The Tragedy of the Black-Mane

The road from the Keep to Svarthlhus Proper lay buried beneath thick snow, fresh flurries falling in heavy clumps. Despite the heavy fur draped on his shoulders, Svarthofnir still felt the cold seeping into his bones. Riding alongside him, Rolnir seemed unbothered by the frigid weather, impressive on its own, furthered by the fact that he wore a thin cloak akin to what the desert roamers in Dunsphyr would wear.

"I woulda given you a real coat, you know." Svarthofnir called out to Rolnir, his voice carrying over the harsh wind.

"I wasn't complaining."

"There is no way that you aren't freezing your balls off."

"It's cold. Just not unbearably so."

"Not unbearable? If I were wearing thin cloth such as yours, I'd already be nestled inside my horse's entrails until the storm passes through."

Rolnir scrunched his nose slightly at the image, "Quit your whining. The Forge is almost fifteen minutes from the Keep. I doubt you'll get frostbite that fast this far south."

"We are headed to the Forge? I thought the armour was already made up in Kriegsholm?"

"It was. But I'm not gonna hand it off to ya in a leather bundle. The Forge has some mannequins that are around your dimensions. When you see it, you'll see it the same way a soldier would on the battlefield."

"Never realised you were the theatrical type."

"I have my moments."

"How accurate is the suit, anyway?"

"For fucks sake, I can see where your boys get their impatience from. Just wait till we get there."

"Sorry, I'm not as stoic and enlightened as you are, Priest of Bramorak."

"Ah fuck off"

A ragged laugh barked out of Svarthofnir's chest.

"Fine, fine. I'll cease the questioning, alright?"

Rolnir grunted, spurring his mount ahead as the light of the Royal Svarthlheim Forge came into view.

The wind howled behind them as they dismounted. The Forge loomed like a crouched beast in the snow, its great bronze chimney spilling smoke into the clouded sky. A pair of apprentices opened the heavy iron doors at Rolnir's nod, and warmth spilt out, thick with the scent of burning coal, iron, and oil.

Svarthofnir stepped inside, blinking the frost from his lashes. The forge hall was vast — high ceilings braced with blackened beams, weapon racks lining the stone walls, glowing embers dancing across every surface. But none of it drew his eye.

At the centre of the chamber, beneath a hanging brazier of fireglass, stood a steel mannequin — and upon it, his past reborn.

The armour stood as tall as he remembered. Gleaming black plate, edged in deep silver, the pauldrons flared like wolf jaws. A heavy bear pelt hung from the shoulders, thick and grey with streaks of white. The lion-shaped helm rested atop the neck, its mane stylised into iron ridges, its eyes hollow and unblinking.

"Holy shit..." muttered the Lord of Svarthlheim.

"Good, ain't it?"

"You are certain it's custom-made, not salvaged?" Svarthofnir asked, his hand already trailing the chest-plate.

"After you told me about your duel with Kain, I went down to look for what remained of you. Didn't find anything, and as far as I could tell, you weren't buried. So yes, it's custom."

"Have I ever told you that you are my favourite?"

"Many times."

Svarthofnir turned back to Rolnir, "Keep with that level of modesty and I'll say it a lot less."

"It's a good suit, eh? Dracosteel plate, pure. Basic steel chain, high-quality leather. That bear pelt isn't even from a grizzly; it's Ral'Bear pelt."

"How much did it all cost?"

 "Ask Fringar. I charged it to the Hralgorn Coffers, not my own."

"You are such a stingy git."

"Not all of us got castles and taxes. My money I gotta earn. 'Sides, Fringar knows I'm not exactly wealthy, so he doesn't mind me using his marks instead of my own."

"Fringar knows you do this?"

"Yeah. He just doesn't like you using his money cause he knows you have your own."

Svarthofnir scoffed, "You make it seem like I ask him to pay for my meals. I ask him for help expanding Svarthlhus, there is a difference."

"I'm not trying to get in the middle of your quarrels. You want the suit or nah?"

Svarthofnir unclipped his coat, resting the heavy furs on the table.

"'Course I do. Come 'ere and help me put it on."

The Brothers worked in silence for a long while, Rolnir helping strap the different plates to Svarthofnir's limbs, beginning with the leg guards, then the cuirass, vambraces, and gauntlets. It was heavy, heavier than Svarthofnir had recalled. The chain pinched his skin a tad more than usual, and the black chestpiece restricted his movement more than he would have preferred. Exactly as it once was.

"You did a real good job, Rolnir. I am... very grateful."

"We're not done just yet." Rolnir replied, offering the helm to his brother.

Just seeing the hollow eyes of the Lion, Svarthofnir's throat went dry. His hand instinctively roamed to his throat, feeling where the steel passed through during the Duel. There was no scar, no mark of any kind, but there was a chill. A slight coldness to the area whenever Svarthofnir would put his hand near it. 

He shook the thoughts from his mind and took the helm from Rolnir, the slab of steel feeling natural in his hand. He crowned himself with it, slow and solemn. The steel was cold against his cheeks at first, but deeply familiar.

"Looks good. Fit alright?" Rolnir asked.

"Like I never took it off. What now?"

"Now I unveil part two of your present."

"You spoil me, brother."

"Had this one made here in advance. You are gonna want it for Blackgrasp."

Rolnir made his way to a cupboard, opening the door to reveal a white cloth draped over... something. It was long, and Rolnir seemed to be handling one side with a bit more care than the other. He brought it round and offered it to Svarthofnir.

"If I take the cloth off and it's a spear, I'm sending you through the wall."

"Stop acting like you aren't excited. Besides, does it look like a spear?"

He gestured to one end, where the cloth seemed to have been draped over something wide, or at least wider than the rest of the object. 

Svarthofnir lowered a gauntleted hand to the cloth and slowly dragged it off the object. Before the white sheet even revealed half of it, Svarthofnir immediately knew what it was. 

His old sword, Bramofang.

A towering slab of Mortl Steel, folded and refolded until it shimmered with the waves of black damascus. Nearly five feet long, its edge bled into a brutal axe-like head, forged not for finesse, but for finality. The same blade he fought Kain with, and the same blade Kain ended the Duel with.

Noticing Svarthofnir's hesitance to reveal the rest of the blade, Rolnir slightly retracted it.

"It was brazen, not very thought out. I'm sorry, I should have realised the blade might have been a bit overboard."

"No, it's perfect." He reaches out and grabs the blade, allowing the cloth to fall off of it completely. The weight was familiar, and the Black-Mane felt a slight prickle at the corner of his eyes.

"It's exactly how I remember it."