Thunder #1: The Hammerfeld.

With Woe they wrought,
With stroke and quake,
The foes of Tyr,
Till death did take,
O Hammer Come,
Be wrought to shape,
The faithful strong,
That Black doth make.

Land of green and stream and vale,
Land of mountain,
Land of mail,
Land whose dirt still stories tell,
When Black stood strong,
Their hammers fell.

The Hammerfeld.

Long has the black jewel of Tyr, Leonisse been home to the First Thunder and long has it produced Hammerhands in their season. And rest assured, a Hammerhand’s season is long, longer than most of Tyr’s rugged vegetation gets to die and re-grow.

Truth is a Hammerhand isn’t even a Hammerhand until at least his or her’s seventh winter, and even then they’re considered green until they’ve been tested.  In the vernacular of a Thunder that means the Drejj — as in unproven until the Drejj.  All the Thunders administrate this final rite of passage, and to every cadet in their final year.  But only the Hammerfeld imposes the manibus as an extra layer of difficulty: Cadet vs. Cadet, Woe vs. Woe.  In short, the Hammerfeld requires that the three month rite of passage be performed with its final trial held within close quarters, inside their arena, gladiator style, peer against peer.

I suppose it should come as no surprise; after all, Hammerhands really are more brawler than boxer.  And let’s not forget that to the Hammerfeld was the first Wielder given, and that to the holders and teachers of the Woe is savvy and strength measured by more than just obstacles and elements of the wild.  No.  Savvy and strength to a Hammerhand must be opposed, and by those who understand its meaning.  Can the lightning crackle without the rumble that follows?  Can one wield a blade without the use of one’s hilt?  Possibly.  But with what effect?  With what skill?  Better that the storm clouds refrained from trying and the warrior re-sheath his own sword.  A Hammerhand fights with shaft and with head.  He unearths the ground.  He upends the heavens.  Quakestriker, Stormriser — in the crucible is he born and by the manibus does he stand.

They’re as hard as nails, Hammerhands, as course and unyielding as the black stones that form their fortress and the harsh country that encircles their domain. Some would say unreasonable, obstinate, and full of themselves. Just don’t let that someone be you.  Unless you like having your face beaten in and your gut run through; I mean, I don’t know, maybe you like being pummeled by magic.  Because only a fool pokes a man with a big stick, and only a moron can’t see that that big stick is in fact a Woe.

Inkling #27:
What is the Seven Thunders?  It is the Hammerfeld, and its Wielder the Woe.  The city of Tyr, in the land of Leonisse.  For a thousand years her stones have stood, and for almost as long has the name Everling been among them.  She is the Fist of Heaven and the First of Seven.  The hammer still falls in this land of rumble.