The sun rose slowly over the ruins of Nogrod and Belegost, casting long shadows across the battlegrounds. The scent of burnt flesh and scorched earth still lingered in the air, but the fires had dimmed, and the skies had cleared. Arinyanénar stood amidst the dwarves, watching as they worked tirelessly to rebuild their cities. The dwarves of Nogrod, skilled in their craft, and those of Belegost, who had fought valiantly by his side, toiled together in the aftermath of their victory.
The destruction had been severe—stone walls shattered, great halls torn asunder—but the dwarves were resilient, and nothing could break their spirit for long. They were rebuilding, not just their homes, but their pride. And with each stone they placed, Arinyanénar could feel their respect for him growing. The battle had been hard-fought, but they had won together, and the bond between them was unspoken but undeniable.
It was then that a figure approached him—a dwarf whose name Arinyanénar knew well: Thror, the master armorsmith of Nogrod. His thick beard was streaked with ash, and his hands were calloused from a lifetime of shaping metal, but his eyes gleamed with determination and a hint of awe as he came forward with a large, cloth-wrapped object.
"Arinyanénar," Thror said in a deep, gravelly voice, "there is a gift we would give you—something worthy of a warrior who has fought with such strength and honor."
Arinyanénar raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "A gift?"
Thror nodded. "It is a helm—crafted by the finest artisans of Nogrod and Belegost. We have forged it in your honor, and it is made to fit only you."
With that, Thror carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal a gleaming helmet that seemed to glow with a light all its own. Arinyanénar's eyes widened as he gazed upon the work of art before him. The helmet was sleek, its shape both regal and practical, with a design that seemed to capture the very essence of the rising sun. The top of the helm tapered sharply to a point, symbolizing the first rays of dawn breaking over the horizon, while the sides flowed smoothly downward to protect the neck and cheeks, a perfect balance of form and function.
The faceplate was full, covering the entire face but with narrow, sharply angled slits for the eyes. Through these slits, Arinyanénar could see the strength and focus that the helmet seemed to convey, as if it were an extension of his own will. The metal itself gleamed with a sun-like brilliance, polished gold that shimmered with a molten glow. The light reflected off the surface, creating an almost ethereal aura around the helm.
Etched into the surface of the helmet were intricate patterns—filigree and celestial motifs depicting rays of sunlight, stars, and abstract flames. As Arinyanénar held the helmet, he could feel the faint warmth radiating from it, as though the sun itself had been captured in the design. Around the edge, fine engravings of solar symbols glowed faintly, a reminder of the power and majesty that had shaped it.
The back of the helmet was reinforced with flexible golden plates, offering protection without sacrificing the graceful fluidity of its design. It was a perfect blend of strength and beauty, a true masterpiece.
Arinyanénar reached out slowly, taking the helmet from Thror's hands. His fingers traced the fine engravings, the warmth of the metal filling him with a sense of purpose and pride. It was more than a piece of armor—it was a symbol of everything he had fought for, a tangible reminder of his bond with the dwarves and the honor they had shared in battle.
"This is... incredible," Arinyanénar said, his voice filled with awe. "It is a gift I will wear with pride."
Thor smiled, his weathered face softening. "It is not just a gift from us, Arinyanénar. It is a gift from the dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost, to the one who led us to victory."
Arinyanénar nodded, the weight of their words settling over him. He could feel the bond between them—the dwarves had seen him as a true warrior, and now they had given him something that would honor his legacy. With a steady hand, he placed the helmet upon his head, the polished gold gleaming in the light of the morning sun.
It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for him alone.
"I will call it Cálta Arinyanénarwa, the Helm of the Morningstar," Arinyanénar declared, the name flowing easily from his lips. It seemed fitting, for the helm was a reflection of the light and power that burned within him. A symbol of the dawn's arrival, and of the hope it brought.
The dwarves cheered, and Arinyanénar stood tall, feeling the weight of the helm, not just on his head, but in his heart. It was a gift forged in the heat of battle, a testament to the strength and unity of their people.
As the rebuilding continued, Arinyanénar stood at the forefront, watching over the dwarves with a renewed sense of purpose. The road ahead would not be easy, but with the Morningstar upon his brow, he knew that whatever came, he would face it with the fire of the dawn at his back.