The Weight of the Moon

Dorrik Ironbrow didn’t say a word at first. He just stared at the Scythe of the Fallen Moon where it lay across the counter, thick fingers hovering just shy of touching the blade as if he was afraid it might bite him.

When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its usual bark, carrying something close to reverence. “By me beard… lass, this ain’t just fine work. This be legendary.”

Morgana tilted her head. “Legendary, huh? And that’s supposed to mean something to me?”

The dwarf looked up at her like she’d just confessed she didn’t know what ale was. “Aye, it bloody well does! Quality grades... Well, everythin’! From a kitchen fork to the king’s own crown... They start at Common. Then ye’ve got Uncommon, Rare, Epic, Legendary, an’ at the very top, Godly.”

He tapped the scythe with one thick knuckle. “Most folk’ll live an’ die never layin’ eyes on a Legendary piece. Ye could count the known ones in this world on two hands, an’ still have fingers left for pickin’ yer nose. As for Godly… hah! Only three I’ve ever heard tell of, an’ they’re all locked away or clutched by rulers who’d sooner gut ye than let ye touch ’em.”

Morgana glanced at the weapon, unimpressed. “Looks like normal a scythe to me.”

That made Dorrik’s head snap up, his face twisting into something between offense and disbelief.

“A scythe to ye? Bah! That’s the trouble wi’ you humans, ye don’t ken the value o’ fine work! This ain’t some stick ye wave about ‘til it breaks, lass, this is art. Blood, sweat, an’ more than a few curses go into steel like this!" 

He shook his head in annoyance. "Every curve o’ the blade, every rune on the haft, it’s all been placed wi’ the kind o’ care most o’ yer lot couldn’t give to their own bairns! You think weapons like this grow on trees? Nay! This beauty’s rarer than truth in a politician’s mouth, an’ if ye had an ounce o’ sense ye’d be kissin’ the ground it rests on." 

Morgana tried to open her mouth and stop him, but he continued on with his rant.

"By the forges, if I handed this to some green lad, he’d swing it like a broom an’ chip it on the first bloody wall he saw! But in the hands of someone who knows, someone who respects the steel, it’s a thing o’ legends. Treat it right, lass, or I swear I’ll haunt ye meself after I’m gone.”

He jabbed a stubby finger at the scythe for emphasis, then drew back with a huff. “Now… as I was sayin’, can’t do a full appraisal just by glancin’, not with all the enchantin’ stitched into this beauty. But if ye leave it with me while me apprentice takes yer measures, I’ll tell ye exactly what it can do.”

When he stopped talking, Morgana let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. That was kind of scary to hear... 

She then crossed her arms, considering. A sly smirk found its way on her lips. “Fine. But if you run off with it, I will hunt you down. And I’m really creative when it comes to payback.”

The dwarf snorted. “Bah! I’ve run this forge fer forty years, lass. Ain’t about to start thievin’ from customers now.” He then mumbled under his breath, "Though I’d be carin’ fer it better’n ye ever could, lass..."

The shy apprentice stepped forward, fiddlin’ with a measure tape. “I’ll… um… show you to the fitting room.”

The side room was cooler, lit by a single oil lamp. Morgana stepped inside, stretching her arms out lazily.

“So,” she said, watching the girl’s nervous fingers tremble as she wrapped the tape around her waist, “do you get flustered around everyone, or am I just special?”

The girl’s cheeks went pink. “N-no, I just… I don’t talk to customers much.”

“Shame,” Morgana said with a smile. “You’ve got the face for it. Pretty eyes. Cute when you blush.”

The girl nearly dropped the tape. “You’re… teasing me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Morgana chuckled, leaning down slightly, “if I were teasing, you’d know.”

The apprentice tried to focus on her work, clearing her throat. “So… how do you want your armor to look? The Master likes details so he can make it fit the wearer’s style.”

Morgana leaned back against the wall like she was ordering lunch. “Full body coverage. No exposed belly, no gaps for blades to slide in. Black leather. Knee-high boots. Left glove all the way up to the shoulder, right glove just covering the hand so my ink can breathe.”

The girl was writing rapidly to keep up with Morgana but then stopped and blinked. “Your… ink?”

Morgana wiggled her fingers, letting the black runes on her right arm peek from under her sleeve. “Magic tattoos. Not just for show.”

The apprentice nodded, jotting something on a small scrap of parchment. “Anything else?”

“Oh, yeah,” Morgana grinned, giving her a wink, “make sure there’s a nice bit of cleavage. You know, for intimidating and distracting.”

The girl’s face turned crimson, and Morgana had to bite back a laugh.

When they finished, the apprentice mumbled something about telling the master and scurried off.

Back in the main room, Dorrik had laid the scythe out on a heavy cloth, every inch of its surface gleaming under the forge light.

“Right,” he said, eyes still locked on it. “Here’s what I’ve found. First, Edge o’ Eternity. Blade’ll never dull. Ever. Ye could cut through a stone wall like it were butter.”

He ran a calloused hand along the shaft, careful not to touch the edge. “Second, Moonveil Cleave. Swings carry the weight o’ the moon itself. Can smash shields an’ dent even enchanted plate.”

“Third, Shadow Reapin’. Every kill lets the scythe drink up a wee bit o’ the poor sod’s energy, feedin’ its own magic.”

“And last… Lunar Ascendance. She grows stronger at night, doubly so under a full moon. Faster swings, harder hits.”

Morgana arched a brow. “Not bad.”

“That ain’t all, lass,” Dorrik said, voice low. “This one’s got a will of its own. The more ye fight with it, the more it’ll grow. I’ve seen enchanted steel, aye… but nothin’ quite like this.”

He hesitated, brows drawing together. “An’ here’s the odd bit. She’s bound to the owner o’ somethin’ called the Soul Tome. Dunno what that be. But judgin’ by the look on yer face, I reckon ye do.”

At the mention, Morgana’s mind snapped to the black-leather book, the one that had let her rewrite herself. So that’s what you’re called…

She opened her mouth to talk to him about the book, even summon it in front of him. But then stopped, thought better of it, and shut her mouth again. A gut-deep instinct whispered don’t tell him. Instead, she just smiled and shrugged.

Dorrik grunted. “Suit yerself.”

Morgana placed her right arm over the scythe, the black mist curlin’ out from her tattoos once more, swallowin’ the weapon back into her skin. “Thanks for the info.”

The apprentice reappeared with a scrap of parchment. “Here are the measurements, Master.”

Morgana took that as her cue. “Guess that’s my time to go shopping for the rest of my stuff. Try not to miss me too much.”

The dwarf rolled his eyes, the apprentice looked away, and Morgana stepped back into the bright streets of Althwyn with a satisfied grin on her face.