Rock and a hard place

There were nine of them, nine metal-skinned heralds. Two bronze colossi, humanoid in shape yet seemingly shaped entirely of dull metal, each twice the height of a human or orc. A dozen squat beings with steel-grey skin and metallic spikes all over their heads in place of hair, wearing practical clothing that Hester imagined marked them as artisans of some kind. They never spoke out loud, but communicated entirely in fluid gestures which Hester could not follow. The ninth had skin of polished copper, and wore a short robe and knee-length trousers that looked like nothing so much as cloth woven from flexible threads of green marble. It had thick strands of golden hair that moved of their own accord like snakes or tendrils, becoming more active the more agitated it became. Its voice when it spoke was surprisingly low-pitched, like the rumbling of stones in a mudslide.

The heralds had come on them in the middle of an argument as to whose fault it was that the wagon had broken and the Westmere Stone had gone tumbling down the bank to where it now lay surrounded by undergrowth. Perhaps it had been a mistake to take the direct route from King's Stoke toward Miaren, but it was the quickest way to Anvil.

"I am sent by the Sovereign-Lord of the City of Stone and Flame, to take back what was given." The spokesperson had explained. "We have the let of the Conclave, who have rendered it unto my mistress."

There led to more arguing. The drovers wanted to fulfil their agreement with the Westmere Council and transport the thing to Anvil as the Senator had decreed. Hester on the other hand was aware of the concord the Conclave had passed. In the end it had been Hester's decision to accept the Conclave's ruling. She'd glanced back down at the stone, and the prospect of trying to drag the cursed thing up the uneven bank had made up her mind. If they wanted it, they could have it. The Senator had said it was to be thrown into the Autumn realm and it was as well done here as anywhere else. She raised her voice, and took charge of the situation.

The squat figures with spiky hair slid and skidded enthusiastically down into the dell and swarmed over the rune-marked stone. They measured it, poked it, studied the runes; one tapped it with a silvery hammer, another used what looked a lot like a tuning fork. There was a flurry of silent conversation and then one, indistinguishable from its companions, looked up to where the Hester and the spokesperson stood and gestured emphatically.

"Everything is in order," said the herald and Hester imagined she was feeling the vibration of its words through her soles rather than hearing them with her ears. It spoke a few words in a language other than Imperial and as one the squat heralds fell on the forgestone. They had hammers, chisels, and what looked like a massive two-person saw they could not possible have been carrying, and which bit into the rock as if it were hard cheese. One of them had a number of brushes, with which they were at pains to collect every piece of rockdust they could find.

Hester was taken aback, but when she asked the spokesperson what was happening it simply nodded its head at her and went back to watching the forgestone being taken apart. The work seemed to take at the same time several hours and no more than a handful of minutes. They'd systematically dismantled the runestone into cubes, packaged it up in sacks, and yet when Hester shook herself and looked around the sun had barely moved in the sky. Potent Autumn magic. The two colossi moved for the first time, stepping down the slope with a delicacy that belied their massive size. They hefted the twin sacks full of rock pieces, and easily clambered back up to the road. Hester shook her head. Apart from the patch of crushed nettles and rhododendrons, here was no sign that the stone had ever been there. Not so much as a pebble.

"Allow me to give you this..." said the spokesperson, handing her a neatly inscribed piece of paper-thin metal. An invoice indicating that the Mistress of Shikal had taken possession of the stone. "... and if you would be so good as to witness, we declare that the contract between the smiths of the Marches and the City of Stone and Flame is annulled and void."

It looked at her, clearly expecting some kind of response, its face hard to read. An awkward silence fell. The thing blinked a few times and cleared its through with a noise like a ton of broken rock being poured into an old well.

"We just need you to come and get them," it prompted gently.

They ancient Marcher smiths know their craft, they've been practicing that every day, but little else.

Overview

Last season, the Empire completed the dredging of Westmere. Mixed in with the mud and the silt dragged from the bottom was a huge block of rune-carved stone. Called the Anvil of Silence, the thing had an ominous air to it, that put everyone's nerves on edge. One of the sailors on the dredging ships said of it that "...it came up too easily, like the water was glad to be rid of it." Landskeepers who examined the rock confirmed it was hideously cursed, and boded certain doom for anyone who attempted to use it. In theory it was built to be part of a rune forge, but nobody with an ounce of common sense thought doing that with it was a good idea. Only a fool cuts hay in a burning field. The question was what could be done with it? It couldn't stay near Meade, that was the one thing everyone could agree on.

One boy’s a boy, two boys is half a boy and three boys is no boy at all.

Marcher Proverb

So the Westmere Council asked the Senator for Mitwold to make a decision on what should be done with the stone and they sent instruction for it to be brought to Anvil. Unfortunately the Senator wasn't the only one to decide what should have to the doomed rock. The Imperial Conclave also took a view, with the Bursar of the Conclave putting a declaration to Conclave that the rock should be given to Estavus.

Legally that leaves the position of the stone somewhat uncertain, it unclear whose wishes should be respected. However matters of magical dominion are the purview of the Conclave and that appears to have been more than enough for the Forgemistress. Within days of the declaration passing, a tall bronze-skinned herald appears, accompanied by a swarm of shorter, misshapen creatures that onlookers described as like mossy boulders with arms and legs and bad grins. The herald claims to have been sent by the Prince of Shikal to reclaim the anvil and when nobody sees fit to argue it duly does so. The creatures swarm over the heavy stone block, carefully dismantle it, and then walk off into the sunset with it - never to be seen again everyone rather hopes.

Good riddance to bad rubbish thought most people, more than glad to see the back of it. But it seems that isn't quite the end of the matter.

the Marcher smiths have been serving the Mistress of the Fire Mountain, working in a chamber connected to the volcanic furnaces of Shikal.

Old Bargains

• The Forgemistress has released the Marcher smiths that have worked for her since before the Empire was formed
• The smiths have been taken in by Oakwood Monastery

It soon comes to light that the original legend of the disappearance of the blacksmiths from Marcher lands that was unearthed in 384YE may not have told the complete picture. It seems that the deal the Marchers made with Estavus included the Anvil of Silence - or more precisely where to find it. With the Anvil given back, it seems that everything the eternal originally provided as their part of the bargain has now been returned.

According to Estavus' herald, Calabris, that means the agreement is now defunct. By returning the stone, the Marchers have repudiated the deal - and so now the eternal is duly bound to return the Blacksmiths to them. There is some initial scepticism, but the herald is adamant. The deal that the Forgemistress struck with the Marchers is broken - the blacksmiths who pledged to serve the Prince of Shikal until the great forge was complete are no longer bound by their deal. They can come home. The herald just needs someone to come and get them. Eventually a brave soul, a landskeeper called Hester, volunteers and goes off with the heralds to see what needs to be done.

When Hester returns, they reappear at the Woldstone, in Ashbrook in Upwold. They left on their own, but when they come back they are leading a column of scores of bemused looking men and women, who are dressed like Marchers or close enough that most folk assume they're Marchers, maybe just not from round here. From there they head for the nearby Oakwood monastery, to ask for help from the monks who live there.

Spending hundreds of years in an Autumn regio has not left these poor folk in a good way. Physically they're fine, fit and health and apparently not a day older than the moment they left. But they're confused, they have only the vaguest memories about who they are, or where they have come from. They can remember their time working for Estavus, but as that existence stretched from days to years to an eternity it seems it has left little room for any other memories. They know their craft, they've been practicing that every day, but little else. They'll need some convalescence, and more than that, they need people to talk to them to help restore their connection to the Marches.

Once they're fit and well they ought to have a lot to offer the Marches. These people are the heirs to the lost art of the Marches. Where landskeepers concerned themselves with the land, these people were the ones who handled dealing with the small folk, whether that be a herald dwelling in a creek, or a a swarm of boggarts infesting a barn full of hay. They are experts not just with hammer and flame, but at negotiating bargains with all and sundry. Would it would be useful if the Marchers had access to those skills again?

The Marcher Assembly could encourage artisans from across the Marches to go to Oakwood Monastery to converse with the smiths. They could reacquaint them with what it means to be a Marcher, bring them up to date with what is going on in the world. But they could also use it as a chance to learn from them and restore a lost tradition.

Wisdom knows all knowledge is incomplete. We send {named priest} with 15 liao to encourage artisans to travel to Oakwood to help the smiths recover and rediscover the lost art. The Virtuous apply what they have learned.

Synod Mandate, Marcher Assembly

If this mandate is passed, then artisans from all over the Marches will travel to Oakwood to speak with the smiths. If that happens, then the nation will be reconciled with the lost tradition of their forebears - the smith archetype will be added to the Marcher archetypes at the end of the Autumn.

If the mandate isn't passed, then the knowledge may eventually spread anyway... but it may not. Knowledge of the lost smiths has been deliberately obscured by the Concilum of the Perjured Throne. These devious perpetuators of secrecy were delighted by the mystery surrounding the blacksmiths disappearance and since the beginning they have stopped at nothing to ensure the truth remains hidden. They worked tirelessly to make people forget what had happened, and distorted the history with false leads and to obscure the truth. Those who thought to look into the matter have met with unfortunate accidents at the hands of their agents.

The Marchers have rid their lands of the Court of the Shadowed Oracle, so the Whisper Gallery can't stop the Assembly encouraging the spread of these secrets at the moment. But if the Marches wait too long, then these pernicious masters of obscuration may yet find a way to reclaim the secret once more...