VALKOS' KEEP: Annals of Yri

Chapter Five

When she awoke, Yri checked the eggs, which were uncomfortably warm to the touch. Nodding to herself, she ate quick, dry breakfast, and left the cave as promptly as she dared. Exiting the cave, the high-sun blinded here and she blinked many times to adjust to the uncomfortable sensation. Finally adjusted, but still blurry at the edges of her vision, she set off for the northern Sixous port.

She arrived after four days of hiking through the taiga. Breathing heavy, the gatekeepers gave her a wary glance, but seeing no signs of battle rage, let her pass with a stern glance. Scanning the shop signs, she found her way to a potter's shop, wheel and clay signet painted in bright blue and yellow on cedar, which stood out starkly against the white limewash of the buildings.

She knocked on the door before she pushed on the door, warning the potter and other occupants before she entered. The receptionist looked up with a smile,

"Welcome, how may I help--" The smile faded from her face and her eyes widened as Yri straightened to her full height. The top of her head brushed one of the ceiling beams on the way up, and Yri shifted to a more accessible spot.

"I would like to speak with the master."

The receptionist blinked,

"I'm sorry?"

"The master, I would like to speak with him."

"And-and the reason?" Her hands were twisting something into knots behind the counter, and Yri shifted into a more relaxed, less formal, less threatening stance.

"I have need of a specific vessel that I cannot make myself."

"And that would be?"

Yri thought of the best word to use to describe the vessel she would need.

"A kiln."

The receptionist gave Yri a long, long look, then hesitantly nodded and gave a quiet, "I'll be right back," and disappeared into the back room.

Yri could hear bits and pieces of her hushed whispers. Phrases like, "giant Norrstadi," and "a kiln of all things," reached her ears. A smirk quirked her lips and she shook her head, but her face fell back into its stoic cut when the receptionist reentered with the middle-aged potter in tow.

"I am Master Yorgos, are you, by chance, the inquiring party?"

Yri bowed her head then lifted her eyes to meet his again. He gazed at her thoughtfully, stroking his salt and peppered beard.

"You needed a kiln, correct?" Yri nodded again.

"Now why would a northman be all the way down here on the Isles requesting a kiln of all things?" Yri did not answer, but held his gaze. After an uncomfortably long silence, the master sighed, closing his eyes.

"Alright, I'll make you a kiln. How large will you need?"

"The internal chamber needs 2 hands in height and 3 hands in diameter."

"That's a small kiln," the master noted, "what will you use it for?"

"I will use it as I travel."

His eyes narrowed at the dodge of his question, but then he folded his arms and nodded.

"One more thing."

His eyebrows raised, but he gestured for her to continue.

"The kiln cannot let any heat escape, I will be... in many dry places, and it must be completely safe to use."

His jaw dropped.

"You're asked for a runed kiln?" He asked, his voice rising.

"I have the funds."