RHUNRIKKI STROLLAR (Warhammer Fantasy Golden Age Dwarf Runelord Quest)

[soulcake]

━<><><>< 73 A.P. ><><><>━​

Otrek isn't sure why he agreed to this, let alone entertained it in the first place.

Dwarf and drakk have been enemies for longer than his Clan has even existed. Entire volumes worth of Grudges have been recorded as grim proof of their inability to coexist.

Then he remembers the darkening skies, the bands of dumi that raid and attack with ever growing frequency, and the tally of dead that grows with each passing year.

Losses they can ill afford.

He can feel their stares, from his Huskarls, to his advisors and Lord Klausson. They rightfully question this entire endeavour for the very same reasons Otrek does, and how can they not?

Except for Lord Klausson, he can't be sure of the Runelord's opinion half the time, he may well think this was a great idea.

Then there is Girda, his queen and surest companion. The trust they held in each other was a thing built over centuries, unshakeable as the walls of his Hold. Where one went, the other followed for good and ill.

Now more than ever Otrek feels the weight of the centuries he has lived.

Damn it all.

But is that enough for him to forsake tradition and common sense? To make cause with the monster that patiently waits before him?

His wife, his children, and his people, their survival, their prosperity, that is as much a part of his honour now as his conduct.

Will he deny such a possible boon and risk his childrens' lives?

In the face of such a thought, the answer is clear.

Perhaps the drakk senses his steeled resolve, perhaps it grows tired of him, but for whatever reason it-she extends a claw forward.

He stares the creature right into the molten orbs she calls eyes, and takes a hold of the proffered appendage.

"Fine," he grumbles, "fine. I find these terms acceptable. Better a drakk than the Dumal."

The dragon releases a roiling rumble from its throat, perhaps out of contentment for the bargain agreed to, perhaps out of amusement for the folly he has committed.

"The pact is struck," she hisses, scalding hot breath washing over him as she speaks.

━<><><>< 102 A.P. ><><><>━​

Otrek feels his bones ache, his lungs pump barrelfuls of air in and out of his chest and his body screams in protest as he walks over to the massive body that lays still on the battlefield. Half of her spines are broken or gone entirely, revealing a body covered in burns, cuts and bruises beneath. One of her horns on the left side of her face has similarly been shattered, having taken a blow from the Dragon Ogre's hammer. Off, a few meters away, her arm lays after having been torn off in their struggle against the Suneater.

"Oi!" he hollers, ignoring the shouts and orders of the Valayans in the distance, "you dead?"

The dragon does not respond for a few moments, and Otrek cannot help but feel some upwell of sorrow at the thought of her passing, before a shuddering breath causes her body to convulse.

"Once...more…I prove my dominion over the spawn of Krakanrok," Haruzrildrakk wheezes.

"Aye?"

"Indeed." she continues somewhat breathlessly, focusing on the titanic effort of lifting her serpentine body off the ground once more. "They were our enemies when the world lay beneath the blanket of winter's grip, and they were broken long before your ilk even existed. Shattered, broken, into yet another pawn of the dark ones."

Otrek watches as the dragon hocks up a glob of magma-like blood before spitefully spitting it at the Suneater's corpse.

She turns her head to stare as the Throng continues its vengeful sally through the shattered daemonic lines, Grimnir no doubt leading the charge.

"Dawn breaks, Dwarf king," she notes in Khazalid, despite the crown she wrangled out of the Gift Giver laying a good few meters away, half melted and in pieces.

"Aye?" he mutters, chuckling despite the ache in his chest.

He steadies himself with Trollslayer, resting his weight against Lord Klausson's gift.

"The terms of our pact require altering."

He blinks.

"That's what you decide to bring up, now of all times?" Otrek mumbles, disbelief overpowering exhaustion as he stares at the dragon.

"Of course," she answers sincerely.

━<><><>< 212 A.P. ><><><>━​

"More than you think," you reply.

Nothing more needs to be said. It ends just as it began, and with a single singing blow from your hammer, Hogrimm Ironhand will no longer peddle his foulness among your people.

Quicker and far more mercifully than he deserves, a part of you seethes out.

The rest simply conjures the memories of the past few hours. Just where the spite of your people could go if left unchecked by propriety and common decency.

Vengeance was had, and that was enough. You'll make no show of it.

You sigh, and look towards the massive form of the Bloodthirster-

-and pause when the rumble of the earth reaches a crescendo as four serpentine forms erupt out of the ritual chamber walls in a shower of rock and dust, screaming death and illuminated by flame.

The mammoth steps back from the Bloodthirster as the newly arrived dragons descend on their prey. The four spawn of Haruzrildrakk working in tandem to subdue the demon, using their bodies to coil around an individual, holding each appendage in place before they begin to constrict.

Took them long enough, you think.

━<><><>< 282 A.P. ><><><>━​

Gemlin has heard stories about Kraka Drakk from his relatives.

They talk about queer folk who wear scalemail shirts under their oddly patterned armour and don helmets with sweeping horns and fangs of iron. Whos Throng marches under scaled banners and all carry weapons of undying flame. Most fantastically they whisper of dragons that lurk beneath the Hold, and how the Dawi of the Hold have seemingly bound the creatures to their cause.

He isn't sure what to make of them, after all, he was just a merchant looking for a new source of fine steel after his contacts in Karak Kadrin, the wazzoks, broke faith with his clan and sold their wares to friends of those no good Marblebrows!

So Gemlin does his best to put away the caution he feels staring at the lifelike statues of wyrms that flank the entrance to the Hold's underway, nods at the warriors and their draconic helms, and ignores that odd reliefs that depict wyrm and dwarf working together to forge metal. He most certainly doesn't comment on the distinct lack of visible soot on Dalgren Drakebrow's face and simply buys the fine steel from the Metalsmiths Guild without batting an eye.

Only when, as he leads his wagon to the warehouse where his order is stored with the contact from the Metalsmiths, his ponies rear up in fear at the sight of a drakk standing outside the warehouse next to the Metalsmiths representative does he realize his kin may not have just been tugging at his beard.

"By Grungni's fanciest belt!" he shouts, reaching for his axe.

"Easy there!" Dwinbar Ironheart orders, putting out an arm between him and the monster in front of them, "put away that axe lad!"

"Put away my axe?" Gemlin half shouts, staring at Dwinbar like he's grown a second head, "when there's a drakk right there?!"

"Aye, aye, I know it's odd, but trust me when I say no harm will befall ye. I swear it on my beard!"

Gemlin, still in disbelief, looks around and notices the few other Dwarfs nearby aren't staring at the dragon in confusion, but at him.

Him!

"I- fine. Fine, I'll lower my axe, but I want an explanation from you." Gemlin mutters, shocked that he's following along with this madness.

"That's my fault there, forgot you weren't from here when promised the boy he could see. Ah, well it's simple really, this young one merely wanted to see who'd be buying the first good steel he helped make."

Gemlin blinks.

"You're serious," he finally says, suddenly feeling rather faint.

"Course we are! Isn't that right Angrim?" Dwinbar says, nodding to the ten meter long serpent staring at them.

"Indeed," it growls out, voice reminiscent of two sheets of sandpaper being rubbed against each other.

Gemlin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

Course, why wouldn't the dragon want to see the dwarf who'll be buying the steel he helped make? Perfect sense. Like that sentence isn't something straight out of the mind of the drunkest bastard in the tavern.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

An excerpt from an essay by Robert Schunheim, student at the University of Altdorf

"The relationship between dragons and Dwarfs is largely one fraught with bloodshed and animosity. The Dwarfs will gladly tell you of the many Grudges they have struck out against the "Drakk," over a tankard of ale, and the many creations their Ancestors forged from the potent remains of such terrifying beasts. But as this paper will show, the Norscan Dwarfhold of Kraka Drakk, or the "Dragon Hold" for those not versed in Khazalid, stands as a glaring exception to that general trend. This oddity stems from its longstanding relationship with a native population of dragons that lair within the Hold proper. The Dwarfs of Kraka Drakk are, as Dwarfs are, proud of this ancient relationship, and the many historical benefits it provides the Hold. The alliance itself was born from the terror and dangers of the Great Catastrophe, wherein the Silver Death, progenitor of Kraka Drakk's wyrm population, struck a pact of mutual protection with the Hold's founding king, Otrek Gornsson. A translation of the first iteration of which has been helpfully recorded below:

By blood and steel, the oath is struck between the Silver Death and Otrek son of Gorn
Let the pact last so long as the forces of Darkness* stalk the land, and terror grips the hearts of mortal folk
Let our foes be your prey, let our Hold be your refuge, let tooth, claw and flame be lent to the striking of our Grudges.
In turn let your enemies be our enemies, let your children and their children know peace behind our walls.
Let us both keep faith, lest our axe-promise fall upon the breaker of this pact and be struck from this mortal span.

After the Catastrophe's conclusion, the length of the agreement was extended indefinitely in a renegotiation between King Otrek and the Silver Death. This alteration would lay the foundations of Kraka Drakk's now ancient pact with her dragons, and the odd position the Hold finds itself within broader Dwarf society. It is no accident that Dwarfs prefer to focus on Kraka Drakk's propensity for Runesmiths and the legacy of Lord Klausson rather than the dragons who dwell in it. While the former is certainly of great import to Dwarf society as a whole, as many of my colleagues have so thoroughly proven, it cannot be disputed that the great cultural enmity between Dwarfs and dragons plays a significant role in the relative absence of the latter within Dwarf texts outside of the region. This holds true even when examining records from the War of the Ancients, wherein there are only brief mentions of the aid of wyrms against the armies of Ulthuan. Lest I invite terrible consequences on my person, I will not argue that the Dwarfs are unwilling to provide proper credit for aid given, but it cannot be denied there is a great deal of trepidation or awkwardness from southern chroniclers when attributing deeds and accolades to beings they do not see as different from the flying monsters that ravaged their throngs.

In stark contrast Kraka Drakk is perfectly willing to praise the efforts and sacrifices of the dragons, or wyrms as they prefer to call them in the Norse Holds, of their home. One poignant example is of a mural commissioned by King Thorgard Gimlisson to commemorate the life of Brynguzak, or Gold Eater, after the latter died from wounds sustained from killing one Emperor Dragon and wounding another during the fifth siege of Tor Alessi. Further, there are several examples of within Kraka Drakk's Book of Grudges, of not only Grudges being sworn against the killers of several of their own dragons, but more civic affairs wherein a Dragon levied a Grudge against a human merchant for delivering substandard steel to him. The reality that the Dwarfs of Kraka Drakk see no issue with recording such a transaction within their Book is a signifier for the esteem in which they hold their reptilian companions. After all, this same courtesy is rarely, if ever, afforded to mankind, and yet there are several more examples of this occurring within the Hold's records…"

━<><><><==><><><>━​

AN: Patreon Snippet for the month of June. Basically its a short examination and exploration of a reality where I went hole hog on the "Drakk" part of Kraka Drakk. Feel free to ask questions about this one if you want, or if you want to vote on future snippets or POVs in this quest then support the ol' patreon. :^)

 

[Voikirium]

Grontdamdreng

You look at the sheafs of velum bound into something resembling a tome with skepticism, an idea your former apprentice wanted to run past you she said. Not allowed to smith for her wounds, understandable when you see the scar that starts at her left shoulder and gets a good way to her right hip, Fjolla has been busy planning something. Preparing. Making ready. Your eye traces the harsh, carving lines she's put down in thick black ink, the Adamant ax-head made like the crescent moon, the story of Grimnir etched in gold towards where it meets the haft. The haft of Azrilwut itself she has planned and prepared with the usual meticulous effort, carved with mundane runes spelling out exhortations to Grimnir to make the ax strike true. A grip of craggy leather will ensure that one has the most excellent control; it will require two, mighty arms to carry, or else-wise a very strong and very tall person. "Fjolla, this is..."

"Brutal and simple at best, artless and murderous at worst master? I know. But I'm going stir crazy, stuck here. And I need balance. And I need it soon." Fjolla looks at a trophy she claimed from the battlefield, a Fimir club. If it were not produced by the cyclopean lizardmen. Ugly and crushing and brutal, exactly as the murderers like them. It is the art of one who lives to fight, rather than fighting to live; who slays for the pleasure of blood on their jaws. Entirely without magic, no doubt; you taught her better, and so did her parents, and Joll'd likely have some ideas about keeping an evil magical ax in the same house as his children. "But I can't go. So I'm creating a gift for someone who can. Or at least, getting ready for when I can."

You can say nothing, or rather would like to be sure what you say is correct, wise, good counsel and so you instead decide to examine what she has decided for her Runic array for this Great Grudge Slayer. The Master Rune of Grimnir, fed Grimnirzan thick and heady until it burned with His rage, all that was warring and raging and defiant in him. Confrontation, fed a Hearthstone until it burned bright and hot and heady, seeking the followers of Chaos, imbuing every blow with a bright fire that shall burn the slaves to darkness as a good torch puts up dry tinder. Obligation, fed the purest, cleanest, best of Barazgal, brought at great expense, to make the bearer's dedication as good and as skillful as a King's own.

It is a thing dedicated to the art of killing.

But more than that, it is a thing dedicated to the killing of Chaos. Every bit of it speaks to that. An attempt, bound in Adamant, to create an ax that allows one to emulate Grimnir as He journeyed North and forced the Daemons back from the world. His sacrifice to save the world; His slaughter of the Daemonic, and of the mortal slaves, and of the gors that filled the wastes. Whoever bears this ax, they will take a grim toll from the Dumi; they will be an echo of that great march to the North. Tireless, unyielding, relentless as they face the enemy, until either the enemy kills them or they slay the foe.

Your grandniece is certainly angry, that much is sure. It is respectable, to seek such vengeance after what came about.

But, to risk turning her art, the art, into something as brutal and savage as that which the Fimir themselves bear? It is a terrifying thought. One you would not risk. But one ax, even one produced by as fine and skillful a Runesmith as your former apprentice is unlikely to be that, to do that. But what if it starts the line? Soulless vengeance claimers, Dwarfs without love of art and craft, only an inchoate mob living only for the Grudge. Is that what you would have the Gift, that which divinity itself granted unto you, become? Only bloodshed, only war? Are you an artist, or a killer?

But.

But. There must be balance. The Grudge must be settled. You doubt the Fimir would pay weregild; and if they did, it is unlikely anyone involved would accept it, least of all Fjolla. She certainly won't march again for some time, so she can't gain her vengeance the old fashioned way, cracking heads, breaking skulls, making mincemeat of the foe that dared wound her. So the least she can do is make a weapon to take her chunk of flesh that way, and at least get ready for when she is, finally, healed. Or would you make your own flesh-and-blood suffer the indignity of an unsoothed Grudge, leave her itching and unfulfilled and desirous of a good, honest revenge, simply because you are paranoid about these things? About what might come to pass?

You could tell her not to. She might ignore it, might, but there is always an authority between Master and Apprentice, even when they have graduated, and become good and honorable and honest Runesmiths themselves. An Apprentice, unless things go wrong, is likely always to regard their master as a rock solid source of wisdom and good sense, and not without cause; even if the Apprentice is wiser or more skillful than the master (you've seen it happen once or twice) then that can be chalked up to the master's ability. Responsible for the good and bad after all.

But would that be fair, to her or to you? To treat her like some bumbling plaitling, only just begun her training, rather than a worthy candidate to become a Runelord if the position was not so saturated this far north, and even then maybe once one of you joins the Ancestors? A woman old enough to be married, to have children, to be regarded as an elder by the Garazi and the Beardlings? If she is old enough to start a family, then she is old enough to make decisions, and old enough to make this one.

You grumble and lean back in your chair. "I have...reservations, Fjolla. But you're a smart woman. If you think this might help settle the Grudge, then let it be done."

She nods. "Aye, uncle."
--
Khazalid Trivia:

Grontdamdreng: Roughly, Great Grudge Slayer

 

[TimaenSteel]

My own little contribution to Khazagar's mythos. Even if it can't be cannon, I really think this would be a cool thing within Khazagar and it wouldn't leave me alone until I got it on "paper".

The Great Hall of Khazagar​

Khazagar, that great Wonder of the World, bastion of runic knowledge among the dwarves. Entire books have been written about it's history and impact on the Karaz Ankor. This is not one of those. Instead, I write this simply to acknowledge the splendor of perhaps the greatest demonstration of wealth and prestige within Khazagar itself. I speak, of course, of its Great Hall.

To enter Khazagar's Great Hall, one must pass through one of seven entrances, one for each Ancestor God. Each is large enough that the King of the Skies himself might enter and exit with ease, and each has doors made of Purest Gromril, enchanted with runes of protection and security focused around the Ancestor God who is the focus of that door. Snorri Klausson is known to have said of these doors, "Only another such as Kholek Sun-eater might prove themselves strong enough to overcome these defenses, all others could spend millennia trying and failing to breach this Hall." Each door is itself a work of art, telling a tale from when every Ancestor God stood in defense of the dwarven people. They pale before the majesty of the Hall itself though.

The Great Hall of Khazagar is a massive cavern of space, large enough a whole Throng could easily muster within. The base stone is a solid black granite, speckled with brightest white, and polished until it gleams beautifully. Inlaid within this stone are gold, silver, platinum, and other precious metals designed to appear as natural veins of ore. The walls and ceiling are also encrusted with carefully selected precious stones of all types, demonstrating an impossible splendor made all the grander by it's natural feel. Pride of place among this though, is the river of gromril inlaid into the furthest wall and floor of the Hall, enchanted by runecraft to appear as if it is constantly in motion as a molten flow.

There is only one feature of the space itself that overcomes this grand spectacle, and it is the chunks of gromril carefully positioned throughout the space, each given a single rune, meant not as a functional piece (though all are and can be activated), but as a demonstration of each rune The Gift Giver knows, save Master and Lonely runes, and might teach to those who prove worthy.

Filling this reflection of the Ankor Bryn, that most holy of sites to the Runesmiths, are a number of tables, that start as simple granite with fine stone chairs for Apprentices and Journeymen, more ornate tables surrounded by chairs carved of Wutroth for Master runesmiths to use and culminating in a small number of tables made of purest marble and encrusted with gemstones, and surrounded by seats made not of base metal, but pure gromril. These tables are reserved exclusively for use by the Runelords of the Karaz Ankor, and each given Runes for privacy so that they might speak without the risk of being overheard.

Finally, at the end of this Great Hall closest to the doors depicting Thungni and Grugni, and directly overtop of and against the wall where the river of Gromril inlaid into the floor and wall resides a raised dais. This dais is home to a single throne. This throne is no simple thing though, for it is made of solid Adamant, and across it's surface depicts Thungni's journey into the depths of the underearth and his discovery of the Ankor Bryn and the secrets of Runecraft that he found there. The story is depicted in staggering detail, with those who stand close enough even able to see the individual hairs of Thungni's beard should they look well. The thing which stunned many of the Runelords who chose to attend the opening, however, is that, in a mirror of the Throne of Power and Azamar, there rests the Master Rune of Thungni, proudly displayed. This singular rune was not the work of Snorri Klausson, but rather his greatest apprentice, Snerra Magnisdottir, as a sign of her support for her teacher's endeavor.

The Great Hall of Khazagar is a wonder unto itself and is only one of many within those hallowed halls. From the legendary guardian that rests atop it's highest peak, to the masterwork light runes in every hall, Khazagar is a true Wonder, the equal of any other in the world, and might just be the greatest of all the many gifts the Gift Giver has ever given to the North.

 

[Voikirium]

Memories

Siggrun sits in a rocking chair before the fire, holding a glass of elven cider, the scent of cinnamon and apples pouring out into the air like a mist, dancing with the fire to create a heady, unique smell. It's not weak, per se, but the elves favored flavor over pure ability to force down alcohol when they made it. And that is, perhaps, for the best, since there's a small but real chance she will remember more than she ever wanted to, if she gets drunk now, if her mind is clouded now. It's not the bodies heaped on the ground like some shoddy carpet that worries Siggrun. It's not the stink of blood thick as a mist on the air rising from broken corpses, Fimir and Dwarf and Brana and Elf alike that makes her want to forget. It's not the taste of sweat and blood in her mouth as she bites her tongue from sheer, exhausted exertion that forces her to desire the sweet embrace of amnesia.

It's the silence, the silence that makes her fear what might come of memories as she stares into the fire.

Oh, not of the field. The dead and the dying and the clashing of weapons, they had been a choir, a chorus, loud and pure, unmissable. The hiss of magic, whether unleashed by Elf or Fimir, had filled the air with an odd song. The cries of animals had been their own staccato verse. It was all very loud.

Except for her former Master Snerra. She had said nothing, had made no noise except for the sound of her armor shaking as she moved, the gromril jiggling. She had simply quietly, calmly, murderously made her way through the Fimir, unweaving their mists even better than the strange, what was it? Shadow Weavers, yes that was it. She had been a death sentence, and execution, as she had gone among them. If she truly puts in the effort she can remember one or two of the creatures managing to cast a spell, but they had been...rare? No, no rare was not a strong enough term. Unique, isolated, singular prodigies in the arts of magic; and even then facing Snerra had proven to be their death knell, for either Snerra could still face them in battle, or else they could be mobbed by warriors, Elf or Dwarf alike: a thousand ways to deliver death to the Fimir found and refined. And through it all she said, she said nothing, or it seemed as such at least.

And then they had tried to strike down the High King, and Snerra had roared, and that was worse than the silence. Not because it was somehow animalistic. Or bestial. Or primal or savage or any other word. No, it had been fearsome because it was a thinking being's roar, a dedicated mind letting the entire world know exactly how it felt, letting you know it was smart enough to hold a grudge and wanted you, and you specifically, to fear it, in a way that no animal would.

Siggrun takes another swig. There's only one way to bury these memories...

---

"Another round on me!" The bar cheers as Jolla swaggers in, coin purse laden with new wealth. Booty from the slain Fimir, of course, dead at the head of her hammer. But also, commission money as Dwarfs seek work close to that of the Mistbreaker through her student, and some work helping to facilitate trades between Elf mages and Brana wizards. It is a substantial sum of money flowing into her pockets all at once, and all thanks to her master. Her master the hero.

She remembers her Master saving Dwarfs and Brana and elves alike. Breaking cursed magic like twigs under her simple will alone; turning spells into nothing more than showers of sparks, spurted uselessly into the air as their bearers were broken under hammer and ax. She remembers the ability of the Beerguard, carving through the enemy with ease. No Hearthguard yet, no, but no group armed and armored under the aegis of her master would ever be anything but able. Following behind Snerra, they had saved more lives, stared down more of the foe than she could imagine.

And then Snerra had saved the High King. One of their casters, a Bale-Fiend but so much more, touched by their wicked daemon gods, had unleashed a spell of shadow, a creeping gray and black mist that slowly spread and sprawled like a dragon stretching its limbs. It killed everything it touched as it traveled towards High King Whitebeard, grass withering like it was burned as it was sapped of all color, water left gray and lifeless and stagnant, the dirt turned into a barren, brown mush as the world seemed to forget what it was. Dwarfs and Brana and Elves seemed to simply fall, lifeless and gray, where it touched them even as it crept towards the High King and his retinue.

And then Snerra had stepped forward and jammed her hand into it. At the time Jolla had yelped like a beardling to see her former master do something so mad, so utterly reckless; but the mist ground to a halt, even as her armored gauntlet itself seemed to spark and burn as she cast her will against the will of that damned sorcerer. Little bolts of power, bursts of light and sound, odious smells, the taste of rotten egg, and then all at once with a sound almost like a laugh and the grind of stone on stone, the creeping mist had disappeared, leaving Snerra none the worse for wear; and a moment later, one of the Beerguard put his throwing ax through the thing's skull, its body falling to the ground lifelessly, and the High King's life saved. Seeing their accursed sorcerer put in the ground had broken the will of the Fimir that remained on that part of the field and so they had tried to turn and run, the cowards.

If Jolla lived to be older than her master's master's master she would never forget the vengeance they took. It deserved such memory, to be held like a precious, priceless gift, a constant reminder of the heights a Runesmith could soar to with enough will and ability.

She grins. In fact...

"Bartender! One final round on me, then I'm leaving! For I have creation to do!"

The crowd that stuffs the inn cheers at that.

---

A cloak, Siggrun decides. It must be a cloak, as her master's master had unleashed against the Fimir so long ago, as he had so sacrificed to forge, to make, to unleash. She lets the troll hide cure within the great vat and begins sketching out the Runes she wants, the Runes she needs for this. Fear. Yes. Fear. The Fear of the Fimir as her master marched towards them with a malicious intent had been a palpable thing, a dreadful thing, thick and heady on the air. Discord. For as she had marched, heedless of the peril, towards the Fimir, their meager wits had failed them as their Meargh masters and their Bale-Fiends alike proved inadequate to face The Last, Thungni's own chosen, Thungni's own able. Fire snuffed out with a mere twitch of her finger. And Fury, for a bright and horrific fury had filled her master as she saw her king threatened.

She begins to sketch out what the cloak will look like. Two clasps will attach it to armor, made of Gromril as pure as she can get it, so utterly and completely cleansed of all mundane impurities that if one ground it down and forced it through a sieve and then picked through the metal piece by piece and then checked it with a jewelers lens there would be nothing but gromril. These clasps would be lacquered black, and twin pieces of Oathgold would be placed in them, on which the Rune of Discord and the Rune of Fury would go.

The Rune of Discord would be fed the tusks of a Sabertusk, the better to grant all the confusion of an attack by one of those fearsome creatures. Fury? The heart of a Greedy Troll, for they are malignantly stubborn creatures when truly enraged, utterly without pity or remorse as they try to kill whatever had the audacity to attack them, bellowing and furious as they remember the wrongs done unto them

And then there was the cloak itself. It would be woven to show the aftermath of the battle, the Fimir bodies made to skeletons and waste by the carrion birds, their bones left to bleach in the sun. At the center, where the High King had been assailed by the perfidious foe? There, there would be the Master Rune of Fear, woven deep into the fabric with golden silk, the better to show, the better to endure the ages.

And worked into that golden silk, into that Rune, would be the blood of an Elder Shard Wyrm, the most expensive and potent reagent she had for such a task. The dread it would spread, the fear it would foster, the despair it would bring? It would be absolute. Horrifying to behold. All told, the bear will be a creature of terror and fury, spreading confusion and horror and dread and more and worse as they worked, carving through the enemy like some great bird waiting to be feasted on in celebration, hopeless before the rage and fury of a Dwarf wronged by the world, by them.

A memory, to be passed down to her descendants by blood and knowledge alike. She can only wonder how Snerra is after unleashing such violence.

---

Jolla looks at the bar of gold in front of her and grins as she puts it into the furnace, waiting for it to heat. As she does she looks over the Runes she's decided are going to go on it. The Master Rune of Amplification, of course; it only seems right to use the Master Rune her master invented to honor her master and her deeds, especially this particular deed. The Rune of Valaya, the better to break magic like a twig. And the Rune of Sanctuary, the better to guard against the perfidy of dark magic.

Like a mountain, the bearer would be protected from every kind of evil that magic could begin, every sort of wickedness and despair.

These Runes would be burned onto the Dalwaz Zagaz, the Happy Saga. A fine necklace, a chain of gold from which would dangle an even finer piece of gold shaped to resemble nothing so much as the form of an anvil covered by three shields made of precious stones, an obvious reference, though far from copy, of Grom A Grong, her master's own masterwork. The heraldry of Clan Winterhearth would be on one shield made of hearthstone, the heraldry of the High King on the second on sapphire, and the heraldry of Krakka Drakk on the third on diamond, as a constant reminder, forming a triangle of sorts.

The Runes themselves would go on the shields. The Rune of Valaya would go on the Heraldry of the High King, and be fed with the blood of an old, though not ancient, stone troll, the better to strengthen both its regenerative and magic defying aspect, to new heights. The Master Rune of Amplification had a bar of gromril waiting for it in the fire, one she was going to purify until it was the same hue as Trollslayer at rest. But it was the last reagent she looked at most keenly, was most eager to see tested, so on and so forth. For she had saved the life of Thiriol Blackfang, and so his house, born of Chrace and apparently keen beast lovers themselves, had seen fit to endow upon her a gift: the eye of a Cygor, one of the monstrous, one-eyed wizard hunters of the beastmen. Horrifying opponents for any to face, but particularly so for a wizard, for they feasted on flesh and soul alike of the bearers of magic, hunting them like common stags. The relation to a Rune that sought to strengthen the already innate anti-magic of a dwarf was obvious.

In total? The bearer would become a walking, wizard-killing master of disspelling, any magic only coming to pass by the consent of the bearer (or, she must admit privately lest she grow too arrogant of the thing, a truly supreme effort by an astoundingly able wizard). So she waits for the gold to get hot, hotter than, and as she does Jolla can only wonder exactly how her former master is, right that very moment, being acclaimed.

---

Snerra sticks her head into the kitchen as the ingenious device that handsome engineer had given her after the battle gives a single ding. "Ooh, my cookies are done!"

 

[Artemis]

The Challenge Set.

Stone wrought, Halls expanded, Runes etched.

The work of years, nai, centuries, a work that started as a mere thought and has now become so much more, only grows faster and faster as the time approaches for Khazagar to welcome Runesmiths within itself. With favours burnt and the might of an entire Hold mobilised to pay off an ancestral debt, now is the time to see it all come together.

But there was one final piece of the puzzle to put together.

What lessons shall they learn?

Obviously, the answer was Runes. And for all those who were considered worthy, Snorri would bring forth nearly all that he knew; barring what he was oath-sworn to keep secret, he would now become the teacher not just to his own apprentices, but all who he acknowledged.

And how shall they be determined to be worthy?

Hammerspite demanded that those who would learn from him should climb a mountain to his workshop, and pass a series of challenges before he passed on the knowledge of his own runes. You already know that you must do the same, if only because the alternative would push Khazagar over the careful edge it balances upon.

And so, what shall be the challenge?

A more complex question, that. It cannot simply be "those who other Runesmiths have deemed worthy". There must be a personal investment in this challenge, on both your half and the prospective student's. You must begrudgingly agree with the Conservatives here; without the work put in, could you respect such a Runesmith? Could such a Runesmith respect themselves?

But that does not make coming up with a challenge any easier. To learn from you, the Runelord of Krakka Drakk, a member of the Burudin, the Gift Giver himself, what would be a suitable task to pose?

The Gift Giver.

And that is when a fey mood strikes you, and you set to work.

---

Years Later.

"Need any help, lad?"

Polgi shakes his head, giving a tired wave in the direction of the elderly dwarf. Perhaps on another day he'd spend the appropriate amount of time recognising someone who was undoubtedly his elder, but he just can't bring himself to now. Not when he's so close. "I appreciate it, but this is the Gift Giver's challenge."

"Ah, I should have realised. Best of luck, young one, though judging by your haul...I say you're nearly done. Though next time perhaps undertake Rhunrikki Dolgi's challenge first, eh?"

Sound advice. Fantastic advice, even. But his own foolishness pushed him to complete the Gift Giver's challenge as soon as he could, and now he must pay the price. "I will...keep it in mind, elder."

With one last reassuring pat on his shoulder, the white-bearded dwarf moves on, and Polgi returns to his dragging. Luckily, even in the massive arteries that connect the many, many, many chambers and rooms of Khazagar, it is only another few miles before the young Runesmith finally finds himself before the doors of Snorri Klausson's office. Proudly printed beside the double doors are the Office Years, confirming that Polgi has arrived just in time to meet with the enigmatic Runelord.

And so he knocks, and waits. But not for long, before a Hearthguard opens the door for him, and he is hustled inside, to present himself before the Master of Khazagar, who gazes at him curiously.

"Well, lad?" The Living Ancestor says.

Polgi slowly sets his bag down, holding back a hiss as his back is relieved from the hundreds of pounds that the massive container weighs. And, without further ado, he loosens the rope that ties the mouth closed, unleashing the contents upon the office floor.

In a dizzying array of colours and shades and pieces, toys erupt forward. There is no end to them, and there is no end to their variety. Many clunk to the floor, shifting slightly as their internal mechanisms ready themselves to be twisted and turned; others float upwards, Runes giving them the power to spin through the air like maple seeds, an ideal distraction for a young beardling.

The tide of toys continues unabated for two minutes, the expanded space inside the bag allowing an unfathomable number of the things to be stored inside, and when the flow finally stops, they are enough to pile up around Polgi's ankles. Polgi just hopes that it is enough.

That doesn't make it any easier to stay calm, however, when the Living Ancestor steps out from his desk to walk into the flood of toys, bending one down to pick up a certain doll, one that does not possess any runes at all. Something he'd originally envisioned as a gift for his youngest sister who had been awed to hear he was learning at Khazagar.

The Gift Giver gazes at the smaller, plushy version of himself, before humming thoughtfully. "How long did this take you?"

Polgi swallows. "About three years, Rhunrikki."

"Good effort. Consider me impressed." Snorri turns his gaze away from Plushy Snorri, giving a nod to the younger dwarf. "So, what would you like to know?"

 

[bird yells]

Vragni knocked on the door once, sharply, and busied himself listening for footsteps on the other side while he waited. Rather loud today, he noted idly. Young Hurgar was making his way up from his workshop, by the sound of it, and he must have been working on something significant; he could never stop himself from stomping everywhere when he was in a state of excitement. Already as the door opened he was speaking: "What is it? I'll have you know I'm quite busy- oh! Ah, hello, Master," he finished lamely.

"Well, don't just keep me standing here, lad. May I step inside?"

"Of, of course. Come in." And so he was over the threshold.

Quite busy, hm. Vragni supposed he could sympathise, because he had himself been frightfully busy of late. The physical shell of his Crucible might be complete, but teaching everything he had to teach within would be the work of a lifetime even for one as long-lived as he. And yet it would not do to spend so much time instructing faraway travellers that he neglected his own lineal students; making sure he did not was one reason he had come calling. Hurgar was among the younger masters he had raised, old enough to be independent but not so old he was ready for his true and final masterwork, and experience showed masters at that stage of their careers could still benefit from a subtle prod in the right direction or just an encouraging word when work was proving difficult. Vragni had always preferred to look in on his old students from time to time, laws and customs of their guild permitting, so this was in one part a social call and in another a way for him to keep abreast of what an old pupil was up to. "The blacksmith's guild has been talking," he said, casually. "I hear they're impressed with the steel you've been turning out; harder edges and striking surfaces and yet flexible bodies, all on the same single-forged pieces. Surprisingly high performance given the kind of raw material you're working with, or so I'm told." He glanced at Hurgar in the familiar manner of a teacher and honoured elder hinting that now was the time to spill it. "I take it you've been experimenting with some new kind of heat treatment? A specialised set of runes, perhaps?"

Later on, when thinking back on his visit, this was the point when Vrangni remembered first growing concerned, because Hurgar seemed strangely reticent about exactly what kind of runeworking had enabled him to make his new steel. Was it simply a new invention he wanted to keep secret, even from his teacher? It would be his right, to be sure, but to Vragni's mind it seemed worryingly out of character for the lad. He'd never previously been one to deny an insight into what he was working on, and in any case Vragni had raised all his former-apprentices well enough for them to know that if they did want to keep something they'd created to themselves, they could simply tell him straight and he would respect it. Hurgar was not telling him anything straight; he was evasive. So Vragni decided to push. "Hurgar," he said, and he didn't miss how the boy stiffened at the sound of his own name, "is there something you should tell me?"

Every muscle in Hurgar's body tensed then, as if he was trying to walk in two directions at once and about to split himself down the middle in the process, before the fight abruptly left him and he slumped like a man defeated. He motioned to follow and Vragni did.

---

It was some kind of specialised set of runes, all right. They bore all the hallmarks of having been inscribed by Hurgar - he still hadn't entirely done away with the little clockwise twist he sometimes added to the ends of his verticals, Vragni noted, almost hysterically - but he had certainly not discovered them on his own; he might have turned them to a different purpose, but it was evident that one possible use for these runes was to draw chain.

"Master, I- I did not learn them from him," Hurgar said, wretchedly. "Or from his students, or from anyone in his school. I learned from a friend of mine, a good Ornsmotek master, who had learned from a travelling smith who had passed through on his way from the south-" he continued speaking, but Vragni struggled to hear him over the buzzing in his ears. In his peripheral vision all the rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving him blind to everything but what was in front of him and deaf to everything but the blood thundering through his veins.

The array was... elegant. Ancestors damn his eyes, Vragni could not deny it. A century ago, Thorek Stonefoot had said with some justice that the chainmaking runes Winterhearth had then just exhibited were shoddy; had Winterhearth shown this in response, Stonefoot would have been shamed into silence. There were no less than nine runes set out in front of him, some of them entirely novel and others old stalwarts whose inclusion might appear obvious, but only in hindsight. A rune of copper included in the temperature formation in order also to help increase ductility, of course, how could it ever have been otherwise? Sometimes a solution was so clever, so beautiful in how straightforwardly it cut to the heart of a problem, that once put forward it was difficult to understand why it had not already been discovered and rediscovered a thousand times. To that stroke of genius Winterhearth had compounded several more innovations, and the result was a thing complete in itself, almost austere in its refinement, to which nothing further need be added and from which nothing could be taken away. Nor had he been content to settle for mere elegance, for as young Hurgar's experimentation with heat treatment had already demonstrated, the array's potential applications went far beyond just drawing thread. Winterhearth's old apparatus had at the end of the day been a brute and extremely expensive way to solve a narrowly-defined problem, and a smith could forego making gromril chain without being in any way diminished for it, but in perfecting his method he had made its applicability near to limitless, from the various tantalising metallurgical possibilities raised by extreme control over temperature and material all the way down to simply cutting the cost of fuelling a forge. Vragni could not imagine a single mastersmith that would not leap at the chance to have these runes inscribed within their workshop, whether they worked in runes or in plain steel. And they could have the runes, every one of those mastersmiths, in due time, because there were no master runes in evidence here. Hurgar could take on a few apprentices and have them make as many copies of the array as he liked, all the while staying perfectly in accord with the Rule of Pride. Runelords were craftsmen of few equals, and there were many examples of a runelord bringing into the realm of possibility something that had hitherto been thought impossible, but very few of their august company had ever taken the impossible and made it simple.

Vragni studied the runes with something like sorrow. Sorrow first of all for their inventor, for this was not the work of a second-rate bungler finding an auspicious combination by dumb luck: Vragni might have his reservations about the man every moment before and after, but for that one instant, that singular point in time when he had first brought this array into being, Winterhearth had touched upon true mastery. What a tragedy it was, that an intellect so formidable should bend itself toward such wicked ends! In a kinder world, Winterhearth could have counted himself among their finest, slowly and steadily raising them all to new heights; instead he had chosen for himself the mantle of adversary, devoting his faculties to striking at the very root of them. Sorrow too for all the runesmiths that would be seduced by him and become his fellow-travellers on the road to perdition, witting or otherwise. Even now, in between stammered apologies, Hurgar was still jabbering on about how he hadn't consorted with Winterhearth or his disciples but had been taught the runes by someone else - did he not understand, the poor fool boy, that it did not matter? That every runesmith as yet uncorrupted who learned these runes, no matter where or from whom they learned, would ask themselves: what other unfathomable treasures might Winterhearth have squirreled away inside that bolthole of his? For many the question would rouse a temptation impossible to resist, especially since Winterhearth clearly did not shrink from the role of tempter. No, it was an unparalleled sweetness he offered, all the better to mask the poison hidden within, and the enticing aroma would spread yet further with every example of his runes outside of Kraka Drakk. And sorrow finally for Vragni himself, for what did it say about him that he had seen his student's work and for a split second had almost been prepared to disown him over it? And it was his student's work he was beholding, he reminded himself forcefully, no matter where the runes might first have originated.

"You've nothing to apologise for," he said at last, taking care to speak only with his usual gruffness and not to let any other emotion seep into his voice. "A rune can never in itself be evil. What matters is not whence it came but what you choose to do with it. No laws of our guild have you broken; use these runes if you will." He felt a terrible weariness come over him, after having spoken those words, and wished for nothing more than to retreat to the solitude of his home. But even a beardling like Hurgar would realise what was amiss, should Vragni flee before Winterhearth's invention after showing up unannounced like he had. For the moment he would keep up appearances; by next morning, he knew his despair would have hardened into determination and he would throw himself with renewed vigour at saving as many right-thinking runesmiths as could be saved; but in between, in the dark and silent hours of the night, he was quite certain sleep would be a long time coming in the face of his grief.

 

[Andmeuths]

Omake: The Messenger and the Heir Part 1: An invitation​

384 A.P

[] The warriors of Kraka Krum invite you for a drink. Perhaps you might learn more about why Lady Ogra Diamondback wrote to your master?

Curiosity, tempered by wisdom and sense is a vital mindfulness that all Runesmiths should seek to cultivate.

Karstah found it odd yet fascinating that two Runelords, one her Master and adoptive parental figure, and the other, the closest Dawi she had as a mentor during her time as her Journeyman, may he feast in Gazul's halls in glory gave similar advice decades apart.

She wondered whether it was wisdom to accept the invitation, but it was definitely curiosity driving her decision. The Diamondback messenger that had met with her Master outside the meeting tent most definitely piqued her interest, and while she was confident that her Master would tell her the contents of Lady Ogra's letter to him in due time, it was perhaps wise to get more context on the current going ons in Kraka Krum in general. It had been more than a century since she wandered the North.

"Welcome Drakksdottir! Join us in the campfire! Dinner is about to be served!" a longbeard thane bellowed from around a Campfire, as the young Runesmith entered the Krum's campsite. Sitting beside him was a middle age Dawi, perhaps not much older than her, dressed in the livery of Kraka Krum and Clan Diamondback. The middle age Longbeard, his hair a mix of auburn with the first touches of silver silently made the sign of the Rune of Thungni, his gesticulation patterns oddly familiar. He was the Diamondback messenger that Karstah saw this afternoon.

A Runesmith then. The message was sufficiently sensitive, that Lady Diamondback could trust a Runesmith of her clan to carry it.

Karstah concluded as she joined them, her instincts automatically greeting her elders and peers with the appropriate pleasantries, and settling into the tone of the conversation. A few questions about the current going ons of Krum and Drakk were exchanged, to spark the conversation with a life and momentum on his own.

She was, however, moving on auto-pilot, because she noted the other three gestures made subtly by the Diamondback messenger as she settled into the flow of the conversation. Speak, Privacy, After.

​

---

As the warriors got progressively drunker and began to challenge each other to drinking contests, the Diamondback messenger got up and moved towards a tent, a wordless nod to Karstah.

A few minutes later, Karstah quietly slipped out of the drinking party and entered the tent. Immediately, the bawdy noises from the camp outside fell silent, in the distinct way an area warded by Runecraft blocked out noise. The young kvinn quietly noticed a small array of privacy runes subtly hidden within the various furniture, parchment and scrolls throughout the tent, the result of her master's various tests of hiding the location of assignments during her apprenticeship.

"We meet at last, Karstah of Clan Winterhearth, adopted of the Gift Giver." His voice was sonorous and refined, almost like stone and finely woven cloth rubbing against one another. "Tarni speaks most highly of you and vouched for your character during your journey in the west." He wryly smiled. "Even if she still disagrees with your politics, she regards you as a worthy rival." He commented in a bemused tone.

Fondness. A friend of a friend? It makes sense that a son of the Diamondback knows one of Vragni's apprentices personally. Karstah's mind processed.

"I am afraid I do not have the benefit of your name, Master... ?"

"Tekton Diamondback. Great-grandson of Lady Ogra Diamondback" The Runesmith introduced himself.

"I think I've seen you in Kraka Drakk before." Karstah was sure she had seen a Runesmith with a similar quirk of gesticulation somewhere in the Karak before, but she could not place the exact time nor location.

"I do regularly visit Kraka Drakk on business for my clan, ever since I returned from my journey and became a Master." He quietly laughed. "Great Nan does not believe that her students should dwell in echo chambers." He added.

"I suppose I might start by offering you my congratulations for becoming the Gift Giver's heir. And perhaps we could trade stories about our respective journeys? But before we begin, it is polite of me to ask: by what name you like me to call you by? Khazadsdottir, Snorridottir, Drakksdottir, or by your first name?"

Until very recently, it was rare that someone asked such a question. Karstah noted to herself.

How should she reply?
​

---

[ ] Karstah

There was no need to complicate things or dwell upon which dottir she was. She was Karstah, heir of the gift giver, and this was enough for her.

"Just call me Karstah. If you claim friendship with Tarni, then you are more than welcome to call me by my first name."

Tekton Diamondback smiled.

"Then call me Tekton"

Like all Diamondbacks in the Far North, their journey whether far or narrow always led them in some way shape and form, back towards Karak Izril. Tekton's journey was a curiosity, half of it was narrow where he built himself a nest egg of independent financial stability working with structure, forts and banners, and half of it was spent on a Pilgrimage to Izril. Curiously, the Dawi dwelled much on the cuisine of each Karak he travelled on his way south, giving off the impression that the Runesmith was something of a gourmet.

It drew a picture of a Dawi that decided to not travel beyond the Far North until he was assured that he could do so with some degree of financial comfort and stability. Some might call it sensible, others that Karstah knew might call his second half of his journey towards Izril, more a holiday of indulgence rather than a pilgrimage. But there were curious allusions in his account, of Runesmiths throughout his journey south he met and dined with - through Vlag, Ungor, Kadrin, Zhufbar, Karaz a Karak, a brief stay in Karag Dorn, a decade in the Eight peaks before he finally reached Izril, that likely indicated that Tekton was building up his lore by a chain of deals down the Worlds' Edge Mountains.

He was present during the Grand Conclave of 323 A.P, taking in the sights of the Karaz Ankor, and discovering Eastern Dawi cuisine in this crossroads of the realm. Interestingly, he recounted being in the same bar as Snerra when her elevation to Runelord was announced, being invited to bar crawl with a Southern runesmith he had done business with previously, who also learned of his elevation right when he was in the same bar as Snerra. It meant double the drinks for everyone in the bar, and he wistfully recounted the mythical hangover of the day after.

It was rumoured that Thungni's chosen all went to the same tavern a few afternoons after, and slipped into a private room the owner reserved for Runelords.

That detail leapt out to Karstah, but perhaps it was because Lady Snerra asked to call her cousin not too long before this campaign started. Karstah suspected that if she spoke to Snerra regarding her adventures in the days after her ascension, she'd be kept at her cousin's house all day. Something, perhaps to look into on one of her precious free days.

The Dawi sitting opposite her stretched his arms with a yawn.

"It has been a good evening sharing our journey's together. But it is getting late, and I must rest. I have a journey back to Kraka Krum in the morning." Tekton sighed.

"Valaya guard your journey back." Karstah nodded. Perhaps she should offer to exchange letters with this Runesmith? After all, her master did regularly correspond with many Runelords, even if he had an admittedly deserved reputation for being a hermit.
​

---

[ ] Offer to exchange letters.

Tekton gave Karstah a serious look of consideration on his face.

"This could be discussed after this campaign. If it is possible" He eventually nodded.

Of course, he won't make commitments to someone whose survival, he is uncertain of. A certain part of Karstah whispered.

"I guess I shall see you when the Throng marches back through Kraka Krum then?" Karstah clarified. She knows her adoptive guardian will not bury his heir.

He chuckled, allowing his serious countenance to drop. "Sooner than you think. I will be returning with the reserves, so we might well meet again on the field of battle. Grimnir watch over the battles of you and your kin, Karstah Winterhearth."

The Heir to the Gift Giver knew it was time to leave, and politely bowed to the Messenger from the Diamondbacks. And with that, she left the tent, into the frigid air of the Norscan winter. She briefly paid her respects to the giant statue of Grimnir that was in the camp of the Throng of Krum - at least she did pick up the intent of Ogra's contribution of the campaign, even if the warriors of Krum had asked her to keep silent about it for a while little longer. A small secret trusted a minor test of character she reckoned.

Gormlhune was full that night, she idly observed, looking at the white moon briefly peaking through the Brana storm.

And with that thought, she made her way back to the camp of her Master and her Retainers. She did not quite gotten what she hoped for, but it was a satisfying and very enlightening evening nonetheless. But then again, the chances to know about the journeys of other Runesmiths not too much younger or older than her always was an interesting experience.​

---

A/N : I am planning six parts to this Omake series. Initially, I thought of releasing all six parts as one, but considering how long Part 1 has ballooned up too, I was advised over in the discord by @IronFist to release it part by part instead because there's a chance that if I release it all at once, it will ballon up to 10k words or more. Thanks!

All feedback is much appreciated, I think this might be the first Omake I've written for this quest. This is written in the style of a Karstah pseudo nega-quest of sorts.

 

[Ambit]

Festering

In the faint hours of the early morning, the lifeless tavern had been left largely dark. It was bereft of any form of light save for a single candle, one that dripped wax all over the bar and was nearing the end of its wick. Its flame flickered and danced in battle against an unseen breeze.

The door was barred. Dust and even the beginnings of spiderspun webs in the corners had begun to gather. Fragments of broken wood and shards of shaped stone, the only remains of previously prided-upon pieces of furniture remained scattered across the floor. Any who came upon it would know that this was not merely the results of a raucous tavern fight between drunks--these were the remains of something unsettling, something uninhibited.

At the center of this gloom, in the aftermath of rage and berserk fury, was a lone disheveled and very drunk dwarf. And the brew was so very bitter as it ran down that dwarf's throat. It was a bitterness that fed into his heart, a building acid in his soul.

Because Lun Kobaltson's beloved son had been pronounced dead.

The tavernkeeper continued to gulp down what would have been his well-preserved stock with careless abandon--for why should he care? Everything he had sacrificed, everything he had ever worked for, every oath he had taken and every act of obedience to his clan and to his accursed King had been to preserve the last gift his wife had ever granted to him...his only child. His son. His son!

He had had his whole life ahead of him! His son had been brilliant. Lun had known, had believed more than anything, that his son was to rise as a new great hero of Karak Zorn, so skilled in not only purest battle, but in strategy, a genius of warfare!

Lun had thrown a celebration in his tavern on the day his son had been given the honor of joining his hold's throng. A bright day, a wondrous day--now a open, rotting gash that cut against his heart and rotted. Oh, Lun had been so proud that his son had proven himself to exemplify the best of his clan or even of all the Zornish! His son had been proud, he had been stalwart, he had truly learned the old ways, and he had known honor and duty in full.

Duty. Duty to a royal line who cared nothing for their warriors. Duty to a royal line that spat on the sacrifices of their subjects, to a hold that expected gronti that they could puppet on strings, where only the royal line was allowed to think.

Gone. His son had been unrighteously shamed, then unfairly punished, and now he was gone. Used as kindling. Used as BAIT.

The mug's handle creaked underneath his deadly grip. "Tungaz..." The thoroughly drunk Kobaltson slurred in a voice full of hate. "Tungaz, Tungaz, Tungaz..."

Duty. Duty and obedience. All his life, Lun had strived to follow the strictures of his hold, of his clan, and of his Ancestors as best as he was able. His hold had brought upon him heartbreak. His clan had brought upon him excuses to cozy up to the king. And the cults of the Ancestors remained silent. For this was the way of Zorn. This had always been the way of Zorn, its power. Even when the Ancestors had torn down the Remit so long ago, Zorn had refused to let go. Even under the Ancestors' watch, it slowly began to retighten its hold...

It made him sick.

And it was with that thought that Lun heard the sudden rap of a knock on the door.

A spike of anger coursed through Lun's mind at the sound, and on unreliable legs did the drunk tavernkeeper stagger from his seat and, red-faced, worked his way to the door. With misaimed fury did Lun forcefully swing the door open to scream in the face of whoever thought to disturb his grief and pain. A small section of the despairing father's addled brain noted that he'd seen the cloaked dwarf in front of him as a rare customer who had only visited his tavern a few times over the past decade--but that part was swiftly forgotten in the heat of his rage.

"YOU! HOW DARE YOU DISTURB MY PLACE--DID YOU NOT SEE THE LOCK ON THE DOOR, THE SIGN SAYING THE TAVERN IS 'CLOSED'?!" Lun spat. "OUT! GET OUT!"

"Lun Kobaltson," the cloaked dwarf spoke gravely, as though ignoring his words, causing Lun's face to redden even more.

"YOU--"

"You have been failed. Failed by your clan, your hold, your king, and your plight left ignored by those who claim to care for you in times of hope and woe. Instead you are left with nothing, your heart broken, your love ash in your mouth." The dwarf paused. "And you are not alone."

"You...I..." This was not going the way Lun's inebriated mind was expecting it to go.

The dwarf took off his hood to reveal a pale, ashy face, with a fire in his eyes belaying a great, deep hate--one that silenced Lun from any further bellowing, from further anger. It was because it scared him. It was because it was something recognized by him. "Duty. Duty and obedience, is it not? But do you know what duty to Zorn is?"

"W-what?"

"Duty to Zorn is a lie."

Heresy. Spoken heresy echoes through the ears of the tavernkeeper. Lun stares aghast at the open words of treason spoken by the dwarf straight to his face. So direct, so outspoken.

The correct option, the correct and proper response to this offence levelled to the hold, was to slam the door in the dwarf's face.

Now, what you must understand is that, in fact, has been the response levelled to this particular dwarf many, many times. It has been extremely difficult for the dwarf, to the point that even his master and compatriots called it madness for him to venture into the depths of the most isolated and strictly controlled hold of the Karaz Ankor, but he knew that this was where his words might most bear fruit. For Tungaz envied any power that was not directly in his control, and that left...gaps, so to speak.

And the dwarf was very careful, very patient, and oh so very low-key...

This was the point where the door was slammed many, many times before. So many angered dwarves, so many grieving, so many hating--they swallowed their pain, they clung to their false Ancestors, they were suspicious of the outsider, or perhaps they were simply afraid to speak words that they only whispered behind closed doors and in the most private of sanctums where their king could not hear. So many opportunities that did not bear fruit. Hundreds. Thousands. So many times that he had needed to run or change his face, so many close calls.

But if you rolled a pair of dice enough times, you would win with boxcars eventually.

"May I come in?" The cloaked dwarf asked, and Lun...hesitated. But he was thoroughly drunk, sleep deprived, hungry, tired, lonely, and oh so very, very spiteful. Behind the tavernkeeper, the flickering candle in the tavern went out, leaving only darkness.

The servant of Hashut smiled.

Spoiler: Author's Note

Wow, that's a nice culturally and politically repressive and isolated society you have right there--one that has recently been noted to have tamped down on people leaving it for brighter pastures (see Brynna's comment about her grandnephew's family not being able to join him in leaving Zorn) and has historical reasons for not being completely into the veneration and respect of the Ancestors, even!

It sure would be a shame for something to happen to it...

 

[bird yells]

Vragni muttered a few choice blasphemies to himself as he trudged through the ash. Whose bright idea had it been to make Snorri Klausson runelord, again? Surely the outcome would have been patently obvious even back then: the promotion had gone to his head, he'd spent the next eight hundred years beating the very concept of subtlety to a weeping mess and here they all were, having to live with the results. The storm itself parted before the little bubble of still air Vragni's amulet generated but that still left the vast undifferentiated dunes of carbonised beastmen the Giftgiver had littered all over the place, that he just had to wade into with an undignified waddle. Really, you'd think someone supposedly so concerned with efficiency would have figured out by now how to fight without leaving such an infernal mess.

"Giftgiver!" he bellowed, possibly louder than strictly necessary, the moment the other man came within range of his air bubble and could hear him.

"Silverbrand? For pity's sake, what are you doing here?"

"Fimir are up to something and our lieges want us to regroup. Were it up to me I'd let you prance around out here as long as you like while more sensible people handle things, but for some ancestor-forsaken reason they want you back with the throng and thanks to my Storm-Breaker talisman I'm the only one who can pass through this ridiculous dust cloud you insist on throwing about and come fetch you."

The Giftgiver's face was not exactly clearly visible, between the helmet obscuring it and the fact that it was literally, magically turned to stone for the moment, but then Vragni hardly needed to look to know there was a smirk plastered on there. "A Storm-Breaker talisman, you say? How oddly specific. It's almost as if someone felt they had something to prove."

"...Don't flatter yourself. I only need this thing because someone keeps farting out lightning bolts without any regard for precision or restraint. Now come along, they're- uh."

Well, on the bright side, they now had very good intelligence on what exactly the fimir were doing. In front of them there had sprung a riot of too many colours, painted impossibly on thin air and somehow perfectly visible even through the storm, like an oil slick on the waters of reality; and even as Vragni tried to wrap his head round what he was seeing the colours expanded, not in the sense of filling a greater volume but rather in the sense of volume itself proliferating to contain something that could not easily exist in merely three dimensions: if the oil slick was at first a pane, then it swept out to become a cube, then a tesseract, then a succession of other shapes Vragni could only describe collectively as a migraine.

The creature that stepped through the migraine seemed almost disappointingly mundane by comparison, at first glance, having as it did only a height and a width and a depth. It was huge, and possessed of far too many limbs, and had an appearance that was... vaguely insectile... maybe? The more Vragni looked at the thing the less sense he could make of it, because he was quite sure it wasn't shifting or transforming and yet for the life of him he could not pin down what it looked like. It seemed leonine from one angle and serpentine from another, avian in one moment and molluscan in the next, and he could not tell where or when one aspect ended and the next began. Maybe he'd been mistaken when he'd at first assumed it only extended into three dimensions; maybe it was all those things simultaneously, ant and lion and adder and kite and octopus and more besides, only it was sitting some ways away in the direction of some fourth axis, perpendicular to the three he was used to working with, and his difficulties stemmed from the fact that only a small part of it extruded into the perceivable material.

Its head appeared in some ways to serve as a core, or maybe an anchor, because it was physically well-defined in a way the rest of the creature wasn't. It had great pointed ears and an elongated muzzle, upper and lower jaws stretching out some distance in uncovered bone and muscle before ending in clusters of misshapen teeth, rather like a skinless donkey. It brayed - it chittered - it roared and for an instant, the stormwinds abated around it.

"Well, Giftgiver, never did I think I'd see the day, but I must admit it's finally happened: for the first time, I've laid eyes on a bigger ass than you."

"Spare me your witticisms, beardling. There's work to be done."

"Beardling? There's not even two centuries between us, you colossal fool-"

---

Was it a mercy that the monster was concealed by the storm, most of the time, or was it cause for dismay? Tarni honestly couldn't say, just as she couldn't say if she should feel relief or despair over the fact it had manifested some distance away from the throng, just when Master Vragni had left to collect... Lord Snorri. Were the fimir acting opportunistically to attack two priority targets at a time when the bulk of their forces was out of position to assist? It seemed likely, but then if the beast had appeared closer to the throng she wasn't sure what any ordinary warrior could have been expected to do about it, except die horribly. Maybe it really was for the best that the ambush had been sprung upon two of the people most capable of defeating it, with hapless victims safely out of the way... although it didn't feel that way, for her, knowing her master was dancing with death and her standing uselessly by the sidelines. She supposed she could only join her fellow-students in praying for their Master's success, and bearing witness to his battle as much as they could; the monster's enormous flailing limbs would tear great rends in the stormwall, from time to time, letting them catch glimpses of warring figures inside before the storm once again swallowed them up. Like just now, when Master Vragni was charging the monster and it in turn was sweeping towards him a great tentacle, like a squid's but thicker than a dwarf was tall, along the ground in a blow that seemed unavoidable - she felt her heart seize in her chest -

-And Master Vragni flew over it? It all happened so fast, she could only parse what had occurred after the fact: Master had leapt into the air, at first nowhere near high enough to clear the tentacle, but just then Lord Snorri had struck the earth with his hammer and a series of slender stone pillars had burst up in exactly the right places underfoot for Master to continue leaping, like an impromptu staircase. The pillars were scythed through an instant later but by that point Master had already continued upward, far higher than he could have reached unassisted, and landed safely some way up the monster's body. Only... Master had made his first leap before any of the pillars appeared. How could Lord Snorri possibly have had the time to summon them, when Master was already in the air? How could Master have known he would have anywhere to set his feet down, for that matter? Tarni had done enough shieldwall drills in her life to know just how much practice it took, even for close comrades, to do something as simple as interlocking a row of raised shields without someone falling out of step. Master Vragni and Lord Snorri were not even on speaking terms and yet, with no communication and no practice, they had somehow improvised a maneuver she herself could not have pulled off once in a hundred attempts. How was it even possible?

-Master Vragni was scaling the monster now and so was Lord Snorri, further down and on its other side, as the strange pseudo-gronti was running interference on the ground. The monster, for its part, was striking at the gronti but also lashing at itself to dislodge the climbers, heedless of the damage it was causing to its own body in the process. Lord Snorri bore the worst of it, enduring countless blows from legs and tails and other, stranger things, and yet the strikes that missed him seemed in a way more dangerous, because they tore great furrows in the creature's own flesh and beneath there was only a black-sky void, through which Tarni could dimly see the gleam of strange constellations; what would happen if Lord Snorri fell in? Master Vragni was having an easier climb and somehow he must have sensed without seeing what was happening, on the other side of the creature's body, because he threw his axe, the master rune of flight steering it in a semicircular arc around the monster's bulk before it cut through a veritable forest of appendages and pseudopods and flew through just the right space for Lord Snorri to snatch it out of the air (and he had a hand free to catch it because he'd attached his hammer to his belt moments beforehand, how had he known) and wield it to hack off the remaining limbs striking at him. Lord Snorri was holding two axes now, one his own and one Master Vragni's, and he was using them as iceclimbing picks to assist in ascending the monster, making better time than before-

-Both of them were standing on top of its head, Lord Snorri fighting off rampaging extremities while Master Vragni was pulling from his person some runic contraption she'd not seen before, a metal stake of some kind, and aligning it with some particular point on the crown of its head-

-They were both hammering it in, taking turns to strike it-

-She could see only light.

---

When the monster perished, the fimir had at once begun withdrawing from the field, leaving beastman chaff in place as a distraction while their less disposable troops retreated. Some work remained to mop up the stragglers, but the final outcome of the battle was clear all the same; the throng was exultant and eager to lay eyes on the two heroes of the day, who were obscured quite completely by the storm now that the monster was no longer stirring it up. It was no longer actively maintained by the Giftgiver and so was gradually stilling, but it took some time for the storm to die out completely and thus the two of them would remain out of sight for a little while longer.

Had any member of the throng eyes to pierce the storm, they would have seen most of the monster had dissolved into a foul pink slime that was itself rapidly evaporating, leaving only a giant skull cloven in two. On each half of the skull stood a dwarf, and the two of them were speaking animatedly:

"Ha! Once again I have proven the superiority of my methods, achievable only through proper adherence to the rule of pride. Admit it, Giftgiver! Admit it was my runespike that carried the day!"

"Ha! I'll admit no such thing, because it is patently untrue! The monster was distracted by my construct, worn down by my runic storm and the final blow was delivered by my hammer. Without the power of my runes behind it, your risible little wedge might as well have been a toothpick for all the good it would've done you!"

"HA! Power, he says! A thousand years old and still you haven't figured out that it isn't size or strength that matters, but the skill of he who wields! If ever there could be a man to disprove the adage that age brings wisdom, truly you would be that man!"

"As if you'd know anything about power, Silverbrand! Maybe I'll let you experience my strength first-hand, one of these days!"

"Oh, I'll welcome the attempt! Just don't come crying to me afterwards, if you end up bruised!"

"Nincompoop!"

"Half-threaded wingnut!"

But as none other could see or hear them, in that moment, no record of their conversation was made and later retellings of the battle would only speak of two bitter adversaries setting their differences aside in service to the realms and to see a great grudge avenged. And perhaps that was for the best.

 

[BananaBuddy]

The mammoth wandered the countryside in search for food and his next point of rest, he had been travelling alone for as long as he wished to remember. For his heard was gone and he was the only one left, the only one left to keep their Memory and it was only his Song left of his family. It had been many seasons that have passed since he lost his family and was introduced to the young one now the young runelord, who in their kindness had allowed him to return to his own feet and continue his endless wandering. Just as The Mother had decreed, he has the freedom to continue to wander. As the lone bull wanders, he spots an area of greenery and decides to approach for his meal and hopefully peaceful rest. The travel here had been plentiful of many beasts who had wish to impede or feast upon him, but none had succeeded. It is not to say his is without injury, the numerous scars and metal leg suggest otherwise.

As he grazes on nature's bounty, he is disturbed by an unholy screech that sounded like the combination of three beasts, then over the hill crests the three headed monstrosity, one of the smallest he has seen of its kind. It seemed as another fool wished to impede him, as all of the monster's eyes homed in on him, their mouths began to water as the hunger no longer could be restrained, they charged towards the lone bull with a cacophony of screeches. This had not been the first multi headed beasts the lone one had fought, and it would not be the last for he returned the cry of the monstrosity with his own bellow and then charged forwards towards the soon to be dead fool.

The frankly tiny monstrosity did not last long against the lone one and it was swiftly dispatched and now the victor was allowed to return to his meal. It was not long before he was disturbed again as an object from the sky approached his very location and with his one eye, he spied a Griffon or Brana, that was the question. One was much more trouble than the other, he tracked as the lone Griffon approached his location and as it got closer, he could notice the shine of metal on the creature's body, Brana then. The Brana landed next to the corpse of his recent foe walking around it seemingly inspecting it, all the while the bull watched the Brana as he ate, if it did not bother him then he would not in turn. The Brana was larger than the others of its kind he had encountered and was covered in a plume of green feathers. A few moments passed until the feathered one seemed to be satisfied with its inspection it turned to the bull noticing he possessed a Torc of his own and metal leg.

"You! Mammoth, did you slay this, Chimera?" it chirped with the Torc around its neck glowing as it spoke.

"…...Yes?" He responded causing the Brana to perk up and assume a stance before spreading its wings as high as it could and lifting its head high.

"Then understand this fluffy one! You have taken the foe that I, He who burns with endless Vigor have sworn an oath to defeat in combat! As such I challenge you to a martial contest to prove I have the strength to defeat who would have defeated my Foe!" the green one states while holding its pose.

"…"

"…"

"I refuse, go find another foe to challenge" he intoned as he continued to eat.

"Well then prepare yourself as on the count of- wait WHAT!" the bird squawked "you can't refuse! I have sworn on my name to prove myself. We will battle whether you want to or not and before that I will the know the name of my foe!"

"I have no name" the bull states.

"WHAT!?!" the Brana yells as it recoils as if the bull had struck him "What do you mean you have no name? Everyone must have a name! For one to be themselves they must have a name!"

"I have no name" the lone one states as it moves to another tree to continue eating. He who burns with endless vigor continues to stare at him frozen with beak open. Out of curiosity he asks, "What was your foes name then?"

The question shakes the Brana out of his stupor "it was named 'It which makes too much noise before dawn' a mighty beast which I had sworn to defeat!"

The mammoth looks at the smallest example of a Chimera he has ever seen then returns his sight to trees to see he has eaten all he can without harming the plant. He goes to take a quick drink from the nearby rapids, it seems it is time to return to the path and the mammoth turns to leave the Brana speaks once more.

"Hold on! I can't let you leave until I have proven my martial capability!" the Brana says while moving in front of the lone one's path. "Prepare yourself!" it yells as it charges the lone one and leaps at him.

With surprising dexterity for one his size the bull sidesteps the charge catching the bird on top of his tusks then with a shake of his head throws the Brana into the rapids where it is carried away before it can recover. "I CAN'T SWIM AAAAAAAAAAAA"

Finally in peace the lone one continues his march along his path to his next target. The next time he encounters the Green one, two days have passed, and he is fighting a pack of wolves. The beasts circle the lone one and wait until he makes a mistake to strikes but the stalemate is broken when the Brana dives bombs onto one of the wolves clawing them in half then jumping to attack the next closest one. With the distraction and the wolves in disarray he strikes. With both Mammoth and Griffon working together they make quick work of the remaining pack. The Mammoth turn to look at the Brana.

"Why are you here?" he asks.

"For a rematch!" it yells "After my defeat in our last bout you taught be a weakness to improve, so since we last met, I have learned to swim and done 500 laps around the Crystal Lake, and I lose again, I shall swim another 500!"

What?

"What?"

"Prepare yourself my nameless rival" The Brana states as he charges once again.

This duel does not end as quickly as the last with He who burns with endless Vigor paying attention for any counterattack from the Mammoth. The Brana is able to land swipes on the Mammoth, but no hit leaves any notable damage, and the bull is only able to land glancing blows that his opponent heals extremely fast for even his own kind. During the fight the Bull notices that the Brana never seems to use the abilities the Brana are known for, no lightning and no ice are thrown his way throughout the fight. In the end it is the bull that is victorious in this encounter as the Brana lay on the ground looking at him with a bruised body and broken bones that have already begun to heal.

"Hah! You fought well my nameless rival as expected of the one who defeated my prey." The Brana says.

"Why did you not use your abilities your kind is known for little one" the lone one asks as he takes note of his wounds however minor, they might be.

The Brana flinches on the ground "Ah you know about that, well, I cannot safely. I have no talent with wielding the unseen winds, I have even seen chicks with more skill than me" it mumbles as it seems to slump down before raising its head, eyes burning with determination "BUT that will not stop me from becoming one of the strongest Brana ever seen! That is why I sworn an oath to best that Chimera and why I must now best you in combat my nameless rival!" the Green one says slowly rising to its feet as its incredible regeneration already working to mend his body.

"…" The Lone one stares at the Brana and realises that if he doesn't do something its not going to stop challenging him "Well He who burns with endless Vigor understand this you may have not bested me today, but I can assure you that you are stronger than the Chimera you hunted, from battling both you and the beast I can say it does not compare to your skill. So go home understanding that you have proven your prowess" he says as seriously as he looks into the eyes of the Brana seemingly burning with energy.

"so cool" the Brana whispers before it stands up straight unshed tears in its eye and starting to speak in the voice full of never ending energy "Thank you my nameless rival, I am gladden to know that I have been able to prove my self worthy in martial skill and I can return home with an oath fulfilled!" the Brana spread it wings in preparation to fly. The mammoth nods and begins to turn to leave and before the Brana leaves he speaks. "Now I must return and swim another 500 NO! 1000 laps before I return and challenge you once more my eternal rival!" and with that the Brana soars into the air leaving behind his 'rival' stupefied.

"Surely, he was joking……. I'll never be rid of that overgrown pigeon will I." the Lone one says to himself sighing as he looks at the speck in the distance grow smaller and smaller.

-------Over The Years-------


​

"Ah HA! I have found you once again my Nameless rival! I challenge you to a test of speed and if I lose I shall…."

"Here you are my Nameless rival! I challenge you to a test of strength…."

"You bested me once again my nameless rival I shall climb to the top of Drongkaraz without flying 1000 times!"

"I will never give up as the burning passion of my spirit live inside me!"

"My Nameless rival I have found you now we can…."

--------------

​

The young Runelord once again has returned to the forest alone, sitting in a clearing she has returned to many a times. She sits on what is quickly becoming her favourite tree stump and ponders again if she should just make a chair. She might be a bit sentimental, but she has fond memories of this stump. She is pulled out of her wool-gathering by the sound of a loud trumpeting bellow that is followed by the loud thumps as one of the largest mammoths she knows pushes through the trees and she is not pleased with the sight. The mammoth has even more scars than last time and his Gromril leg is damaged again.

"Scruffy! The only time I seem to see you is when you come to get your prosthetic fixed! You can't keep being so reckless" she admonishes.

"Apologies, Young Runelord, I have come to tell you that your fathers trail should be clear" says 'Scruffy'.

Snerra sighs, ever since he learned about her father's caravan business and the big lug realised that there wasn't anything she could really ask for him to pay her back. he so 'innocently' asked about the routes the caravans of Winterhearth take to in his words "ensure that he does not cross them when he wanders". Since then, he has been going around clearing out any beasties that are building up not that the big lug would admit it. She still has no idea where he got the idea and every time he says, "he was inspired by an energetic bird".

"I have told you this many times already, but the caravans have armed escorts and you don't need to go around culling the monster population." She says knowing full well the reply.

"I have told you many times that I just happen to be in the area, when one wanders, he only goes where his feet take him" the mammoth says in the most innocent manner possible.

"Bah! On the subject show me your leg at this point I am going to have to make it out of adamant to keep up with your 'walks'" she says with a small grin on her face "you also seem to be is higher spirits then when I last saw you something happen recently? Maybe impress someone?" she asks with a teasing tone.

"No, nothing of the sort there is just this bird who keeps following me around. I have finally come to enjoy its company".

AN: This is the first creative story/omake i have ever written so hopefully its readable. Enjoy the Omake!