RHUNRIKKI STROLLAR (Warhammer Fantasy Golden Age Dwarf Runelord Quest)

[Voikirium]

Gariokin
The Dark Bane

Much ink has been put to page to describe that art which the Dwarfs create. If one were to believe some then only the Dwarfs have ever created such enchanted wonders as to be worthy of notice, hence how certain reprobates might believe that the creation of Fear-Frost may be placed upon the shoulders of Alaric The Mad. But it is not so: Many works of the truest and most enchanted arts have been created by those who never so much as saw a Dwarf. The Dai Hinoken of Nippon, forged by the Conjurer's Guild; the Vajraloka of Ind, a gift from the god Gilgadresh; the Nar Bayda of Araby, woven from the skins of the beasts of Chaos and so perfect to spite them; the Xingxing Huoju of Cathay, forged under the arm of Yin-Yin; and last the Ta Phis, wrought by the humans of Khuresh, made from a Serpent Queen's eye.

But it is, it must be said, rare that even this great work might be accepted as a gift by the dwarf, for they have one part high standards to one part unearned pride in their own ability. Rare...but far from unknown.

Gariokin is an ancient blade, an ancient, wonderful and terrible thing, created in the dawning of the world, the Golden Age of Dwarf and Elf alike. Created by the masterful Asur Priest of Vaul Bellaras, this much is known for certain. Why is shrouded in some mystery. Some say he was a friend to the Runelord Brirra. Others that Vaul Himself was so impressed by the craftsmanship of the Dawi that He instructed His priests to offer them a gift for their ability. Lastly perhaps to show them what true skill in creation was. It is not known; but what is known is its beauty.

A mighty Power Stone of Hysh is clenched in the pommel, itself shaped to resemble the mighty talons of a Phoenix. The hilt, made of the bone of that self same bird and dyed a brilliant snow white extends upward, except where a grip of leather made from pheonix hide dyed a vivid red and etched with the runes of the eight Cadai in pure gold wraps around that bone. This extends to the quillons, themselves shaped like beautiful phoenix wings, with feathers so real that they seem attached to the real bird; but for one, a feather on either quillon, which is made of a power stone itself: on the right, one of brightest Aqshy; on the left, one of Shyish, an Imperial purple indeed. At the center, where quillon flows into quillon and into blade, the bone has instead been carved to resemble the visage of a phoenix and then covered once more into brightest gold.

The blade itself is made of the purest, finest, and lightest Ithilmar. The Runelords and other smiths refuse to examine it, for they are no thieves in such a way; but even if they did, I do not think they could learn of it. It is white as the peaks of the tallest, highest mountains for most the blade. There is, however, a fuller; and into that fuller is gilded a golden depiction of Asuryan's court upon the top of the Annulli Mountains. Those who see the blade swear, upon their lives and beards and manes, that the thing seems to inspire visions, and that the gold itself seems to move, so real and so intricate and so beautiful it is. By the nature of the gold and the ithilmar the bone and the magic that into the sword the blade is only just heavy enough in the hand to ensure you know where it is and yet sharp and strong and hard enough to cut through Gromril like so much scrap copper. An etching of the blade has revealed a beautiful pattern underneath, like the strange steel of Ind, which flows in such a way as to resemble the sacred Runes of the Cadai, each and every one of them, repeating in a thousand fractals over every inch, invoking the sacred eight of the Asur time and time again.

The enchantment woven onto the blade is a thing that is foe to the wicked and hence its name: Dark Bane, or Bane of the Dark. Chaos, Skaven, the Undead, Greenskins, Druchii and all other evil things cannot stand before the blade, for the power of the eight Cadai burns within it, invoked countless times across the length of the blade, fed the strength of the Power Gems that channel that which is anathema to anathema, and then harnessed, shaped and refined by one of the greatest artists to ever live. And yet the righteous need not fear the blade, for legend says that it will not harm the innocent, for Lileath Herself will not allow it. The Dwarfs, therefore, being cleverer than most credit them, simply ensure it is pointed at those that cannot be considered innocent.

After the War of the Beard, some among the Elves believed that the Sword would surely be destroyed. But whatever one may think of the Dwarfs, they are no more capable of destroying true craftsmanship than they can let go of a Grudge. And for all it may burn them to admit it, the sword is a thing of true craftsmanship and beauty. And practically, faced with the endless tide of Greenskins and Skaven and all other vile things, they could not turn aside a true weapon. So it has been born by the Cult of Gazul, those who burn away the darkness themselves, traveling wherever the darkness that hunts the blade is strongest.

As of now the Sword is born by the Priestess of Gazul Sundrema Restbringer, who dwells within Krakka Drakk, often journeying into unwell Norsca to end the Grudges that arise against the Norscans, Daemons, Beastmen and other vile such creatures. In a particular fit of cosmic irony the bearer of Wyraza Drengul, the ax that is counterpart to this mighty blade, is also currently nearby that Karak: Vonal Greatthew, a Prince of Chrace and White Lion, has been dispatched along with an army by the Phoenix King to find the Norscan responsible for the thwarted attack on the White Tower, a task which he takes to eagerly. He and the Priestess have often joined forces hunting down the creatures, for none seem able to stand against the two.

-Leandre Agua, Scroll of the Treasures of the World

---

So. Some new stuff. Think I'm going to do something new now, of the gifts the Dwarfs have received from others.

Roughly translating, what I wanted each of the human(ish) creations up above to mean, except for Vajraloka which was a name given to me by @Kaboomatic (Thanks again for that) keeping in mind that I had all of Google and/or Bing Translate and Wiktionary to work with:

Dai Hinoken: Great Fire Sword
Nar Bayda: White Fire
Xingxing Huoju: Star Torch
Ta Phis: Poisonous Eye

If I did screw it up, toss me a more proper name and I will fix it to that.

 

[Voikirium]

The Five Gifts of Humanity

Though the Dwarfs are attested as the most industrious makers of enchanted crafts, they are far from the only who can make such wonders. Indeed, even lowly mankind, lowly "umgi", has produced not just a work, but five works, worthy to reside within the armory of even the elder races. Five gifts has mankind presented to the Dwarfs, five great works produced by the mighty souls of humanity. Often have the Dwarfs insulted these works; and yet they cannot bear to throw them away. All bear the marks of their craftsmen and each is a wonder in its own right, a great work taken from the dreams and thoughts and minds of the artist who created and turned into metal and wood and working.

L'Haubergeon de la Mer

During the time of the Affair of the False Grail, Bretonnia was weakened and vulnerable. Being aware of this, and thirsty for the treasures of the Kingdom, Jarl Harold Redtooth thought to attack the lands of the Kingdom and rip the wealth of the people away from them. To L'Anguille he marched, and L'Anguille he attacked, hoping to kill and slaughter and take and ruin. A small but brave kingdom, the Knights and the Men At Arms valiantly battled the vile Chaos Lord, slaughtering many, but ever pushed back, further and further made to retreat away from the coasts, until they were all but cast aside.

And then belching steam and thunder and ale, a great fleet of Dwarf vessels from Barak Varr appeared over the horizon. Once, twice, thrice they shot, turning many longships to kindle and sending many of the vile raiders to the bleak depths, their bodies to be feasted on by Theralind's Brood for the rest of time. For there was a grudge to settle with that creature of Chaos. Afterwards, Duke Charles promised he would send a great gift worthy of such a deed to King Grundadrakk who brushed it off as the meaningless words of Umgi.

And then a year and a day later a messenger from Bretonnia arrived, bearing the gift that had been promised. Opening it the King found that it was a finely made suit of armor, a thing reaching from the knee to the elbow. It was shaped from the scales and leather of Theralind's brood, and so strong enough to turn aside a sword as the finest of maille and yet light enough as to be no impediment to movement, shimmering sea green and ocean blue, both bright and beautiful and beyond compare. But more than that, the Duke had had the Prophetess Alice weave spells and incantations and enchantments; and so it was changed, soaked in the magic. More than mere protection, now when the warriors of Chaos look upon that armor a deep dread fills them, a horror that the only fate that awaits them for their cruelty, malice, and love of bloodshed is to nourish the Brood, as memories of that dreadful slaughter when the vow-takers and oath-makers together said that they had had enough of such cruelty. The king as not slow in calling it sharkbait, but nor was he slow in gifting it to his greatest Keeper of the Gate, to make him dreadful to the enemy.

The Verherteklaue

One may often get the impression that only the Empire receives anything from the relationship between themselves and the Dwarfs. To be sure there is a chain of shameful behavior that may be laid on the Reiksmen, and not only from such infamous figures as Dieter, who would leave the Dwarfs to face Grom the Paunch alone, as well as his own people. However, it would be a mistake to think only the Empire has ever received anything. Ignoring that having friendly neighbors has secured much of the Karaz Ankor's western flank, Zhufbar only still belongs to the Dwarfs by the valiance of the Empire. But this is not the only such thing.

Magnus the Pious had just passed into Morr's Garden. The crows were circling. The Empire seemed vulnerable. But, before the Good Times, when the Empire still felt a sense of purpose and unity under the greatest Emperor since Sigmar, could end, the Grand Theogonist at the time, Kazgar XIV, swallowed his pride and worked together with, among others, the Ar-Ulric, the Hierarchs of Taal and Rhya alike, the Custode Del Portale, La Aguila Ultima, the Matriarch of the Sea, the Most Holy Matriarch, and the High Priest of Verena. Having been born a simple village blacksmith, the Grand Theogonist would make an ax greater than any he had made before, forged of the finest steel; and on the head, a simple carving depicting Magnus meeting High King Alriksson.

Then the greatest Priests of the gods would bless it, imbuing it with a portion of their holy power. Shimmering, multi-hued light wraps around it, burns within, echoing and moving and fading and shifting with every second. And all who are struck by it perish, of course; but worse comes to those shrouded by darkness. They do not simply die, but the unholy gifts of undeath, of the lords of Chaos, of Khaine, of Gork and Mork, the loathsome Horned Rat, and every evil aside, are burned like so much kindling before that sacred fire; forcing those who carved away their mortality in the search for power, to once again stand as mortal men, as the men of the Empire do.

When the ax was finished, it was sent to the High King Thorgrim Grudgebearer. He made much a production of the shoddiness of Umgi work, and said many unkind things of the artistry of the piece; but often it has come with his Throng as he has marched to strike out Grudges from the Great Book, and never has he allowed others to speak poorly of it. When not in use in battle it resides in the vault within Karaz A Karak, waiting to once again be unleashed.

Ogonisce

Young is Kislev. Though it has seemed their dour character has long inhabited the Old World, thus is not so. The youngest of the great human powers (Estalia may not have united but it was, in fact, Estalia still) born out of conquest not even a thousand years ago. To that end the Kislevites have taken greatest effort and greatest pains to prove themselves able to stand with those older; and that includes in their craftsmanship. In the year 1803 as the Empire reckons these things a great Rota was dispatched from the Northern Oblast as a punitive expedition against the vile goblins in the northern World's Edge. A great host of Ungols and Gospodars alike, united in those days mostly by a hatred of the enemy rather than any love of each other, ventured forth to claim vengeance against them led by the Priest Taras. The skillful riders proved able to dispatch the greenskins well enough, for they were the superior riders, mounted atop superior horses.

And then there was disaster.

A Shaman. Vile was his magic, and great was his wrath, and unyielding was his victory. Mighty, mighty, mighty that creature. The Kislevites prepared to sell themselves dearly.

And then all at once, the magic stopped. The Winds were not simply choked, but throttled. Dead. Frozen and unmoving and unresponsive. And from the forests appeared the mighty rangers and the Throng of Kraka Drak, great northern Hold of the Dwarfs, and capital of the Norse Dwarfs, indeed a capital behind only Magritta in its majesty. Gleaming and glimmering and splendid they appeared, and every attack, every shot, every blow proved lethal to the servants of Gork and Mork. Caught between the hammer of strong Kislevite cavalry, the anvil of unyielding Dwarf Gromril, and without the magic needed to survive the greenskins quickly proved inadequate for the task arrayed against them, as bolt throwers and arrows and javelins struck them. Their bodies littered the floor like a carpet among the ice and snow.

The Rota and the Throng spoke for a time, before each parted. Each had claimed what they desired, vengeance and booty from their foemen. The Kislevites maintain that the Runelord they spoke to was Snorri Gift-Giver, but then the Kislevites maintain many things and for their part the Dwarfs speak little of it for there is apparently some shame in the matter. Whatever the case a mighty Runelord they were; and that priest swore he would repay the Dwarfs for their help. So the Kislevites returned to their country, laden with booty and vengeance and blood and with furs, hacked off of the body of the beasts of the Greenskins, the wyverns especially. The glory and booty earned in that moment built the fortunes of at least a dozen noble families still in power today.

Taras set to work. He worked and woved and dyed those skins into a great cloak, a thing soft and supple and easily moved, and then dyed it and shaped it and etched it until it was an intricately detailed depiction of the court of Dazh, god of the Sun, and there are those who maintain that it moves as though alive. And there was blessing woven into those skins too, and so where the bearer walks a fire that shall not burn friend but only foe falls from the sky.

It was sent to Kraka Drak, and now often goes to war with that Throng, teaching the northmen the meaning of dread.

The Long Zhi Xin

A ruby as big as your hand, cut until it resembles a deeply a stylized heart, rests within a necklace of purest gold, a Cathayan dragon bearing mystic symbols wrapped around the top where it flows into the chain, itself made of gold so finely worked that it resembles thread rather than metal. It shines like the sun in the noon day light, gleaming and splendid and beautiful as any creation ever turned from the forges of any Karak.

It was forged under the auspices of Jin He, mother of Jin Jia, Shugengan of Cathay and daughter of Zhao Ming, Dragon of the West. A master crafter in her own right, one whose skill with hammer and chisel is surpassing, she would take the greatest ruby and brightest gold she could find, and spend many, many years making the necklace into a thing of beauty and the most unsurpassable of all artistry. When that was done, she sent it west along the caravans that ply the Ivory Road, to Karak Norn, in a chest that was itself worth a king's ransom, carved of mahogany and sealed with cunning devices to ensure none could open it but its intended owner. As thanks, you see, for saving her son's life, for all he yet rages.

The effect of the necklace is not, by any stretch, subtle. The bearer's flesh becomes like steel, their blood like molten metal. If wounded a stream of the stuff bursts out, burning any nearby; but wounding them becomes all but impossible in the first place. For no arrow nor hammer nor sword nor ax nor spear can pierce the metal, touched as it is by dragon's fire. Doom Diver goblins, warp shurikens, Chaos blades: all have struck the bearer and yet found not one inch of purchase within their smooth, flawless metallic form.

The necklace is within Karak Norn. It recently passed from Brynoth Onearm, who saved the Dragon, to his son, Thingrim Tribeslayer, for Brynoth was slain by Wyvern's venom corroding his lungs within that form. He marches in steel form and steel repose, destroying every greenskin tribe within the Grey Mountains that he can find, his work never ending as he journeys further and further within the peaks, burning and destroying and looting everything he sees. Even by the standards of Dwarfs his rage is black and keen and spiteful, and even they wonder whether he has full control of his reason and faculty; but he does not intend to stop, until the murder of his father, and of every dwarf beside, is avenged. And they never will be...

El Libro de las Tormentas

Lightning and thunder fall from the sky. Not randomly, not without control, not without consideration; but exactly where they who read the words, inscribed of ink holding crushed Azyr Power Stones and written on pages made from the flesh of the Thundertusks of the Mountains of Mourn, desires they should fall. Columns of the frozen fire fall from the sky at their command, pelting winds blast aside enemy arrow and shot and shell with all the ease of a giant facing an ant, and heavy rains turn all approaches but that which the reader desires into mud, allowing them to funnel the enemy exactly where they wish, putting them exactly where they desire.

Inscribed too on every page is artwork, more detailed than any other, depicting the great Dwarf Holds of the East. Karak Azorn, bustling with life. Karak Krakaten, faced with an army of Ogres but blessed with the great works of the Runelords, and so mighty beyond might. Karak Vlag, whose gates read defiance. So too are depicted the people who inhabit these holds: The common folk, of course, the miners and shepherds and smiths who allow life to continue even in the darkest days. Their nobles, of course, who wear the finest and most colorful clothing I ever have seen among the Dwarfs, great things of gold and rubies and silk and ivory that would make even the Old Holds within The World's Edge Mountains seem subtle, never mind the Dwarfs of Norsca and of the Grey Mountains. And of course, their Throngs. Each is small, for the Holds too are small; but the war against the Ogres, and the other, horrifying threats within the mountains, means that proportionally, there are more elites, more Ironbreakers and Hammerers and Rangers and any other that might bear the label of elite, than any other group of Throngs I have ever seen.

I made the damn thing. I was a much younger woman, not yet a Gale Caller, and desired to expand my knowledge of Azyr, the Wind that calls to me. I had gone to Bretonnia, and learned much from the Damsels of the storm and the buffeting winds. I went then to the Empire, and learned of the stars and of the future. I learned of course as much as I could from the writings of Alyazra, great Loremaster of Ulthuan. I studied the etchings of tablet taken from the obsoleted Lizardmen. But there were two groups I still had yet to learn from: the Slaughtermasters of the Ogre Kingdoms, who would sell their mystical secrets for a rack of lamb; and the Astromancers of Cathay.

So I journeyed east, and came upon the mountains of Mourn, seeking a Slaughtermaster to learn from. I found one alright, and the brute sought not to teach me but to eat me. But she failed to consider that the Dwarfs hold a mighty Grudge; and so as she advanced on me, a bolt popped into her forehead and she fell, dead. And I was saved, but wounded. A Ranger-Prince, Durak Firebolt, had done the deed. He brought me to Karak Azorn, and there I was allowed to recover for time though in thanks I translated a number of Cathayan texts he had recently acquired.

And as I journeyed to Cathay, after recovering, I accrued Azyr Power Stones and Thundertusk letters and I wrote the book. And on my way back, I gifted it to the prince of Karak Azorn. And now when the mountains tremble with thunder, it may well be under the fury of not the Dragon Ogres, nor the Slaughtermasters, but the mighty Dwarf Throngs.

-Leandre Agua, Wonders of the World, 2530 IC

 

[soulcake]

Previous

━<><><>< 6827 A.P. ><><><>━​

In Jorri's mind the greatest reasonable success he expected was to find relics of the Norse Dwarfs, weapons and armour left untouched in the haunting ruins of abandoned Holds forgotten to time. At the very least he knew Uncle Kraus was determined to recover some of the remains of the many, many expeditions who went to their dooms in the Far North for some sign that their kin had yet lived.

Never had he expected his wildest dreams to come true, to find actual living Norse Dwarfs, and even then he expected perhaps a small hold or few, tiny hold outs at most.

He, nai, none of them expected to be escorted to Kraka Drakk.

Kraka Drakk the Silver; where Runes from the time of the Ancestor Gods were yet known, where the forges of Khazagar burned and her inhabitants birthed wonders fit for the Golden Age, where the Brana originated from and where some vestige of their ancient glory remained, and in the case of Clan Winterhearth specifically, where their kin yet lived and practiced Thungni's Gift.

Twas a reason why so many called it the Northern Zorn, or Zorn the Southern Kraka Drakk.

A place of myth, legend.

A Fable.

No longer.

It takes the better part of two weeks, but they are led by the eager Norse Dawi to the base of a mighty mountain, one of the many that make up the Grontklug. Yet just as one of his cousins is about to open his mouth and ask what they're meant to look at, the leader of the Northern party walks through the virgin stone and disappears from their sight. After a bit of cursing and grumbling at the little joke played at their expense, they allow themselves to be convinced to go through.

It is beyond Jorri's wildest reckoning.

They first come face to face with a massive dwarf-made wall twenty meters high by his best estimate. Situated between the closest point of two mountains the wall is as much a work of art as it is a barrier; the surface is covered in pictographs and richly decorated carvings and sculptures that tell a story of historic and continued defiance against the Dark Pantheon. Scenes that ranged from the Great Incursion during the time of the Ancestors to the myriad of wars likely waged over the millennia of the Golden Age, with the structure of the watchtowers serving as the dividers between each "scene." At the center of the wall is the massive gatehouse, imposing statues of Grimnir and Grungni stand on either side of the opened gate.

He is only able to look at the majesty in front of him for a few moments before he is ushered through.

The walk through the gatehouse is, somehow, equally as impressive. Yet more statues line the walls on either sides, lifelike depictions of ancient heroes, Lords and Kings, their names and a summary of their deeds written on plaques at each monument's feet.

Jorri is so busy marvelling that he almost fails to notice just how long, their walk has been. While he's not the cleverest Dwarf in Clan Winterhearth, he can do math well enough and by his reckoning there should not be this many statues lining the wall without spilling out into the open. After triple checking his calculations and digesting the knowledge that he isn't insane, Jorri turns to look back at the way they came.

Barely half a meter in, his mind tells him, yet my eyes see dozens of statues between here and the entrance.

Noticing his state of bewilderment, one of the northerners escorting their group stops and taps to get his attention.

"Runes," he says simply when Jorri turns to look at him.

His immediate reaction is to say that such an explanation doesn't really help him, nor is it anything like the Runes he's seen and heard tell of. Then he remembers he is part of a troupe of Dawi who somehow made their way to the Mythical Hold of Kraka Drakk, reconsiders, then shrugs in numb acceptance.

It is surprisingly not the oddest thing he's heard these past few weeks.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

In a sanctum, deep in the heart of Khazagar, the thunderous clomping of hurried boots interrupts the normal thrum of the countless Runes carved into the walls.

Ancient ears pick up the disturbance, even as the mind they connect to remains utterly focused on the work before it.

Muscular, yet wrinkled arms slow their tireless pace as the sound grows near, worn yet powerful hands, so ancient that their skin has been replaced by calluses which themselves have been worn smooth through the passage of time gently lowering the tools held in their iron grip.

Eyes, the natural one a milky white and the artificial bearing the glint of Gromril and gemstone, turn away from their most recent project to the door where those footsteps will most certainly head towards.

So few dare interrupt Him now.

Yet the walls do not rumble as one would expect from a siege, dust does not fall from the walls as magics that could sunder armies crash against the defenses, the sound of the sort of situation that could rouse the beardlings to call upon Him does not accompany these rushing feet.

Curiosity, so long since it was last roused as to become novel, overtakes caution.

The body, having spent centuries bent over the anvil, turns with smooth yet deliberate precision to face the entrance to His Workshop.

Doors meant to withstand the blows of Greater Daemons grind open, the keys held by the two Living Ancestors that guard it used in tandem to activate the Runes that keep its protections active.

Stone, grinding stone He has not heard in the centuries since the last time His descendants felt forced to call upon Him greets His ears.

The Ancestor stares at the panting Dwarf who stumbles through.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

"Its warm," Jorri says dumbly, drawing nods from several of his cousins who are too busy gazing around to say the same thing.

"Runes, and Brana" the same Norsedwarf explains, a wry grin on his face.

"Right, of course."

They walked through Norsca yet in the grip of winter, not a hint of Spring to be seen amidst the gales and blizzards that accompanied their march to the roof of the world, and yet the sun, so often hidden by cloud and fog, shines down on fields of deep emerald and pale gold as far as the eye can see with several dark specks passing through them alone or in groups.

"Crops," Jorri mutters, realizing dawning as they follow their Norse guides, "Wheat. Bloody Wheat and Vegetables."

"Orchards also," the Norse Dwarf adds.

"Course you'd be wowed by the wheat, what about the Hold?" his cousin Bogrin asks, staring at him as if he'd lost his beard.

"Its Kraka Drakk," Jorri defends, "It's a Wonder aye, but no one expected it to be anything less did they? This? I've never heard of people growing summer wheat in the tail end of Winter, of an entire Valley, in Norsca, growing green year round! Sort of thing you expect from the Elgi, or those manling wizards they got nowadays."

Bogrin hums consideringly before he grunts in that way that says he sees your point but is too stubborn to say it out loud.

His kin mollified, Jorri returns to staring at the fields, mind boggling.

The peace lasts for only a few moments more before the sudden and close bellow of a horn rips Jorri's attention back to his companions. Its the Elder Norse Dwarf, blowing into an ornately carved piece of ivory banded with Rune-inscribed gold to create a deep yet beautifully haunting note that travels through the valley, causing flocks of birds to erupt from the fields and orchards ahead of them.

Two minutes pass before the reply is heard, confirming that they have been heard.

The Elder smiles, an alien thing on his craggy face, then turns back to them.

"They kno-" he begins, before another sound erupts from the valley.

The sound is indescribable, long, low, and guttural yet indescribably radiates a sense of age to it. It is a sound that reminds him of the mountains, older than old and higher than the clouds, yet tinged with the innumerable marks of aeons passed.

It is a sound that sends the Norse Dwarfs among them into a state of wide-eyed confusion.

Jorri begins to tense before he takes a closer look at the faces of their northern relatives. Theirs was not the face of terror or ill news, no it seemed quite the opposite.

They were confused, but excited? No, that wasn't it.

Excitement was there yes, but also apprehension.

"What's going on?' Jorri braves to ask the Norse Dwarf.

He turns to look at Jorri, or more accurately the symbols of Clan Winterhearth across his clothing, and swallows.

"He knows," the Norse Dwarf says, elation and terror lacing his still largely incomprehensible Khazalid, "He knows, here you are."

"He who?" Uncle Kraus cuts in, walking over with Prince Thorgrim.

"Ancestor, Last Ancestor." The Elder Norse Dwarf answers, looking at Jorri and his relatives meaningfully.

"Karugromthi Anzarut"

━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━​

Karugromthi Anzarut - "Ancestor who gives us gifts"/ Ancestor of Gift Giving/ The Old Gift Giver
Grontklug - Giantshome/ Name of for part of the Norscan Mountain Range

━<><><><==><><><>━​

AN: Its not much, but take this to tide you over for a little bit. Done did it over a few days between study sessions. :^)

 

[Voikirium]

Distant Land, Distant Kin

(XXXX IC)

Grung Gorm Ghali. The Mine of Bearded Skulls. Long, long ago, driven by promises of vast veins of silver and gold, diamonds and rubies, and most important of all: Gromril. A source of the Runemetal, not quite equal to either Drakk's mine or to Karak Varn and the Blackwater, but greater than the veins Thori is so proud of to the west, and third greatest source of Gromril in the Karaz Ankor is hardly a title to sneeze at. So Prince Kargun Whiteax, descended of Grimnir and Thane of Zorn, went west to the steaming continent of Lustria, followed by a Throng's worth of followers all hoping to strike it rich, the Beardlings. But then the Great Disaster happened, and we were split off. It was believed that they were all dead for centuries.

And then we stumbled on a hammer of Gromril carried by one of the lizard Gori, which...well. At the end of the day it is metal, it's not like somebody not a Dwarf can't learn to work it. But Beastmen? Not likely. So of course, we all thought they had wiped them out and stolen them and so we prepared to declare a grudge. Except further examination reveals it's new, very new, within ten years. So instead of preparing a Throng of vengeance, sailors are sent to find out what is going on, a great Varr-Throng from both north. And, unfortunately, that means sending someone elder to rider herd on them.

Someone like me.

Oh exactly what I always wanted, cleaning up after a few hundred Beardlings.
-Journal of Karstah

Karstah jerks up, head pounding and wet blood sticky on her arms. Sand expands around her like a great, vast plain, except, of course, where it instead flows into the roiling seas. The roiling seas that are currently filled with the ships her kinsmen and the throng spent such time and energy working to create. She glares at red splotches and mutters a prayer to Gazul to watch over them in the Underearth. There will be a reckoning, of that there is no doubt. Oh, not against the dreadful ocean, for all it is a roiling, changing worthless thing it is not, in this one instance, to blame. No, that piece of filth Ratman wizard, on the other hand?

He has earned a violent death, preferably, though not necessarily, by her hands.

"Apprentice," she says. She receives no answer.

"Apprentice." Her voice is a mite higher, simply to be sure the callow youths actually hear her, damn good for nothing juvenile delinquent.

"Apprentice!" She's all the way into roaring now, but by Grungni she'd hate to have to clap him about the ears--

"You need him to forgive, Venerated Elder of Mysticism," says a voice in Khazalid that was archaic when she was born and has not grown less so since. It does not help that the beardlings around her have only grown more and more sloppy in their language, more and more inclined to invent nonsense rather than use perfectly good and already extant words. "Great blow to mind dome, and then new thing."

She turns, already sure she's not going to like what she's about to see.

She sees her apprentice, the damn fool boy in that gaudy cuirass he's so fond of, zonked out like he had some of her mildly aged ale, bleeding from the head and woozy. More annoying and shocking is the creature that holds him, a beastman, an unnatural melding of man and bird. The chest is mannish, she thinks though it's hard to tell underneath the stiffened thing of cotton and wine he wears as armor. The legs, however, aside from being bare are avian, feathers of a beautiful metallic sheen flowing into eagle's feet seemingly forged out of pure gold, tapped with knife-long claws forged of iron that shines beautifully. The head too is avian, covered in feathers of purest gold and silver and copper. A mighty beak, hooked and jagged and hard and beaten of gold erupts from it. Massive, almost prismatic wings rise from the back, covered in hard seeming feathers. Two short but sharp swords are grasped in his hands, made of steel, dwarf steel and her rage grows to realize what has come to pass.

Immediately she moves, her axe flying clear and true, and in turn he blocks with a swift flick of the wrist.

"Not an ounce of hesitation, hm?"

"Begging you to stop annoying the Elders, before they kill us both." Khazalid that is still strange, but considerably less so, erupts from the woods, followed by a tanned plaitling. Her armor, a simple set of scale, is a kind of Gromril-Copper, that much she can tell by scent alone, and she has a shield of hardened wood, along with an ax that is engraved with Grimnir's face, made of much the same metal. There is an image of Grimnir's life carved on each and every scale, in the most exacting detail. A Grimnirite then, and to judge by the lack of a mohawk, not a Slayer, either. And she can feel His gaze on the woman, as sure as she can feel Runes...Somewhere.

She and the thing lock eyes for a moment, staring each other down.

And then she twirls her own ax and hits the creature currently manhandling her apprentice with the flat end, rather than disemboweling him as she had originally intended. He falls to the ground winded, while she grabs her apprentice, Thorek still plainly out of it. "Napping now of all times, hm?"

"What did I tell you, Azukri? 'Keep causing trouble and one of these days somebody's going to punch you right in that damn glass jaw.' But no, what does a damn priestess know about fighting! Bah."

From his position on the beach the Azukri (personal name? Species? It hardly mattered) could only wheeze and clench his stomach, though occasionally what sounded like a chuckle leaked out too.

"Almost as bad as the damn Brangor, I swear..."

---

They wandered through the desert, the long split kin barely speaking for there was little mood for speaking or celebration. The sun beat down but did little to the constitution of either dwarf or Calratian, as she learned the things called themselves. Already two-fifths of the expedition were, at best, in no condition to fight, half water-logged or dead, and all thanks to the fates turning to serve that particular servant of evil.

"We hardly knew what was going on," the priestess, Thalla, said. "We'd only just started operations mining when the skies turned red and green and purple and blue and started spewing out monsters. Daemons, aye, but worse too. The Brangori were hardly an ounce of help themselves, not for lack of killing the damn things but because there were so many. You could have heaped up the bodies around one of their cities for a lifetime and made a bridge fit to get back to the Old World by foot, so many came and so many died! Beastmen, Fimir, daemons, it hardly mattered, they were all willing to perish as long as it meant killing us!"

"And then Grandfather arrived!" One of the Azukri spoke up then, a particularly callow youth.

"That still hasn't been proved," Thalla snapped, "and you and I both know that it's much more likely that Grimgal was discovered by Lord Kargun, and let us not mince words about that."

"Was it, or are you just too attached to your elders to acknowledge the ability of anybody else?"

"I'm warning you bird, keep talking and I will throttle you, don't think I won't!"

"Grimgal?"

"This," she hafted her ax, and gestured at her armor. "S not just gromril and copper slapped together like some apprentice had a bit too much, aye? You gotta give it obsidian, incense-"

"Calratian feathers!" Thalla snapped out and cuffed the bird along the head, forcing him back as the combined columns marched on.

"Not necessary. Helpful, though. It burns daemons like nothing else, abjures the mortal warriors too. The birds maintain it can reduce mutations--"

"KUHI PROVED IT CAN," an Azukri all but screamed.

"Kuhi is a callow youth worshiping magic nonsense!"

"Kuhi is thirty years old and the greatest Celebrant in a dozen generations you insufferable ancient--"

"Both of you shut up, we're here," said Thalla, and indeed they had arrived to a town in the desert. It seemed a combination of two distinct constructions, one of dwarf nature and one...not. For the walls were quite dwarfish, thick sandstone carved with pictographs and runes depicting almighty Grimnir and His many battles, trials, and tribulations, including some not often spoken of. But the buildings inside were light and airy, to ensure that the inhabitants did not die of heatstroke. Magic and Runes alike seemed to burn along the walls. She could not speak for the enchantments but the Runes were neither innovative nor impressive in their complexity, Stone, Security and Spite mostly, but they were well carved and something mighty was powering them.

And from the town came people. Dwarfs, mighty valiant and armored. Azukri, wielding long, sharp spears and silent for once, rather than the music and chanting and speaking that flowed from the young ones like water.

But most surprising, one of the little Lizardmen, flanked by a dozen of the largest...
--
More Project Prometheus, just one more.

 

[Voikirium]

A Tournament of Ability

You walk towards the small fort and its walls. Bit too noodly for your taste, to be honest: turquoise and purple tile in a thousand different geometric patterns, with spindly guard towers rising up every fifteen feet, each covered with cannons. Crenelations act to protect bodies, while arrows slits, curved and arched, allow shots to rain down. Every third crenelation or so you see a sigil, one of the cheap pictographs of their wizards. The gatehouse itself is (relatively) thick white stone with many positions for shooting on the foe. However, rather than metal or at least good hard wood, the gate itself is made of crystal; no doubt thick crystal, given who you're talking about, but still! Unnatural, that is.

Kragg marches behind you, mouth nearly hanging open. Bah, Beardlings. "A desire to not die is not a gift you need the Ancestors to grant you, Apprentice. Keep that in mind before you decide to set fire to the Doomkeep, would you?" Best apprentice you've had in a very long time. Only Snerra herself might be better, and if she is it's the kind of better he'll only need to try hard enough and get a little lucky to hope to beat, rather than the sort that can't be surpassed.

"Aye, master."

The guards, of course, are Portsmen. One could almost think them human, their builds are similar enough for it. Swathed in maille and plate and cloth, you could hardly tell the difference for much of the time, hand clenching ax and sword and shield though in a time of war, you expect many would also carry arquebuses. Yes, you could hardly tell they weren't human, until you got to their faces. their skin: Turquoise blue, amethyst purple, and obsidian black skin; their hair gold, ruby red, silver gray or amber brown, eyes. Not only that but they lack irises, and their sclera is colored the opposite color of their eyes, which is both striking and somewhat disturbing. Not the Hakan's own, at least, you can tell that much. Plenty of cavalry though, from the lowly Raiders and Valiants, armed with bow and faith; to the Steel Armed, with their mundane, if well made, lances and axes and maille and plate armor; to the Crystal Armed, bearing, well, exactly what you said, weapons of crystal: lances and axes made of the stuff, and armor studded with it in a brilliant, shiny, array, as the more common Sipahis of this nascent Empire arrive to ensure your good behavior. There are no Crystal Masters, though.

The Kasarm have not been idle, these past few months, in preparing their lands for you, and for their other guests. Sigils of safety, sigils of stillness, sigils of hearth and home have been prepared on banners marked with the multitudinous images of their gods, while their Seers wait readying themselves to snuff out any who would impose upon the Hakan's peace and will. The Winds of Magic bluster and blow, such do they, until of course you touch them, grinding them down under the weight of age and oath and Rune. They manage to flare back up, however, as your competition finally arrives, bunch of lollygaggers apparently too good to be early.

The first are the Spellweavers out of Athel Loren. Both High and Dark, though for the life of you hardly the bleak stink of Dhar follows that one. No, you know not what she wields, but it is nothing so simple as the corruption of Morathi upon her. They are bare of foot, but garbed in green robes, each embroidered with flowing flowers woven of silk. They are escorted by the Kasarm, but the spirits of the land follow them too, you can sense them, and by the weight of magic suddenly pressing against you with malicious intent if not immediate threat they can sense you, too. Mystical nonsense given by the trees they hug, next.

Next there is the Archmage and the Loremaster of Ulthuan, in red and white robes and respectably heavy black and white armor, respectively. One, the Archmage, is a Chracian, his hair long, blond and flowing, though you can't recognize the Heraldry woven onto his cloak. The other, a Nagarythean, is the Loremaster, skin pale and hair long and black as pitch but his eyes lack the cruelty of the traitors. Swordmasters surround them, but you doubt they need them. Their work is...fine. You could do better yourself, of course, but, there is at least some trace of effort in them.

Next, there are the humans. Partial or full.

Cathayan Shugegan. They walk slowly, carefully, and not without reason; the Peninsular War is not so long in the past that even these youths may forget it. One is a man, garbed in purest green trimmed with a soft river, a cape flowing behind him with embroidered with the image of a great green dragon, resting within the river. The other is a woman in set of scale armor and white robes, the blue of the scale and the white of the robes like nothing so much as lightning. A cape flowing behind her is in turn embroidered with the visage of a black dragon. Bah. Too soft, too flowy.

Bretonnian Prophetesses, riding upon unicorns, in fine silken dresses of blue and white and black and white. Each bears a scepter, one tipped with the fleur de lys, the other with the head of a hippogryph cast in contemplation, both with many jewels but not to par in truth. None of their work is. Both are trailed, followed perhaps by the three Winds their Lady gives them authority, sovereignty, over, though one stands paramount over the others: the one in blue and white and bearing a hippogryph, broader, taller and stronger than the other of form, carries Ghur around her and about her like a beast following the pack, while the other, slighter but almost certainly the more dangerous, is followed by Ghyran like a mist, a cloud, thrown up by the sea. Too touched by elves and fay, those ones.

The Gale-Callers of Estalia then come, walking followed by their own guard. Aye, your sniffer caught that pretension on the breeze but well. One, one of their Sapphires as they call themselves, stops and gapes openly to see you, only to keep moving as her partner, a Ruby, elbows her to keep her going forward. They wear intricate robes, dominated respectively by a dark blue and vivid red, the blue trimmed with silver, the red with gold. Bah, as far as would-be rivals go they're a damn sight more polite than Vragni at least, though you'd not mind them sticking a muzzle on that one who keeps trying to say your people would lie about you.

Conjurers of Nippon, stinking of shadow and metal, follow swift after. One is a tall, lanky young man, a youth even by the hasty standards of his people, in voluminous golden and white robes, with a pattern of hounds' heads embroidered in it, holding a mighty two-handed hammer. The other is a short, thin woman in gray and red robes wielding a sword taller than she is, also looking young for this competition. Truly they must be desperate to send such youths. The two have their hands interlaced as they walk. Good. The world is bleak, and damn what others might judge for you in that.

Rishis of Ind. A country on the brink of war, and yet two were sent; is this of such importance, or are they that confident? One bears a tattoo of the shadowed sun on his arm, symbol of time and fate, and a long, purple robe, pristine and austere. The other wears white, with bright flashes of the purest gold along his arms and about the mighty belt he wears. Both carry staffs, and both are tipped with jewels carved into the very images of their gods. Memories of Mingol Gorakgrom fill your mind and you clench Old Reliable. Oh yes, there will be a reckoning for that.

The Arabyans follow, two of them as well. Both have taken off their turbans and wear long robes, sashed at the waist, with swords thrust through. Intricate patterns that seem to move and shift as though alive dance on their clothing, for that is wear they have bound the spirits that they may unleash with only just a single word. All wizards are mad, and the wizards of the elves are madder for consorting with the spirits of nature, but the Arabyan wizards are maddest of all, and let none tell you different.

Finally, at last, the Magisters of the Empire. Once again two, of course, one of life, barefoot and clad in simple green robes, sickle clenched in hand and marked with the arcane language the Empire itself seeks at last to produce. The other red of hair, red of garb, carries a long, long staff and a single-handed hammer, one carved to resemble a fire, that burns with magic power. They nod to you as they pass and you too, in return; good allies are hard to find, here.

And so at last all are gathered; and so at last it may begin.

And finally another who is not a wizard approaches. Lord Crystalsword, the reason you all have come here. His armor is an impressively vivid red and gold, made of hard steel worked into banded maille. His sword, amazingly, is a bright crystal of purest white, whiter than snow or the very top of the mountain. A voluminous cloak with holy sigils of the many, many gods of the Hakan's realm, made of Manticore hide ripped from the Kurgan's servants, stands before you, tall and proud and defiant. Servants holding many chests follow, each itself a work of art, each filled with enough reagents to allow you to create wonders beyond the ken of those who would dare place themselves as your competition.

"As I said, I would pay you for your presence here. In each of these chests, gold and reagents, beyond the ken of lesser men. But that, I do not think, will be enough, not for ones such as you or I; and so too a competition." He claps his hands, and the largest chest of all is wheeled out by no more than a dozen grunting, groaning, dramatic youths. It shakes as it does, and not simply because it has been moved. "The heart of Throgg still beats within that thing. There is power in it, as there was power in 'the King of the Trolls.' I would gift it to each of you, for such is my generosity, and such are the wonders you might make of it; but alas there is only one. And so I instead propose a challenge, that I may gift it to the greatest artist in this world.

My lord uncle Hakan's birthday approaches soon, and I would give him a gift worthy of the Defier of Chaos, Guardian of the Ten Cities, Bane of Beastmen and Scourger of Shadows, and many other appellations of worth aside. And so my challenge to the many I have gathered here today, is to create the greatest wonder you may, something beyond the grasp of the many and plain, something to stand the test of time and strengthen the Great Horselord of the East. Do this, and my reward for you is this Heart, and such wealth that castles and horses and titles alike will come to you with such a haste that it shall be as though they, themselves, are riders.

And lest you should think me ungrateful, tight of fist or rude, even those who do not succeed in this task shall be given many great jewels, many wonderful things, gold and silver and saffron and silk alike, and many more besides, for there is no greater joy in this world than that of creation. Now I beg that I may take my leave."

Kragg looks around and gulps in fear.
--
Last Project Prometheus.

 

[Voikirium]

Angdreugaz Brynazul

Go to Norsca, not a journey I would otherwise often suggest. Journey along the River Dumund, through the deepest, darkest places, where no men dare to walk. Reach Kraka Orsmotek, then go west for three days, and there you shall find it, nestled in a valley, protected by the finest of walls: Angdreugaz Brynazul, the Great Ironworks of Bright Metal. Two Living Ancestors, ancient beyond the reckoning of the many, shall wait there in the finest of armor, wielding the strongest of weapons. Glinting and beautiful as the very snow-capped mountain peaks, engraved with gold as pure and as bright as the very sun itself, intricate knotwork resembling the works of a great forge. In hand they shall hold hammer shaped like the very mountains, protecting this temple to Smednir.

The walls and gatehouse are the first wonder that might be seen in that place, nestled as they are within the mountain. Two towers, each thirty feet high, flank the left and right. Each is strikingly colored a black pure as the night at the bottom, and a white like the snow of the mountains themselves at the top, except where sapphire pure and brilliant as the ocean itself has been carved into the mundane rune of Smednir. At the top of the tower there is sufficient ammunition for everything from crossbows to throwing axes to guns that no-one could run dry.

The Gatehouse itself is relatively simple, if large, easily twice as tall and twice as wide as the towers. It too is carved from the black rock, the mundane runes of Smednir's children lining the gate proper in intricate detail. Finally the gate itself, made of good strong wutroth (not to worry, I am getting to that) is carved in the very image of Smednir's furnace, Zharren. Three Runes burn upon this fortification, the Rune of Stone, the Rune of Iron, and the Master Rune of Spite, making it both nearly impossible to damage and ensuring if it is, you will not live long enough to enjoy your victory.

Be allowed entrance, both harder and easier than it seems, and you will see Dwarfs practicing metal working. The forges will sing their hunger, and the pound of hammer on steel and gromril will be like the rhythm of the world. Dormitories, simple but comfortable, will stretch as far as the eye can see, except where space has been set aside for a simple smithy, an anvil and furnace and so on, that would make poor sleeping space even for a dwarf. Continue onward, passing the beautiful works of metal and art that are tool and weapon alike, the great sculptures, indeed even landscapes forged out of the metal, the crucible and forges and smelters where metal of every sort is made into bars and ingots. Go further down, down into the deeps.

And come across the next gate. It is similar to that which lies upon the surface, except rather than Wutroth it is made of grinding stone, opening by means of ingenious levers and pulleys and hydraulics, no magic required, and I should know. There are, however, Runes on it: the Rune of Tin, the Rune of Crucible, and the Rune of Smelting, making metal both easier to work and better for the working. Enter once more, and the work grows better as it becomes more longbeards and fewer apprentices, though even in this the more gifted might be seen, learning at the feet of their masters. Go on, go further, and you will come to a third gate at the back as you go deeper and deeper into the heart of the mountain. A gate of bronze it is, a gate with the Rune of Copper (Yes, I know), the Rune of Smelting, and the Rune of Crucible. More Longbeards, and fewer apprentices, as on and on it goes.

Seven gates for seven Ancestors, forged of the materials which the Dwarfs worked with and trusted, as they trusted the Ancestors. First Wutroth, then stone, bronze, iron, steel, gromril, and last but far from least, gold, pure gold, at the very center, the beating heart of the mountain, where its heart burns red and where one can feel the weight of the very peak on your shoulders. They do not allow Apprentices in this place; they scarcely allowed me. All the Dwarfs were ancient, though surprisingly uncurmudgeonly for that age; too busy practicing their art to seethe about the young in that place, I think. The Master Rune of Gold burns bright, and so all metal, from the lowliest scrap of copper to the hardest and brightest piece of Gromril, is worked as easily and melts as quickly as gold. Every piece produced is a thing without equal; I do not often believe the arrogance of the Dwarfs, but in that place, in that place one could not help but believe every whispered oath that they would retake Karak Drazh, so armed and so furious they were.

At the very center of that place there is an altar to Smednir, carved of purest marble. In His hands he holds a hammer, of simple but great beauty, a simple rectangular headed piece of Gromril which has the very story of Smednir carved into it, not simple runes but the truest and purest art depicting the moments of His life in exacting detail, the haft a simple piece of polished wutroth with a pommel of a carved dragon fang, scrimshawed with the rune of Smednir.

Three Runes make it strong: the Master Rune of Grungni's Thunderous Ire. The Rune of Smednir. And the Rune of Thungni. The three greatest artists and craftsmen of the Dwarf, imbued upon a single weapon; and who knows what reagents fed it, at the dawn of the Golden Age? Some say the blood of three great dragons; others that Daemons were bound and their blood spilled and fed for seven days each; a few that wayward son of Gazul, Skavor, was slain and his blood used. But whatever the case might be, it is a thing of glory. In times of woe and strife and turmoil it burns bright as fire, and a worthy smith, especially but not solely a Runesmith, may claim it for a time; Valmir Aesling would learn to fear its heavy head during the War in the Mountains, and it would end his assault upon the Dawi forevermore.

For this is Zharrenuf Grun, Star Hammer, and it is beyond wonder.

Angdreugaz Brynazul is the creation of one Skaldor Brassheart, a grandson of Smednir. Seeking to remember his Grandfather after he passed from this world the boy journeyed for many years after he left, until he came to the cleave in the earth that would one day be Angdreugaz Brynazul. And so he set to work shaping it into something of worth, for decades putting in the work, until the first gate was done and he began to commission Runesmiths to Rune his work. Vragni Silverbrand would do much of it, of course, since this was "his" land, but Runesmiths far and wide would be drawn to it. Nain Kazzarsson forged Zharrenuf Grun, and it bears his mark.

Angdreugaz Brynazul is one of the less defended of the great temples of the Dwarfs, for it is a place of craft, not of war; however, there are still plenty of protections. Aside from the protection of raw stone and metal and wood, shaped by the most skillful of hands in ages long since past, and Runes of course, laid down over long millennia, there is a garrison. A contingent of Longbeards and living ancestors drawn from nearby Dwarf settlements, girded in the creations of that forge and so strong beyond the reckoning of the northmen who come seeking to claim that place. They are the Brynundi, the bright guard, and no spear nor ax may break their armor, which varies as much as the smiths who come to that place to learn. And no hauberk of mere Skysteel can withstand their axes and hammers, hard beyond hard and sharp as the biting wind. Though few in number, when called upon to fight, whether in defense of the Ironworks or sent to answer a call to honor from nearby settlement, they have turned the tide again and again, acting as the stone which the arrow of the enemy shatters itself against.

-Leandre Agua, The Great Temples of the World Entire

 

[Voikirium]

Okgrom Khazkazul

Upon the northern coast of Norsca, more north than any other, not far from Kraka Dorden by the reckoning of Dwarfs, there is a fortress built upon the rocks. Not carved into the living stone, but indeed a true fortress, laying within sight of the seas which disgorge the raiders and the daemons from the wastes. It is not a grim place in spite of that, though nor would it be called joyous, for the laughter of hungering gods is thick on the winds there, thick and mocking and cruel; but too, there is defiance against their wretchedness. The walls, all no less than fifty feet high at the lowest, are a bright fiery red, layered with a pure silver as pristine as the moon. Pictographs, engravings, carvings, all of them depict the glory of Grimnir, the Defiant, the World Saver, The Chaos Slayer. The One They Fear. High and thick crenelations cover emplaced bolt throwers, and Machicolations allow one to toss down boiling water, or shoot undisturbed. Statues of mighty Grimnir cleverly conceal supplies, both of ammunition and of consumables, allowing one to remain on the field for long durations; stories of them coming to life to slay those who would attack must be dismissed as legend.

The gate and gatehouse are thick, well-protected stone. A mighty door, gromril layered on steel, can withstand even the might of trolls. A roof of wutroth preserves from enemy projectiles, and yet still allows those on top of the gate to fire down at those below, even directly underneath. Great metal pots hold water, that can either serve to refresh the troops or elsewise be boiled and tossed on those below; even daemons do not enjoy such heat applied directly to the skull, especially not those of Nurgle, for whom it is the closest thing to a bath they have had in a very long time. Engraved in gromril white beyond white on the gate is the fearsome visage of Kragen'ome'nanthal, the Son of Khorne, slain by Grimnir's own hand and his soul shattered beyond salvage; it is an unsubtle insult and challenge to the followers of the blood god, one none have yet proven themselves able to meet.

Be allowed entrance, and one will not find grim, morose, or insulting dwarfs. Oh the greater portion are Dwarfs, of course, but many more than simply Dwarfs attend that place, filling the sparse-but-comfortable dormitories. Knights of Bretonnia, Warriors of the Empire, Mercenaries of Tilea, Soldiers of Estalia, Druzhina of Kislev, Celestial Guard of Cathay and many more beside come to that realm. Indeed even Elves have been known to journey there and the dwarfs do accept them, for did not Grimnir Himself make common cause with the elf Caledor Dragontamer, greatest wizard of them all?

One does of course, see the sort of sparring, fighting, struggling that might be expected in that place. The greatest warriors of the world test themselves against each other there, passing along their martial arts, their warriors prowess, instructing each other in how to fight best, how to kill, not only the warriors of Chaos but Greenskins, Skaven, Druchii, all that is unwholesome in the world. But it is not simply a walled field with a handful of dormitories where warriors beat upon each other.

No less than ten great lecture halls, each themselves also fortified in case the outer wall should be breached, rise up high into the sky, made of white granite and themselves strong keeps. In these places one finds the great military minds of this world offering lessons to each other, and amazingly those lessons are listened to with a minimum of complaint, insult, or derision. It is the one place where Myrmidian and Ulrican might respectfully speak of discipline against courage; where the Bretonnians will not perorate about the lowliness of foot combat and in turn the Dwarfs not bloviate about the reliability of mounts but they will instead discuss how to deal with the strengths and the weakness of their own forms; where the men of Kislev may discuss the necessity of tradition and reliability and discuss, like gentlemen, in turn, the necessity of innovation with the generals of the Empire. That which is best of each form of war is taken and inscribed and written down, to be used in turn when it is necessary.

For Grimnir was the god of War, not the god of Slaughter. And this is His temple, Okgrom Khazkazul, The Cleverly Defiant Hall of the Art of War.

It was created by Morek Grimnirsson, son of--shockingly--Grimnir, who was too young to march north with his Father, or at least such is what the Dwarf stories claim. He despaired to see what was becoming of his father's legacy, all that He was transformed into a single moment instead of the woven tapestry of His life. To that end, Morek journeyed the Karaz Ankor, learning all the stories of his father that he could, and all the strategy and tactics that he might, as well as the raw martial prowess. When that proved not enough he journeyed to Ulthuan and learned the arts of war there, in particular was vetted and feasted and celebrated by the Caledorians, though they speak little of it, as a son of a friend of Caledor and a mighty warrior beside.

Then he took the wealth he had and began building a temple and a fortress and a hall aside to finish his father's work defying the wastes, where he would pass along those lesson to all who desired it, in return only for promising to join the Throng in defying Chaos when it marched out of the Wastes. Dwarfs joined, hoping to learn from the spawn of Grimnir. Elves joined for curiosity. Quickly it expanded, adding more wings and more buildings and more temples, and then a wall to defy the forces of Chaos, layered with defenses. When the War of the Beard began the Elves parted; but in the fullness of time, the men of the Empire, and then of Bretonnia, of Cathay and Estalia and Tilea and Kislev and every other realm, would join them, and with time even the Asrai and the Asur, curious what their forefathers saw in that place, would journey there to learn, once they returned in fullness to the Old World.

A small community of Runesmiths has sprung up in that place, for wealth flows there like many rivers, commissions and a chance to test themselves against the forces of Darkness. But also, of course, there is the chance to examine the work of Snerra Magnasdottir, who saw Grimnir in the flesh and was, apparently, inspired, who worked together with Grimnirsson to make this temple. Her Runes brighten the walls, the dormitories, the fields, the towers, everything. The most vetted and the most respected are allowed to examine Gron a Kazak, a mighty helmet topped with horns ripped from trolls and then plated in gold and gromril and jewels, powered by Runes of which I have no knowledge, which supposedly carry their bearer's wisdom along; Okri a Zharr, a mighty two handed ax swathed in a bright, fierce fire, a power stone of Aqshy set upon its haft and the Master Rune of Grimnir, the Rune of Fire and the Rune of Striking that finds the weakest point of the foe and then scorches it; and last but not least, Karaz Klad, a finely made set of plate armor of a metal I have never seen before with the Master Rune of Unyielding, the Rune of Fortitude and the Rune of Iron to make the bearer unkillable.

These are worn, proudly, by the head priest of this place, and are coated in the blood of nine-thousand-nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine daemons. Currently the temple is lead by one Enlag Whiteeye, who, coincidentally, still owes me twenty marks after my brother beat him in that fight.
-Leandre Agua, The Great Temples of the World Entire

 

[Voikirium]

Azgala Undazidron

In far Karak Krum, strange Hold under the Underway (Yes, I know, these are Dwarfs) there is a path traveled by few Dwarfs, but open your eyes and you will notice that even the youngest of them is of a thick, pure beard or long, moonlit plaits. If you see their armor, it is near invariably Runed and certainly the finest made, strong and pure, and always blue and gold and white. The craftsmanship is of the finest quality, and it is almost certainly ornate and yet still functional. Their weaponry is similarly keen, mighty smashing hammers, sharp cutting axes, piercing quick mattocks, and more beside.

The path itself, going deeper and deeper into the underground world the dwarfs seek to conquer, is lined and studded and marked with sapphires, brilliant as the sky above. With gold, pure and clear and shining as the sun and stars above. Alabaster white as the snow on the mountains that press down overhead. This stone, even uncut, is beautiful, glimmering and splendid, bright and true. You must not, nevertheless, take it for all it would be ease itself to take a peace. Beyond any offense to the Dwarfs, a risky proposition at the best of times, quite simply the stone itself seems to desire that their skillful hands shall work it.

Walk the path. Go along through the shadows, dimly lit by lanterns and torches and candles laid by pilgrims. For three days from that Hold shall you journey, until finally you come to a great gate carved into the alabaster, where the regal visage of Grungni lies cut of sapphire. They shall grind open, for in this place the Dwarfs place their trust. It shall open, and you shall see a great thing: for the first time in a very long time, the open sky. The sun and the stars and the clouds and the moon overhead shall show plainly; and yet impossibly ne'er shall wicked Morrslieb reveal its face, for it fears the Father of the Dwarfs as surely as it fears the Brother of the Dragons.

You shall see stone carved perfectly, impossibly, intricately well, to a standard I have seen surpassed only by a few. These shall lead into branching mines, where Dwarfs plumb deposits of sapphire, gold, alabaster, and other precious things to be taken and used by the, invariably masterful, craftsmen who make pilgrimage to that place. It is near silent, however, except for the constant, rhythmic tapping of picks against rocks. At the outskirts, anyway. As you travel nearer and nearer, the stone shall grow not rougher, but plainly unworked. Until at the very center, a sapphire as great and as large as a very tree, stretching into the heavens. Faintly one can hear, trapped within that great jewel, the massive bolt of lightning that ripped open the earth itself and exposed the stone, the mines, the network, everything. Too white veins race through it, glimmering and gleaming and beautiful, the mark of the lightning.

The great lightning that fell fell fast and hard and strong, in the Golden Age, not long as the Dwarfs reckon these things after the passing of the Ancestors from the world, though I must, again, reiterate how broad that is by all standards but their own. One Kazran Skyseeker was journeying nearby when the lightning fell, and yet for as loud and as bright as it was (for the Dwarfs in their love of exaggeration claim it was heard in all Norsca and that night became day for a brief moment on the peninsula) he was not blinded and deafened but instead saw visions of Grungni forging the very lightning Himself, and journeyed to where the stone was still red hot and saw the great sapphire tree which trapped the lightning forever in that moment when it fell from the sky. A simple priest once, but the signs were clear, and so Kazran set himself with a vengeance to making the clearing, the cleave in the earth which still burned hot and which still echoed with thunder, into a fit temple of his god, Grungni, master of the skies in the Dwarf view of the world.

The process was slow and laborious, but after a hundred years the gates were complete. And with them completed, others were touched by the visions and led to go there, to that place, and to the great sapphire tree, to claim the jewels of the earth, to mine the gold, to quarry the alabaster. All were at least Longbeards, and many more besides were living ancestors. Among those who went, if one is to believe legend, is Fjolla Gemtouched, whose skill with crystal and jewellery and all such works was, apparently, enough to outweigh her, relative, youth. It was, in turn, she who first learned how to cut portions of the sapphire tree, for if nothing else parts of it fall and at that point Grungni may as well be screaming take it, and make use of them for fine talismans.

It was she, Fjolla of the great skill, who then forged perhaps what is most well known about the temple among the Runesmiths: Azrimakaza Dron, or Silver Tool of the Thunder. It is a circlet of gromril white as the clouds, lined with alternating rows of mundane sapphires, each beautifully shaped into hexagons that seem to have lightning captured within them, and Dronril, such that sparks of electricity fly off the circlet at random. Knotwork of gold connects the sapphires, with mundane writing holding the many titles of Grungni flowing between them. At the front, where this culminates, is a sapphire from the tree that is carved into the face of a dragon, calm and serene and so lifelike one might think it could in truth pour lightning out of its maw.

Runesmiths journey to study this work for many reasons, but the purest is the first and paramount Rune: The Master Rune of Thunderbolts. While this has survived to our age it has only made the journey as a Rune fit for weapons, not on Talismans; understanding it would massively increase any Runesmith's repertoire of Runes substantially, and allow them to create many new wonders. Secondly, of course, it bears four Runes: The Master Rune of Thunderbolts, the Rune of Cleaving, the Rune of Fire, and the Rune of Might, and so rather than mere electricity unleashed what falls is a true bolt from the heavens, capable of knocking a daemon out of the sky in a single, mighty blow. This Crown, unleashed, did not simply turn aside the Skaven, but unmade them; and they curse the name Fjolla Igunssdottir as they curse few others.

To guard such treasure, a special portion of the Cult of Grungni has developed headquartered in Karak Krum, one named the Thunderguard, not unlike the Knightly Orders of the Empire or the fraternities of Bretonnia. Their armor and weapons are well-made, well forged and well cut, ornate and yet deadly; and each leader is armed with a deadly and sharp thing, well Runed by one of the Craft-Pilgrims who journeys to meditate on their art in the presence of Grungni, even if it is in the guise of the Thunderkeeper rather than the Craftsman.

-Leandre Agua, The Great Temples of the World Entire

 

[Voikirium]

Dharkhaza Gnolstokul

Kraka Grom loves the Ancestors, all of them, with a disquieting passion. Mighty Grimnir, who defies the darkness. Wise Grungni, whose gifts gird many. Quarrelsome Valaya, whose protections saved them from the magic of the Enemy. Skillful Smednir, who did not turn His back from their craft. Cunning Morgrim whose ingenious devices allowed them to create a new home in the north. Gentle Thungni, who saved them manifold times, who sent the Giftgiver to lift them out of the darkness and cast away the foe. But Gazul walked their halls, Gazul saved them, Gazul shattered Hashut who brought them such misery, Gazul was mortality's touch upon the foe. And so they love Gazul with a bright and fiery passion. Many copies of His Rune, both mundane and mystical, are in that place, wrought in the precious metal. His statues line the halls that lead to its inner depths. And where many Karaks have only one temple to the god of the dead, there are two in Grom; one that is normal, well-constructed of course but not deeply unusual, a place of the dead which the dead keep.

And then there is Dharkhaza Gnolstokul, the Dark Hall of Hunters. It is a great structure, a fine and brilliant one, if in some ways deeply simple, lying not a day's travel from the Karak proper. Homes surround, small simple things made of good, hard stone, well and richly furnished for many serve that temple and whatever one may think of them they are not stingy in paying those who do their work. Massive stone walls, onyx black for the Underearth and a pristine and brilliant white in honor of the heraldry of lost Karag Dum. The Vengeance of Karag Dum is engraved on the walls in that same pure white, a gold lacquered such a shade, which aside from its aesthetic value, itself not to unconsidered, serves the practical purpose of blinding those who would fire at the temple. The walls are relatively simple otherwise, though have crenelations and enough ammunition for, well, just about any weapon that fires. The gates are simple, covered with the visage of Gazul, and twin statues of Him holding out Zharrvengryn stand watch, split into two faces on each statue, one ridden with fury for the insult and suffering laid on His kin, the other peaceful and serene as He welcomes those same kin into the Underearth.

The main temple is within the walls, and well protected aside. A square base made of the same black stone, polished until it shines, rises up, twelve-hundred by twelve hundred feet, or four-hundred "meters" as the Dwarfs proclaim in their strange way, for He was the fourth Ancestor. Four stories rise up, tall and proud and thick, each filled with trophies. For this place is not a temple to Gazul, the God of the Dead; but Gazul, the Hunter, who took up sword and skill to slay that which should but cannot not die. Pelts hang from the ceiling, pillars are inscribed with glorious hunts, and stone mosaics depicting the most impressive battles line every inch, bright and vivid and colorful. Taxidermied bodies fill the halls like trophies, each a monster they have slain. A mighty dome at the top caps the outer structure, every inch covered with writing in honor of Gazul, and a statue of Gazul the Hunter rises from it, ready to strike. It does a brisk trade with the Runesmiths of Norsca, selling them reagents from the monsters they have killed.

It was created after the Ancestors parted to honor Lord Gazul, by the Priest Vikram Nightbeard to honor his gone lord. The Runesmith Dolgi Bolgisson helped to craft it, and places many of the Runes on it that now protect it from every worker of evil, Runing the structure and creating many gifts for the monster hunters, including the original sword, armor and cloak which they bore into battle.

It is staffed by manifold hunters, the most skillful of killers, for the prey they hunt, rather than witches, are beasts, the monstrous and the profane. Each wears bright and hard armor and yet, by the standards of Dwarfs, impossibly light. This armor is invariably a brilliant, onyx black and a white like bone, matte but pristine and pure, the better both to honor Dum and Gazul; and it allows them to fade in well, in fact, with the snow and the mountain rock, itself often black and white; and if not near the snowy mountains they dull it on the hunt, and cover it with their cloaks, invariably each being dark as raven's feathers. Each also wears a mighty two-handed sword, black as the night, which is sharp and hard, in emulation of Zharrvengryn, blade of Gazul, and they are skillful with that as well. Each also has a ranged weapon available to them: some wield crossbows, others throwing axes, a handful pistols, but what is not to be doubted is that they are capable of strong opening strikes. They can wait days for the right moment, spring out of the darkness, and kill the monster and its handlers in a single heartbeat, or at least so the Dwarfs claim.

There is a mighty hatred between the people of this temple and the High Elves of Ulthuan, one that stretches back to the War of the Beard. Many of the bodies within are Phoenixes, White Lions, Great Eagles, Treemen and most damning of all, the desecrated corpses of the Dragons of Ulthuan. And so the Asur of four Kingdoms- Eataine, Chrace, Avelorn, and Caledor- would see it burned to the ground happily, and many even desire to do it themselves. The Elves, however, have had the last laugh for if the Dwarfs constantly insult them with the past then the Asur have crippled the future.

For the greatest gift Dolgi Bolgison ever made for the Hunters was the cloak Okro, or Clever Raven, which allows the bearer to become not simply shadowy, hidden, or stealthy, but truly unseeable. It was claimed in the waning days of the War of the Beard by House Ironwill, and that indeed is how it rested for so long: the Dwarfs believe those mages had destroyed it in truth, as they had so many other Runic works, but instead they had ripped it from the body of the fallen Master Hunter and paraded it through the streets of Chrace and built a fortune upon this. Now that the Dwarfs are aware that it is still in existence they are caught in a painful trap, for on the one hand to resume the war is to go back on their word that the Grudge is settled; but to leave it in the hands of the Elgi is too painful to consider. The Hunters are split on this matter, though their leader, Alaric Raveneyes is mildly pro-reclamation; mildly in that rather than restart the war he desires only to journey to Ulthuan and steal the thing back in trickery, rather than at the head of a Throng.

For their part, the House of Ironwill is split in returning the cloak; the heir, Endranith Ironwill could likely be convinced to return it in return for remanding the bodies of the slain allies of Ulthuan to Ulthuan. However the current head of house, Galrior Ironwill, "would not reward the murderers and forest burners who slaughtered those that could not defend themselves by returning that upjumped rag to them." Each claims supporters, those who remember that after they parted it was the Hunters of Gazul who killed the spirits that had fought with them against the Haclad, and those who would seek a better future.

-Leandre Agua, The Great Temples of the World Entire

 

[Voikirium]

Zaka Unkazak

Journey to the Black Mountains, journey to Karak Hirn. Wander from that Hold, ruled by the traditionalists, for seven days and seven nights, stalked by the sound of the great horn that blows in the darkness and in the light, that fills Dwarf hearts with vigor and anticipation and skill, along the winding ways of those mountain roads, heading eastward. Do not leave the path, for things remember the biting axes and burning brands which the last outsiders took against them, and they do not forgive easily. You will journey until you reach Karak Brynvarn, and I say this is not a hold lest there should be confusion, but it's most literal meaning: mountain. The Mountain of Shining Lakes, a great peak within the black mountain that is covered by lakes so clear and pure that they shine like mirrors, so untainted that one can see to the very bottom, and know what lives within it, fish, mostly.

Bridges of simple, good stone lead to the next path. Follow them along the trail, itself of cobbled stone, going towards the center, until you reach the great island, where a vast forest sprouts, but where it has been cleared to allow the road. Follow that, until you come to a great, all but uninhabited clearing, except for a lone stone statue of Morgrim, so lifelike one could believe it was He, for all it differs from the usual. His pure white beard, so intricate that it seems one can trace each strand. His armor, that which defies death, does not lie on him. Onkegruni, Widowmaker, His Father's ax, is not to be seen. His well crafted tools, that which He turns to the creation of things, are instead on full display. A disappointing thing you might think, until and unless you step towards the statue, grab the arm, and pull.

The circular plinth will slide away, exposing a staircase made of good stone, worked smooth as silk. There are no braziers, for looming overhead is a massive Rune of Light, one that burns without heat, casts light without warmth, and shall not burn. Next to it, the Rune of Climate and finally, the Rune of Morgrim. Statues of the great engineers of the Karaz Ankor, stretching all the way back to the Golden Age, line the staircase. Not, though, as the great marauding masters of death machines as some would cast them as; they rest, relaxed, in each image, carved as they are of stone, often tinkering with screwdrivers and pliers and hammers on some new contraption, seeking to further improve it. Not a one is, in truth, a weapon of war, the nearest being fireworks and even they are more plainly focused on the spectacle and the majesty of the thing, rather than raw destruction. Too carved into the stone of the walls, otherwise left unworked to keep the natural beauty, are the names of those self-same engineers.

The walk is ten minutes, seeing ancient engineers all the while.

Until finally you come before the gate. It is a thing of wonder in its own right, a great creation of much worth. The Life of Morgrim, translated into Bronzework on the gate, sheathed on a lair of Gromril. The Making of the Aerie. The Creation of Zhufbar. The Taming of Blackwater. That which is peace and contentment, rather than war and suffering. Who knows what Runes strengthen it, but it is stronger than the blows of giants and more unyielding than the very mountain itself.

Enter and you shall see a great workshop, much as Zhufbar; but where Zhufbar smells of gunpowder and raw metal, simple wood and stone and steel fill this place. For this is a place of peace, rather than a forge of spite, where those who long to know something other than blood and death may turn their cunning contraptions to the most peaceful pursuits. Large tables covered with vast reams of paper line this unnatural cavern, worked over many decades, long, long ago. Few Engineers are there, but they are of many ages, whether that be the young sent there to calm themselves by their Elders or those same Elders, in turn, desiring the peace and contentment which so often eludes them. Simple dormitories, plushly appointed considering the area, are filled with those ingenious tinkerers and refiners. Massive Statues, beginning at fifteen feet high and extending upwards from there, line the walls in great alcoves that cover the pillars that reinforce the place, and the walls which are covered in mosaics depicting serenity and peace. A handful of Runesmiths, seeking to learn Engineering Runes, also make their way to that place, where they study the texts of Runesmiths long since dead. Further halls of similar construction branch off from that main hall, itself no less than three-hundred feet in all dimensions, varying in size and scope though all dedicated to that same mission. There are archives of designs that were either never completed or require further refinement, though if an invention does pass muster, copies are sent to the Guildhalls for approval.

For this, this is Zaka Unkazak, the Home of Peace.

It was carved in the Golden Age by one Kurgan Dourheart, an Engineer who participated in Snorri Whitebeard's expansion of the Underway to the Black Mountains and found the violence and suffering and bloodshed he participated in trouble him. And so for a hundred years he worked to make that place, the Home of Peace, carving it slowly by himself, to have a place to think and to brood. He welcomed his apprentices, and his children, to make use of that place, and they in turn welcomed their apprentices and their children, and so on, though they were never so very many as in many of the other temples of which I speak. When he had gained enough many he commissioned Dolgi Bolgisson to Rune the Place with the Rune of Light and the Rune of Climate and the Rune of Morgrim, and the great Gate, and the statue outside though he had, apparently, carved that himself.

Engineers from the Grey Mountains seeking to further refine their mining technology to improve the (relatively, this is an important note to make) sparse wealth of those Holds. Those of the Norse Dwarfs, hoping to refine their canal technology to make travel through the dangerous mountains of Norsca and contacting the outside world less so. Dwarfs of the World's Edge Mountains, hoping to improve their gyrocopters and take to the skies. Runesmiths, who seek to study the statues, believing that the key to understanding and reclaiming the Master Rune of Awakening is burned onto them, for they hold that in elder times, before the fading and the striking, creating such a statue, such a supposed "Gronti Duraz", was the payment they levied to study in that place. All of these and more fill that temple, a supposed defense; what is certainly true is that only a fool would assault a position prepared by Dwarf engineers, even one meant for peace, and not expect there to be many cunning devices to ruin their lives and make any assault utterly and entirely ruinous.

The temple lies ill at ease with King Alrik Ranulfsson, for many of the engineers who go there both come from foreign portions of the Realm, particularly the Grey Mountains which, by necessity, have adapted many new innovations quicker than an ardent Dwarf traditionalist would like. Even those who aren't are often Radicals, for they are not, otherwise, welcome in dread Zhufbar. But perhaps most damning of all, they are "soft", that is to say more inclined to use their knowledge to create peaceful contraptions than for slaughter, and men such as Alrik cannot abide that. That is not to say that a Throng of Karak Hirn shall march on the temple, even Dwarf conservatism is not so depraved yet, but he is utterly wasting the opportunity such a place truly represents in his conservatism.
-Leandre Agua, The Great Temples of the World Entire