The Real Adventures of Norgrim Grimsson, Exasperated Recluse (Warhammer Fantasy SI)

Alrika's words linger in the air for a quiet moment, neither of us are saying anything.

Is she going to continue or—?

"You mentioned it in passing once—"

Oh good I didn't just fail my social roll

"—that you were thinking of a way to earn your kin reprieve, were you not?"

"That I was your Highness," I nod grimly, "A Warrior Clan that can't contribute warriors isn't much of a Warrior Clan. We'd be sending our Elders, mothers and children if the High King called a muster."

Gonna try to not dwell on that. No sir. Focus on Alrika, look at her hair, the bags under her steely grey eyes, yup, yup. Don't think about the dead, don't you fucking do it me! Don't think about the cold stiff hands, the empty eyes, the red snow,the redsnow,thebloodsnow.theirbloodsno—

"—Norgrim," Alrika commands quietly, pulling me back to see her knowing gaze and concerned frown.

Grungni damnit.

I take a breath.

"I'm fine. I'm here, I'm here." I tell her, not sure who I'm actually trying to convince.

"Very well. As I was saying, you must know that even if you won your Clan the right to refuse a muster, would they? Others have suffered worse still and answered the call, the honour of Clan Growlsh would be called into question."

"That's…true," I answered faintly, realizing I had failed to take my Clan's feelings into consideration.

The cultural pressure for us Dwarfs to 'commit to the bit,' is a double bladed axe; the same willingness we have to die for a cause and our word that makes every lonely nerd swoon like a maiden is the same fucking thing slowly bleeding us dryer than a mummy in Nehekara. Clan Growlsh would answer when the High King called a muster, our their collective pride would allow nothing less. Like Alrika said, even if the High King told my family, subtly or bluntly, that we were exempt from conscription, that would probably just make my family even more determined to do the exact opposite.

"But!" Alrika presses on, pulling me out of my downward spiraling thoughts, "But, If there was something that your Clan could do even in its current state, something of equivalent worth in the eyes of all involved so that Honour is satisfied…"

"...then there's hope," I finish, looking at Alrika consideringly, "what do you have in mind though your Highness? There aren't many positions that satisfy that criteria."

"No, there aren't," Alrika agrees quietly, letting silence fall between us for a moment.

I watch as she squares her shoulders, crossing her arms and chews the inside of her cheek; getting lost in thought as she considers her next words, a flicker of something crosses her face. Even if I don't know why, its clear she's conflicted about something.

Then she suddenly looks back at me, features stern and eyes resolute like she's made up her mind.

"Which is why I will petition my father to have Clan Growlsh 'rewarded' with the duty of protecting me."

What.

"And you will convince your Clan to make you their Champi—"

"What."

Alrika pauses again to look at me archly and I flush just a little. Said that one out loud, shit.

"Apologies," I mutter sincerely.

She huffs, "It's understandable, just save your incredulities and questions for when I'm done, Norgrim."

Right. Smart, yup. Shut up and listen to the trained diplomat and politician you idiot, message received your Highness.

"As I was saying," Alrika continues, glancing at me pointedly, "you will convince Clan Growlsh to make you their Champion, and act in their stead. Honour is satisfied, Clan Growlsh is given reprieve, and no more Dawi need die. What do you think?"

It's a good plan, better than what I had in my head at least. But there's one, glaring point that I feel the need to address.

"I have one question," I begin hesitantly, "why am I asking my Clan to be the Champion?"

I'm not just saying that because I don't want to be a Champion.

Mostly.

Ignoring the awesome and frankly horrible responsibilities of taking on the collective Honour of my family and acting with the knowledge that everything I do will reflect back on them even more directly than it already does, which is a pretty big ask, being a Champion isn't exactly the sort of thing you ask a Ranger, especially one as young as me, to be. Champions are martial heroes, the guys you send to do duels and try nonsense like breaking the morale of armies with. They are examples of physical and/or magical might and inspiration. Put simply, a martial or magical beat stick with high Charisma, and I've dumped all my stats into everything but that. Rangers…Rangers don't do that. We're the sneaky sneaks who tilt the odds in our favour as much as we can. We set ambushes and do junk like night attacks, booby traps, and go outside of our own volition. Stuff that my people consider the realm of Grobi and unscrupulous blackguards.

"Honour," Alrika says simply, as if that answers everything (which it does a lot of the time in Dwarf society frankly.) "It won't do to have a member of Clan Growlsh who wasn't involved in this endeavor be the one to protect me. And well Norgrim, you—"

A concave chest, bloody lips, glassy eyes, staring, staring, blaming—

"—I'm the only one alive who meets that criteria," I finish tiredly.

Alrika gives me an inscrutable look, but hesitantly nods.

"Skill can be learned, talent honed, and equipment gifted, but it has to be you. If you're willing to go through with this plan, I can at least say you're unlikely to face anything too dangerous, current circumstances notwithstanding. You will have time to train, to prepare. Protecting a diplomat, let alone the daughter of the High King... There's a target on my back aye, but my family knows that as well. I'm not deliberately put in harm's way, and I doubt my father will want me to go beyond the walls of Karaz-a-Karak for a year or five at least either," she offers, trying to sound encouraging.

I sigh, looking down at my hands. Is she trying to pay me back? This is a terrible gift your Highness, not that I'd say that aloud. Not only would that be rude, which my mother didn't raise me to be I must remind you, but also because it's a great fucking deal. If, you know, you're a Dwarf who's been raised to be all too happy to die if it means keeping your family's honour intact, let alone improved. The thing was I didn't want this. Not at all. But from what Alrika's intuition is telling her it's either gonna be me acting as my Clan's Champion, or my family extinguishes itself trying to live up to its own Grungni damned hype.

Steal my beer and shave my beard.

"And the Grudge?" I ask hollowly, the last few dregs of disagreement and defiance mustering up a feeble final effort in the face of what feels like inevitability crashing down on me.

"My stake may not be as personal as yours Norgrim, but striking out the Grudge against the one who tried to kill me would fall under the remit of my protector," she points out.

Yeah…

…yeah I fucking figured, glumly closing my eyes and nodding.

"You've thought of everything then," I mutter tiredly.

Alrika coughs into her hand.

"I've had little else to do these past few days, Ranger. Elder White-eye wants me to rest, but how can I? Even if working in defiance of his wishes is already treading dangerously close to disrespecting his wisdom, I must, you understand?" she asks, staring at me again.

"I do," I answer with surprising honesty.

"Alright then your Highness, I'll go along with this plan of yours," I continue, speaking it with a surety I don't feel and resolve I am sorely lacking in.

Valaya, I just want to lie down and cry.

"Then it's settled," the princess says with a tone that's rife with the satisfaction of a Dwarf repaying a debt, "I'll inform elder White-eye of your agreement, and you can get a head start."

I raise a finger, opening my mouth to ask how and why Baraz would do that, but a look from Alrika tells me to drop it.

Being a Champion sucks.


My crash course in..Championing(?) started the following morning.

If Baraz had any thoughts about me accepting Alrika's plan, he didn't show it. Instead the old Dwarf had just grunted at me and got to work. For shoulder-related reasons, he couldn't train me physically, so instead he gave me mental exercises.

Not just the theory and knowledge of small scale tactics and the sort of lateral thinking that was, I was told, instinctive to an older Ranger, but also for working in tandem or among more traditional Dwarfs too. My days would now start with Baraz dictating a series of around five or so scenarios to me; giving me details about the immediate terrain, enemies, allies, a list of objectives to fulfill, and other bits of miscellaneous information that may or may not be pertinent. Then at the end of the day I was expected to give him a plan on how to fulfill all, or most, of the objectives for each scenario, complete with a thorough analysis and explanation for not only my actions, but the rationale for which objectives I prioritized. No paper, no notes, were allowed, I had to rely on whatever I could remember in my head.

Don't exactly know if it's a good teaching method mind you, but it was the one he used and that I had to work under.

I was no prodigy, and he was no miracle worker, so it was slow going, but we had nothing better to do besides march and make then unmake camp while I healed.

Once, I had asked him about why we weren't talking about logistics.

Baraz had given me the flattest stare he could manage and said the following,

"Boy, if we ever find ourselves in a position where you of all people is the one worrying about the logistics of a Throng, we're all buggered beyond belief already. Do everything in your power to make sure that never has to happen."

So yeah.

That wasn't all I did though. Mental exercises aside, Baraz had me serve as one of his many gophers. Usually it involved going this way and that way at his order with expectations that I get whatever job he told me to get done…got done. Whether it was leading a newly joined band through the camp, carrying messages or even checking in on the injured alongside Balen and or Alrika when Baraz wasn't able to do it himself. Of course he expected me to report back to him, and we had no paper to waste on notes either of course, so that was yet more things I had to stuff away into my head.

Other times, he had me sit in with him and the older Rangers as they grumbled and planned incomprehensibly in the meaning laden and context dependent grunting that every old Dwarf seemed to know by heart. During those occasions, he'd tell me to repeat my theory to whichever new Elder Ranger joined the growing band.

Apparently the theory I offered wouldn't leave their heads. I'd been retelling the same damn story almost every night, answering some variation of the same damn question over and over.

Still not as bad as being an Apprentice. Somehow.

I couldn't wait to get back to Everpeak, if only to get away from this slave driver of an old man.


That's a Runebearer.

One bearing (heh), the sigil of the High King.

The small throng of Rangers all looked at the young man with varying levels of scrutiny as he scampered towards us.

"Baraz Thingolsson," he calls, voice clear and resonant, "I seek Baraz Thingolsson, otherwise known as Baraz White-eye!"

"Aye that's me beardling," the Elder grunts out, walking towards him, "What orders from the Gormrikki?"

He straightens up even more rigidly somehow, trying to look as official as he can. It was sort of funny actually.

I blink.

Oh Valaya is this how other people saw me? Questions for never.

"By the order of High King Alrik Kendraksson, you are to continue your journey, but shall instead make way to the ruins of Valazkadrin, five days north of the Pillars of Grungni! Make whatever deviations you believe necessary to ensure his daughter, her Highness Princess Alrika Kemmasdottir remain in good health and sound mind and, if not at the expense of the former, to extend such desires to those with you. The High King shall send forth the might of the Durazklad and Ullek there, and there they shall hold, waiting to receive you. Let your path be clear, your axe sharp and your ale un-watered!

A round of grumbling, nods and flickers of hope disguised as scoffs runs through the assembled mass of Dwarfs at the proclamation.

"Further!" the Runebearer continued after the murmuring had died down, "High King Alrik Kendraksson has given me a letter, to be delivered to and read by his child, her Highness Princess Alrika Kemmasdottir."

He walks over and hands a sealed leather tube to a stoic Alrika, who just holds onto it for later.

"Lastly!" he says, "A message for Norgrim Grimsson, clansdwarf of the Noble Clan Growlsh!"

I blink, and suddenly feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on me. Goody.

Holding back a gulp, I step forward, grabbing the Runebearer's attention.

"Here," I greet lamely— 'here'? Kill me now, it'd only be worse if I raised my hand—earning a nod from the younger Dwarf.

"Let it be known that High King Alrik Kendraksson shall expect your return, and that a reward for your deeds and sacrifice shall await you. So says the bearer of Grungni's legacy. Thus ends the message."

Alright, cool, don't freak out. I don't know what else to do but nod. "I understand."

Before the assembled crowd can start chatting amongst themselves, Baraz steps forward.

"Alright you lot! We're not keeping the Gormrikki waiting, back to marching! Off you go! Bunch of wazzoks, the lot of you!"

Baraz gives everyone a pointed glare, eye squinted threateningly as he makes sure his orders are followed. I instinctively start moving too, trained over decades across two lives to listen when old people start yelling, but am stopped by Baraz's hand on my shoulder.

"Not you. Don't think you can get away from your training that easy boy."

That wasn't what I was planning, but now I wish I was.

"Balen!" Baraz calls, turning away from me to holler at his younger relative, "You too lass. C'mere! Earn that damn name you preen about!"

"Bah, I'm coming you old goat," she shouts back, picking up the pace as she half jogs to us.

Then White-eye turns to the Runebearer, as if remembering he was there, and eyes him up and down critically.

"How many copies of my message did Everpeak get boy?" he grunts out.

"Four, Elder," the young Dwarf replies promptly.

Baraz grunts, while Balen and I instinctively wince, sharing a grim look after we notice the other's actions.

White-eye had sent a total of sixteen Rangers out ahead, six when he first found us and then another ten over the intervening few days.

"How many did the High King send back?" Baraz asks, an edge of weariness finding purchase in his otherwise dour and stoic visage.

"Five Runebearers were sent out Elder, I am the last…" he responds, voice trailing off and features falling slightly as he puts two and two together.

As a rule you send out multiple Runebearers, staggering them out and making them take different routes to their intended destination, only when you think something bad is happening. A precaution for when you think one won't make it, or if the message is important enough that you don't care if they get multiple copies.

And he was the first one we saw.

"What's your name son?" Baraz finally asks.

"Gorek Bryndsson, Elder," he answers quietly.

The old ranger nods, committing it to memory.

"Well Gorek, how about you grab a tankard and get ready to march eh? It'll be tough going, but a Runebearer worth his beard will persevere." Baraz suggests, not mentioning, nor really needing to, the possible fates of the other four Runebearers.

"Yes Elder, thank you Elder," he replies, bowing at all three of us each before walking off.

"Balen," Baraz murmurs after Gorek gets out of earshot, "I want you to spread the word to the Medical tent, the wounded and the folk I assigned to healing duty, all of them stay in the center of the column right next to her Highness. Understand?"

"Aye I'll let them know," she says with a nod, turning around and beginning to walk towards the medical area.

"ALL of them, Balen," White-eye says pointedly, making her stop in her tracks and turn her head to look at him.

I can't see Baraz's face from where I stand, but there must be something particularly grave about his appearance because Balen had turned back with her mouth open, ready to argue, only to close it and sigh. Her eyes are squinted, angry and sad plus whatever else I don't have the social intelligence or physical proximity to decipher.

"Yes father," Drumboot says, giving him a final nod before walking off grimly.

Ah.

"Good Ranger," he says after her fondly, and unintentionally making me feel like an intruder, before he finally turns back to look at me.

His good eye seems to bore into mine.

"I don't need to say anything I should hope?" Baraz grumbles, eyebrow raised.

There's a fight coming.

"Nai Elder," I reply.

"Right. You're still injured, so go follow that fool girl and try not to die eh?"

You aren't fighting.

"Aye Elder."

"Lets hope you don't have to use that training so soon either lad."

We glance at each other, both of us tired, and seemingly all too aware of just how futile that hope is.

"Aye, I knew the second it left my lips," Baraz chuckles darkly.

Sometimes being genre savvy is a pain in the ass. Just because you lived in a world that was once a narrative, doesn't mean everything in it is. Not every random moment is a chekov's gun, not every mysterious turn of phrase is foreshadowing. Sometimes that piece of bread that fell on the floor is just an idiot with poor hand-eye coordination, sometimes that strange phrase is just a Dwarf getting tongue tied for some reason. Sometimes life just is. Random, chaotic and utterly unpredictable.

I dearly wish Baraz is just being melodramatic.


AN: Another chapter! Sidestory as voted on in the Patreon will be next, then Chapter 10. *pops party popper* I wanted to get to the action this chapter but this felt more right? IDK. I just sorta wanted Norgrim to suffer I guess. Does that say something about me? Meh. Anyway, hope you like it, and don't forget to C&C! :^)