up. Didn’t try to make it heroic. It was just the truth that kept pushing him forward, even when the tower tried to stomp him flat.

"Aye, a fine tearjerker that is... but everyone’s got a story down here. Ye ain’t special.."

Kael didn’t argue. Arguing would be pointless.

"Never said I was, to be honest, I thought that the bartender sent me here because you might help, I guess he was wrong, and I was too hopeful. Sorry for wasting your time."

He turned to leave again, this time more seriously. The door was right there. The street outside. The sharks. The chapel gossip. The guilds hunting "nameless miracles."

At least he’d get boots.

As Kael was about to leave, the smith sighed, "Hold, lad... ah, curses, why’m I doin’ this...," he sighed.

The sound wasn’t dramatic. It was the sound of a man losing a fight with his own conscience.

"Ye’ll lose yer head walkin’ out like that. And I’ve not enough wine in me to stomach it on my conscience. Tell me, ye want that gear o’ yers improved or not?" Andre asked.

Kael stopped so fast it was almost comical.

"Yes. Definitely."

"Ye sure of that, lad?" he asked.

"Yeah. Pretty much, I doubt I can survive without this, now I’m Runebound."

"Rune-Tide, not ’Runebound.’ Get it right," The Smith corrected.

’That’s the same that the Sun Clan boss said...’

Kael swallowed the thought. Filed it away. Same correction from two different sources meant "Runebound" was either wrong or too right.

"Yeah."

"Either way... ye’re unlucky, lad, properly fucked. I’ve seen others like ye in the Reverse Tower. Thought they’d climb high enough, find some wandering soul to break the bindin’. Hah... no such person exists in this tower."

The revelation came down like a thunderbolt.

It wasn’t fear that hit Kael; it was the cold weight of inevitability. Like hearing the doctor say the word you didn’t want to hear, except there was no second opinion.

"You mean..."

"Ye’re bound to those ’til yer final breath. No escapin’ it."

"Shit..."

Kael’s voice came out flatter than he wanted. He’d been holding onto the idea that "later" existed. That he could fix this. That he could find someone like in the normal tower.

"And a foul end it’ll be, at that..." Andre added.

"What should I do?"

"There’s only one path left t’ ye. No one’s gonna help ye with gear like that..."

Kael didn’t like the way that sounded. "No one’s gonna help" had been the rule since day one. But hearing it spoken like a verdict still stung.

"And that is?"

"Ye learn to forge it better yerself. Improve it. Shape it proper." Andre replied.

Kael’s eyebrows rose behind the helmet. That was... not what he expected. He expected "pay me," or "join a guild," or "pray." Not work.

"And how can I do that?"

Andre picked up a broom from the side. An old dusty broom with barely enough bristles on it to be called a broom.

He held it like it was a sacred relic and a punishment at the same time.

"Start by cleanin’ this damned place."