A Smith's Song (Percy Jackson / ASOIAF / Game of Thrones)

[Pineappl3]

What happens when a son of Hephaestus is dropped north of the wall in the lands of forever winter?

---

Life was miserable, thought James, or rather Baldur, as he preferred to be called now. Why would people willingly choose to live in a place covered in snow all year round? The cold was particularly bothersome to him due to his heritage, not from this world but from his previous one.

James, originally born on Earth, was the son of Hephaestus, the Greek god of blacksmiths and craftsmen, and someone else whose identity he wasn't certain of since his mother had left him at an orphanage. However, he didn't let that fact bother him too much, as he was more engrossed in tinkering and creating things, much to the chagrin of the orphanage workers.

As he grew older, James realized that he had less in common with those around him and began to distance himself from them. "I don't need them," he thought at the time. Instead, he found solace in the company of his machines and inventions. They seemed to communicate with him, not literally, but he felt a connection with them.

Eventually, James had to leave the orphanage as a teenager. He was constantly attacked by terrifying dogs, later identified as hellhounds, but his machines protected him. However, the side effects of their protection caused friction with those around him. No one believed his stories about the hounds.

In hindsight, now that he knew about the mist—a magical veil that concealed the true nature of mythical creatures—he couldn't blame them for their skepticism. However, that was all in the past now. James had died due to his own hubris. He had discovered an entrance to the fabled labyrinth and believed he could uncover its secrets.

His heritage as a demigod enabled him to deftly avoid and disarm the traps within the labyrinth. But it wasn't the labyrinth itself that led to his demise. Ignoring caution, he took the first exit he found, unaware that it would lead him straight into the den of a hydra.

Normally, James would have fled, but this time he couldn't. The exit vanished behind him, leaving him trapped between the hydra and the cave wall. First, the monstrous beast attempted to burn him alive, a futile effort against a son of Hephaestus. When its flames failed, the hydra resorted to trying to devour James whole.

Fortunately, his suffering was short-lived. Darkness engulfed him within the hydra's belly, and after a few moments, he felt weightless. The sensation of falling persisted until he landed with a thud on something solid. Once again, he could see, hear, and smell. Opening his eyes, he saw someone standing over him, shouting.

They called him Baldur, a name that seemed strange to James as it belonged to a Norse god. They disregarded his claims of being named James, attributing it to the concussion he had sustained during the fight. The individuals around him paid little attention and went about their business, while internally James began to panic at the turn of events. Months had passed since then, and he had somewhat come to terms with what had happened.

He found himself in a place called the "True North," among the Free Folk. Initially, he had been with an interesting group of people, but he didn't particularly like them, so he decided to strike out on his own. James had always been better off working independently.

Furthermore, he discovered that he still possessed his demigod abilities, the gifts bestowed upon him as a child of Hephaestus. With these restored powers, he realized he didn't truly need others for protection. While their assistance would have been valuable in getting acquainted with the land and understanding the culture, he didn't care much for either.

James, now fully embracing his new name, Baldur, paid tribute to the man who had selflessly given up his body to him. Baldur was a handsome fellow with black hair and ice-blue eyes, standing at roughly 5'.6" He seemed a bit young, most likely not even past 15 but he was only a few years older on Earth so it mattered not. Fortunately, he possessed a similar build to his old body, although a bit slender, but he compensated with exceptional dexterity.

He had no desire for a larger physique, as there were benefits to being small that often went unmentioned. Baldur wasn't much of a fighter, and it appeared that his new body had the same inclination. He had been assigned the role of a scout and carried a small iron dagger for protection.

Where Baldur lacked in strength, he excelled in finesse and stealth. Furthermore, his newfound demigod strength surpassed that of mere mortals, making him formidable in his own right.

"Please, Baldur, let me down!" The pleas of his would-be robber broke Baldur from his thoughts. He turned around, facing the man who had followed him and stood. "Varmir, isn't it? What makes you think I'd allow you to go? You attempted to ambush me and steal my belongings."

"But you left the group! That meant you were fair game! Please, I'm sorry! Let me go, and I'll leave. I'll warn the others not to mess with you," Varmir pleaded, his face turning red from his upside-down position, hanging by his feet from a tree.

Baldur sighed and approached Varmir. "Even if I wanted to let you go, I couldn't. You now know my secret." He gestured toward the primitive forge he was in the midst of creating.

"I don't care about your damn fire pit! I won't tell anyone!" Varmir protested, his voice filled with desperation.

After pretending to consider Varmir's plea, Baldur delivered a short response. "No."

Ignoring Varmir's shouting and sobbing, Baldur returned to his work on the forge. In truth, he didn't need Varmir, but letting him go would have been a waste of valuable resources. On Earth, the mere thought of using a human as materials would be seen as barbaric, but Baldur was more practical. Besides, no one else would know or judge him. He wasn't planning on consuming the man or anything of that sort. Instead, Varmir's bones and blood would be useful in his attempt to recreate Bone Steel.

Bone Steel was a mystical metal primarily used by the Norse pantheon. Thanks to his new name, Baldur remembered the metal and recalled some offhand comments from Nordic demigods he had encountered, speculating on its creation process.

They had mentioned that Bone Steel was forged from iron and bone, quenched in blood. Baldur believed he could easily replicate it, as imperial gold and celestial bronze required raw ore, which seemed to be an impossibility in this land. Judging by the equipment of those around him, successfully creating Bone Steel would provide him with the finest weapons in the region, and if there was one thing Baldur enjoyed, it was having the best stuff.

Once he perfected the technique of creating Bone Steel, Baldur planned to start small with crafting some weapons and tools. Subsequently, he would search for a suitable location to settle down and construct a magnificent forge and workshop, allowing him to produce more advanced equipment.

A few hours later, with the impromptu forge and quenching barrel completed, Baldur turned his attention to Varmir, who had long since passed out. Placing the barrel beneath the unconscious man, Baldur began to strip him of his clothes and any remaining belongings that hadn't already fallen to the ground.

Once he collected everything and organized the items into a pile, Baldur slit Varmir's throat, allowing the blood to flow into the barrel for collection. As the blood filled the container, Baldur began to sort through Varmir's possessions.

Though Varmir didn't possess much, Baldur was grateful to find an iron sword among his belongings. When he first noticed that nearly everyone around him wielded weapons made of stone, wood, or horn, he had been disheartened. However, Zeus had blessed a select few with bronze or iron armaments. Baldur himself had an iron dagger, and individuals like Varmir, liberating them from a group called the 'Crows,' possessed iron swords. While he didn't care about the origins of these weapons, Baldur was glad to have access to iron for his work. The scarcity of blacksmiths hinted that there were likely no mines in the vicinity, which frustrated Baldur immensely.

Nevertheless, he would make do with what he had. His divine gifts would ensure his success.

-----

It had taken far too long for Baldur's taste, but after a week of meticulous work, he had managed to create Bone Steel. The process had been challenging with the limited amount of iron he possessed, and his perfectionist nature compelled him to refine and remove any impurities. In the end, he could only craft one weapon and one tool with the scarce resources available.

The first creation was a unique tomahawk. Unlike typical axes, its blade was more curved and longer, extending further down the handle. Additionally, the back end of the ax had a spike, allowing it to function both as a versatile ax and a pickaxe combo.

Using the remaining metal, Baldur fashioned a flat shovel. One side of the shovel had a saw blade, while the other side featured a sharp edge, effectively transforming it into a larger ax. Unfortunately, due to his limited iron supply, Baldur had to construct wooden shafts for both the tomahawk and shovel. It was a temporary solution, but it would serve his purposes for the time being.

Giving his equipment one last inspection, Baldur set off on his journey. His goal was to head southeast, closer to the massive ice wall he had spotted, with the intention of crossing it to reach the other side. While he appreciated the cool climate of the north to some extent, Baldur despised the idea of constantly residing in a cold region. Despite his demigod abilities granting him resistance to the elements, it wasn't enough to satisfy his preferences.

However, Baldur acknowledged that if he stumbled upon an iron deposit, he might consider staying in the area for the convenience it offered. This realization led him to his current location, deep within some caves in search of precious metal.

Initially, Baldur had followed a southward river until he encountered a peculiar stone formation that oddly resembled a clenched fist. Although intriguing, it failed to captivate his attention for long, prompting him to continue his journey. Not too far from there, he discovered a valley nestled between a mountain range to the west and a solitary peak to the east.

The river he had been tracing appeared to veer slowly toward the east, curving closer to the ice wall. Although Baldur was content to follow the river, he decided to explore the mountain since they often housed caves.

His instincts proved correct, and he began venturing into the first few caves he stumbled upon. Some led to dead ends, while others had narrow tunnels that he couldn't comfortably traverse. Baldur persisted in his search until he finally discovered a passage that extended deeper into the mountain.

Hours passed as Baldur diligently explored the caves, guided only by the flickering light of his torch. Finally, he struck iron, and by the gods, there was an abundance of it. Thoughts of heading to the ice wall and seeking warmer climates dissipated from Baldur's mind as he became consumed by the possibilities of industrialization.

Fuel would be his first concern. If he couldn't locate coal within the caves, he would resort to creating charcoal, a less efficient but viable alternative for his needs. Additionally, he needed to start planning a settlement for himself, one that was sizable and defensible, with ample space for a forge and storage facilities. The flatland near the river at the base of the valley seemed perfect for his purposes. Although the frozen river prevented him from harnessing water power with a wheel, Baldur decided to leap straight into steam power.

He began plotting out the area, marking the precise locations for his forge, warehouse, and residence. Extensive planning was necessary for plumbing, as he refused to endure the inconvenience of using a bucket for much longer. Water would be drawn from the river, necessitating the creation of heaters to prevent the pipes from freezing and to maintain a steady flow. Waste management was crucial, with filtered water draining to a designated area while the remaining sludge could be repurposed as fertilizer.

Baldur's mind was abuzz with an ever-expanding array of plans, but he acknowledged that he couldn't accomplish everything on his own. He would require assistance, though his lack of charisma made it unlikely that he could easily convince the local inhabitants to join him. In a more modern age, he would simply construct robots to handle the labor, but alas, he found himself in the iron age. "Might as well be the stone age," he chuckled to himself, recalling the stone weapons he had encountered.

Nevertheless, Baldur remained undeterred. With time and the resources at his disposal, he would do what he did best—build and create a future that suited his ambitions.

-----


Five months had passed since Baldur began working, and now he stood before his completed house, a contented smile on his face. The process of making concrete had initially been a challenge, but over time he had perfected his technique, allowing for smooth progress.

The completion of his forge had brought him great satisfaction, as it had already seen plenty of use. However, the construction of his house had occupied most of his time, involving digging trenches and laying plumbing. Fortunately, Baldur had discovered a copper deposit on the other side of the mountain, allowing him to create pipes without depleting his precious iron reserves.

His two-story house was now finished, offering a comfortable living space. The ground floor consisted of a living room, a full bathroom, and a functional kitchen. Upstairs, Baldur had his bedroom and a storage area. While he still lacked a bed and a pillow, he would make do with sleeping on pelts for the time being.

Standing in his kitchen, Baldur turned on the faucet and watched with satisfaction as the water began to flow. It was a bit cold at first, but he adjusted the hot water knob, nodding approvingly as the temperature increased.

Baldur had dedicated considerable effort to implementing central heating in his house, and he marveled at what he had accomplished on his own. His incredible strength had made labor less of an issue, but he still tired out eventually, which had led to the consumption of most of his meat stores.

Completing the wall surrounding his property would take much longer, but it wasn't a pressing concern now that his house was finished. Baldur was eager to return to mining and forging more Bone Steel weapons and tools. He planned to remake his ax and shovel, create a spear, and start working on a crossbow. Although he would have preferred to make a gun, he realized that acquiring all the necessary components for gunpowder would be a time-consuming task.

Leaving his house behind, Baldur made his way toward his far from complete warehouse, currently nothing more than a wooden frame. Once he had improved his tools, he would focus his efforts on completing the warehouse. Its importance lay in providing a space for storing materials and keeping them dry.

As Baldur bent over to gather some iron ore, a sound caught his attention from the right. Turning to look, he recognized the faces of five individuals—the same group he had been a part of before.

The leader, a tall man with rotten yellow teeth, greeted Baldur with a toothy grin. "Baldur, what a surprise to see you." Although the man appeared relaxed, Baldur maintained an alert demeanor, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. The others around the man were a motley crew not really worth mentioning as they all seemed cocky.

"It's a surprise to see you all as well, it's been what? Months?" Baldur said casually. They all looked confused, a few behind the leading man mouthing the word 'months' as if they had never heard it before.

"I don't know what language that word is boy or where you learned it but I don't care. What I want to know is what these strange stone contraptions are behind you and how you're still alive?" The tall man adopted a threatening tone and reached for his sword, demanding an explanation

Baldur couldn't help but laugh at the questions and shrugged indifferently, further irritating the man. "Still alive? Ah, Varmir. You sent him after me to kill me aye? For what? My iron dagger?"

"You left us and took valuable iron from us. A lot of brothers died to get that from those damned Crows. I don't know how you managed to kill Varmir but return the blades to us and we'll kill you quickly since we were once in the same group."

The rest of the group drew their weapons—a mix of stone axes and bronze swords. Without wasting any time, Baldur swiftly retrieved his tomahawk and shovel, prepared for the confrontation that unfolded. The men laughed as they closed in, circling him with ill intentions.

Taking the initiative, Baldur capitalized on his superior speed and rushed the first man. He used his tomahawk to hook the man's blade, pulling it down, while simultaneously delivering a powerful blow to the side of his head with the flat side of his shovel. The man crumpled to the ground, incapacitated.

"Fuck! Get him, boys!" one of the men shouted

Two more men attempted to attack Baldur from the sides with their swords, but he effortlessly evaded their strikes by executing a quick jump, followed by a backflip, and landing in a crouched position. Seizing the opportunity, Baldur used his ax to hook onto the left leg of one of the attackers, causing him to lose his balance. As the man struggled to regain his footing, he fell victim to a shovel's strike against the side of his head.

Now, with two out of the five assailants incapacitated, the large man finally seemed compelled to act. He acknowledged Baldur's unexpected display of skill but remained determined to end his life. "Seemed you've been holding out on us Baldur. You're much more skilled than I remember. You'll die all the same though."

"I won't be dying today, and certainly not to the three of you." Smirking, Baldur swiftly spun, throwing his ax at one of the approaching men. As the ax found its mark, and the last lackey of the large man decided to retreat and flee the scene, realizing the futility of their fight. "Smart, unlike you." Baldur teased.

"Get back here Gendel! Damn it!" Infuriated by his companion's escape, the large man gritted his teeth and took a half-step back. He let out a huff and charged at Baldur, intent on overpowering him. However, Baldur used a clever tactic, kicking up some snow to obstruct the man's vision. While the large man struggled to see, Baldur circled around him and swiftly kicked his leg near the knee, causing him to stumble and fall to his knees.

Baldur poised his shovel for a finishing blow, but the man managed to turn his body halfway, blocking the strike with his sword. Wide-eyed, he realized he couldn't hold Baldur back and strained to keep his blade steady. Unbeknownst to him, Baldur utilized his free hand to deliver a devastating uppercut, finally toppling the larger man.

"Almost broke a sweat." Surveying the three unconscious men and the motionless form of the fourth, Baldur couldn't help but smile. He had been in dire need of a labor force, and fate had conveniently delivered it to his doorstep. Anticipating resistance, he began contemplating how he would effectively keep these new workers in check, as he dragged them closer to his warehouse.

Fortunately, he possessed the necessary rope and knew that crafting restraining devices wouldn't take long. Although there was still much work to be done, Baldur couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope that the completion of his tasks might be accelerated with this unexpected turn of events.

 

[Pineappl3]

"Keep going!" Baldur let out a sigh as he commanded his three workers. They were currently in the mines, toiling away to gather iron for him. At first, they had been resistant, but after a week of being beaten within an inch of their lives, they began to straighten up.

During that time, Baldur had learned a great deal about not only the three workers but also the surrounding areas. Galrum, Arson, and Jora were the names of the three individuals before him. Galrum, a large bald man, stood as their leader. Arson and Jora, much smaller than Baldur himself, were more amenable and eager to please him due to his exceptional skill and strength.

The four of them, including Baldur, had once been part of a mountain clan but had broken off under the leadership of Galrum. For some odd reason, they had believed that leaving the safety of larger numbers would lead to a better life. Baldur scoffed at their misguided decision, observing where it had landed them.

Baldur had also learned from his compatriots that the "Crows" mentioned by everyone were a southern fighting force that prevented the Free Folk from traveling south of the wall. He wasn't sure about the extent of what lay beyond the massive wall, but he had intentions to venture there eventually.

According to Galrum, this particular area was relatively safe from other tribesmen, but Baldur knew he had to be cautious of wandering packs like the one Galrum had encountered. While they shouldn't pose a significant threat, Baldur was determined to over-plan and prepare for any potential siege.

Originally, Baldur had intended to create runes utilizing the mist to make his dwelling invisible to mortals, but it seemed that the mist did not exist in this strange location. Moreover, his knowledge of runes had proven to be virtually useless.

That didn't mean he couldn't carve enchanting runes, though. Arson had informed him that some people in their old tribe had runes on their bronze equipment. If Baldur could acquire an item with runes, he could study and reverse-engineer it. The process wouldn't be too challenging; he would just need to shift from one system to another.

"Boss! I finished in this spot!" Jora's voice sounded, drawing Baldur's attention. Jora, like the others, was currently chained to a post near the iron ore deposits, tirelessly mining for the past few hours. He was diligent and the hardest worker of the three, evident in his progress.

Baldur nodded to Jora and replied, "Take a break. It'll be lunchtime soon, so you'll get a longer rest than the others."

Jora's face lit up with gratitude, as if Baldur had bestowed a great favor upon him. The man sat down and leaned against the cave wall while Galrum and Arson continued their toil, the echoing sound of picks against stone resonating through the mine.

After a brief stretch, Baldur returned to his work. Currently, he was attempting to assemble a wrist-mounted crossbow, but the bowstrings he had made from sinew kept snapping. Letting out a sigh of frustration, he set aside the mini crossbow and retrieved something he had prepared just in case.

The crossbow itself was constructed from thin pieces of Bone Steel, the same material he used for most of his equipment. The metal possessed inherent magical properties, making it harder than mortal metals. However, finding a suitable bowstring proved challenging as the metal underwent extreme stress when bent.

As indicated by the snapped bowstrings scattered at his feet, he needed something of equivalent strength. Luckily, being someone who valued preparedness, Baldur had already crafted thin Bone Steel wires that he could braid into a cable.

The steel wire wasn't ideal for a bowstring, but it would suffice for now as the only material capable of withstanding the strain. As Baldur set to work, he suddenly became aware of a distant sound—a soft explosion and some shouts.

Setting down his half-finished cable, Baldur quickly stood up and looked toward his miners. "Stay here, or else," he warned, his tone dripping with the threat of violence. Receiving weak nods of compliance from the three workers, Baldur dashed through the cave until he reached the entrance, where he could see down the mountain to his home.

In the distance, Baldur spotted a figure rolling on the ground, screaming near his once-operational steam-powered pump. The figure was surrounded by three others who stood back, observing the destruction. The sight of his ruined machine sent Baldur into a rage. His eyes shifted from blue to purple before transforming entirely into a fiery orange-red.

Without hesitation, Baldur sprinted down the mountain, covering the distance of over 10 miles in roughly seven minutes. As he got closer, he blocked out the sights and sounds around him, focusing solely on his damaged water pump. After a moment, he tore his gaze away and turned toward the unconscious man, who had finally passed out from severe steam burns.

Gritting his teeth, Baldur stomped toward the motionless figure and began dragging him toward the partially thawed river. Someone tugged on his hide shirt, but he swatted them away without a second thought.

"Mom!" a young voice shouted.

Reaching the river, Baldur shifted his grip from the man's hair to his neck. He knelt down, thrusting the man's head into the freezing waters. It took a few moments before the intruder began to thrash around, but Baldur held him firmly in place. His eyes glowed with the same intensity as a forge, fueled by his anger.

Once again, he felt someone tugging on his shirt, but they recoiled in pain almost as soon as they touched him. With the struggling man's movements ceasing, Baldur released his grip and stood up, turning around. Before him stood a boy, holding a horribly burned hand. Tears streamed down the child's face, but he stood firm, refusing to retreat from Baldur's gaze.

"P-please, sir! We didn't mean any harm," the woman pleaded, her voice quivering. She stepped forward, attempting to act as a protective barrier for her child. Clinging to the woman's leg was a small girl. "He didn't mean to break it, I swear."

A scoff escaped Baldur's lips. He had heard that before, too many times in fact.

-----

Flashback

A young James sat on the floor, engrossed in playing with his clockwork toys—the few precious possessions he had. He was lost in his own world of gears and springs when a group of boys from the orphanage surrounded him, their jeers and laughter piercing the air.

"Look at the freak," one of them sneered, and the others joined in, mocking and taunting him.

"Having fun playing all by yourself dummy?"

"Did you guys know he can't even read yet? He's already six!"

They ridiculed him for not being able to read at the age of six, belittling him for reasons he couldn't understand. James tried his best to ignore them, but their hurtful words stung his heart. He had done nothing wrong, yet they constantly targeted him. He mustered the strength to resist giving them the reaction they wanted, but they were relentless.

Suddenly, two larger boys closed in on James, restraining him tightly while the others snatched his beloved clockwork toys and ruthlessly smashed them underfoot. James struggled against their grip, a sense of powerlessness overwhelming him. Tears welled up in his eyes as he witnessed the destruction of his only companions—his friends who never judged him. In that moment, a faint spark of resentment and sadness grew within him, extinguishing whatever innocence and trust he had left.

Over the years, James painstakingly rebuilt his clockwork toys time and time again, only to have his tormentors derive immense pleasure from destroying them repeatedly. But one day, James had finally reached his breaking point. Consumed by rage, he tapped into an unknown reserve of strength and managed to break free from the grasp of his captors. With newfound determination, he tackled one of the older boys, retaliating against the relentless cycle of destruction.

Engaged in a wrestling match, James found himself on top, unleashing his pent-up frustration on the older boy. The first strike landed with a snap, likely breaking the boy's nose, and the second blow followed swiftly. Just as he was about to deliver another strike, an adult intervened, pulling James away from his victim.

James fought against the hold, his strength momentarily fleeting. Exhausted, he succumbed to the workers at the orphanage, who eventually managed to subdue him, separating him from his bullies.

Later that day, James was called in for questioning to present his side of the story. He recounted how the older boys had constantly bullied him and destroyed his belongings. He apologized, insisting that he didn't mean to harm the boy—it was an accident.

Unfortunately, the older boys had spun a different narrative. The matron of the orphanage branded James a liar, informed him that the older boys had borrowed his toys and accidentally broken them. They claimed to be sorry and begged for forgiveness, but James, driven by anger, had attacked them. The matron chastised him, accusing him of breaking the older boy's nose and deeming it unacceptable. He was to be punished for hurting the others, being labeled as dangerous, and would be sent to a juvenile detention center for a year before being required to return to the orphanage.

James seethed with anger, but as a ten-year-old boy, there was little he could do. When he expressed remorse, he was punished, yet others who claimed accidents faced no consequences. That day, something within James snapped, and his perception of others becoming clouded in shades of gray.

When James returned from the detention center a year later, he was met with cold shoulders from everyone present. He was burdened with additional chores compared to the others and received meager scraps as his meals. However, slowly but surely, James adapted to his solitary existence, finding solace in the company of his machines. They became his unwavering companions in a world that had proven to be so harsh and unforgiving.

End of flashback

-----

"I highly doubt that," Baldur said with a furrowed brow, his voice dripping with skepticism. "People are always too quick to apologize when they get caught doing something they shouldn't, like breaking my belongings." Venom oozed from his words as unpleasant memories resurfaced.

The woman remained silent, holding back a retort, while the young girl sobbed softly, seeking solace in her mother's embrace. The boy stood there, mouth agape, his eyes widened by the tense confrontation. Summoning courage, the son stepped forward, breaking free from his mother's protective shield.

Before he could utter words he might regret, Baldur intervened. "Leave before I consider employing child labor," he warned, gesturing toward the lifeless body. "And remove him from my water supply before he contaminates it any further."

The boy clenched his jaw, casting a glance back at his mother and sister, before swallowing hard and mustering the strength to approach his father's lifeless form. Sensing the urgency, the woman swiftly followed her son's lead, and together they dragged the remains away from Baldur.

Once they were at a safe distance, Baldur took a deep breath, his emotions settling, and approached his fallen machine. Kneeling beside it, he offered a silent prayer to his father before closely examining the extent of the damage.

The water pump was a complex system designed to utilize escaping steam from the engine to heat up the nearby river and the entire length of pipes. Its inner workings involved nested pipes, with one drawing water toward Baldur's dwelling. Additionally, some water was channeled toward the steam engine's boiler. As the steam escaped from the piston, it was redirected into the larger pipe, which held the water line. The heated gas traveled both to the river and to Baldur's residence, ensuring the pipes remained warm enough to prevent water from freezing and bursting.

What the assailant had damaged was the valve leading to the piston, closing off the pipe and causing a dangerous buildup of steam. The boiler had exploded, and it was likely the escaping steam that had caused the man's burns.

Thinking back, Baldur struggled to piece together the sequence of events that had led to the boy's hand getting burned, replaying the scene repeatedly in his mind. Though he couldn't pinpoint the exact details, he surmised that the child had somehow been injured while trying to stop him from killing his father. The exact mechanism eluded him, but the realization that he was most likely responsible momentarily diverted his attention from the machine.

Baldur reflected on how, whenever he grew angry, he felt a peculiar heat coursing through him. This sensation was unusual, as nothing ever felt genuinely "hot" to a child of Hephaestus. Perhaps it was a new blessing bestowed upon him by his father, or a final gift resembling his younger brother Leo's pyrokinesis.

Whatever the cause, Baldur was determined to understand it through trial and error, as he always did, relentlessly pursuing knowledge and seeking to further himself and his machines.

Determined to address the situation after gathering his workers from the mine, Baldur turned his gaze toward the towering mountain. However, his attention was momentarily diverted when something caught his eye in the snow, not far from his damaged machine. Resting there, nestled in the snow, was a small bag.

Curiosity piqued, Baldur picked up the bag and carefully rummaged through its contents. To his surprise, he discovered an aged leather-bound book within. The texture of the leather was unlike anything Baldur had encountered before, resembling human skin with its porous surface. Unfazed by the peculiar material, he opened the book and began skimming its contents.

The pages of the book were indeed crafted from the same eerie human leather, and the text was written in a dark red liquid that appeared to be blood. As Baldur examined the words, a strange realization washed over him—he understood the text perfectly, much like his first encounter with Ancient Greek.

A peculiar thought struck Baldur, prompting him to hastily return to his warehouse. Retrieving a dagger from his belt, he began writing on a carving into a plank of wood, alternating between English and Greek. As he wrote, he observed how the English words maintained their usual form, but to his surprise, the Greek text behaved the same way—swirling and shifting just as the English did. This revelation led Baldur to suspect that his rebirth in this realm had somehow tampered with his divine essence, as minuscule as it may have been. He cast a thoughtful gaze at the book in his hand, rubbing his chin in contemplation.

"Interesting," he murmured to himself, his mind brimming with questions and possibilities.

 

[Pineappl3]

A warm smile spread across Baldur's face as he closed the weathered leather-bound book. Determining the age of the tome had presented a slight challenge, but it was evident to Baldur that the runes inscribed on its pages were relatively recent. Jora, his trusted worker, had never encountered runes in a book before, as he was more accustomed to seeing them on stone and metal. It seemed that the existence of books was unfamiliar to most in this land, and Baldur was not surprised by his workers' inability to read the text, as illiteracy was likely widespread.

The contents of the book held a captivating allure. While it didn't provide any guidance on enchantment, as convenient as that would have been, it did offer information about the burial sites of the "First Men." It appeared that the man Baldur had killed had been in search of one of these nearby tombs. The book described five such locations in detail, outlining how to find and enter them. However, something about it screamed "trap" to Baldur.

The existence of these graves predating the book's creation raised suspicions in Baldur's mind. Someone must have discovered these locations, documented them, and for what purpose? Did they leave their findings for others to stumble upon, or perhaps they recorded them as a reminder? The circumstances surrounding the book's creation remained shrouded in mystery, but Baldur's curiosity gnawed at him relentlessly. To uncover the truth, he would have to investigate further. Fortunately, the closest grave was likely no more than a week's journey away, for a normal person that is.

Before embarking on his expedition, Baldur knew he needed to fortify his base of operations. Some experimentation was in order, and he believed that by constructing an alphabet using the book, he could potentially substitute Ancient Greek and employ his usual method of runesmithing. After all, he prided himself as the finest runesmith his humble cabin had ever witnessed, despite his short time there. With a clear short-term goal in mind, Baldur set to work.

His first step was to produce paper, as it would be impractical to continue carving his inscriptions into wooden planks. Rising from his desk, Baldur swiftly left the warmth of his home and ventured outside the partially completed walls into the worker camp.



Jora, unchained and ever dutiful, stood at attention and saluted Baldur upon his arrival. "Boss! Do you need something?"

Waving Jora closer, Baldur surveyed the camp. Galrum, the only one still restrained, tended to a crackling fire while a pot of stew simmered above it. Arson diligently dug a trench, connecting the outlined area of his future home to the main water line Baldur had recently installed, ensuring the trio would have a supply of clean running water.

The comfort and convenience provided by Baldur's home had left the three men awestruck, even though Galrum had never voiced it aloud like the others. The promise of constructing similar homes for them had earned Jora and Arson's loyalty, hence their release from chains. Galrum, on the other hand, remained resistant, albeit reluctantly continuing to work under the looming threat of violence.

Baldur had explained to the trio shortly after subduing them that attempting to kill him would result in "prison time" and a labor sentence based on their willingness to commit the act and their behavior as prisoners.

"Jora, after you've eaten, I need you to start cutting planks with the sawmill. Save any wood shavings you collect—they're important," Baldur instructed, his voice firm yet considerate. Turning to Galrum, he continued, "And Galrum, you'll take over digging the trenches from Arson while he assists Jora."

Galrum merely grunted in response, while Arson wiped the sweat from his brow and eagerly set down his shovel. "You got it, Boss!" Arson exclaimed, met with a nod of acknowledgment from Baldur.

Having delegated his tasks, Baldur made his way to the forge, where he would begin crafting a mold and deckle for papermaking. The sooner he completed his papermaking apparatus, the faster he could delve into deciphering the alphabet and test its efficacy in runesmithing.

Baldur held onto hope that his plan would succeed, as the alternative—attempting to enchant objects using spells—was an uncharted territory for him, leaving him utterly clueless.

-----

Despite not being a child of Athena, Baldur found himself completing his alphabet with surprising speed. It took him only three days after acquiring his supply of homemade paper. Eager to explore the possibilities, he immersed himself in a realm of experimentation.

Baldur's affinity for the runes of this unfamiliar world proved to be advantageous. Not only was his unique system of runesmithing effective, but it also seemed to benefit from the transition from Ancient Greek to the runic language transcribed in the leather book. With its subtle variations within the runic characters, Baldur was able to breathe new life into his runesmithing, infusing it with an essence that was both primal and potent.

Aware of the strain normal enchanting put on his magical reserves, Baldur began his experiments with caution, starting with simple barrier wards. As his initial attempts proved successful, he ventured into more complex enchantments.

The exhaustive testing to push the limits of these runes consumed a full month, punctuated by frequent breaks to replenish his strength. Baldur found himself winded after each endeavor, a sensation he was unaccustomed to. Another anomaly surfaced in the time it took for him to recover his magical energy. Previously, an hour or so of rest would suffice, but now it required nearly half a day. Although the duration gradually decreased, the change seemed minute, perhaps a matter of minutes. Baldur resolved to build a timepiece to accurately measure his recovery time and document any further alterations sometime soon.

During this month of testing, Baldur managed to complete most of his preparations. He fashioned a wardstone—a focal point for his wards—and erected a barrier around his home. This protective barrier not only prevented intruders from entering but also gradually raised the temperature in the surrounding area above freezing.

Initially, the wards encompassed only the walls of his base. However, by creating additional markers cleverly disguised as ordinary stones, Baldur extended the barrier's coverage to approximately 10 acres, ensuring enhanced security.

With the basic wards in place, Baldur dedicated time to upgrading his equipment. His cherished tomahawk, now entirely forged from Bone Steel except for a horn grip, took the form of a ring. The ring contained a central band that, when spun, transformed into the weapon itself. He had also inscribed runes that would return the weapon to his hand with a simple gesture, much like Thor's hammer.

Baldur's shovel, on the other hand, underwent more drastic changes. After replacing the shaft with Bone Steel, he installed a button that, when clicked, folded the shovel head toward the shaft and enlarged, transforming it into a kite shield while retaining the shape of the original shovelhead.

The most time-consuming task for Baldur however, was the completion of the first iteration of his Mandalorian Armor. During his time between leaving the orphanage and his involvement with Camp-Halfblood, Baldur sought solace in movies as a way to distract himself when he couldn't tinker, with the Star Wars franchise leaving a lasting impression.

The technological marvel of Mandalorian armor fascinated him. While replicating all of its features was currently impossible, Baldur managed to craft armor that captured its distinctive look. Enchanted to keep the wearer warm and to reinforce the leather flight suit beneath the plates enough to withstand slashing and piercing attacks from steel armaments, Baldur was overall pleased with his recreation.

Aware of the harsh nature of the snowy terrain he might encounter and the potential dangers posed by blizzards, Baldur took proactive measures to enhance his gear for the arduous journey ahead. He meticulously enchanted his helmet, boots, cloak, and utility belt, ensuring that each item would offer him unparalleled advantages in navigating through the unforgiving winter landscape.

Baldur's helmet, a crucial component of his protective gear, was enchanted to provide him with crystal-clear vision even in the harshest of weather conditions. By uttering the activation word "viamgol," the helmet's enchantment would be invoked, instantly dispelling any blinding snow or icy fog that might impede his sight. With this enhanced visual acuity, Baldur could deftly detect hidden dangers and navigate with precision, maintaining a constant vigilance in his surroundings.

His boots, a vital asset for traversing the treacherous terrain, bore an enchantment that defied the laws of nature. When he uttered the activation word "yjorn," his boots would grant him the ability to walk atop both snow and water, as long as he kept moving forward. The enchantment created a temporary barrier beneath his feet, allowing him to tread upon these otherwise impassable surfaces without sinking or losing his footing. With this enchantment, Baldur gained unparalleled mobility, unhindered by the elements that would otherwise impede his progress.

The enchantments on his cloak and utility belt were designed to provide continuous and invaluable assistance throughout his journey. His cloak, using the activation word "Rhadav", possessed an enchantment that allowed him to seamlessly blend into his surroundings when he remained still. The fabric of the cloak would subtly shift in color and texture, mirroring the natural environment around him, rendering him virtually invisible to the untrained eye. This enchantment granted Baldur the advantage of stealth and camouflage, enabling him to evade potential threats and move undetected through the wintry landscapes.

Baldur's utility belt, another essential tool in his arsenal, boasted an enchantment that transcended the limitations of physical space. This enchanted belt possessed an extraordinary storage capacity, capable of housing an extensive array of mundane tools and supplies. Whether he required a small lockpick, a length of sturdy rope, or a versatile multi-tool, his belt could produce the necessary item with a mere thought. This enchantment granted Baldur unparalleled convenience, ensuring that he would always have the right tool for any given situation, without the burden of carrying a cumbersome assortment of equipment.

Adorned in his newly crafted armor, Baldur cast a final gaze over his camp before retrieving his compass and the leather book. In his absence, he entrusted Jora with leadership and the responsibility to ensure the others continued their work as agreed.

As a precaution, Baldur refrained from mentioning the additional "protection" surrounding his main living area, but he did reveal that any damage to his belongings would result in severe consequences. Jora and Arson chuckled nervously at the mention of consequences, while Galrum, as usual, remained silent.

Though Baldur wasn't overly concerned about the loyalty of the former two, Galrum posed a potential problem. The thought of eliminating the threat crossed Baldur's mind since he wouldn't be present to keep a watchful eye on the larger man.

Eventually, after careful consideration, he decided against it. Despite Galrum's reluctance to work, his strength outweighed that of the other two combined, making him a valuable asset. And as long as his value outweighed the trouble he presented, he would allow the man to live.

According to the instructions in the book, Baldur was to follow the river that flowed next to his base in the northern direction, passing by the distinctive rock formation shaped like a fist he had previously seen. He would continue along the river until it eventually forked, and then he was to take the fork and follow it left until reaching the end. At the top of a mountain with a broken peak, he would find the entrance to the first barrow.

With these initial instructions in mind, Baldur set out along the river, diligently following its course. He trekked onward until the light of day began to fade, signaling the approach of night. Choosing a suitable spot within the forest, he set up a simple camp for the night. Unhooking his sleeping mat and unfurling a bear pelt, Baldur prepared to rest. However, mindful of his safety, he retrieved a small wardstone from his bag, no larger than his clenched fist.

Knowing the wardstone would only offer a limited area of protection, a small radius of five feet, Baldur placed it beside his sleeping mat. He settled down for the night, still wearing his armor—a habit he had developed during his unwilling participation in the Second Titan War.

In the midst of the night, Baldur stirred, an unsettling feeling creeping over him. Sensing that he was being watched, he quickly scanned his surroundings, only to discover three pairs of glowing eyes encircling his protective barrier. Perfectly spaced and moving in a synchronized circle around him, their eyes locked onto Baldur with an intense focus.

Determined to get a better look, Baldur reached into his pack nearby and retrieved his lantern. With a twist of the knob at the base, the rune embedded within the lantern instantly illuminated the surroundings. Bathed in the soft glow, Baldur could now discern the figures behind the glowing eyes—they were three large cats, resembling mountain lions but adorned with white stripes reminiscent of tigers.

As Baldur's gaze pierced the shadows, he discerned a figure leaning against a tree, barely visible at the edge of the lantern's light. Clad in furs from head to toe, with a hood concealing their face, the person seemed to blend seamlessly with the wilderness. When their eyes met, Baldur noticed a faint glow emanating from the stranger's eyes, much like the large cats that encircled him.

The man leaned forward slightly, his rough voice breaking the silence. "Tell me, Crow, what brings you so far north? And why do you wear such thin hides and metal? Unwise choices," he remarked, his words laden with a sense of age and weariness. Curiously, Baldur understood him perfectly, despite the man's rough voice.

Baldur furrowed his brow, contemplating whether to dispatch the stranger or attempt a peaceful resolution so he could return to his slumber. Weighing the options in his mind, he decided that it wasn't worth the effort to rise from his position. "Just move along, stranger. You won't find what you're seeking with me."

The voice taunted him, carrying a hint of amusement. "Ah, your mastery of the Old Tongue is impressive. You speak it fluently, without a hint of hesitation. You're no ordinary Crow, that's for certain." The figure appeared intrigued by Baldur's command of the ancient language.

"Leave me be," Baldur's voice took on a more menacing edge, his narrowed eyes conveying his displeasure. He despised individuals like this stranger—those who disregarded his words and persisted in their relentless chatter.

Perhaps sensing the gravity of the threat, the enigmatic man bowed slightly before Baldur. "I am Torvir the Undying. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Metal Man." With that, as if manipulated by invisible strings, Torvir collapsed to the ground, while the cats encircling Baldur's protective wards abruptly halted, shaking their heads to dispel a fog that had clouded their minds.

One of the majestic cats swiped at the ward, but finding its claws ineffective against its magic, it decided the effort was futile. The trio gradually retreated into the darkness, their journey halted at Torvir's motionless body.

As the enigmatic figures dissolved into the shadows, concealing themselves along with Torvir's lifeless body, Baldur found himself bewildered. The encounter left him with a myriad of questions, the answers to which remained elusive for now. Knowing the futility of dwelling on the situation before him, Baldur consciously decided to shelve the encounter, allowing it to fade into the recesses of his mind.

With a resolute exhale, Baldur extinguished the light of his lantern, plunging the immediate surroundings into darkness once more. Baldur then was finally able to return to his slumber. The ease with which he drifted back into sleep a testament to his years of evading danger, allowing him to seize the rest he needed whenever the opportunity arose.

Time drifted, elusive as the wisp of a dream until morning's first light began to shine on the horizon. Slowly, the darkness faded, allowing the crack of dawn to peek through the canopies of towering trees. The landscape gradually revealed itself, bathed in hues of pinks and oranges.

Baldur stirred, and threw a glance toward the spot where Torvir had stood hours before. The area now devoid of any lingering evidence, as if the meeting had been but a figment of his imagination. Nevertheless, a flicker of intrigue remained, hidden in the back of his mind.

With a final, lingering gaze toward the spot Torvir had been, Baldur packed up and moved toward the river to continue his journey.

---

A/N: Thanks for reading. I just wanted to clarify some things about Baldur since I seem to have done a terrible job at fully explaining the reasoning behind some of his decisions. He isn't just all rage, piss and anger. I was trying to make him more of a pragmatist.

Baldur killed Varmir in the first chapter for a combination of two reasons, firstly he tried to attack Baldur, and second he was a convenient source of materials for Bone Steel. The human blood was the most important part of the whole exchange for reasons that will be explained more in depth later.

For Baldur's second kill, it was a show of force. He didn't need to kill anyone in the exchange with Galrum's group but he did it after knocking out Jora and Arson to show that he had the power to end their lives in an instant if he so chose to. He has sorta a god complex and views mortals as below him now.

With the wildling who messed with his steam engine, I tried to show that Baldur doesn't play games when it comes to his stuff, no matter if he held any fault or not. He is ruthless, and certain things bring out a darker side to him.

Hopefully this explains some things. On another note, I am also looking for beta readers if anyone is interested.

 

[Pineappl3]

Baldur continued his northward journey, his swift pace accompanied by the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet. As he traveled, his attention alternated between his surroundings and the small clockwork gear he was meticulously working on. Filing down the gear teeth, Baldur prepared the surface for the infusion of intricate runes.

Creating the gear had been a meticulous process. Lacking the modern instruments he was accustomed to, Baldur had fashioned a mold out of Bone Steel, a material that could withstand high temperatures. The absence of his familiar tools made him yearn for his previous life, where advanced technology was readily available. But he made do with what he had in this new world.

In his youth, Baldur had discovered his innate ability to bring his clockwork toys to a semblance of life. However, as he grew older, he realized that his creations were not truly alive like the automatons his father could bestow life upon. Instead, Baldur could only give his clockwork figures a set of instructions to follow.

Reflecting on the power of intent and emotion, Baldur understood how his childhood imagination and occasional bursts of anger had merged, imbuing his toy soldiers with a lifelike quality. Unfortunately, most of his creations had been lost over time, left behind when he departed from the orphanage and arrived at Camp Half-Blood.

Though his clockwork soldiers held sentimental value, Baldur had abandoned them as he delved into broader realms of crafting. However, circumstances had now compelled him to return to them, driven by the necessity of his current situation.

In this new world, without microprocessors and the ability to code his robots, Baldur decided to revisit his roots. He realized that with his expanded knowledge and skills, he could create clockwork figures that could truly imitate life.

An aberrant idea had struck Baldur, and he had already tested it with some success. Realizing that he could take it a step further, he became determined to create something truly remarkable. He pushed himself to multitask, preparing all the necessary components to build his second clockwork soldier in this unfamiliar land.

The first soldier he had created was simple, serving as a toy with a basic rune on its back to draw in mana for power. Leveraging his technological aptitude, Baldur had given it a complex set of instructions, treating them like lines of code. This approach, combined with his divine gifts from his father, had brought his creations closer to life than his siblings could ever achieve.

However, due to the size limitations of his first soldier, Baldur had to keep its instructions relatively simple, lacking dynamic problem-solving capabilities. As Baldur finished sanding the gear and carefully placed it in his side pouch, he noticed a small group of people climbing up the mountain to his left.

What caught his attention was their peculiar lack of footwear. The absence of shoes struck Baldur as odd, and he decided it was best to avoid them. Not wanting to currently deal with any locals that could distract him. He quickened his pace, hoping they wouldn't notice him, and focused solely on running towards his destination.

Despite the significant distance he had already covered, Baldur grew tired of traveling on foot. He eagerly looked forward to returning and working on a more advanced mode of transportation. Ideas flooded his mind, ranging from all-terrain steampunk vehicles to Power Ranger Megazords. One idea particularly intrigued him – riding a mechanical beast both as a cool means of transportation and as a form of protection.

As the sun began to set, signaling the end of his second day of travel, Baldur chose to make camp once again. This time, he decided to take a moment to meditate. He settled near the crackling campfire, finding solace in the mesmerizing dance of the flames. Staring into the flickering orange hues, Baldur allowed his mind to drift, organizing his thoughts about future projects and contemplating his purpose in these strange new lands.

-----

Jora POV

Jora skillfully stoked the flames of their campfire, maneuvering the larger logs to create a suitable cooking area for the metal plate Baldur had provided. As Jora tended to the fire, his mind couldn't help but wander to the peculiar changes he had observed in Baldur's behavior.

Back when they were part of a clan, Baldur was always seen trailing behind Galrum, obeying his every command. Now, the roles had reversed, with Baldur taking charge and issuing orders. It was a stark contrast that left Jora contemplating the profound transformation his friend had undergone. Furthermore, Baldur displayed impressive control over fire and had crafted remarkable weapons akin to those wielded by the Crows.

For a moment, Jora entertained the absurd notion that Baldur might be a member of the Crows. However, he quickly dismissed the thought as unfounded. As far as Jora knew, Baldur was born within their own clan. While the changes in Baldur's demeanor were strange, Jora chose to largely ignore them. After all, he had heard tales of peculiar magics from the clan shaman, and stranger things had been witnessed than a person's personality altering after a head injury.

Recalling a shaman's story of a person losing all their memories after a blow to the head, Jora glanced around, noticing the effects of Baldur's magic on their surroundings. Since Baldur's intervention, the snow in the vicinity had begun to melt, creating a warmer environment that no longer necessitated sleeping next to the fire.

However, the drawback of the melting snow was the formation of muddy terrain, making it arduous for Jora to work on the construction of his home. He knew he had to wait until the ground hardened as Baldur had cautioned him, lest his abode collapse during his slumber.

As the fire crackled and popped, Jora's attention was drawn to the return of Arson, Galrum conspicuously absent. Curiosity piqued, Jora inquired, "Where did Galrum go"

Arson seemed nonchalant as he settled beside the fire, retrieving slices of elk from a basket to cook on the hot metal plate. He replied, "He said he went to pick berries for dessert."

Jora immediately stood up, alarmed by Arson's response. "You fool! Galrum never picks berries himself. He always forces us to do it!"

It took a moment for Arson to grasp the gravity of the situation. As he opened his mouth to speak, a grating and otherworldly voice resonated from within Baldur's enclosed area. "Intruder detected. Deploying to neutralize threat."

Jora's throat tightened, and he turned to look in the direction of the sound. "You don't think... Could it be...?"

"Galrum wouldn't... Surely..." Arson's voice quivered with uncertainty as he took a hesitant step back. "Should we go check-"

The sound of grunts and curses erupted from behind the walls, prompting Jora and Arson to rush toward the unfinished section of the enclosure. As they reached the opening, a bizarre sight unfolded before their eyes.

A diminutive copper-colored warrior, no larger than Jora's hand, darted around Galrum with such speed that the restrained man, his ankles bound and hands shackled, could do nothing to defend himself. The warrior brandished a small black sword, resembling more of a needle to Jora and Arson, which inflicted grievous wounds, causing copious amounts of blood to flow. The weapon bore a resemblance to the ones Baldur had demonstrated to them earlier. Even the slightest cut seemed to trigger relentless bleeding, and the injuries took longer to heal than those inflicted by conventional weapons.

Although the sight was terrifying, the moon's glint reflecting off the warrior's metallic form captivated Jora and Arson, momentarily paralyzing them. Meanwhile, Galrum bore the brunt of the creature's assault, unable to fend off the relentless attacks.

Desperation filled Galrum's voice as he noticed Jora and Arson gaping at the horrific scene unfolding before them. "You damn fools, help me!" Despite his injuries, Galrum strained to inch closer to them, his hands reaching out.

To Jora, it came as no surprise that without Baldur's presence, Galrum had reverted to his usual domineering and controlling nature, abandoning the meek facade he put on in Baldur's presence. Galrum had always been driven by a fear of power, and Jora imagined it was what drove him to try and control others.

Jora found himself favoring Baldur over their former leader now though. Unlike Galrum, Baldur provided clear direction and, despite the initial hardships, had been generous in sharing his magical artifacts, such as the water stick and the burning metal box that provided warmth.

While Arson pondered Galrum's plea, Jora decided that the man deserved whatever fate awaited him. Observing the hesitation in Arson's eyes and his own indifference, Galrum cursed vehemently, "You'll pay for this! GAHHH!"

Summoning his last ounce of strength, Galrum lunged toward Jora and Arson. However, before he could reach them, a chilling voice echoed once more, "Intruder escaping. Stalling disengaged. Employing elimination protocols."

In an instant, the metallic warrior moved with such swiftness that Jora could only hear the rush of air before realizing that the tiny figure had plunged its weapon into Galrum's throat. As their former leader's hands desperately grasped at the air, attempting to reach out for Jora and Arson, only gurgled sounds emerged from his mouth.

Collapsing to the ground, Galrum's life force ebbed away. Arson stood there, stunned by the spectacle. The voice resurfaced, jerking both men out of their stupor. "Intruder eliminated. Initializing cleanup protocol."

Despite its diminutive stature, the warrior effortlessly hoisted Galrum's lifeless body and began dragging it through the muddy grass toward the forge. Jora turned away, making his way back to the campfire, his movements snapping Arson out of his daze.

"Come on, I'm famished," Jora declared, his back turned to the trails of blood. Arson nodded silently, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from the scene. Galrum's passing left Jora unfazed, but it deeply disturbed Arson. Baldur's formidable presence alone was intimidating, and now he had created a metallic entity capable of such brutality. Arson fervently hoped he would never have to experience it firsthand, as Galrum tragically did.

-----

Baldur POV

As the crackling flames of his campfire cast a warm glow, illuminating the night around him, Baldur sat hunched over his notebook, diligently recording intricate symbols and lines. To an onlooker in this unfamiliar world, his writings would appear as a mystic script or perhaps even a dark sorcerer's incantations.

In truth, Baldur's script was a complex amalgamation of code, heavily influenced by his expertise in programming languages like C++ and Java. He meticulously crafted a sophisticated framework, envisioning it as the foundation for his next generation of automatons.

Completing the compilation of his dynamic problem-solving protocols, Baldur's attention shifted to his next objective: acquiring suitable gems to serve as vessels for his magical infusion and runic engravings. These gems would act as the cores or brains of his creations, resembling the ancient concept of golem cores but enhanced by his own magical prowess.

Experimenting with various runes, Baldur sought to transfer the entirety of his journal's contents into the gem. He knew this process would require skillful manipulation of his technomancy abilities, a limited form of magic bestowed upon him by his divine lineage. With meticulous precision, he aimed to merge the intricacies of code and magic to achieve a harmonious fusion.

If successful, Baldur envisioned the creation of something akin to a virtual intelligence, an entity that could emulate cognition and exhibit advanced problem-solving capabilities. He understood the limitations of his own powers, realizing that he couldn't breathe life into his creations through sheer will alone. However, this knowledge didn't deter him from striving to push the boundaries and come as close as possible to the semblance of sentient existence.

Moreover, as the son of a god, Baldur knew he possessed untapped potential within him. With his father's presence no longer perceptible and the absence of any divine guidance, he felt an immense responsibility and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He resolved to seize the moment, dedicating himself to unlocking and expanding his own divine essence.

Baldur's quest to combine his technical expertise, magical abilities, and divine heritage was driven by an unwavering determination. As the flames danced before him, he continued to transcribe the intricate codes, his mind brimming with anticipation for the new creations he would forge and the untapped power he would unlock.

 

[Pineappl3]

Three-Eyed Crow POV

Brynden, now bearing the title of The Three-Eyed Crow, found himself confronted with an enigma. A young man named Baldur, a member of the Free Folk, had undergone a remarkable transformation in the past few months. Change was a natural part of life, but the manner in which Baldur had evolved was anything but ordinary.

From a meek and unremarkable individual, Baldur had metamorphosed into a figure marked by a chilling demeanor and calculated actions. Delving into Baldur's history revealed that he lacked the opportunity to acquire the knowledge and skills he now possessed. It was clear that he wasn't the source of these ideas; such intelligence and inventiveness would have surfaced long ago had they originated from within him.

The rapid progression of Baldur's unnatural knowledge suggested an external influence. While mystical occurrences were not uncommon in Brynden's world, even by his standards, this was an anomaly that puzzled him.

Typically, Brynden concerned himself with matters that aligned with his grand purpose, leaving little room for contemplation of broader events. However, the magnitude of Baldur's impact compelled him to deviate from his usual path. The boy's emergence had caused significant ripples that demanded attention.

Could it be possible that Baldur had been bestowed with a divine blessing, despite its improbability? The gods had long slumbered, patiently awaiting the resurgence of magic in the world. Although their influence remained feeble, it still prevailed in regions where magic held greater prominence.

If indeed the boy had been graced by a deity, Brynden recognized the necessity of subjecting him to tests. The looming threat of the Long Night, with the Others poised to return and unleash their army of the undead, loomed ever closer. Brynden sensed its impending arrival.

Most of Brynden's preparations for the impending conflict were complete. Hidden throughout the North were crypts containing the trials he had devised. These crypts, filled with treasures, awaited those worthy enough to discover them and claim their power to wield in the upcoming battle.

Coincidentally, it appeared that Baldur was already on a path that led to one of these tests—a tomb once inhabited by a long-forgotten king. Brynden had claimed it for himself years ago, and the dormant trials within were now primed to be activated. It was there that Baldur would face his own trial.

The traps and puzzles meticulously arranged within the tomb served as tests of both perceptiveness and intellect. Brynden knew that the inheritor of his sword could not be impulsive or thoughtless. Only those with foresight and patience would prove worthy of wielding the weapon.

As Brynden's keen, three-eyed gaze surveyed the land, he felt a mix of apprehension and anticipation. The trials awaited, ready to unveil their challenges, and the fate of Baldur and the impending Long Night hung in the balance.

-----

Brynden found himself deeply disappointed by Baldur's reckless approach. The young man had stormed through the barrow, barely sparing a moment to observe his surroundings longer than a few minutes, and effortlessly circumvented the carefully laid traps and obstacles. To Brynden's surprise, Baldur reached the final chamber days earlier than anticipated.

Although Baldur's performance thus far had been lackluster, ignoring his magical gifts, it was in this ultimate test that Brynden placed his highest hopes. This trial would reveal if Baldur possessed the capacity for true transformative change, the willingness to sacrifice himself for the greater good. Seated upon a throne crafted from the ancient roots of a majestic weirwood tree, Brynden's puppet awaited, serving as a tenuous connection to the outside world that he rarely engaged with.

Through the puppet's eyes, Brynden observed Baldur's entry into the chamber. The moment the young man crossed the threshold, he paused, his eyes rolling back as he was thrust into the depths of his darkest memories. Only by emerging from this ordeal as a better person would he prove himself worthy. Failure meant he was not deserving.

Within seconds, Brynden watched in awe as roaring flames erupted from Baldur's motionless body. The inferno expanded, engulfing the boy completely until he was obscured by the blinding blaze.

"Azor Ahai?" Brynden pondered to himself, his eyes fixed on the fire that consumed Baldur. The intensity of the flames sent a surge of apprehension through him. "No, that cannot be right... His fury... it would scorch the world!"

The fiery figure, wielding his weapon, directed his wrath toward Brynden's puppet, his voice dripping with pain and anger, "You're going to regret subjecting me to those memories."

With a resigned sigh, Brynden manipulated the puppet, compelling it to rise and brandish its blade, preparing to strike down the unworthy youth. He believed that Baldur posed a grave threat to the world, a menace that had to be extinguished. Brynden sensed it in his core, an ominous foreboding that could not be ignored.

"You... are... not... worthy," Brynden's voice echoed weakly through the puppet, its tone raspy and feeble. As the puppet assumed a ready stance, a mere distraction, Brynden exerted his control over the weirwood roots within the chamber. Serpentine tendrils snaked towards Baldur, aiming to ensnare him and restrain his ferocity.

But as a tendril coiled around Baldur's form, the defiant young man unleashed a snort, his raging inferno intensifying and incinerating the encroaching appendage. A searing pain coursed through Brynden, and he watched helplessly as the weirwood roots around Baldur began to crumble to ash.

This turn of events was far from favorable, and a profound sense of unease settled upon Brynden.

-----

Baldur POV (a few hours ago)

Baldur couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched, haunted by the presence of the crows that seemed to follow his every move. Whenever he sought out the source of this unsettling sensation, he would discover a crow perched high on a nearby object, its penetrating gaze fixed upon him.

For an ordinary person, this might have seemed inconsequential, a mere coincidence of nature. But Baldur was no ordinary individual; he was a demigod. To him, these crows held significance, representing a symbol or familiar sent by someone to spy on him. Though it was bothersome, he doubted they would gather any truly valuable information. Nonetheless, upon his return, he made a mental note to prioritize developing anti-scrying measures.

Disregarding the persistent crow, Baldur diligently packed up his camp, ready to embark on his journey once again. The previous day, he had come across the fork in the river and decided to rest before venturing further in search of the tomb.

Munching on leftover elk meat, Baldur traversed the snowy landscape and crossed the frozen river. He was grateful for the powerful enchantment he had placed upon his boots, as the sheer amount of snow and ice surprised him. Without such magical aid, he would have been forced to trudge through the treacherous terrain, tripling the time it took to reach his destination. Opting to save the beauty of the valley for another occasion, Baldur hastened along the path parallel to the river until he reached the base of the mountain with its shattered peak.

Slowing his pace, Baldur carefully scanned the mountain's surface, searching for any signs of an entrance. Eventually, he spotted faint indications of a stone path carved into the mountainside. Clearing away the snow, Baldur discerned the weathered appearance of the quarried stone steps. While he couldn't pinpoint their exact age, it was evident that they had been placed there centuries ago.

Due to the relentless snowfall, it was impossible to determine if this path had been frequently traversed. However, the image of a group ascending the mountain barefooted sprang to Baldur's mind as a potential clue. Regardless of whether the path led him to his desired destination, Baldur resolved to follow it. Fortunately, the steps curved and ascended, leading him steadily toward the mountain's peak. By the time he reached the summit, he discovered a flat, open expanse that once marked the pinnacle.

The surroundings revealed a scene of desolation, with broken arches and mounds of snow shrouding everything except for a pair of imposing bronze double doors. Baldur proceeded cautiously, each step measured and deliberate, his heightened senses alert for any signs of traps or danger.

Upon reaching the doors, he marveled at their remarkable preservation. The surface of the doors was adorned with an array of runes, albeit ones that Baldur deemed inefficient. Nevertheless, their purpose was evident to him.

The enchantment upon the doors read 'unbreakable,' though it wasn't not true invincibility but by increasing their resistance to damage. Additionally, illusory wards were placed to conceal the door from those lacking magical aptitude, while a complex enchantment kept it securely locked until a worthy individual approached.

Since the door remained steadfastly shut upon his approach, Baldur decided to take matters into his own hands. He intended to unlock its secrets by studying the enchantments meticulously, striving to uncover their intricacies and vulnerabilities.

Running his gloved left hand over the runes, Baldur located a suitable spot and spun his metal ring beneath his touch. In an instant, his trusted tomahawk materialized in his grasp, poised for action. With his weapon ready, Baldur prepared to manipulate the runes to bend to his will, aiming to force the door open.

Yet, before he could strike, a creaking sound echoed through the air, causing Baldur to instinctively take a step back. The doors began to swing inward, gradually revealing what lay beyond. Baldur cautiously peered into the chamber, determined to avoid inhaling the stale air that billowed out from the barrow.

The entry room sprawled before him, a vast and open space adorned with four arches spread evenly along its length. Massive pillars rose from the center of each arch, providing structural support. Aware of the potential for traps, Baldur extended his senses, carefully surveying the area for any hidden dangers.

Sensing no immediate threats, Baldur confidently stepped forward, fully entering the room, half-expecting the doors to close behind him. However, as he explored further, he found that they remained open, allowing him to freely maneuver throughout the chamber. With a sense of curiosity and anticipation, he continued his exploration.

Along the right wall, Baldur noticed a raised platform, atop which stood an altar-like table. As he approached, he discovered it to be devoid of any items or objects of interest. Undeterred, he continued his circuitous path around the room, determined to uncover the secrets that lay within the barrow's depths.

The interior of the barrow revealed stone walls and floors crafted from the same quarried stone as the steps outside. However, unlike the sturdy door, the integrity of the walls seemed compromised. Massive ivory roots snaked their way throughout the tomb, entwining the floor and walls in a wild tangle of growth. It was an unusual sight for Baldur, who could not recall encountering trees with roots like these in the surrounding area. Intrigued, yet cautious, he opted to carefully step over the roots rather than risk disturbing them.

Having crossed to the other side of the chamber, Baldur's gaze fell upon a circular tunnel that beckoned him deeper into the barrow. As he walked along, he couldn't help but marvel at the colossal effort it must have taken to create a structure of this magnitude. The sheer size of the tomb, coupled with his intuition for traps, hinted at an even more expansive space that lay beyond.

This tomb was not simply carved into the side of the mountain; evidence of quarried stone suggested a construction process that surpassed Baldur's current modern technology. Contemplating the amount of labor required by people as primitive as those of the Bronze Age, Baldur found it difficult to fathom. A flicker of admiration crossed his features as he followed the winding path, which gradually descended and curved until he came upon yet another altar-like table.

Raising his lantern to inspect the surface, Baldur triggered the activation of a nearby brazier, casting its warm glow upon the hidden path ahead. Similar to its counterpart, this table bore no discernible objects, prompting Baldur to proceed forward into the newly revealed passageway.

Advancing past the brazier, Baldur discerned that the conjured flame was of a magical nature, likely employing runes both to detect presence and to summon forth light. Though it piqued his interest, he disregarded it, knowing he possessed superior means of illumination.

Turning left along the path, Baldur was surprised to encounter a flight of stairs instead of the expected sloping tunnel. Intrigued by this anomaly, he momentarily halted his progress to scrutinize the staircase. Finding no immediate signs of danger, he shrugged off his reservations and continued onward.

It didn't take long for Baldur to come upon a fork in the path he was following. Regrettably, the leftward passage appeared to have suffered a cave-in, rendering it impassable. Consequently, he opted to proceed to the right, embarking on another twisting and turning tunnel.

Expanding his senses, Baldur sensed the existence of something intricate and multifaceted. The air was charged with the presence of interconnected machinery, alluding to the existence of an elaborate trap. As he stepped into the next area, the truth of his intuition became evident before his eyes.

In a chamber that boasted a towering height, its vertical expanse surpassing its width, Baldur's gaze fixated on a magnificent bronze gate positioned directly opposite the tunnel from which he had emerged. Above the gate, embedded in the wall, three bronze plates adorned the space. Each plate showcased a meticulously carved image—an avian crow, a massive mammoth, and a mysterious feline creature—arranged from left to right.

To the left of Baldur, he noticed a series of smaller plates suspended above three levers. As he surveyed the scene before him, a realization struck him—this was undeniably a puzzle of some kind. Yet, his intuition warned him that failure to solve it accurately would trigger an arrow trap, unleashing a relentless volley of projectiles upon the chamber. Faced with this potential danger and uninterested in investing the time to decipher the intricate riddle, Baldur effortlessly exerted his mastery over machinery. Commanding the traps to disarm and the bronze gate to open, he bypassed the needlessly complex puzzle without hesitation.

Unfazed by the absence of the intellectual satisfaction that solving the puzzle might have provided, Baldur strolled leisurely through the now-accessible gate, stepping into a new area adorned with a profusion of self-illuminating braziers.

 

[Pineappl3]

As Baldur ventured deeper into the barrow, he couldn't help but reflect on what he thought was excessive caution. Perhaps it was the months spent navigating the treacherous Labyrinth or the fact that these passageways were designed for mortal adventurers, but everything seemed surprisingly effortless.

Despite the ease of his progress, Baldur occasionally paused to admire the intricate architecture surrounding him. The crypt loomed large, its grandeur evident even with the sections marred by cave-ins. Every nook and cranny enticed him, beckoning him to explore further.

Eventually, Baldur reached a peculiarly vacant chamber, shrouded in a number of countless cobwebs. A single metal grate adorned the center of the room illuminated by a dim glow from the lantern in Baldur's hand and the faint light that spilled in from the hallway he had just traversed.

Suddenly, Baldur's instincts kicked in, propelling him forward in a swift roll. The ground quivered beneath him as he spun around, facing the source of his hair-raising alarm. Standing before him was a colossal figure adorned in an ancient suit of bronze plate.

Its eyes appeared devoid of life, and it's back was interlaced with pulsating roots, as if they were manipulating its movements. The massive being gripped a formidable runic battle axe, its efforts concentrated on dislodging the weapon from the floor.

Determined not to grant the creature a second opportunity to strike, Baldur swiftly activated his ring, summoning forth his trusty tomahawk. Simultaneously, he pressed the release mechanism on his shovel, causing it to morph into a sturdy shield. "Prepare yourself, you fiend."

With unyielding resolve, Baldur lunged forward, raising his shield high to obstruct the creature's field of vision. Employing a mighty shield bash, he forcefully pushed the adversary backward, causing its grip to falter and the axe to slip from its grasp. Keen on capitalizing on the advantage, Baldur pressed on, utilizing his shield to maintain pressure and strategically positioning his foot behind the figure's, causing it to stumble and lose balance.

Seizing the moment, Baldur relentlessly pounded the creature's face with his shield while deftly maneuvering his axe. Each blow punctured the armored torso, creating sizable gaps with every impact. One of the pulsating roots wriggled, indicating the armored man's attempt to rise once more.

Recognizing the significance of the roots, Baldur shifted his focus to hacking at them. Combining his demigod strength with the keen edge of his axe, he effortlessly severed the connection between the ivory roots and the armor.

As the final root was severed, the figure fell motionless. "Seems I must remain more vigilant in open spaces from now on..." Ignoring the ruined armor, which he intended to return for later, Baldur approached the abandoned axe. With exertion and determination, he managed to dislodge it from the floor, his eyes fixated on its every detail. "An intriguing technique... Not one I would employ, but it certainly sparks some ideas."

Usually, when Baldur enchanted his gear, he inscribed runes that explicitly detailed the specific properties of each enchantment. This method ensured that the enchantments were focused and potent, tailored to their intended purpose. However, the bronze axe he now held was different. It had been enchanted with a narrative in mind, its enchantments alluding to a story rather than explicitly describing its abilities.

"An axe for slaying giants. Wonder why it is so heavy," Baldur mused aloud. Carrying the weighty axe, he divided his attention between studying its intricacies and remaining alert for any signs of a large open room where he might face another formidable opponent.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Baldur encountered no more adversaries like the previous one. He only needed to disable a few additional traps before stumbling upon a grand set of bronze double doors. Adorned with ornate carvings and inscribed runes akin to those on the entrance door, these doors were enchanted to open once a puzzle was solved.

The puzzle at hand comprised three intersecting circles, forming a pattern reminiscent of a Venn diagram. Drawing upon his divine magical prowess, Baldur commanded the door to open. He watched intently as the discs began to rotate, eventually aligning to reveal an image of men engaged in a fierce battle against zombie-like creatures.

With a creaking sound, the doors slowly swung open, revealing an expansive audience chamber beyond. Along the sides of the room stood six pillars, each adorned with a magically ignited flame. Entering cautiously, Baldur scanned the surroundings, wary of encountering another armored puppet.

Following the network of pulsating roots, Baldur's gaze fell upon a regal figure seated atop a throne, seemingly carved from a majestic white tree adorned with vibrant red leaves. Resting across the figure's lap was a blade of profound craftsmanship. As Baldur's foot touched the chamber floor, an inexplicable sensation washed over him, plunging him into a seemingly endless loop of his most haunting nightmares.

Try as he might, his attempts to break free proved futile, as the nightmarish sequence played out repeatedly. Fueled by mounting frustration and anger, an immense fire erupted, consuming everything in its path. Just as Baldur felt trapped within the spell's grasp, an abrupt end came, and he caught a glimpse of the figure on the throne twitching, hinting at the spell's disruption.

"You're going to regret subjecting me to those memories," Baldur declared, raising his tomahawk defiantly toward the figure.

In response, the armored man ascended, his voice resonating through the chamber. "You... are... not... worthy."

As the words escaped his lips, a surge of movement erupted as roots snaked their way toward Baldur, aiming to ensnare him. Unbeknownst to him, a seething inferno surrounded him, pulsating with an intensity that matched his determination. Without hesitation, the flames, under Baldur's subconscious command, intercepted the encroaching roots, reducing them to mere ash in an instant.

Drawing a deep breath, Baldur extended his senses into the roaring inferno, embracing its essence in its entirety. Tapping into his hidden reserves, he channeled his power outward, birthing a fierce ring of fire that erupted with tremendous force. The roots in the vicinity were instantly disintegrated, and the figure who had provoked Baldur moved forward to face him.

"You… cannot... be... allowed... to... live," the figure stuttered, his voice trembling and raspy.

"You talk too much," Baldur retorted, issuing a command that summoned the flames back to envelop him once again. Shielded and empowered by the fiery aura, he charged forward to confront his adversary. Conjuring his axe, Baldur hurled it with precision, only to witness the puppet-like man raise his dark silver blade, expertly deflecting the incoming strike.

The tomahawk veered off its course, but Baldur skillfully summoned it back into his grip. Swiftly raising his shield, he deflected a retaliatory blow from the adversary's blade. In that brief exchange, Baldur managed to glean a closer look at the figure he faced.

Silver locks cascaded down their back, a mummified countenance revealed a hint of shock, and their resplendent bronze armor bore a sinister black hue. Capitalizing on their momentary surprise, Baldur deflected and battered the hand that clung to the blade.

Seizing the opportunity, Baldur swung his tomahawk toward the figure's face, but before his strike could connect, the roots attached to their back violently yanked them backward, dragging them toward the throne. Sneering at the feeble attempt to flee, Baldur drew upon the flames that encased him and the braziers nearby, directing their scorching heat toward the pallid tree.

A formidable wall of entwined roots surged upward, intercepting the searing blaze, and amidst the crackling inferno, Baldur could discern faint, raspy screams. The agonized cries were almost masked by the sizzling of the smoldering roots, but they echoed in his ears nonetheless. As ash gently descended, cascading to the ground like a melancholic snowfall, Baldur cautiously advanced toward the throne.

The warrior seated atop the regal perch appeared to grasp the inevitability of its demise. In a surprising act, it flung its blade with force, embedding it into the very tree behind. Intrigued by this unexpected maneuver, Baldur momentarily paused, his curiosity piqued. Observing the blade gradually sinking into the tree, a realization dawned upon him—the figure sought to prevent Baldur from claiming the weapon.

Determined and swift, Baldur dashed forward, deftly leaping over the mummified opponent. Retrieving his tomahawk, he transformed it back into its ring form and swiftly gripped the hilt of the embedded blade. The pommel radiated with a golden flame-like design, while the crossguard undulated in a captivating wave of gold. An exquisite ruby adorned the center, infusing the weapon with an aura of undeniable allure. The blade, cast in a dark silver hue, bore a mesmerizing wave-like pattern reminiscent of the damascus steel.

Harnessing the power of his flames once more, Baldur directed their scorching intensity toward the towering tree, fiercely determined to reduce it to ashes. Yet, as he struggled to extract the blade from its trunk, grasping hands emerged from the darkness, reaching out to seize Baldur's armored back. Their touch recoiled in agony, repelled by the searing heat emanating from his flames.

Putting his unwavering trust in the protective embrace of the inferno, Baldur planted both feet firmly on the trunk and exerted all his might. With a resounding effort, he finally wrenched the blade free, causing him to fall down onto the floor, his breath momentarily taken away. Gazing upward, his eyes met the sight of the mummy, now fully engulfed in relentless flames, its scorched form stretching out imploringly toward him.

"This... is... not... the... end..." it shrieked defiantly, its words piercing through the infernal chorus. Yet, even as the final syllables hung in the air, the figure succumbed to the engulfing conflagration, collapsing into a smoldering heap of charred remnants, forever silenced.

As the last remnants of the mummified figure dissolved into ashes, consumed by the relentless flames, Baldur took a moment to collect himself. He inhaled deeply, allowing the rush of adrenaline to subside, and exhaled slowly, feeling a sense of accomplishment mingled with lingering tension. In the wake of the fierce conflagration, the room fell into a profound stillness, broken only by the soft crackling of the dwindling fire and the rhythmic thumping of Baldur's own heartbeat reverberating in his ears. The once majestic throne room now lay in ruins, transformed into a scorched chamber that bore witness to the ferocity of their battle.

With cautious steps, Baldur rose from the floor, his gaze fixed upon the blade he had triumphantly wrested from the clutches of the tree. Grasping the hilt firmly, he marveled at its uncanny lightness. The absence of runes etched upon its surface intrigued him, sparking a sense of wonder and curiosity. It suggested to Baldur that the blade's enchantment might have been woven into its very essence, forged using spells or crafted from a rare and magical metal.

As he turned the blade in his hands, examining its intricate details, Baldur knew that a deeper study would be required to unravel its true nature. The moment he returned to camp, he resolved to immerse himself in extensive research. Perhaps the fortuitous discovery of this blade, and the enchanted bronze equipment, held the potential to ignite a breakthrough in his own enchanting abilities, no matter how implausible it seemed.

Excitement stirred within Baldur, fueled by the prospects that lay ahead. He envisioned unearthing hidden knowledge, deciphering the blade's secrets, and honing his craft to new heights.

-----

After the intense battle had concluded and Baldur had gathered his spoils—a pair of intricately enchanted bronze suits of armor, an enchanted battle axe, and the enigmatic dark silver blade crafted from what Baldur believed to be damascus steel—he made his way out of the barrow, leaving the remnants of his adversaries behind.

As he walked beneath the open sky, Baldur couldn't help but reflect on the turbulent emotions that had consumed him during the confrontation. In a strange twist of fate, he found himself harboring a begrudging appreciation for the mummy and its puppeteer. With a subtle flex of his magical abilities, a small ball of flame materialized, hovering above his palm. Testing its limits, Baldur attempted to channel his anger into the fiery sphere, only to witness it transform into an uncontrolled inferno, devouring everything in its path. It served as a stark reminder that he could merely guide his anger, not truly control it.

A heavy sigh escaped Baldur's lips, echoing the weight of his inner turmoil. The pursuit of balance, he realized, was an arduous journey. Deep-rooted traumas and visceral anger threatened to consume him, overshadowing his noble intentions. The path toward letting go of his anger seemed elusive, for true forgiveness was something he could not currently grasp.

Amidst his contemplation, a sharp caw broke the silence, capturing Baldur's attention. His gaze shifted upward, drawn to the sight of a crow perched atop a lofty rock. The bird's presence, far removed from its natural forest habitat, struck Baldur with a profound realization. A surge of determination coursed through him as he directed his threat toward the avian observer. "You're next."

The crow, recognizing the underlying meaning of Baldur's words, swiftly took flight, disappearing into the expanse of the sky. Although uncertain of the sender of the mysterious journal or the orchestrator of the treacherous barrow, Baldur held steadfast in his belief that their paths would inevitably intersect, leading to a reckoning.

However, for the present moment, Baldur understood that there were more pressing matters that required his attention. The spoils he had acquired, laden with enchantments and untold mysteries, beckoned him to delve deeper into their secrets. With resolute determination etched upon his face, Baldur set his sights on quickly returning to base.

 

[Pineappl3]

The journey back to base was a relatively uneventful one for Baldur, the demigod's steps guided by a mixture of caution and anticipation. However, the tranquility of the night was shattered by an inexplicable disturbance that plagued Baldur's shields. In the cover of darkness, the assaults began with small, seemingly deranged animals, but soon escalated to the brazen charges of larger predators, their frenzied attempts to breach his protective barrier evidence of something amiss.

Baldur couldn't help but suspect the source of this vexation, the prime suspect being the individual who took offense at his departure from the barrow. The acquisition of the sword, a bonus amidst the turmoil, seemed to have added fuel to the fires of resentment.

Yet, Baldur was no ordinary enchanter, and the swarming creatures, although disconcerting, posed little threat to his fortitude. Employing his newfound pyromantic abilities, he had forged a series of layered barriers using the remnants of the ruined bronze armor salvaged from his initial encounter in the barrow. Against a demigod, such defenses could buy him days, while against lesser foes, Baldur maintained an air of confidence. Still, he remained vigilant, devising additional enchantments to warn him of impending danger. In moments of respite from his travels, he dedicated himself to mastering the control of his inner flame, refining his pyromantic prowess.

During his periods of study, Baldur discovered the unique qualities of the Damascus steel blade he had acquired. It defied his expectations, demonstrating exceptional resilience, razor-sharp edges, and a surprising resistance to heat, stress, and even strikes from his own Bone Steel weapons. As he delved deeper into the blade's nature, Baldur grew increasingly certain that its creation involved a complex ritual or intricate spellcasting. Although capable of such feats himself, Baldur acknowledged his relative shortcomings in spellcasting compared to his mastery of rune inscription.

While the allure of embarking on a grand quest of discovery to uncover the origins and secrets of the blade tempted Baldur, he recognized the pressing need to address the immediate threat posed by the unseen adversaries lurking behind their puppet minions. With a determined resolve, Baldur redirected his focus towards unravelling the enigma that lay shrouded in darkness.

As Baldur arrived at his base and crossed the protective barrier, he couldn't help but smile at the sight of vibrant green grass and the absence of snow. The ground beneath his feet had hardened, and evidence of the progress his diligent workers had made in developing their camp showed. Piles of gathered materials lay off to the side, ready to be utilized, while Arson toiled diligently, flattening the ground in preparation for the construction of the foundation.

Approaching the camp, Baldur was met by Jora, whose once weary countenance now displayed a healthier visage. "Boss! You're back!" Jora exclaimed, a hint of relief audible in his voice.

Baldur scrutinized Jora for a moment, observing the transformation in his demeanor. "Where is Galrum? I don't see him," Baldur inquired, his tone edged with a sense of interest.

"He, um... entered your walled area without permission," Jora stammered, flinching and shrinking into himself as if anticipating Baldur's wrath. The demigod's brow furrowed, a subtle display of displeasure.

"Seems I'm short a worker now. Unfortunate," Baldur stated matter-of-factly, waving his hand to beckon Jora to follow him.

Jora, understanding the gravity of the situation, silently complied, trailing behind Baldur as they moved closer to the camp. Sensing the need to address more pressing matters, Jora spoke up, his voice tinged with eagerness, "We have gathered most of the materials you requested, Boss. We can start whenever you deem fit."

With a nod of acknowledgement, Baldur gingerly unfastened the bronze axe strapped to his back, carefully placing it aside. Simultaneously, he discarded the dyed armor he had salvaged from the puppet adversaries, laying it out for distribution among his two diligent companions. "Divvy this gear between the two of you and take the remainder of the day to rest. Come dawn, we'll start on constructing your very own house," Baldur declared, his voice carrying none of the anger he usually did.

Satisfied, Baldur made his way back to his dwelling. As he approached the entrance, his keen eyes caught sight of a small clockwork soldier, dutifully standing at attention to the left of the door. A rare smile played upon Baldur's lips, a flicker of genuine joy illuminating his countenance. Gently, he reached down and lifted the diminutive creation into his hands, cradling it with a mix of fondness and determination. "It looks like it's time to receive an upgrade, my little friend," Baldur whispered, his voice infused with excitement.

-----

Three-Eyed Crow POV

A diminutive figure with nut-brown skin, clad in a cloak woven from leaves and entwined vines, approached the form of Brynden, whose body was intricately covered in roots. The newcomer's face was etched with a deep frown, reflecting the urgency of the situation. "His protections are impenetrable. We must devise an alternative plan to rid ourselves of him before his power escalates further. We can already feel his magic permeating the world! The Others will awaken prematurely if we fail to remove him!"

Brynden couldn't help but release a weary sigh, fully comprehending the extent of his folly in underestimating Baldur. He had believed himself capable of quelling the threat should it arise, yet he had been sorely mistaken. The young boy possessed an innate gift, with his mastery over flame standing unparalleled in ages.

Had Brynden been younger, he would have readily marched into battle himself, resolute in vanquishing the threat once and for all. However, that was a feat he could no longer accomplish. Painful as it was to acknowledge, he had to call in a favor—an act necessary for the greater good of the realm and humanity as a whole. Baldur needed to be eliminated.

"Leaf, reach out to Torvir. Inform him that if he succeeds in ridding us of Baldur, I shall halt our current hostilities," Brynden grimaced, his expression heavy with the weight of his decision. "And inform him that I will offer him one of my cherished artifacts."

Although the prospect of parting with his precious possessions pained him deeply, Brynden felt better knowing that Torvir's loyalty lay with his people. When the threat of the Long Night loomed, he could be relied upon to aid in the defense against the encroaching forces of the Others.

-----

Baldur POV

Having resided in this unfamiliar realm for a full year now, Baldur couldn't help but feel a surge of pride whenever he gazed upon his thriving base. The walls and warehouse stood tall and sturdy, their construction complete, while the magnificent two-story communal housing building in the worker's camp showcased the collective effort that had gone into its creation.

Jora and Arson, the two individuals who had toiled tirelessly under Baldur's guidance, incessantly sang his praises ever since the project's completion. Through their tireless labor, they had come to cherish and appreciate the gifts Baldur had bestowed upon them. Although Baldur typically maintained a reserved demeanor, his unwavering dedication to his passions had inadvertently fostered a deeper connection between himself and his two companions.

Despite their initial aversion, they had wholeheartedly embraced Baldur's teachings and discipline, and the transformation they had undergone was remarkable. They were barely recognizable from the strangers Baldur had first encountered. While Baldur hesitated to label them as friends—an honor reserved for those he could trust with his life—they were no longer mere acquaintances.

In a surprising revelation, Arson had expressed his deep-seated love for archery and exploring, prompting Baldur to craft an enchanted bronze compound bow tailored to his needs. Jora, on the other hand, had disclosed his burning desire to tame wild animals, envisioning a sustainable source of nourishment that eliminated the need for constant hunting.

Bemused by Jora's aspirations, Baldur had patiently explained the concept of farming, and Jora had implored Baldur for guidance in embarking on this new endeavor. Thanks to their collaboration, Baldur now relished the simple pleasure of savoring eggs for breakfast, a testament to the fruits of their labor.

Despite the remarkable progress achieved in the months following his return from the barrow, Baldur remained frustratingly distant from unveiling the identity of his mysterious adversary. The occasional onslaught of animal hordes sent his way had dwindled, likely due to the realization of its futility. If this elusive foe wished to challenge Baldur within his own domain, they would have to confront him personally—a perilous proposition that promised dire consequences.

Interrupting Baldur's ruminations, a plaintive whine pierced the air, drawing his attention to a majestic metallic sabertooth tiger by his side, affectionately rubbing its head against his shoulder. "Alright, alright, Trini. We can head out," Baldur chuckled, his hand gently caressing behind the automaton's ear and Trini emitted a contented mechanical purr, a puzzling phenomenon given Trini's artificial nature.

Sensing her eagerness to stretch her legs, Baldur effortlessly mounted her back and settled into the saddle. The sabertooth tiger, surpassing the size of a warhorse, boasted an exquisite coat adorned with shades of silver, gold, black, and hints of blue—a captivating amalgamation of interlocking plates forged from Bone Steel and an intricate array of gears. Every component had been meticulously enchanted by Baldur, while the diamond at the core of Trini's virtual intelligence—a gemstone painstakingly crafted over weeks in a specialized forge—emanated an otherworldly brilliance, anchoring the automaton's consciousness.

Gems held immense significance as cores for golems, and Baldur recognized their value in his pursuit of combining the creation processes of golems and automatons to forge something even more remarkable. As a result, he devoted considerable time to gathering and crafting the necessary materials. Although Trini, his metallic companion, may not have matched the grandeur of his younger brother's pet, Festus, Baldur took great pride in having brought Trini to life entirely on his own, without relying on the full might of the Hephaestus cabin.

Extending a reassuring pat on Trini's back, Baldur pressed forward, casting a glance over his shoulder to ensure his other creations were trailing behind him. Two imposing bronze figures loyally followed in his wake—one standing at an imposing eight feet tall, while the other measured a more modest five and a half feet.

The colossal figure, aptly named Bob, drew inspiration from the Dwemer Centurions of Skyrim. However, unlike their weapon-integrated design, Bob sported massive hands capable of wielding an extensive arsenal of weapons secured to his back. Shields, spears, swords and even tools like shovels and picks—Bob possessed a tool tailored for every imaginable task.

In contrast, the smaller figure, Baldur's initial clockwork soldier, had undergone a significant transformation, bearing an uncanny resemblance to a Samurai Gundam. Like Trini, this bronze warrior had been adorned with a vibrant paint scheme, highlighting his exceptional nature.

Dubbed Blue, the samurai-esque figure brandished three katanas holstered at each hip, while his wrists housed two mounted folding crossbows, ingeniously repurposed from one of Baldur's unused contraptions. Unlike Bob and Trini, Blue appeared more attuned to the world around him, capable of engaging in basic conversations. Though Blue's responses remained somewhat limited—reminiscent of early iterations of chatbots—it only served to reinforce Baldur's proximity to bestowing life upon his creations, much like his father had done.

Satisfied that everything was in order, Baldur reached for the gem nestled within the socket of his necklace. The second iteration, known as MK II, unfolded and elegantly enveloped his form. While functionally and aesthetically similar to its predecessor, MK II possessed an additional advantage—it could be discreetly stored within the necklace itself, rendering infiltration a mere cakewalk should the need ever arise.

Arriving at the edge of his territory, Baldur found Arson eagerly awaiting him. The bow Baldur had gifted him was securely strapped to his back. Arson had adorned himself in heavy furs, a departure from his usual attire due to the warm climate within the protective barrier. Squinting up at Baldur, he grinned and exclaimed, "Ready to head out when you are, Boss!"

Baldur furrowed his brow and asked, "Are you certain you want to accompany me? We'll be gone for quite some time." While he didn't oppose the company on his journey, he knew that they would be venturing far from their current location, with their return being a matter of "when" rather than "if."

"And miss out on an adventure? Boss, you forget one thing," Arson chuckled, causing Baldur to groan in response. "You can't speak the southern language!" Arson continued to laugh, and Baldur reluctantly admitted the truth.

Arson was right. Despite Baldur's numerous gifts, languages other than Ancient Greek and the Old Tongue posed a considerable challenge. English had taken him much longer to grasp than others his age, and the thought of having to learn yet another language was daunting. "I'll simply create a translating rune," Baldur grumbled, well aware that the rune would only be effective in translating the literal meaning of what people said.

"Fine, fine, you win. Just don't be a nuisance," Baldur relented, waving for Bob to come closer. Pointing at Arson, he instructed, "You can ride on his shoulder. Otherwise, we'll be moving at a snail's pace."

"On second thought—" Arson began to protest, but before he could finish his sentence, Bob swiftly closed the distance, grabbing Arson's shoulder and hoisting him through the air onto his own shoulder. "Ouch! That hurt, fuck," Arson winced, rubbing his shoulder and rotating his arms to alleviate the lingering pain.

Before crossing the threshold that separated his lands from the untamed frozen wilderness, Baldur cast a final glance back. Jora would be fine; Baldur had even reluctantly granted him permission to allow a few people to settle just outside the protective barrier.

With the fortifications and enhancements he had implemented, Baldur had little doubt that his lands would be raided. As much as he yearned to stay and continue his work, he had made sufficient preparations. The Damascus steel sword at his side taunted him, its creation method still eluding him.

Currently, Baldur's best chance of acquiring more information rested with the Crows, a group that Jora and Arson had likened to a border patrol, based on the stories they had shared. Although Baldur had yet to encounter any of their patrols, he had been advised against heading straight to their forts. The Crows harbored an intense animosity toward northerners.

If Baldur wished to engage with them on friendly terms, he would have to infiltrate the south discreetly, giving them no reason to suspect he was a Free Folk. It seemed like an arduous task, especially when he could simply compel them to reveal what he sought. However, Jora had explained that the south held greater numbers and deep-seated grudges.

Baldur had hoped the southerners were as divided as the Free Folk, but if they stood united, he had to admit that even a multitude of ants could topple a giant. After all, he had played a role in defeating Kronos.

"Boss, aren't you concerned that the person behind the animal attacks might seize this opportunity to strike at you?" Arson inquired from atop Bob as they set off on their journey, tracing the path of the river southward.

"I highly doubt they can breach my barrier, so Jora will be safe. And until they confront me directly, there's little they can do. Especially if we make it to the southern lands. I don't imagine their influence extends beyond the wall," Baldur reassured, his confidence evident. Arson, however, couldn't help but express a hint of worry.

"But what if it does? How would you even know?" Arson's concern was palpable.

"I don't. But I do know that even mortals have limits to their dominion. Even demigods have boundaries," Baldur scoffed, whispering the last part, his hands clenched with determination. Breaking through his own limits was a resolve he held, even if it meant it would be his final endeavor.

"If you say so..." Arson said, his voice slightly trembling as he experienced the biting chill of winter for the first time in a while. The familiar warmth of the protective barrier was now replaced by a frigid breeze that seemed to cut through his furs. He instinctively wrapped his arms tighter around his body, seeking refuge from the cold.

-----

Torvir POV

It was a surprising turn of events when one of the Children of the Forest approached Torvir, considering their history of being at odds with the man they served, the Three-Eyed Crow. The messenger came bearing a proposition, promising treasure and amnesty not only for Torvir but also for his people.

Curiosity piqued, Torvir listened as the messenger detailed their request. They sought his help in dealing with a problem—a certain intriguing individual named Baldur, whom Torvir had observed in his forests months prior. The boy's formidable power was emphasized, and Torvir was warned against engaging him directly.

Torvir took his time to consider the offer, weighing the potential benefits and risks. Finally, he gave his answer, much to the surprise of Leaf, the messenger. "No," he stated firmly, his voice carrying the weight of his years of experience.

Leaf's golden and green eyes flickered with a mix of shock and frustration. "What do you mean, 'no'?" she exclaimed. "Don't you realize the threat Baldur poses? I have felt his power! It surpasses the combined might of me and my kin! You don't understand how dangerous..."

Interrupting her, Torvir asserted his own strength. "I am Torvir the Undying!" he proclaimed, his voice filled with the echoes of countless winters. "I have outlived your current master. Do you think I have survived this long by challenging adversaries you couldn't even fathom? Be gone from my sight. Tell Brynden that saving him all those years ago was a mistake. For someone who claims to see everything, he knows surprisingly little."

Leaf grunted in frustration but eventually relented, stomping her way out of Torvir's humble dwelling. Before she disappeared, she couldn't resist delivering a parting warning. "He has foreseen your fate and that of your mate. If you do not cooperate with him, death awaits you."

As Leaf's presence faded, Torvir's consciousness returned fully to his current host—the direwolf whose body he inhabited. Within the depths of his cave, the sounds of yelps and whines filled the air as his young offspring played.

Standing tall, Torvir's majestic form gleamed under the moon's gentle radiance, his fur a shimmering cloak of white. His eyes, filled with a mixture of pride and tenderness, locked onto his longtime mate as she playfully guided their pups. Leaf's warning held little sway over him. He had already glimpsed his own death, the passing of his beloved mate, and the fate of his offspring.

He knew it was inevitable—a looming fate from which there was no escape. The gradual degradation of his mind, losing himself more and more to the instincts of the direwolf, had made him aware of his own mortality. However, his descendants would carry on, and in the coming years, they would find their way to House Stark, taking his place. Torvir was old, and it was time for the younger generation to take the reins.

His only regret lay in not being able to see his ancestral home, Winterfell, one last time. Its grand halls and storied history would forever remain a distant dream, a poignant reminder of what he had fought to protect. Yet, he found solace in knowing that his bloodline would continue, their connection to the land and their wolfish heritage unbroken.

With a profound sense of acceptance, Torvir settled beside his mate and their playful progeny, savoring these fleeting moments of familial joy. The howling winds outside echoed the passage of time, and as his age-weary eyes closed, he embraced the serenity of the present, content in knowing that his legacy would endure.

-----

Baldur POV

A soft whistle escaped Baldur's lips as he stood before the towering magnificence of the ice wall. Its sheer size and the pulsating waves of magic emanating from its core left him in a state of awe, his eyes tracing the expanse of the structure.

Standing on the western side of the wall, gazing eastward, Baldur strained to see where it ended. The immensity of the wall seemed to stretch beyond the horizon. "I would give anything to meet the individuals who constructed such a marvel," he mused, a tinge of curiosity coloring his words.

Arson couldn't help but chuckle at Baldur's comment. "They're probably long gone, Boss. You must have truly lost your memories, as Jora guessed," he remarked, a hint of teasing in his voice.

Baldur tilted his head, contemplating Arson's words. He didn't lose his memories, he simply replaced the original Baldur. "All right, let's focus on the task at hand. What's the best way to cross this colossal barrier?" he inquired, directing his attention back to Arson.

Arson scratched his head thoughtfully. "Well, most people attempt to climb the wall, but that often ends in tragedy. Alternatively, there's the gorge I've heard about. Crossing it could be an option. However, I'm not sure how your creations will cross," he explained, glancing at Bob, who emitted a puff of steam that startled Arson, nearly causing him to lose his balance on the automaton's shoulder.

Quickly regaining his composure, Arson stammered, "N-not that I doubt your creations, Baldur! Sorry, Bob, didn't mean to offend you," he apologized, patting the metallic shoulder of the towering automaton.

Baldur sighed, his patience tested by the antics of his companions. "Slight offense taken, Arson. Let's put the climbing aside for now. We shall cross the gorge," he declared, making a firm decision. The mysterious allure of the wall's creators would have to wait for another time.

 

[Pineappl3]

Crossing the gorge turned out to be far from the hassle-free journey Baldur had anticipated. As they approached the bridge, a chaotic scene unfolded before their eyes. A fierce battle raged between the Free Folk and the southern Crows, with the former clearly on the losing end. Arson tensed, watching the clash from his vantage point on Bob's sturdy shoulder.

Baldur surveyed the scene, his gaze shifting between the struggling northerners on the bridge and Arson. "You do bear a striking resemblance to them," he remarked, his eyes focusing on Arson's worn hides and furs. "It's possible they might mistake you for an enemy and attack on sight."

A nervous whimper escaped Arson's lips at the thought, and he turned his gaze downward to meet Baldur's eyes. "Do you have any spare clothing or armor I could wear?" he asked, his voice laced with desperation.

Baldur nodded in response, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. "In one of the bags that Bob is carrying, you'll find my old armor. Hurry and put it on. We'll attempt to cross the gorge discreetly," he instructed, urging Arson to quickly put on the protective gear.

With gentle care, the towering bronze figure set Arson down on the ground and offered a comforting pat on the head—an unexpected display of tenderness that left both Baldur and Arson puzzled.

Arson, now rummaging through the bags, mustered the courage to voice an alternative suggestion. "Maybe we should head farther south and seek your information in a sizable settlement. The warriors here are unlikely to have any knowledge about your unique blade," he proposed, his tone tinged with pleading as he continued his search for the armor Baldur had mentioned.

Baldur took a moment to consider Arson's words. The logic was sound; border patrols would likely have no knowledge of a random blade. If the region was as antiquated as Baldur suspected, scholars would be a rarity. His best chance lay in encountering fellow craftsmen or individuals who appeared scholarly, much like those dwelling in the Athena cabin.

After brief contemplation, Baldur made up his mind. Going farther south seemed like a reasonable course of action. While he wasn't one to shy away from confrontation, the prospect of losing Arson, his translator, weighed heavily on his mind.

"Very well," Baldur conceded, his voice firm beneath the helmet he wore. "We shall travel south, navigating through those mountains in the distance. We'll stick to the eastern side and search for any substantial settlements. Just be prepared for sleeping on the mountainside," he added, chuckling at the thought as he observed Arson momentarily pause in his attempts to don the armor.

Arson's voice wavered with uncertainty as he responded, "Sleeping on the side of a mountain? Are you serious? How do people even manage that?" He contemplated their options, momentarily swayed by the daunting prospect. "Perhaps we should reconsider crossing the gorge instead," he suggested, his nerves evident.

Baldur's smirk widened beneath his helmet, his confidence unshaken. "Trust me," he assured Arson, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Sleeping on the side of a mountain can be quite an adventure. You'll see."

-----

"Now remember, your sole responsibility is to translate for me. And I mean exactly what I say. Understood?" Baldur's gaze fell upon Arson, who now walked alongside Bob. They found themselves on the outskirts of a town situated not too far from a massive castle, the imposing structure casting a shadow over the landscape.

Arson nodded enthusiastically, trying to exude confidence. "Don't worry, I've got it covered. You may have forgotten, but we Thenn are renowned on the northern side of the damn wall. We're the best at speaking both the old tongue and the common tongue. I've picked up plenty during my travels outside the clan," he boasted, a hint of smugness in his voice.

A small group of guards began approaching from the town, their hands resting on their weapons, ready to draw if necessary. Baldur couldn't fault them for their caution. If he were in their shoes and confronted with multiple metallic figures, armed to the teeth, he would likely be on edge as well.

"Stay right where you are! Identify yourselves," the lead guard demanded, his words an unexpected English. Baldur turned his head toward Arson, who sheepishly scratched the back of his helmet and confessed, "Boss... I regret to inform you that I can't... uh... understand them."

"You idiot. What made you think the gibberish you were spouting to me before was the southern language? Never mind. Don't answer that," Baldur scolded Arson in the old tongue, turning his attention back to the guards, some of whom had drawn their blades in response to his stern tone. Baldur removed his helmet, prompting Arson to do the same.

"We apologize for intruding. We have traveled a long and arduous journey in search of shelter, and this place was the first of significance we stumbled upon. I am Sir Baldur, a hedge knight, and this is my squire, Arson. Please forgive him, as he is unfamiliar with our language," Baldur addressed the guards, his voice carrying an air of sincerity.

"I thought all of you hedge knights headed south in search of opportunities during the war," he jokingly remarked, a smile dancing on his lips for a brief moment before his expression turned more serious. The question hung in the air as he asked, "Where do you hail from, Ser Baldur?" The front guard, though displaying a slight ease in his demeanor, still retained a trace of tension, as if harboring an unspoken suspicion.

Suspecting that his mention of the war in the south had prompted their caution, Baldur took a moment to devise a believable yet arbitrary location. "I hail from... the Stone Shores," he confidently replied.

"Stony Shore, huh? Must be from one of those quaint fishing villages," a guard from the rear interjected, evoking a touch of familiarity among his comrades, causing their guarded stances to relax somewhat.

However, the front guard narrowed his gaze, his eyes piercing. "You've neglected to introduce the two accompanying you," he pointed out, his suspicion no longer veiled.

"My apologies," Baldur swiftly acknowledged, gesturing towards the silent duo of Blue and Bob. "Allow me to rectify that. This is Bernard the Blue and Bob, friends from my homeland who willingly chose to accompany me upon my knighthood."

The guards took a moment to ponder the explanation, exchanging glances as they deliberated. Eventually, the head guard nodded with reluctant acceptance. "Very well then. You may proceed, but your armored beast will have to remain outside the confines of the town. Your armored shadowcat might scare the smallfolk and I don't wanna deal with the complaints."

Baldur offered a nod of appreciation and slipped on his helmet as they moved away, his keen hearing catching snippets of conversation drifting from the guards. "My bloody face would freeze solid wearing a helmet like that in the heart of winter."

Disregarding their comments, Baldur turned to face Arson, locking eyes with him. "You have a choice, Arson. Stick close to me in the town or remain outside with the others. However, if you decide to accompany me—no trouble will be tolerated," he warned.

-----
As he traversed the streets of the town known as Winter Town, Baldur couldn't help but appreciate the genius of his improvised backstory, the "Stony Shores." The town's peculiar naming conventions seemed to align perfectly with his fabricated origin. The concept of "fake it till you make it" resonated strongly within him, and the success of his ruse reinforced that belief. However, he couldn't shake off his concern about Arson's decision to remain behind. Nevertheless, he resolved that the presence of Trini and Blue would suffice to keep any potential trouble in check.

After a while, Baldur's ears detected the familiar echoes of a hammer striking metal. Intrigued, he followed the sound until he stumbled upon a modest smithy. Inside, an elderly craftsman was instructing a younger apprentice, who was attempting to fashion a horseshoe. "You blundering fool! I explicitly told you to be firm but gentle! Apply precise force!" scolded the aged man.

The apprentice retorted, his gaze still fixed on the piece of metal before him, "How in the hell am I supposed to—" He abruptly turned his head, freezing in place as he locked eyes with Baldur, who stood at the entrance, a friendly smile adorning his face.

The elder smith followed his apprentice's gaze and hurriedly made his way towards the entrance upon spotting Baldur. "Greetings, Ser. How may I be of service to you?" he respectfully inquired.

Baldur rested his hand on his Damascus steel blade, and noticed the old smith's flinch. "Relax. I have no intention of striking you," he reassured, drawing the blade partially to let the elderly man's eyes trace the intricate patterns of the waves on the steel.

"I seek information about the origins of this blade. I understand that you may not have specific knowledge, but any assistance you can provide would be greatly appreciated," Baldur inquired, his tone conveying seriousness.

The smith extended his hands, seeking permission to examine the weapon. Baldur placed it gently into the worn palms of his fellow craftsman, noting the surprise that flickered across the man's face. "It's remarkably light," the smith commented. However, his brow furrowed, and he returned the blade to Baldur. "Forgive me, Ser, but I have no knowledge of the origins of such a magnificent weapon. Perhaps the castle's own blacksmith might possess more information."

Sheathing his blade, Baldur continued his inquiry, "Could you kindly direct me to the whereabouts of the castle blacksmith?"

"He lives in the walls of Winterfell, but he likes to spend his nights at the Smoking Log in town." The man told Baldur.

"I cannot offer coin, but I think I can spare some time to show you and your apprentice a thing or two." Baldur moved forward into the smith and past the older man. He faced the apprentice and motioned for his hammer. "Give it here, I'll show you how a real smith works metal."

-----

Ryden POV

Ryden had been serving as the apprentice to the town's blacksmith, Old man Toren, for several months. Finally, the time had come for him to work with the metal, but his initial assignments of crafting nails and horseshoes proved to be dreadfully dull, much to his disappointment.

Toren, unfortunately, proved to be a less than satisfactory teacher. He constantly emphasized the importance of using "exact force" and being "firm but gentle," leaving Ryden perplexed. How was he supposed to decipher such ambiguous instructions? Every time Toren struck the metal, it appeared as though he was exerting all his strength without any finesse in his strikes.

Perhaps Toren was merely toying with him, Ryden contemplated. Being that old, the blacksmith likely derived amusement from teasing people in a similar manner. On the other hand, the mysterious knight demonstrated a remarkable proficiency in working with metal. The knight's craftsmanship was akin to an artistic masterpiece.

Observing the knight skillfully shaping the molten metal, Ryden gradually grasped the essence of what the old blacksmith meant by "exact force." Each strike executed by the knight was purposeful, carefully coaxing the metal into the desired form. Unlike Toren, who appeared to be forcefully taming a wild beast, the knight guided the metal with gentle precision.

For the first time, Ryden felt a genuine passion for the art of smithing. Previously, it had been nothing more than a means to an end—a trade that would enable him to support a family. However, now a flame of inspiration had been ignited within him, and Ryden found himself getting lost in the intricacies of working with metal. He daydreamed of becoming a master blacksmith capable of taming metal and forging magnificent works of art.

As the knight quenched the freshly forged blade, Ryden snapped out of his reverie and surveyed his surroundings. He noticed that Toren had been equally captivated by the knight's skills.

"Here, a gift," the enigmatic knight declared, extending the blade towards Toren. Though the dagger lacked a grip, Ryden couldn't help but be mesmerized by its majestic presence. The blade was adorned with complex engravings that appeared more valuable than a knight's armor. Intricately woven into the metal was a depiction of a roaring fire at the base of the blade, with a figure holding a hammer within the flames.

Toren was taken aback, gripping the blade with such force that he inadvertently drew blood, despite its dull edge. "S-ser-" Toren stammered, struggling to find words, "how can I accept such a masterpiece? I witnessed your every move, and yet I cannot fathom how you achieved such artistry."

The knight smiled, having long discarded his helmet and placed it aside so he could properly work. "It's quite simple, really. You just need to be firm but gentle," he chuckled, earning a smirk from Ryden in response. It served Toren right.

"Just take it, whether to sell it, study it, or pass it down as a family heirloom. It matters not to me," the knight suggested, picking up his helmet and placing it back on. As he departed from the smithy, passing by the astonished Toren, he patted Ryden on the shoulder and whispered, "Praise Hephaestus."

Frowning at the knight's strange words, Ryden found himself unable to grasp their meaning. Before he could inquire further, the knight had already departed, leaving Ryden to ponder the encounter with a mix of fascination and curiosity.