An epic-looking piece commissioned from  gishkishenh at Anthrocon 2011. It was actually finished a month ago but I didn't know she had posted it. Anyway, onto the story vignette.

Runescar couldn't sleep. The bed, Brogan's bed, was far too soft. Then again, anything softer than stone was too soft for Runescar's tastes. After ten years of captivity he had gained an appreciation for a firm base.

He sat up and looked down to the floor, where Brogan was sleeping peacefully on the blankets he'd laid out earlier that day. Runescar envied the young bull, wishing that the smith had been less hospitable and kept his bed. With a soft snort, Runescar got out of bed and stepped over Brogan's body. Brogan grunted softly and rolled over, pulling one of the blankets up to his shoulder.

Runescar walked out of Brogan's room and through the living quarters above the smithy. He went down into the deserted workroom, the chamber barely lit by the dim glow of runes ringing the cool forge in the corner. The minotaur took one look at the sigils and grimaced. It was wrong, he felt, that such symbols had given Brogan and Tor their livelihood even as similar glyphs had stolen his.

He sought out the high-back wooden chair near the anvil and pulled the seat cushion away. Runescar sat down, enjoying the unyielding surface supporting him. There, amid the quiet darkness of the smithy, he let himself remember.

"Krakos maleravahn sondor," he intoned as he clenched his fist. Long ago, those words would have wreathed his hand in harmless flame. Light weakly flared from between his fingers, but refuse to do anything more. The runes seared into his flesh flared to life, shedding eldritch azure radiance. The flame refused to ignire, the crimson glow faded along with the runes' own.

Runescar sighed and sat back. "Still nothing," he whispered, to no one in particular.