Cirra and the Bound Flame - RPLOG
From Rusted Promises
Participants
Date
5/11/478
Log
The hot and cloudy afternoon in Firmament finds Cirra making her way down the street in the Market's District, heaing towards the Maker's Bench workshop. The owner, a heavy clan rhino named Jerald Maker, was certainly just the Being that Cirra needed to talk to. The inside of the shop is dark and cooler than the outside air, and one of Jerald's apprentices is manning the counter; the sound of a hammer striking metal rings from somewhere towards the back of the shop.
As much as Cirra is used to the heat of the forge, she could never be used to Sweetwater's climate. She's brought along her chalkboard so she may converse with the proprietor and his assistant if she is not understood because of her muteness. She is endeavoring to do something that she isn't quite sure is possible, given her stated predicament. She signs a greeting to the apprentice, then scribbles on her board. [Hello. May I see your Master?] She writes.
The younger wolf eyes Cirra for a moment, then she shark's chalkboard; he thinks for a moment, then shrugs and waves towards the back. "Sure. Just don't waste his time. He's got a lot of things he's working on." Out the back of the small shop is a very small, cramped courtyard, and Jerald's forge; even in the shade, the blazing heat is noticable - but it is dry. As Cirra approaches, the smith pauses, and looks up; the mark on his upper arm - a stylized hammer wreathed in flame - is clearly visible. He grunts.
Cirra nods to the wolf then heads on back, blinking a bit in surprise. She was not expecting such a cozy workspace. She looks around for a short while to take everything in. Then her eyes focus on the mark, and she grins a bit. She begins signing to him, hoping perhaps this one might be able to speak to her in her more comfortable style. <Greetings. I am Cirra Stormborn, proprietor and master spellwright of Silver Lining Shipwrights. You are one of Hephestia's Callers, yes?>
The big rhino stares at Cirra and her hand motions for a moment, and then his ear flicks. He nods his head once. "Yes." He looks down at his work again, makes a quick adjustment with his hammer, then puts the piece of metal he's working on back in the coals of the forge. "What of it?"
A short sigh of relief and Cirra continues. <I wish to become one of hers. I, too, am a craftsman, and in my work I wish to create tools to protect the ones I hold dear. I cannot do the calling on my own, as I am without voice.> She pauses. <I seek your assistance calling her, and helping me form the pact with her.>
"... huh," Jerald replies, watching Cirra. After a moment, he crosses his arms. "One doesn't just whistle up a Spirit, Cirra," she replies. "You know what goes into being a Caller? What it entails?"
Cirra nods. <I am to be the armorer of my people, so that they may come back alive, and a defender of the home and hearth, so that my people may have a place to come home to.> She pauses. <If I make this pact, the flame shall never be used as a weapon except in dire need.> She pauses again. <In exchange, the flames of creation will answer to me, to aid in the forging of tools and armor and to warm the home and hearth.>
The smith slowly nods his head. "You've done your research; you know the pact." Jerald gives Cirra a smile. "But why? Why seek out the Bound Flame? An' you know the -pact-, but do you know what it means to be a Caller?"
This gives Cirra a bit of pause, but she steels herself. <The goals of the bound flame mesh with my own. To Create and Prepare, yes? While I aim for more to Create and Protect, there is great overlap. As far as what being a caller means, I am hers to command when she chooses, and she is willing to listen to me if I call her.> She seemsa bit worried now, hoping her resolve at least will convince him, if her lack of knowledge betrays her.
"Mmmmm," Jerald replies. He lightly touches the mark on his arm and smiles, then lets his expression turn neutral again. "The Spirits can hear when their name is spoken, when someone thinks about them; like hearing your name called from across the room. But a Caller stands right behind their Spirit's shoulder... if that makes sense. It is a responsibility. Hephastia would be obligated to show up when you wanted her to, or at least say something. And in turn, you have to come when she Calls for you, help her out with the things she wants done here." He pauses, then gives a polite nod of his head towards someone behind Cirra, then turns and retrieves his metal from the forge and gets back to work. Just behind Cirra, standing in the doorway to the shop, is an older Creator woman wearing a plain brown robe, her face tan and lined with age.
Cirra nods, listening as the Caller explains. She blinks as their conversation is interrupted, turning around, and then realizing it wasn't interrupted at all. She gives a slight bow to the woman, signing. <A pleasure to meet you, Hephestia. I wish to become one of your Callers.> A hand rests on her chalkboard, prepared to translate.
The Creator woman - correctly identified - reaches out and puts her hands on either side of Cirra's shoulders. She peers into the shark's eyes, then looks to one side of her and then they other, then nods her head. "I see. You understand what it entails, and you seek my Pact, in full knowledge and of your own will?" she asks, with a formal tone.
Cirra keeps her signing small, so as to not disturb the arms on her shoulders. <I do understand what it entails, and I do seek your Pact, in full knowledge and of my own free will.> She inhales a bit, focusing on the woman in front of her.
"Good," the woman replies with a nod. "I can tell you are one of mine, Cirra Storm-wright, and I am glad to claim you as such." She pauses.
"Good," the woman replies with a nod. "I can tell you are one of mine, Cirra Storm-wright, and I am glad to claim you as such." She pauses. "Then Cirra. I bid you to Create, I bid you to Prepare. Be the warm, welcoming fire of the hearth - be the hot, refining, shaping fire of the forge. Tend to the fire of civilization, tend to the flames of kinship, and bring strength and resolve to those who need it in the dark times." The spirit lifts her hand. "Where will you bear my mark, Caller?"
<I will bear your mark on my caudal fin, my tail, Hephestia. I do not cover it, and it is quite clear for such a mark.> Cirra moves her fin into view, smiling a bit. She holds it steady, expecting the fires of a brand.
Hephestia smiles and reaches out, touching Cirra's fin; after a moment, her brand forms, dark against the skin. The Spirit nods her head, then reaches into her robe and withdraws an ingot of iron, which she passes to Cirra. "And a gift, for you to shape as you please. Think of me, and call for me when you need me, my daughter. May I do anything else for you this day?"
Cirra closes her eyes, shaking her head. <That is all for now. If I have need of you, I will call you, and if you have need of me, I will respond.> She takes the iron, imagining what she will do with it, but glad to have it.
Hephastia bows her head, then is gone - although her mark, and her touch, remains. And a feeling of... having someone's attention.
