RHUNRIKKI STROLLAR (Warhammer Fantasy Golden Age Dwarf Runelord Quest)

An excerpt from the collected stories of Runelord Dwalin "Thunderlung" Hurgarsson of Kraka Drakk: as recorded in the archives of Brynkhaz a Langskaudi.

It began, as many stories do, with a Nauvsdeg, for you see, Dolgi Bolgisson, long known as Gryphonfriend, had been invited to join the celebrations following the hatching of three healthy featherlings of the line of Ironwing, a nest of great honor among the Brana whose deeds shine brightly even by the standards of their mighty kin.

While a dwarf of the south might have balked at the thought bringing a plaitling of no more than five winters to a gathering filled with joyous, inebriated Brana, the Gryphonfriend showed no hesitation as he brought his young granddaughter Svina Brunasdottir, now known as Grunklesbane, to the party alongside his latest creation: a brana sized nestspread sewn through with hearthstones and runed for durability, warmth, and softness to be gifted to Ironwings cousin in thanks for saving his third favorite niece from a blizzard during her journeyman wanderings. It is said to hold the warmth of summer sunbeams even on the coldest winter night.

Still, this would have been just one of many nauvsdegs celebrated in the Great Aerie of Kraka Drak if it had not been influenced by the tragic decline in parenting standards since the days of our ancestors. For the Gryphonfriend had been persuaded by his son, the unfortunately named Dolgi Dolgisson, to allow the Grunklesbane to bring with herself a toy, if admittedly not one of the finest caliber: for it had been crafted by her uncle Durrik, rather than the Gift Giver; whose work is cherished in foundling homes across the entirety of the Karaz Ankor thanks to the tireless work of Jorri Klausson and his caravans distributing such precious cargo to those in greatest need.

One must hope that the beardlings in far off Izril take better care of their things than our local plaitlings however, for Brunasdottir, tired after merely a day and a half of playing with the featherlings in an all too typical display of the lack of endurance shown by the youth of today compared to their ancestors, fell asleep and forgot her Azrilwut practice axe in the nest of the Ironwing clan.

Spoiled with an abundance of toys at home, including many of the finest work of the Gift Giver, not to mention the softest of miniature fabric gronti, lovingly crafted by Snerra Thungnichosen and filled with gifted brana down, it would be some time before clan Bolgisson would realise that a toy was missing...

This unfortunate lapse in memory was rectified by the arrival of a rather haggard looking Brana, bereft of sleep and visibly bowed under the strain of parenthood. For while the endurance of our noble brethren is often sung of in these halls, it often finds itself outmatched by the rambunctiousness of their children, whose foolishness is only equaled by the likes of elves and beardlings. Nay, it is clear to me that the brana's oft larger family size does not reduce the odds of mischief, but only encourages their escapades in youthful nonsense.
The exhausted parent informed Bolgisson that their featherlings had found the misplaced toy, but attempts to part them from it had been in vain, for the trio had "rescued it from beneath the couch" and thus deserving of "payment via playment" only to begin squabbling over which of them would possess the axe: which they deemed trollslayer out of the all too familiar inability of youth to appreciate the vast gulf in craftsmanship between a well made toy and our kings mighty regalia.

While it is only natural for the young to aspire to match the courage shown in days of yore, they might perhaps be better off trying to emulate, and listen to their wisdom! Why it was just the other year when my grand nephew broke his arm jumping off his parents counter while pretending to be the king of the skies: beardlings I tell you!

Anyway, where was I… Ah yes, Master Bolgisson, with the directness typical of his line, proceeded to the aerie and presented the featherlings with an array of toys he had crafted while riding the lift: Master Nain having incorporated modest workbenches into his latest designs to address complaints of boredom among those dwarves who found themselves frequently commuting to the halls of the sky king.

While the elder Dolgi successfully managed to retrieve the axe with such a strategy, it is possible that he did not give much thought as was warranted. For while this was not the first time that featherlings had clasped talons upon toys, for in a hold as blessed with such an abundance of merriment as Kraka Drak how could they not have? It must be noted that up to this point they had been dwarven toys, crafted by dwarven hands for the edification of dwarven children.

For while Lord Klausson did first gift the Brana with the knowledge of our speech, it is said that it was his apprentice who first did understand the noble soul of their people: and it was that understanding, that love of the Brana people, whose children he cherished second only to his own, that allowed him to go beyond his master's footsteps, to out gift the Gift Giver, in however small a way. Not in quality were these toys exceptional, for these toys were simple things of wutroth, wool, and steel. Nor was it in durability, for they would pass through the talons of a mere three generations of teething featherlings before these first examples were visibly careworn. Nay, it was in the most important aspect in which he was triumphant: the sheer and utter glee his gifts inspired in their recipients, and the fun that was had in their use.

Mere weeks after the incident, the house of Embermane found themselves very nearly besieged by a mob of clamorous featherlings. For the Ironwing scions had grandly trumpeted the quality of the Gryphonfriend's creations to their fellows, and not being churlish had shared their toys over the natural course of play. Yet such a sampling did little to decrease their friends covetousness, and soon the aerie resounded with the sound of featherlings beseeching their parents to acquire them such wondrous devices for their nauvsdegs, while the boldest of their number sought out their legendary craftsman: promising the spoils of future deeds of valor if he would but give them the proper tools to hone their strength with play.

While the Bolgisson is more social than his master, more fond of subjects outside the scope of jerky and of runes, even the most outgoing dwarf will soon find himself desirous of some time to drink in peace: and from such frustrations are often formed the seeds of deeds of note. Fortifying himself with a keg of his master's twelfth finest trollbrew, kissing his wife on the cheek, and telling the waiting featherlings to study hard in school, he resolved to show the Karaz Ankor what it means to be a student of the gift giver. The workshop door was shut, the wards were sealed, and the hold waited, knowing well the signs of a rhunki hard at work.

For seven weeks and seven days a song was sung, in khazalid and feathertongue, a duet of two peoples and one voice; echoed through translation runes. For seven weeks his hammer wrought and chisel clove, for seven days his paintbrush flew across his crafts until the job was done. And on the 56th day the balcony door was opened, and out poured a cavalcade of wonders.

Boxes sized perfectly for sitting, Dawi sized yarn balls of all colors, posts of talon sharpening and more, tailored for the brana psyche by the one who knew them best. And not merely for the brana of Kraka Drakk, for Dolgi had no wish for causing further strife among the aeries of the north. In remembrance of the great gifting of his master, the Gryphonfriend once again proved worthy of his name, for such was the bounty of toys that nests from here to Kraka Ravnsvake and all the brana enclaves in between would find themselves recipients of his generosity, as the swiftest brana ventured forth to bring the bounty forth to clan and kin.

The exact proportion of nests receiving such gifts is yet unknown, as brana, for all their admirable qualities, have yet to develop the proper appreciation of the fine dwarven arts of census keeping and demography, with previous attempts to rectify this having somehow resulted in a folk remedy for brana insomniacs. To paraphrase my good friend Storysinger, that answer is oft described as "most of them", which to their kind is good enough…

And yet an expectation had been set, the beardlings would see the bounty that their feathered friends had gained through mere persistence and soulful eyes, and on that day they recognised Dolgi Bolgisson as that rarest of things: a longbeard who was an easy target.

But alas, that is a story for another day…



A/N: I was reading through the sidestory archives of this quest, since I skipped past them on my first read of this quest, and found myself inspired by the baby gryphons of Bird Yells "Drakk meets world" who act like I imagine kittens would if they could only speak.

Anyway, it occurred to me that I don't think we have a term for young Branakroki, and while I considered using the term "Branlings", I ended up going with "Featherlings" because I find it funnier. Building on from that, it occurred to me that of course Snorri would expand his toymaking to the Brana children as well, but he's enough of a social blockhead that it probably wouldn't occur to him to do so on his own, or really get that Brana children would want different things from the beardlings. That was the cue for Dolgi Sr to enter the picture, because he is openly kindhearted and considerate, and would have absolutely no shame about breaking new cultural ground if doing so would make a friend smile.

I don't think it's unreasonable for Dolgi to outdo Snorri's original deed of note, man's at least twice the age that Snorri was when he did his, and benefitted from our teachings besides. Given than one of Snorri's main things is striving to match/exceed aspects of the work of the ancestor gods, I think that Dwarf-Santa would be proud to have his own work lived up too and surpassed, after applying suitable pocket gravel to stop Dolgi's head from getting too big of course.


Speaking about a lack of shame: I have none about the rambling, digression filled, run on nature of how I wrote this, it was intentional and if anything I feel like it's pretty toned down compared what I would expect from a typical dwarven writing style, particularly from a dwarf as verbose as Lord Thunderlung. I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.

A Storm's Call

A thing of smiting. A thing of heroes. A thing of champions.

Forged by the student of Vragni Silverbrand, the mythologized founder of the great workshop that is the Citadel of Creation, Thorgrim Yorrisson, of no relation to the fable Yorri the Wanderer.

Thorgrim, it seems, was quite a weaponsmith and Runemaker; but more he felt a shame that it was his master's rival and foe, Snorri Klausson of the academy of Khazagar. Karstah Snorrisdottir and the shardwyrm Grimgral had journeyed with the High King and earned acclaim in the eyes of the people of the north. Snerra, Snorri's niece and apprentice, had saved the High King from the magics of the Fimir. Fjolla Goldy-locks had been wounded in battle against those wretches.

And where the students of Vragni? Morek, aye, but who else?

And that, that would not do.

So he disappeared into the guts of the great workshop, disappeared into the Tong-Vault, disappeared into dark places lined with gold and jewels and gems that glimmered and gleamed the light of Ancestors and the light of Magic, the light of the very fire at the mystic core of the earth, the fire that fed the workshop, the fire that fed the world.

And he harnessed it.

Purest Gromril, so pure it shone like the snow upon the river bank, though of multitudinous colors. Fine red wutroth, deep as the wood of a cherry tree. Stained and strengthened in lacquer of eldest troll's blood, until it could not be marked nor scuffed, no, not even by the harsh environment of war and battle, of travel and struggle, of effort and strife and siege and slaughter and worse.

A hammer shaped in reverence, a prayer and plea to the disappeared father of the Dwarfs, Grungni. The stout striking face, the blunt, shaped like the head of a great eagle, symbol of Kraka Ornsmotek, of a dark, ruddy gold shaped until a gronti ought to have been made of the thing. The eyes precious amber around a void and carved into the pupil, invocations of lightning, of the wind and of the storm and of the breaking of things. To pierce and split and stab the wings erupted from the back, a darker thing, flowing from the head to the tip. Feathers are worked into its surface, and into those feathers, so well-made they could be portraits and he could have walked them, Thorgrim inscribed the history of Kraka Ornsmotek, from its founding to the great war against the Fimir, intricate and detailed enough to tell one Dwarf apart from the other.

The haft, long enough that it would require two-hands for a man never mind the stubby dwarfs, made of that best wutroth and stained with troll's blood. The thing's skin he worked into the center for a grip, decorating it into geometric patterns; from that he carved the faces of the kings of Orsnmotek, from the first to the last, and filled those carving with precious silver, shining and splendid. The pommel, a simple affair compared to most dwarf work, but he did emulate his teacher in burning his very mark into the glimmering silver.

And important for the poor historian who must try and discern what is the arrogance of an old Dwarf and what is verifiable fact, it is one of the first creations of the Citadel of Creation to burn with the bright orange light of fire and lava that we can verify the provenance of aside outside the dwarf epistemology of "just trust me, Beardling."

Runically, it is a thing as simple as it is potent. The Master Rune of Grungni, given Barazgal that fable and legend alike claim was retrieved from Frundrar who had sought to use it for their own wicked purposes, taken in battle, taken in honor of Grungni. Such a bang, such a crash, such a racket, was never heard before nor since as the sound that pours from this thing as it strikes its foe, pouring the thunder itself into the enemy. The Ancestral Rune of Grungni, given a Sidereal Sapphire taken from the mine-temple of Grungni at Karak Azul Dalgrung Ankor during a pilgrimage as a journeyman. The lightning, the storm, the thunder flow within the hammer, a thousandth-thousandth of the might of Drongrundum--but a thousandth-thousandth of a god's weapon is no idle thing. And the Rune of Force, given the blood of Dragon Ogre Shaggoths, given the might of unholy things, until the storm seems to crackle.

It is the Storm's Call.

With every blow a storm of sound and lightning is unleashed, traveling within the target to cause immense damage to whatever has the poor luck to be struck so by it. No enemy may stand before it. No foe may stand against it. No champion can stand to bear it.

And no gate may deny it, as Thorgrim would prove in the Battle of Fimman Gal, where Thorgrim would march to the great black gate smeared with evil symbols of evil deities, smeared with wicked symbols of wicked gods, smeared with depraved symbols of depraved villains, and with naught but three blows would smash it apart into so many shards and so many poor memories of those dragged into slavery into that wretched place, allowing the Dwarfs of Kraka Ornsmotek.

Naturally I distrust such a deed. It reeks of the Dwarfs of the Citadel of Creation attempting to one-up their master's hated rival, the founder of Khazagar and myth in his own right, Snorri Gift-Giver of Kraka Drakk, a matter of which I have spent more than enough ink writing. Something to the effect that one of his apprentices managed to outclass the feats of the Gift-Giver.

Oddly enough, it is students of Khazagar most inclined to say Thorgrim truly did do it. After all..."much the easier to destroy Shoddy Fimir work than dwarf efforts, even those wretched Frundar and their evil efforts so only a student of that idiot would puff their chests out so much about it."
-Leandre Agua, Histories of an Elder People

Im writing, but I take breaks to doodle a bit and improve my art. Maybe seeing their faces will sway your votes? :^p

have a doodle or 4!