RHUNRIKKI STROLLAR (Warhammer Fantasy Golden Age Dwarf Runelord Quest)

[Voikirium]

The Children of Fire

(Before Master Yorri wandered off to bully Firmir)

Menlinwen,

Do not under any circumstances allow further Dawi exploration of the nest which you have mentioned, not without at least ten more Aesavalu. Your suspicions were correct, that was an unfertilized egg of the Aesvarinor. You are lucky, all of you, to still be alive. I shudder to imagine what the thing's parents might have done if it were not unfertilized, if you had taken one of the thing's eggs when it could have been an actual child. I'll not begrudge the Dwarfs, not when the Geomancers keep being Geomancers, but they need to know what they're actually dealing with.

-Cinderseer Ylric Volthan

Menlinwen of House Ebonsea of the Kingdom of Cothique draws in a particularly sharp breath in the silence of her own inner sanctum, her eyes widening as she examines the slightly translucent "gem", a smooth oval the shade of magma, glimmering and catching in the mystical light. It reflects the texts and tomes and scrolls that line the walls, along with the lyres, lutes, flutes and other instruments she plays to relax and to help her think when trying to study magic.

As well as the considerably lighter bottle of particularly strong brandy from home, which she had planned to save for a special occasion.

Then she had realized exactly what the orange stones being peddled in the streets of Kraka Drak were, had bought two for what was simultaneously an exorbitant price and an absolute steal, and then sent one off to one of the Steedkin of Ellyrion, while she studied the other herself.

And that letter had confirmed it.

They were unfertilized Aesvarinor eggs.

That unfertilized was very important, but she still felt cold dread as she imagined what could happen if some innocent, ignorant dwarf, not quite realizing what they had touched, ended up angering one of the beasts.

"Aesvarinor, here?" She laughed, mirthless, mad. "You are an ironic thing, aren't you?"

"Hm. Sounds serious lass."

Menlinwen did not jump. She did not start. She did not meep.

She was too inebriated for it.

Yorri, the Dwarf even more ancient than Snorri, seemed to appear from nowhere.

"We did have a lesson today, didn't we? My apologies master Dwarf, I realized we were in a truly precarious situation, one that could have effects on both Tor Vernath and on Kraka Drak. Aesvarinor, within prowling distance." There was a slight spark of guilt, in spite of everything: it was one thing for the client not to take the lessons, it was quite another for a client not to receive lessons because she was too busy...overreacting.

"Children of Fire?" Yorri cocks his head curiously, then grabs a chair, lifting it and planting it across from the mage with a soft thump. "I'm going to guess by the fact that you said Varinor and not Avalu that that's not a good thing?" Inwardly, she was pleased that, for all it was a subtle thing, her student had grasped the connotations diverging within Varinor and Avalu.

"No. Tell me, has Snorri told you anything about the Winds, about Aqshy?"

"Just this once, you can treat me like a beardling and really lecture me about it."

"Alright, alright, very well. The Winds of Magic split apart from the mortal mind in three cardinal directions. Cardinal, the Wind as itself. Nurturing Ghyran. Bestial Ghur. In spell work, the kind of thing that lends itself light and energy and effect." She looks the old dwarf in the eye. "Are you following?"

"Well enough. Please continue." The Dwarf shuffled in his seat and began to eat some jerky, though his eyes were well focused on her.

"Then there is Mystic, the metaphors and similes and analogies that the mind attaches to these concepts. The hourglass of Shyish. The music of Hysh. The Pestle of Chamon."

"Fascinating. But then, wouldn't everything end up weighed down with every Wind?"

"Not every analogy holds equal weight because not every analogy is held by every culture, but you're not wrong, a culture holding a sufficiently distinct analogy within itself about a matter can change the expression of a Wind, and the more people hold to the analogy the more deeply it's woven into a Wind. The Ram, for instance, would likely be a symbol of Ghyran to your people as a source of life, of meat and wool and mile, while for my people it is tinged with Shyish...touched by association with Morai Heg."

"Indeed."

"But, to return to the main point. Finally there is the Elemental, the physical manifestation of the Wind. The mist of Ulgu. The lightning of Azyr." She exhaled. "The fire of Aqshy. The Aesvarinor are essentially a physical manifestation of Elemental Aqshy. Of fire." She sits down, palming her head. "More particularly, of Magma. They have an instinctual grasp of the Elemental spells of Aqshy, of the very hot fire of the earth, and a temperament to match. The earth breaks, the ground quakes, great spouts of lava and fire." She looks to the floor, her head shaking. "We've got them in Saphery. We thought, the rest of us at least, that it was something the Geomancers created to help fight off Chaos. More fool us, I suppose."

"...That honestly mostly sounds like a dragon lass." Yorri pours himself some of the brandy as well, and puts it to his lips.

"And wouldn't it be a problem if somebody stole dragon eggs and brought them here?"

Yorri pauses, considers. The throws the brandy back in a single gulp. It's hard enough, considering the elves claim to drink "for flavor", but even so it pales in comparison to some of the brews he's had. "Aye. I suppose it would."

"Then you see the problem. Somebody has found a nest of their eggs, been harvesting them, and selling them in Kraka Drak. Fortunately so far, the only ones I've found have all been unfertilized. So far."

"And if they weren't?"

"Then a six-and-a-half foot behemoth of stone and fire that bleeds lava and shatters the ground would have attacked you, accompanied by its mate and any mature children that had also reached full maturity." Her voice is matter of fact. "They may not be quite as physically dangerous as Magma Worms, I'll acknowledge that, but they're a damn sight more sociable and full of magic. Damn near impossible to kill too. Most of its body is covered in granite hard rocks, shaped like a damn harness of plate, and the weakspots, the underbelly and the joints, they bleed lava when the thing is full grown." She pulls out a journal and tosses it to him. "Here, look."

And Yorri does.

He sees the thing as a juvenile. Two feet tall, but heavy and dense. A tri-segmented body in a roughly bidepdal plan. The upper segment consists of the head, with one, blunt spike, eyes with sclera the shade of white flame and pupils a vivid, fiery red, though the notes say it can be the same color as natural fire, framed by flashes of orange flesh when viewed from the right angle. It is covered by hard rock, in shades of an earthier, stony red, blue, yellow or orange. The second segment at the belly is a fleshy portion, allowing the thing to bend and move in spite of being covered in rock and it is a magma orange, revealing the beast's true nature: A beast of Elemental Aqshy, channeling the shear heat and power buried under the earth. There are seams of this orange flesh at each joint, but they are a trap of sorts, for piercing them only spews hot blood. At best uncomfortable, at worst boiling. At the bottom, the third segment consists of stumpy, smooth legs with merest beginnings of claws at the feet. Its control over magic is ecclectic.

The second stage of the lifecycle is next. The lower body is covered in a layer of rock and metal from the material consumed in the juvenile stage, even as it grows to a solid four feet tall. The head continues to poke out but itself morphs, the one spike splitting into two , somewhat sharper spikes. Crystalline nubs poke out from the back along the spine, physical embodiment of Aqshy, "somewhat like Power Stones (what?)" according to the notes, "though far less refined", ending in what will become the tail. They do, however, let it cast the Elemental Spells of Aqshy by instinct. Its blood its similar to hot magma at this stage. Though the least physically adapt in this stage, they have become potent enough spellcasters to survive any merely mundane predator, if far from real wizards.

A third (Confirmed???) stage. The full grown, mature exemplar of the species. Standing roughly six-and-a-half feet tall, its jaws have developed into a powerful beak capable of biting through near anything especially after weakened with the heat of its internal fire. Its limbs broad and powerful enough to slice through ithilmar in a single blow. The twin spikes of the chrysalis stage develop into three, viciously sharp spikes. Magically, it has become capable of shifting rock and stone and flames alike, channeling the molten heat and power contained within the earth to unleash fissures of magma, or simple waves of fire. The crystalline spines along its back, still following the curve of its spine, go down all along the tail. Its blood is magma at this point, making killing it even more difficult, in spite of the obvious weakpoints along its belly and joints.

Behaviorally, it is as hot-blooded, wrathful, and furious as a creature of Aqshy should be expected, though whether from a higher intelligence than expected or diverging territory it generally avoids people. It is generally recommended to flee--elf, and roughly elf-shaped creatures, do not provide enough energy to be worth hunting, but it does not like competitors in its territory.

"I notice this says confirmed," is the first thing Yorri says. "Does that mean--"

"There are rumors. Legends of what happens if the thing consumes enough, pure, Aqshy. If some damned fool gave it a large enough Power Stone. You know how these things always go."

He considers for a moment. "I admit, I wouldn't want to run into one unarmed, but don't you suppose you may be overreacting? Can it really be worse than a Wyrm?"

Menlinwen draws back, in a way he is mildly familiar with; intellectually she is acknowledging the truth of what he said, even as her pride is annoyed by it. "I suppose so. But these things have travelled to Cothique; more than once, we have stumbled onto their lairs." She shakes her head in remembrance. "They're no beast of Chaos, hungry, thirsty for blood and suffering; but they are rage, and passion, and wrath itself, incarnate in lava and fire and stone, and they do not take well to being surprised." She pauses, to let the point sink in lest he try something foolish. "Or especially to having their spawning places assailed. There are stories of them wiping out entire Bray Herds, the Shaman, and the giant they'd enslaved, just to take back an egg one of the abominations had stolen to try and power some vile ritual."

"The eggs are magic too, then?" He starts stroking his beard and Menlinwen feels her hands clenching.

"Oh yes, every part of them. But killing them is a nightmare at the best of times, and trying to peacefully harvest anything from them like the phoenixes or the giant eagles has proven too difficult by and large. The Priests of Adiadoth revere them as expressions of sacred fire, and a slight handful have even managed to keep the things as familiars, while the Priests of Lileath have learned to communicate with them, secrets of Ghur and Aqshy alike allowing them to modify their spells. So far the best anyone has managed in a broader scale is a trickle of unfertilized eggs as reagents for Aqshy. The Blackfangs like to say they're always only a hundred years from figuring it out themselves, but then they've been saying that since the Catastrophe."
--
Asur Culture Corner:

Learn Eltharin-

Aesvarinor: Children of Fire. In particular, the rune Varinor is a rune more associated with the physical connotations of fire, in comparison to the higher aspirations associated with Avalu. That is not to say Varinor only has negative connotations, but if one desired to describe a fire that burned down a town, Varinor would be the word to go with.
Aesvalu: Sons of Holy Fire, Priests of Lileath. Known also as Cinderseer, they spiritually connect with her great mustang, Cindermane, hence their title, regarding the creature as a fellow servant. They tend to make use of every Wind of Magic, and are headquartered in Ellyrion.

 

[Voikirium]

Dalbarbin Drengirukul

Old Gate Beside the Killing Vault

I know where the man who killed my father is.

And I can prove it too.

There are four great temples to Grimnir within the Empire of the Dwarfs as of the time of this writing.

No I have not forgotten how to count.

The most famous, of course, resides within Karak Kadrin, where treacherous king Ungrim awaits the dawn of day. A great monument dedicated to Grimnir The Doomed, Ancestor God of Slayers, who the Dwarfs hold single-handedly ended the Great Catastrophe by marching to the North, barechested and wielding his ax, followed by his son, Morgrim. It is a temple open only to the Slayers of Grimnir, a living, mournful testament to the shame culture that dominates the Karaz Ankor. The Shrine of Grimnir, the Shrine of Slayers, a Shrine to Death, where they prepare to march out their armies to menace once again.

The second, and the largest open to the general public, is the Great Temple open within Karaz-A-Karak. This is a familial shrine, not entirely unlike that clod of dirt dedicated to Thungni, near Karak Zorn. Depicting his great march to the north as described by, the certainly accurate and not at all biased source, Morgrim, his son and fellow Thacytharai.

The third in Karak Eight Peaks. I confess, the magics of Valaya protect it well from me; but I am stubborn, and I am arrogant, and I do not give up. I will learn, soon enough.

The fourth, least but still grand among the Taliobrass, lies within the realm known as Karak Azul, created to honor Grimnir the Strategist by Thalnir the Orphan, a wretched man even by the low standards of the Haclad. It is near, but outside, the Karak proper, and the first layer is a particularly well-defended gatehouse. A great, sloping roof of hard Gromril caps a body made of solid granite, iron worked into mundane Runes. Two statues guard a door made of gaudy Barazgal, carved with his grim visage, where the first and simplest of Dwarf scratch magic sits: The Master Rune of Grimnir's Ferocity, the Rune of Stone, and the Rune of Courage. This gives them courage.

Courage to face the darkness.

Courage to defy Chaos.

Courage to lie right to my face.

Where my father's body is hidden.

This Gatehouse is garrisoned by twenty Longbeads, well-armed with Runic equipment, axes and hammers alike forged by the line of Thalnir the Orphan; hard and sharp and protective they are, if artless, squat, ugly things, of metal and suffering.

But arrogant and stubborn, as all the sons of stone must be. And they did not even think to stop a little fly buzzing in.

And so I entered, and I saw the great elevator made of Wutroth, lined with jewels from each of the Karaks, the visage of Grimnir placed in gold. Down and down, down and down, down and down it took me even as sheathed my visage in the stunted, malformed shape of murderers, even as I felt the Runes press against me, against the will of Hoeth, the will of Justice and Knowledge alike.

Until I entered the second part, a part perhaps more appropriate for the Dwarfs than any other.

A combination of a library and treasure room, dedicated to treasures taken and records of the victories of Grimnir and of his death cult. Tomes, codexes, scrolls. The walls decorated with the soft stone, five floors, libraries and treasure halls alternating by layer. Runes guard it, of course, for they were prodigious in their use of their coping mechanism in those days. Flickering torches only barely light the vast, square halls, filled as they are with death and the memories of death. Broken dragon eggs, the bodies of dead dryads--our allies, our friends, our FAMILY, slain for the temerity of allegiance and alliance and loyalty and the bits of their bodies used to make these abominations.

The Master Rune of Climate, the Rune of Stone, the Rune of Preservation, all serve to preserve these things. The trophies. The texts.

It is so very dwarfish. A bleak, dark, hole in the ground, where wretched, vengeful, broken old men can please themselves to the thought of how they were once mighty, and weep and scorn and complain about the youth of today, and hide themselves and do nothing to help anyone. So busy remembering the past, they cannot ever look forward to the future.

Of course, as much as I loathe them, I almost pity them too for they do not even realize their vaunted honor has been tainted by lies, so busy loathing me they do not even think to ask whether, perhaps, the Longbeard in their midst who had the means, the motive, and the opportunity to plant a blade in my father's back as they both acted as diplomats in Tobaro might have done as much. The priest of the place is a corrupt murderer, or at least has aided murder. Has hidden the body of my father.

I know this, for I saw it, as I journeyed in Ulgu and Ghur, in deception and instinct.

Hidden, hidden, hidden from those too blindly stuck in the past to look around. And take stock. A secret chamber, at the very most bottom level, where too there is a map of the Karaz Ankor entire wrought in Gromril. Hidden there by Helric Whiteax, former ambassador to Tobaro, current head priest of the shine, and murderer of my father.

Understand High Loremaster, you can disavow me if you need to; there will be no poor feelings on my part. But I am going to the king of Karak Azul. I am going to present my evidence. And then he will either turn over my father's murderer, and the body; or I will show him, that the fury of a Loremaster is no slight thing, that we who look to the sun have found a new dawn.

I am not asking for approval. By the time you read this, I will have chartered my vessel, I will be on my way. But I believed you deserved to know.

-Loremaster Finael, writing to High Loremaster Cyeos
--
For the record, I got approval on this from Soul so I don't want to hear any back sass, if you will.

 

[Voikirium]

A Good Vow Made, A Good Vow Kept

I examine the sheaf of velum, hidden in my home workshop, with the kind of critical eye I can only turn on myself. Seeing the armor, sketched out and designed as perfectly as it could, until it was made manifest. From the underlayer, the gambeson; to the maille, good composite protection; to the plates of hardened metal, wrapped around my form like a shell, a shield from the whole world.

"It will end."

It was not about my pride. It was not about proving myself, or showing that I was the best, or Ancestors forbid, as some suggest, an attempt to...to what, embarrass my fellow apprentices? Or reassert myself after Nain managed to be the only one of us to not burn his Voidstone making his smelter? Good for him.

No.

It was never, not in all the effort I put into it, about that.

It was...it was remembering. The elgi say we're lucky in that way, that even now, hundreds of years on, I can remember being a little girl, my father playing with me, my mother's soothing voice and sweet songs, uncle's kind words even if he cloaked them in the gruff stone expected of a man of his age, of his position.

Perhaps.

But you know what I do remember, too? I remember Longbeards, good, noble longbeards of the Bryggeroot, sworn to me, vowed to me, nearly dying to protect me. A High King, my High King, almost blasted into nothing if I had not been there, and who knows what next to the Kingdom of Grungni if his son had perished? My apprentices, threatened by those witches for the audacity of trying to help their people.

My hammer creaks in my hand.

That memory...that was it.

That I didn't want any more of my people nearly dying.

Somebody needs to stop the Fimir. We can't just keep tossing my uncle at them either, unleashing Skarrenbakraz in the hopes that eventually they all choke on the ash and the smoke and the fire. They will figure out something, they aren't stupid, these Fimir. Honorless puppets, dancing on strings of...of Dhar and magic to the tune of wicked things; but inept? Incapable? Incompetent? No. No. Imagine, if it were us, the Dwarfs, being pushed back by some seemingly invulnerable foe of immense power, channeling some force of destruction, coming nearer and nearer to Karaz-A-Karak, to Karak Eight Peaks, to Kraka Drak? Would we kneel, succumb, bend the knee?

Or would we get creative? Would we unleash all our abilities, ensure that even if we did die to the last, whatever killed us would never forget as we struck them down?

The Fimir are pressed on two fronts, desperate and foolhardy they may be, but that, that only makes them the more dangerous. Who knows? Who can even tell, what powers these Mearghs, kneeling to their babbling, idiotic daemon gods of Surrender, of giving up, of pure nhilistic anathema, might unleash in their death throes? Daemons bound, oaths made, with many, many gods. Every slimy thing in the mortal soul made manifest in a single moment.

I hate them. It's unusual for me, to feel the kind of hot, ready, contempt that seems to come to so many of the rest of my people with such ease. I rage, I curse, I abhor, as the rest of the elders do.

But I don't only hate. I pity them, even as I know they need to be cast down, their works unmade, their efforts thwarted, as I comprehend everything about them. I hope one day someone might free them; I hope one day, perhaps we shall meet Fimir who never fell to the Anathema. And if nothing else, one day there will be a reckoning with the things hidden in their hellpits that drove them to this point in the first place.

But these cities must burn, and their works be scattered.

And I can help.

The furnace roars. Adamant, purest adamant, bubbling, waiting to be worked by my hammer.

I examine the first of the reagents I acquired, Barazgal straight from Ekrund itself, earned through a relatively minor commission as a much younger woman, a journeyman trying to survive and learn how to make my way in the world finally out from under my uncle's wings, an independent Runesmith in my own right, not knowing--of course--that I would so quickly take on an equal office to his.

Thane Filli of Clan Stonewalker, colonists from Ekrund, requesting a crossbow for his son, and I had delivered it, Runed and tuned to deliver bolts capable of punching through a breastplate like so much velum, trailing fire and aimed right at the weakest points of the enemy. The prongs carved with the clan's history in as much detail as I could mention, minute detail accentuated with silver, the stock stained and worked to look good, craggy basalt stone. Easy work, simple work, straightforward work, a thing of troll-tendon and wutroth and steel made to the standard set by my uncle. The Thane had thanked me for it and as my prize, as my payment, as my reward, an ingot of the most precious and pure of the most precious and pure of metals, sacred to Grungni, good as a king's word. Kept, all these years, in that simple clay container, only just waiting for a project worthy of the attempt.

The time was now.

The project was now, was this. A means to fulfill an oath only I knew, not sworn on my plaits nor to any who would ever know but the Ancestors and myself, and that made it all the more worthwhile: I wasn't keeping the oath for honor or glory or pride, but because I had made a promise, and I needed to keep it, not anybody else.

The crucible lights as power flows through the Runes, magic harnessed, power shifted, taken, fed to the things of fire, the things of heat and forging that fill my workshop. I slide it in, more heat, more power, ever more power fed to it, going from red to blue to singing, shining, shimmery white, the haze and waves of heat quickly rising up as it reaches the awesome temperatures required to melt the gold to the proper state for Runework, for my art.

As that cooked, I turned towards the second reagent. This, this was a bit later, a bit harder earned. I had fought many abominations in the incursion, but none ever caused me half so much grief as the Doombulls. You youngsters like to bloviate a lot, how easy it is to fight the beastmen, how straightforward, how lowly they are--but if they ever gained a moment to gather themselves, if they find a second to think and to plan, if and if and if, they'll show their mettle. I killed a particularly big one, back during the Catastrophe, you know. It wasn't paying attention in battle, and let that be a lesson to you: a weaker foe can kill with complacency.

Its reagents are long gone, of course. How do you think I powered all those Runes for the crossbow, hm?

But I always kept an eye out from them, always listened for reports of bigger ones, better ones, impressive ones, tried to corner the market on them for myself. A little trade secret, now shared to you, apprentice. And there came a time when the Beerguard told me one was making quite a name for itself, gathering together the tribes for some kind of planned siege of Kraka Ravnsvake, or Dorden, or Ornsmotek, or Drak.

Do I think it could have been a threat?

...Maybe. Maybe. We all like to think they're fodder, these things, but I saw what was behind that one's eyes. Akshyish, the thing called itself. Knowledge seeker. Bray-Shamans, Great Bray Shamans, they all flocked to it even as it did not simply burn our libraries but looted them, looking for knowledge of metal working and woodcraft and who knows what else. It had already started summoning Daemons, if none of the worst of their kind--yet. Perhaps worse than that, a Ghorgon. I can't help but think, even then, that it was sent, working with the Fimir. Gathering strength and knowledge the better to be a puppet to cut its strings. It wasn't too much bigger than the usual Doombull, but it hardly needs to be bigger to be a threat, especially if you toss a brain to match instead of the usual anger and rage, rage and anger on repeat.

Not that it mattered.

"How did you beat it?"

I didn't. The Beerguard isn't full of rangers, but beastmen aren't overly stealthy abominations at the best of times. And I might not quite be my Uncle's equal in these things, but I do have legs that work and more than a few runes. The Gori kept up camp on the slopes of one of the mountains, and they picked well: It wouldn't have had an avalanche, and they kept up a watch at that to make sure one wouldn't be induced.

But nobody can watch everywhere, all the time. Not even their gods. I had the Beerguard engage a number of them in combat a few kilometers away, skirmishing with ungors, drawing their guard, and keeping their attention directed there, towards that, figuring out what to do. Their omens fizzled out as I broke their magic, keeping them from doing anything until with a sickening crack I finally managed to start the avalanche proper, sending a few thousand tons of snow and ice and rock down on them.

We never did find the entirety of its body. A little part of me still worries, one day, that it will return, and that I'll have to fight it. But that's okay, because I can.

But we did find the Ghorgon, dead. Most of its body, a ruin beyond ruins, but its horn, symbol of might and endurance and resilience, there was a large enough shard of that still present for me to use, saved for just this moment, for just this opportunity.

The last of them was a gift from the High King, for saving his life. A treasure from his hoard, a reagent of course. The heart of a great Wyvern, great and vast and strong indeed. Lesser than their cousins, the true dragons, perhaps, but nevertheless they are mighty beasts indeed, venomous and durable and angry. This one had made its roost on the World's Edge Mountains, perhaps ten kilometers from Karaz-A-Karak. Snatching up goats from herders, supplementing its diet. Grudges atop Grudges atop Grudges.

Then it tried to attack Whitebeard's daughter.

I say "Tried" because she was journeying with the High King when it made the attempt. Starving as it grew bigger and bigger and prey that could sustain it disappeared? Growing territoriality as it grew in size itself, and seeing the traveling band of Dwarfs as a potential threat? Maddened by Chaos in an easy attempt on a good man's life?

It hardly mattered. All that mattered is it attacked the High King's daughter, in his presence. The beast ought to be given this, it put up a better fight than most would, managing to endure four blows from his hammer and keep fighting rather than giving up the ghost. But a better fight than most means little, precious little, when you still lose the fight and after all of ten minutes the thing was dead. He gathered up the parts of it, everything that could be a reagent or the material for armor and other crafts. Over the years doling it out as a reward to Runesmiths and other craftsmen: Some bone here, leather there, blood and eyes and horns and all other manner of its parts until at last, I received the very final portion of it all:

The heart. A thing green like an emerald and big as my torso, kept preserved in a chest, a masterwork in its own right, layered with runes of preservation and stasis.

Not, I think, something akin to the Greedy One that uncle killed all those centuries ago.

But, a truly impressive specimen indeed.

With those all set, turned my gaze first toward the underlayer, a simple gambeson cutting off at the knee made of Ancient Troll Hide worked into a particularly supple leather then dyed a dark red, like the sky at sunset. I trimmed this with Brana Down of the finest quality, particularly around the neck, before lining it with Klinkarhun in bright white, prayers to Thungni mostly, asking him to look well upon the work I set out to do. The Tale of The Glittering Realm was woven into the fabric in thread the shade of lapis lazuli, in art, in image, so simple that anyone could understand it, and understand what it meant.

There was a hiss as the Adamant was finally ready to be worked precisely as I finished looking the underlayer over one final time, precisely as I planned. Carefully I took up my tongs, hard troll bone Runed to ward off heat, and thrust them into the crucible, grabbing the first piece I needed and placing it on the anvil. And then, I set to work, slamming my hammer against it again and again and again. It had taken uncle time, nothing but time, to even just finally get the Adamant malleable, never mind worked into shape. Standing on the shoulders of giants, I could hope at least that it would take me a little less time to see it done, to see the thing finished, but I was in it for the long haul, this I knew.

My mind flowed through what I had planned. Not quite the same full body protection as Barak Azamar, but close, a barbute to wrap around the head while leaving my vision near-unimpeded and ensuring keeping my plaits from getting pinched in the metal, with a crest made of electrum ending in the visage of a Grungni, tracing the opening for my face as well, all of it textured to look like rope and left a gleaming, amberish hue.

And then after a time that was done, the helmet was shaped if still not quite ready, just waiting, waiting and thirsting for the Runes. And that would come, soon enough, but first there was work to be done, all of it left a ruddy, rising-sun red, lacquered to that brilliant shade.

Yet more plate to be shaped.

The pauldrons next. I was not quite so flamboyant as some were, leaving the geometry of it well-enough alone, but I chiseled and cloved and beat and cut until the left was Smednir, craftsman, metalworker, shaper and crafter, while the right was Thungni, Ancestor, he that had chosen me for the duty of Runelord. I lined the edges, themselves lipped to catch weapons, in the same-rope like electrum, then left a thin coating on the Ancestor's faces to make them shine against the red of the metal itself, though without that same texture. To finish it I slotted gems in where their eyes ought to go, dronril in Thungni's and hearthstones in Smednir's. The work was simple, and I did it well, moving through apace, perhaps a month for each of them?

And so I moved on to the next.

The gauntlets, vambraces and rerebraces. A prayer to Thungni, etched in gold, along the bicep and forearm. Each knuckle joint would be chiseled, marked, with the visages of the living legends of the Guild: my Uncle, of course, but Alric, Angkra, Gottri and others besides. Figures to live up to and a reminder of the oath I held, to live up to the standards of my Guild, each as detailed as I could make it and still ensure complete flexibility. I lined the larger plates with that same electrum, framing the work.

The cuirass next, and the plackart. I gave them shape and form and substance, to ensure I could move, fight, dodge, duck, weave as though it was a second skin. Not an ounce of extraneous weight; not a degree of movement sacrificed. Not by an able artist, performing her craft. Not by I, not by me.

They were two images flowing into each other. The cuirass depicted the Ankor Brynn in electrum once again, this time worked until it was shiny and pristine and pure as the noon day sun, like woven sunlight and stars, until it glittered and gleamed in perfection, a dim reflection perhaps a thousandth of the real thing, in a field whose emulations often failed to reach a millionth of it. The plackart would depict Thungni Himself stumbling onto that realm, and all the Runecraft he would end up delivering onto the Dwarfs, onto His descendants, to race and struggle and strive and hope to meet.

I worked.

And I worked,

And I worked.

Until it was done.

No, I could not have told you how long. But the time did come, and I had complete coverage of the torso, leaving only the bottom half of my body to cover.

The second layer of good maille would cover to the middle of my upper leg.

Unacceptable. Far too many arteries, blood vessels, bones and other necessities for only a layer of gromril chain.

Onto the cuisses. These I shaped and shaped and shaped with intricate, knotwork depictions of the mountains of Norsca alternating between the electrum and bare adamant, giving the appearance of sunlit slopes and the volcanoes that dotted the peninsula. Every so often, I laid amber etched with Klinkarhun about where a hold would be in the mountains. I lined the larger plates with the electrum as well, pouring my everything into reinforcing them.

I shaped the poleyns as Grungni and Thungni, the most warring of those three, left and right respectively. The top plate resembed their crown and helm respectively, the middle their faces, and the bottom their long beards. Both recieved Dronril in their eyes, were once more covered in the electrum.

Down to the greaves. I continued the mountains, continued alternating between the electrum and the ruddied adamant, and once more laid the amber down about where the Holds should be.

How long?

It didn't matter.

I kept forging.

The sabatons. Simplest protection for my feet, these, and so the decoration was sparse and simple though present, alternating between the Adamant and the electrum, white invocations of Thungni filigreed onto the Adamant, just waiting to be worked.

And like that, it was time.

Time for the Runes.

And Thungni found a cavern, and within it a great, glittering realm.

I took up my chisel and reverently, slowly, carefully began to cut the Rune of Iron into the electrum of Smednir's face on the pauldron, slowly, carefully gliding it in. I needed a channel of power, a channel of song and so for my own sake I sang, I chanted, following the old songs of power. No failure, no imperfections, this needed to be perfect. As well-made as I could, and that was very well made indeed. Slow, repetitive, calming blows. I counted, each and every one, to be sure I could it in as few as possible: Three-thousand-and-seventy-seven. It began to glimmer and gleam and shine with that inner teal light, shifting to gold as I blinked and remembered that oh yes, I was in Khazagar.

Wyverns. Surly, mountain-dwelling acid spitters, not altogether unlike the Dawi who lived under stone. Dishonorable, cruel thieves however, and no right-minded descendant of the Ancestors would engage in such behavior. Their flesh, their spirit, all of it was durable, strong, resilient to the cruelties of the world. And this had been a durable thing itself, able to withstand the hammer of Snorri Whitebeard for four mighty blows when even true dragons had struggled to withstand one. Something that would not break, something that could not be shattered or scatter. Its heart, granted to me by the High King, by the heir of Grungni, a perfect reagent to feed to the Rune of Iron, as the seat of its power and its pride and its durability. The Rune ate like a hungry dwarf as I portioned out the heart, chanting all the while, ignoring the tiredness and fatigue to focus, instead, on completion. The material disappeared as it touched the metal, the power taken and absorbed to serve the ends of the Rune,.

Cut. Place. Chant.

Cut. Place. Chant.

On and it went, as the hundred pounds of what had once pumped blood and strength and vigor into the thing's body was taken to instead porvide magic and power to the Runes, magic and power for my ends, to my flesh.

Until all at once I lowered the knife and touched nothing.

Looking down I saw there was no more heart.

The Rune glimmered, pleased, even as I tried to ignore seeing someone out of the corner of my eye.

And plucked from it gleaming seeds of power, that he might give to the dwarves.

The Rune of Stone. Strong, enduring, resilient. Necessary. I took up hammer and chisel and struck Thungni's face on the pauldron and kept striking it, slowly, painfully slow, starting to shape that Rune, mighty and enduring, into being. Blow after blow after blow, biting into the electrum, shaping the hard, straight lines. I kept a precise mental count of each and every one: one-thousand-and-sixty-nine, requiring precisely fifteen seconds between each lest you should take too much of the metal with an ill-considered, sloppy blow. Precisely, struck as my Master would, and his master would, and on and on the chain would go, back and back and back and back, all the way to Thungni himself, and I always smile at the thought.

And then the Rune started to glow, to shimmer, to shine, golden light streaming forth from it, streaming and ask for sustenance. It would function without.

But I've never been good at letting things go hungry. Not the Beerguard, not my apprentices, and not my Runes.

I took my hammer and I shattered the Ghorgon's horn into chunks, big ones at first, slowly reducing them down to smaller and smaller pieces from what had been a "bar" about as tall as I was and thicker around. As pieces got small enough to fit I fed them to that golden Rune light, softly illuminating the hallucination playing in the corner of my eyes that I resolutely ignored to keep my attention on feeding the Rune as it desired and deserved in equal measure. I took bit after bit after bit from the Horn, grasping them in hand and feeding it to the Rune, the shards slowly dwindling down and as it dwindled down my chanting only soared higher and higher and higher, echoing through the stone walls of the room back to me.

I didn't need it anymore, but it felt right. Proper. Going back, back, back to the ancestors and to the Ancestors, the knowledge refined by generations of effort into what I now, myself, was refining to further pass along to those who followed me, my apprentices, Jolla and Siggrun, and more would follow beside, the students they taught, passing on and passing on and passing on the wisdom of ancestors, after adding their own to the pile, improving and refining the Karaz Ankor much the same as one might refine metal.

The Rune of Stone has never been half as much of a glutton as some others I could mention. It slowly takes reagents, you know that, and it did the same with the horn, the pieces only slowly disappearing into the shimmering golden light, unlike the Rune of Iron which gorged itself on the pieces of the heart in an instant with all the table manners of a particularly ill-bred boar.

Until there was no more horn, and it was done, the Rune beginning to shimmer and hum properly.

One last Rune. One last mark.

This gift we carry, as servants of our Lord.

I began to carved into the figure of Grungni and the crest, biting into the metal with my chisel, slicing the hard, sharp lines, chanting all the while. The physical structure needed to be perfect, a ready vessel, otherwise all I was going to do was splatter a bunch of hard to replace Oathgold and ruin the whole thing.

That, I could not accept.

One strike. Two strikes. Three strikes.

Three-hundred strikes. Four-hundred strikes. Five-hundred strikes.

Five-thousand strikes. Six-thousand strikes. Seven-thousand strikes.

Ten-thousand strikes. Twenty-thousand strikes. Thirty-thousand strikes.

I never lose count. I don't have the right, and I don't want to. But there does come a time when my body forces itself, even as my mind wraps around the numbers and I turn towards the brightness of the Rune.

A hundred-thousand strikes. A hundred-thousand-and-one. A hundred-thousand-and-two.

Done. It began to glow gold, flickering, shimmering, unsturdy, unready, needy, hungry and thirsty alike. I took the crucible in the best of tongs, where the metal had bubbled and boiled waiting. I grabbed the ladle and I began to pour the Barazgal from the crucible into the waiting Rune, letting it soak each and every inch of each and every crevice.

The Master Rune of Galkarin. A Master Rune of protection. A strange thing, crafted by the Twenty-Loops, taught to her student, taught to my master, and from my master to me.

As it drank the ladled metal it grew more stable, more secure, less flickering and unsure of itself, like a youth growing to a man and finding his profession. If Stone was a survivor and Iron ate like a pig then Galkarin consumed, devouring, scarfing, slurping down the metal with the thirst of a beast near the door of death. The boiling, bubbling metal could not touch the Rune but disappear, and as it disappeared, as it was taken, the golden glow only grew stronger, better, purer and more refined as the magic of Runes themselves were forced into it, as it took on the power of the world and the glimmering realm, as it became my key to fulfill the oath I had made, a shield from every evil of the world. A shimmering plane of gold began to appear, a panel of pristine protection from all the evil of the world, slowly becoming more and more real as the work completed, as I grew nearer and nearer to finishing off the Barazgal and bringing the Rune to nearness, realizing at some point that my throat had gotten raw, ravaged even, needing ale, needing rest; but not until this was done, not until it was ready.

Then all at once, it stopped.

I was done.

There was darkness at the edge of my vision. A gnawing hunger, a great thirst. The amulets and talismans laid on my form burned and burned and burned, even as I slammed a hand on the table.

And then all at once, it passed.

I was hungry. And I was thirsty.

But this--Azulgrozkarinal--it had been worth it.

Stone shall strengthen Metal and Shield and I.

Iron shall strengthen I and Metal and Shield.

Galkarin shall strengthen Shield and I and Metal.

A strength beyond strength.

A protection beyond protection.

A Myth.

I look at it, even as the Beerguard finally enters, knowing I am done, bringing with them stonebread and ale. "Thank you."

Then I drain the whole keg in a single, vast gulp.

 

[Voikirium]

The Other Runelords Contribute - Bara

"Not to worry, beardling, I promised the king artillery and I'm not one for breaking such an oath."

Otrek walks behind, politely silent, his silver and teal clothing still faintly shimmering in the Rune light, followed by his huskarls.

By rights there's an argument that his grandfather, the King ought to be gathering this particular bit of work. And if not King Gloin, then Prince Gimli. Certain eyebrows could be raised, had been raised even, for the Runelord before him had grumbled to see him and not his father or his grandfather.

There were any number of reasons why that was not so.

First and foremost, while there was propriety in the King sending a more elderly representative, the Prince at least, to gather the work it was still, fundamentally, his right to send just about anyone to gather the commission. There were limits but Otrek was not passed them by any sane definition of those limits, hardly some toddling child.

Secondly, his father and his grandfather are getting ready to go out marching again. Examining supplies, speaking with the troops, gathering the militia from outlying settlements, things that require a better touch, more gravitas. That have to go right.

Perhaps most of all, to try and get him used to dealing with the Rhunrikki. They are old, surly and stubborn folk, even more prone to grumbling than the usual elderly Dwarf with one, glaring, exception (and perhaps that was why he wouldn't be meeting with that particular glaring exception, hm?) and most of his fellow youth sure do seem to have trouble the second a truly old Dwarf starts grumbling.

He is...less inclined so. If he has made an actual error or if they seem in a truly murderous mood, aye, he'll get away fast as possible; but when he's done nothing wrong, and when she has no cause to be angry at him since he just got there?

Well, it all kind of washes off his back like water off of well-made tile.

His thoughts are interrupted as they reach her secondary workshop, meant for bigger projects or more numerous ones. Wutroth lies seasoning under the glow of the Runelights, even as the massive stone door slides open exposing the reception chamber for clients

On the other side, well.

Otrek is neither an engineer, nor war-minded, nor a Runesmith but he does have eyes, and those are some impressive war-machines. He can tell by the look in her eye that some part of her is pleased. "The king asked for war-machines so what nearly happened with Sven doesn't happen again, and I have made him some alright."

The tile mosaics of Thungni and Morgrim, studded with precious gems and shining metal, seemed to throw their light on to the pieces. Bara walks over and pats the smaller, a Bolt Hurler bigger--much bigger-- than any he's ever seen before which is sort of impressive in its own right just from size alone. The body is Pure Gromril, as are the prongs, tipped with Troll Horn that is itself capped with gold. Knotwork mountains run down the side of the main body, made of two different metals: snowy caps of white gold and darker, exposed body of blackened Gromril. The winch that will draw back the prongs is shaped like Morgrim's snarling visage, plated in gold, while a depiction of His long passed visit to Kraka Drak is carved into the prongs and then reinforced with bronze rendered dull, ironically enough making it stand out more against the shiny Gromril. To complete the effect the same bronze lines the side of the top of the main body, lining where the bolt will be held, many prayers to Morgrim.

She pats it, smiling with glee. "I call him Barag Grom. Master Rune of Shardthrower, Rune of Barbs, Rune of Burning. It hits something big enough, say one of their dragon, the bolt will break into pieces and send sharp, flaming shards of metal flying all over the place, still with enough force to punch through their armor, and then get stuck right into their flesh, and it's a pain to try and pull them out at the best of times."

Next she walks over and pats a truly huge Stonethrower. Wheels, taller than a dwarf, bear the immense weight with nary a complaint, perhaps because they're made of the same shining white metal as the Gift-Giver's armor, as is the rest of the contraption. There are seven spokes on each wheel, and each spoke honors one of the Ancestors: on the outer edge a precious jewel, polished so much it shined, carved to resemble the Ancestor's face, while the inner edge has their mundane rune carved and then reinforced with wire made of the best of gold. The spokes themselves are studded with gold and jewels designed to depict stories of the Ancestor in question.

The bucket that will hold the ammo is designed such that it resembles the snarling face of an Elder, their eyes hearthstones shimmering brightly. It's made of the same metal but layered with gold to make it shine until it meets the arms that connects it to the rest of the body, itself etched with the story of Kraka Drak from founding to the present day, with a particular emphasis on the Grudges struck out, in particular that Wazzock the Greedy One.

The lower body depicts the Great Incursion in pure gold layered onto the boxy body, everything from his namesake killing the thing to the King of the Skies dueling it and every moment in between, accentuated with jewels where necessary. She looks with pride at the thing, smiling, proud of her work.

"And this handsome lad, I call him Grumbaki Grund. Master Rune of Thunderclap, Rune of Dismay, Rune of Discord. It will blow up any walls it hits with a sonic boom, and any enemy that hears it will be horrified and confused in equal measure. Very horrified, very confused." She nods. "So then what does the king's kin think?"

He nods to the huskarls, who themselves get the chests of gold and more ready. "I think it would be a shame not to pay you more, for work is greater than the contract agreed on; and for that matter, I will convey as much to the king."

 

[Voikirium]

Other Elves Come To Wage War
Barra elbows Skarri. Only after he puts the box of supplies down as gingerly and delicately as a box of brews from Valaya's own students deserves does he whip around to glare at the Ranger, pretty clearly more than annoyed. "What the hell was that for?"

"Elves approaching, thought you might want to see." Ah yes. The Elgi will be stopping at the Dawi camp to pick up supplies on their way to join Malekith, as well as dropping off some correspondence for the High King to help ensure their forces are working together properly.

"Oh yes, there's nothing I'd like half as much as gawking at people like some kind of drunken Beardling."

"I'd do it if I were you." They both jump as one of the members of the Elgi contingent who's been working directly with the Dawi, Enell Shadowbane, seems to appear from nowhere. "They shall be a sight to behold, do not doubt that."

"...Elgi, if you spook me like that again, I will throttle you."

"What's it you say to that poor apprentice of yours, Runesmith? Eyes and ears open always, and if you don't, that's on you?'"

"...Five minutes, one day Elgi that's all I'll need, just five minutes."
--
Malekith has called, and so they have answered.

Houses of three Kingdoms of Ulthuan, here to purge the Fimir, here to take vengeance for the lives snuffed out, here for the sake of the righteous, here for the sake of the world they love, here for they have been summoned by the Son of the Defender. Though not the equal of gathering the might of the entire Kingdom proper, even just one of these houses could burn a city to the ground given sufficient cause.

And the Elgi have been given sufficient cause, indeed.

The Cothiquans first, and obviously so. Steed-mounted, glimmering and shining they appear, Kazhunki of some caliber. Shiny maille harnesses the shade of the bright blue sea, layered with scales and plates of brightest green, but for their helms, silver as ever but the shade of sea mists in the morning rather than the usual mirror-polished steel. Appreciably heavy armor, even by their standards, and so by elven standard they may as well be riding citadels. Intricately chiseled into each link of each set of chain, prayers to their Ancestor Mathlann. On each and every scale, some old sigil filigreed in brightest gold, catching the sun's rays and throwing them about. The bottom row of both chain and scale alternate between precious cerulean-lacquered gold and hard ithilmar, all of it enchanted to the point that nothing short of Runes could begin to cut into it. Their tabbards and cloaks dark blues framing sea horses ending in the bodies of beasts of the deep, bright swords, and stormy seas. Where it is all metal such imagery is instead filigreed onto hardened plackards and breastplates.

And none shines more than their Prince, Avarion Seashimmer. He smiles as he sees both Elgi and Dawi alike, waving to the both, bright and cheery and without reservation, his panoply bright and shining in the sun.

And what a panoply it is! At base a layer of hard scales of Ithilmar, worked to his body until form fitting and beaten and polished until they resemble the scales of a Merwyrm, shimmering in the sun with a twinkling cerulean hue, the better to meld into the seas he loves. His plackard is a bright thing made of brightly glimmering Ithilmar shaped to resemble a sea-shell, precious stones pulled from the sea encrusting it, casting lights all around the place, and a broader band of metal to reinforce it alternating between sea green and ocean blue. His tall, conical helmet shines in the sun, studded with precious, sea-foam sapphires set in gold around the rim. His breastplate proper, that same bright cerulean as his scales, is filigreed with silver wire depicting Mathlann's fury during the Great Incursion, drowning entire armies of daemons and dueling the Sea-Beasts to ensure The Defender could save the world. Where most are shaped like an eagle's, the feathers that decorate his pauldron are instead shaped like an albatross', and two-toned at that between a particularly pristine white and a singularly dark black, studded with blackest beryl. His lance's counterweight is shaped like a merwyrm, while the piercing end is layered in exhortations to their Ancestor. His sword in his belt is perhaps the most restrained thing, and even it is left that bright cerulean and its pommel is a precious sapphire.

It is all layered in magic, they can smell it. Something to face evil, to ensure the good, to battle the unrighteous and protect the innocent. Magic of the honorable, magic of a knight, magic of a warrior.

If such a thing is to be believed, anyway.

Scuttlebutt from the elves themselves says this is the relative youth's first command, apparently that being considered a virtue in this affair (less pride making it easier for him to obey Malekith where otherwise he might be inclined to argue). Honorable and righteous and utterly without treachery in the matter, having made a name for himself as a soldier hunting down the mightiest of Daemons that still linger in the world after the Catastrophe, dueling Beastmen, facing down abominations layered atop abominations in the name of his Princess, Banariel, and returning the trophies to her.

It certainly makes he and his band a contrast to the next figure.

The Dwarfs would almost be offended by the looks they receive, if the Cothiquans and Naggarythians and, well, every other kind of elf wasn't receiving the same snooty, self-righteous look of superiority from the wazzock and his band of fellow wazzocks.

An unwelcome difference from most of the Chracians they know.

They wear skins tossed over their shoulder and worked into cloaks, not unusual, his forces, but where it's usually the hide of one of the White Lions it varies considerably more for this band, everything from the White Lions, yes, but also Troll Hide left uncomfortably Troll Hide looking, Jabbersclythe Scale, Chimera Skin and a dozen other things only the elves themselves could name. Their shields are tall, towering things, each with an image of some beast they've killed, and their armor looks fine but there is little if any artistry in it, more effort dedicated to ensuring its protective than anything else, simple chain and plate and scale giving what a dwarf would consider adequate protection, more than enough when combined with their shields and the enchantments layered on those. Perhaps the biggest decoration is on their shields, a spear and a stylized representation of a unique beast they've killed. They carry heavy, gleaming axes on their belt but their main weapons are long, sharp, deadly spears spears designed to punch through scale or fur or armor or deliver a good, strong hewing motion if need be.

Their Commander, Prince Allanial of House Woodborn, is more decorated if not, perhaps, the more tasteful. A belt alternating between elgi-writing and varying precious gems, layered on the hide of a troll, simmers with an unwholesome light, the White Lion hide he wears a thick thing layered with writing describing his many, many victories, painted on it and stretching all the way back to the Great Incursion. His ithilmar has been blackened, the better to prevent rust he claims, trimmed and filigreed in white gold to resemble the forests of his home on Ulthuan. Metal claws have been worked onto the gauntlets so that he always has some weapon to hand, and amber decorates a number of the joints.

The ax he carries draws plenty of attention itself. It seems to devour the light, to claim it, to hold it and hoard it like some yellowbeard sitting on a vast pile of gold and threatening any who should so much as see a piece of it. The haft says two-handed, though the way these Chracians are built maybe if he really needed to he could manage it for a single blow, but the head is smaller, more precise than the kind of thing a Longbeard desiring it would carry about, the better to concentrate force behind each blow in return for less weight for the force, engraved with gold to break the dark gray of the metal, depicting shimmering, scinttilating writing which the other Elgi also watching look at with some confusion and apprehension, concern even. Precious jewels, red-rubies, encrust a band of silver that traces the grip, itself made of softened Troll Hide, breaking up the monotony of the black wood.

Allanial is an ass, but he is an ass that has been fighting since Aenarion first cast himself into the fire and became Phoenix King and so he is very good at it. His reason for coming, according to himself at least, is perhaps the nearest thing to a redeeming quality they've heard about him: "I served the father you fool, and so I shall come to the aid of the son." But he is petty, vain, arrogant, and power-hungry, constantly pushing for Chrace both to be granted special priviledge as a part of Ulthuan most under threat from invasion and as the ones who did much of the fighting during the Catastrophe (Aside, he grudgingly acknowledges, from Nagarythe itself). Other than blighting the people around him he has been hunting, though where the boy looks for evil and threats Allanial instead seeks trophies, many pelts and horns and other bits sent to the Priests of Vaul to make treasures.

In comparison, the Nagarythian that follows third, surrounded by his kinsmen, is considerably more tolerable. He may not be looking at them at all unlike Avarion, but at least he also isn't glaring like he just smelled something dead either. Rather than looking at the crowd his eyes are firmly fixed on whereabouts, as far as they can tell, the Fimir cities are located, looking rather the same as an old prospector might when his least-favorite nephew enters the mines, not unusual for the Elgi mages when they see just about anything involving the lizards.

What's more unusual is the also thoughtful look he gets on his face when he sees them, as though considering something.

His retinue are lightly armored, all told, white Ithilmar maille shirts loosely covered under black and red tabbards, bracers of bronzed metal studded with beryls, and open faced helms. Black capes flutter around them, and strung over their shoulder are intricately made bows while leaf-shaped swords are thrust into scabbards hanging from their belts. The most common decoration are symbols of their Ancestor Hoeth the Trickster, who has given them the cunning to face the Daemon and the Beast alike, who outwits and outsmarts his opponents, the gods of Chaos. Perhaps one in every twenty or so instead wear mages' robes, well-made sea-silk things that wrap around their bodies, all dyed varying shades of black and gray.

In comparison, the Mage, Zephil of the House Brightwalker, is very different. One of those who wandered the Ten Kingdoms of Ulthuan in the name of Hoeth, and so earned the title of Loremaster, he wears thick and heavy armor over his upper body while a layer of scale protects his bottom, all of it dark black filigreed with white gold in arcane symbols that, against all reason, seem to endow even the Dawi with some level of comfort. Alternating layers of the scales around the bottome of his body are plated in a different precious metal, from silver to bronze to brass and like as not any other he could mention. His helm is a tall crested thing shaped with eagle's wings and studded in the center of his forehead with a massive, burning pearl. His cape is intricately inlaid with glimmering golden thread in eight briilliant symbols, Runes of Magic (not, of course, Thungnirhun, for there would be words if it were so) that describe the sorceries he unleashes.

His towering blade honors his Ancestor. The blade is worked of silvery captured moonlight, simple in geometry but burning with brightest power, glimmering jewels worked at the bottom that seem to shine with an inner light and a great power indeed. The hilt, made of gold, ends in the image of a hand holding a moon made of glimmering silver. The upper guard instead ends in the visage of an angry steed carved from a ruby.

Here to fight the Fimir at the command of Malekith, aye...and to steal what lore he can from them.

There are words for what the Dawi think of that, but they aren't fit for the ears of beardlings like the lot of you.

Such thoughts are interrupted by the beating of wings and the breaking of air as the world seems to shake.

And they see him.

A Caledorian, mounted atop a dragon (and oh, don't some of them clench their axes at that, particularly the Runesmiths and the Runelords?) approaching.

His armor is simple, red scale and golden plate, if layered with magic. His cloth flutters in the breeze, and even from this far away his sword burns with bright power, fire and might, as does his lance. His young dragon is the color of a bright bonfire, a juvenile Sun Dragon away from his home in the mountains, gone abroad with his friend.

Gone journeying with his friend.

Exiled with his friend.

Valanis Firespitter is of no house, bears little honor, and holds only one hope: Wanil.

Death.

Death.

Death.

Exiled from his lands in Caledor, for a reason shared too easily by his political opponents: he was possessed by a Daemon, and for all he managed to fight it off, that it ever happened in the first place is a shame of greatest magnitude. Mercy, and mercy alone, has kept him alive.

Mercy, and his ability. For he is a mighty warrior indeed.

Two things it seems bring him here, where he shall not receive a warm welcome indeed: The desire to avenge himself upon the Fimir, a great concentration of Daemons and Beasts and worst that needs to be lanced down anyway...and the hope that he might regain his honor in the blood of foemen indeed, that he might return home.

They have all gone by the time he finally lands, save one.

One Dwarf.

 

[Voikirium]

The Other Runelords Contribute - Dwalin

By rights, Dwalin Thunderlung should be busy. Brynkhaz a Langskaudi alone, while far from Khazagar or any of the (inferior) competitors the other holds are patronizing, is not exactly a small project. Add to that his children, and by rights the Runelord should be holed up in his home trying to see the work done, making sure it is worthy to have his name on it.

Instead...

"What ho young Otrek!"

Instead he's being clapped on the back by a loud, jovial figure whose arms have been shaped by hard crafting and the weight of hammers.

Suffice to say, he puts his back into not wheezing or coughing until, finally, blessedly, it stops, if only so Dwalin can gesture at one of his apprentices. The plaitling opens a chest half-as-tall as she is, and with greatest care pulls the glimmering, gleaming metal from the chest and hands it over to Dwalin. He hoists it, revealing first the poll: a thing of Dronwut stained a shimmering turquoise, luminous and gleaming with a charged air. Aldrhun epitheths of Valaya, Grungni and Grimnir are laid into the wood with silver wire polished and shining, as pristine as the wholesome and bright moon. Dronril and hearthstones are shaped to resemble the mundane heraldry, such that it is, of the Ancestors, encrusted on the poll. A grip of Ancient Troll is demarcated by those same jewels.

Up top, three statues made of gold beaten and polished and sandblasted until they shine like the brightest sun. At the center, Valaya in Her armor, grasping Kradskonti, looking somewhere between enraged and full of murderous intent. To Her left, clad in Gromril lacquered to look like His adamant armor, Grimnir holding Onkegruni; to Her right, clad in His harness, garbed for battle's intent and wielding Drongrundum, Grungni. The Brother Kings both look, if he didn't know better, as though they feel some slight pity for whoever has enraged Their shared wife, and the three are, of course, as detailed as possible.

Very good work.

"And that's hardly the end, princeling."

And then the banners unfurl. All three follow a winding path, down and down the thin strips of Ancient Troll Hide, the Holds perhaps most connected to each.

Otrek looks at the center first. The moon, made of thread snow white and glimmering silver as misty seas, the symbol of Karak Eight Peaks woven into it. The history of the Hold, unfurling as Valaya developed it, guided it, battled for it, the honors in war, the honors in bloodshed, She had earned in those many, many centuries. At perhaps the halfway point, there is a transition, like a miner plumbing the depths, of Valaya instead founding Karaz-A-Karak, the efforts to claim the site, to find the goods, to battle the evils lurking in that place. It ends with Valaya standing triumphant over the broken body of Kugath Plaguefather, Kradskonti ripping many wounds into the Cursed Murderer, wounds that have kept him far, far away. The hide is trimmed in that same silver thread, and lined with Aldruhns with Her many, many titles.

Enough that only the Daemons of Nurgle of Cold-Heart have dared show their face there for some time, at least in any real number. A Master Rune he can't name burns on Valaya's crown, even as Karaz-A-Karak's heraldry is worked at the very bottom.

Grungni's is similar, the mark of Karak Varn, whose Clans are so proud of their descent from Him, establishing the forges, the love of craftsmanship, the high standards that still show to this day, plunging into the mines, plunging into the darkness. The darkness fades eventually though, until the white becomes the foundation of Karak Ungor, slaying the Beastlord Kahrnazh in a battle that had shaken the mountains themselves, His thunder and lightning tearing mighty gouges in the earth itself even as the abomination had called on his gods to curse the Karak forevermore, a shoddy effort indeed. Another Rune, bright and teal light coming from it. The hide is trimmed with golden thread, sapphire affixed to it bearing His many titles.

Last, but not least, Grimnir. Instructing His descendant, reinforcing a Clan Hall, letting it grow, expand, spread like a tired old miner at the end of the day, until what had merely been a glorified fortress became a Hold, a proper Realm worthy of a King: Karag Agilwutraz. Winding there, marching there, until it transforms to the road to Karak Kadrin. Battles, honors, glories to hold Peak Pass, to mark defiance against those who would dare bring evils unto the lands of Grimnir, all of it ending not in His Doom, His Sacrifice, His End, but in His Battle with Vekhan, Lightning-Crowned, favored servant of Khorne of the Roaring Thunder.

Slain, broken so utterly he fled to the west.

A Rune burns at His feet, of course.

Seeing his confusion, Dwalin points at the Master Rune burning on Valaya's banner. "The Master Rune of Brutality. It's not a favorite, but there is something to be said for function and I wouldn't have learned it if I never thought there was a time to deal the kind of death it demands." Then he points at the banner of Grungni. "The Rune of Battle. Discipline, skill, consideration, all of these and more to ensure that in the battle-fervor, the blood-song of Brutality we do not lose sight of the goal of battle and of victory." Finally he points at Grimnir's, and the bright and shining Rune therein. "The Rune of the Fierce. Yet more ability, yet more skill. Lord Klausson has taken the offensive, and Lady Brynna's works offer protection. Therefore, to the king I offer this for his commission: A banner to make the warriors carrying melee victorious, so that if engaged by that which can survive the storm and strike past the wards they nevertheless end up broken, slain, ruined." He smiles, grimly proud. "I dare say it shall be excellent work indeed, this, the Durak Dreka. What say you, young Otrek?"

"I say," he says as he examines the banners yet the more, "That I shall ask the King to provide an extra treasure to you, oh Runelord: My weight in gold and jewels for you, who serves my family so, lest that we should be shamed."

 

[Voikirium]

The Other Runelords Contribute - Lorna

There is much less ceremony, much less of a production, as Prince Otrek and his Huskarl guard approach Lady Lorna's workshop. It is a thing of red granite, gold trimming, and burning teal light, defiant within Kraka Drak: Not quite The Gift-Giver's Workshop even before he had founded Khazagar, but a hard stone thing to be sure, a hardpoint for the street if fighting had managed to make its way into the Hold proper one way or another, from mundane siege to a Sufficiently Powerful wizard managing to slip past or break through the Runes that should make that kind of nonsense impossible in the Hold.

Lorna herself gleams with Runelight as she waits outside, looking impatient, holding a chest that is, itself, excellent work indeed. "Beardling, you're here, finally. Making your elders wait so long, bah! Why back in my day we we never would have disrespected our elders so."

He only just kept himself from saying he was fifteen minutes early, only listening with one ear as he considered the stop afterwards. When she finally finished, he nodded. "My apologies, Lady Lorna."

"And I'm sure you feckless youths think because of what you're paying me for this--" she shook the chest-- "You have the right to treat me so! Bah. Very well, I suppose I may as well let you see that the king is getting what he paid for."

She opens it, and the treasure inside is lovely indeed.

A thin circlet, carved and worked from the purest, whitest ivory taken from the tusks of abominations and monsters slain by the endless nightmares that lurk within the peninsula. White as the snow that blankets the mountains themselves.

Images of the five aspects of Gazul have been carved at equidistant points along it, splitting it into equal portions. At the center, in exquisite detail, Gazul guarding and protecting the first Ancestral Shrine, establishing the veneration of ancestors and of Ancestors for the whole of the empire, Gazul of Ancestral Veneration. The second, a mausoleum guarded by Gazul clad in His black armor, defiant, cloak's hood raised and the only surety that it is, indeed, Gazul, His flaming eyes represented by hearthstone beads. The third, Gazul of the Flame, Gazul staring down the witch Dokdul with keen eyes, ready to pronounce judgement. The fourth, Gazul of the Outcast, the Ancestor among the many, near faceless Himself, if it were not for the hearthstone eyes set into the hood. Lastly, Gazul the Monster Slayer, sword drawn and blade made of hearthstone, armor glimmering and gleaming.

Each of these images is plated with blackened bronze. The ivory in between is studded with lines of precious stones, each not larger than the nail of his pinky: the top row, amethyst the shade of rose; the second, purple garnet; the third reddest rubies; the fourth, glinting emeralds; last, bright white pearls. All polished aye, but it seems there must be more than that too, for they gleam with a bright inner teal light, the healthy shade of rune work.

In the plate of Gazul of Ancestral Veneration that lies over the forehead a Rune burns, thrumming and pulsing with an inner power like a flame in a brazier the Master Rune if he had to guess by the gleam. Following along, going back to his temples, the plates of the Guardian of Souls and Gazul of the Flame also burn with Runic light, slightly dying the ivory they rest on with that same, nearly flaming power.

"The Master Rune of Balance, the Rune of Spellburning and the Rune of Revitalisation. The wearer shall be anointed in Gazul's fire, a brazier of hope and purity that will burn, defiantly, in even the bleakest of times. No spell shall befall them but it shall be rendered into ash and dust and a bad memory; and Gazul shall take the knowledge of the foe's blasted magic into the Underearth, hide it in shadow and Nothing, and the foe shall not have it but only have little cinders left to pore through, worthless." She smiles with a malevolent glee, only just barely hidden, and it's one he nearly matches. "Your grandfather asked for something to fight the Fimir, and I dare say I've put my back into giving him that alright. If their Dirachs and Mearghs try and get up to any funny business, well, they won't be funny for particularly damn long afterwards, you can bet on that. I call it Krunk a Dum, Disaster Onto Darkness."

"Ne'er have I seen its equal." It's a statement he's said a lot the past few days as he's gathered the commissions his grandfather made with the Runelords of Kraka Drak, or at least the ones he could with both Snerra and her uncle busy, but it's also a true one. He isn't quite as inclined to romanticize the Runelords as some unreachable, windswept mountain peak as some are: he knows plenty of Runesmiths who will be as good one day.

But one day is not today, and for the moment, there is a very good damn reason they are Runelords. Add to that the vast resources they can marshal both in and of themselves, the fortunes they've acquired as excellent Runesmiths and the patronage of his father who has wisely seen the benefit having such mystics working for him can bring, and it is no wonder that even for a prince like him, so surrounded by Runes, the pieces he's gathered have stood head and shoulders above the common cut.

For her part, Lorna seemingly only just lets her ego inflate, a smug aura laying about her shoulders like her fine red cloak, but he's not fool enough to think there aren't certain rewards, not expected (if they were expected they'd be in the contract), but best practices. Ways to ease the process, ways to make sure the commissions of Clan Ironarm get just a bit more effort put into them.

"A work so fine, indeed, deserves reward beyond my word lest I be considered a liar. Diamonds and gold from my own hoard, placed back into the chest which you used to transport this fine piece until it is filled to brimming, atop the promised payment, lest that Clan Ironarm be shamed!"

That is less expected.

 

[Voikirium]

Dalgrung Ankor

The Realm of the Old Mine

Near Karak Azul, on the slopes of mountains neither far nor near from there, there is a great keep of sorts. There are many keeps, of course, for that place is held by the Dwarfs and they have longly claimed it for themselves, and when a dwarf claims something there will, soon enough, be walls of stone and steel to defy any who would dare steal it. But the defenses are disproportionately mighty in this place, too ornate, for what seems all together to be not an unusual place in those mountains: admittedly, there are bright diamonds known in the area, rubies and sapphires, but there are many diamonds and many gems throughout the Old World; why then, should this place be so reinforced?

For indeed it is both reinforced and ornate. Thickly walled, with granite of a pristine azure, reinforced with gold like captured, hard-forged sunlight glimmering and gleaming upon it, damascened until it gleams in strange, whorling patterns like the cracking rake of sky-fire upon the place. The walls are encrusted with brilliant, lightning white gems, in the shape of a miner, offering old (and therefore, by the account of dwarfs, valuable) knowledge in pictograms so simple even an Umgi can't cock it up. Crenellations with both brazier and bolt hurlers in case of troll attack ensure it can act as a hard point if assaulted, each bolt taller than the dwarfs firing it. Statues, beautiful and intricate and carved from the stone rather than clad in too much valuable material, surround the walls and the walkway: A king, at peace. A warrior, hammer-armed. A runesmith, able. But most often of all? A miner.

The Miner.

It is a temple, a temple to Grungni, specifically in His Nature as a Miner.

The people of Karak Azul claim it is where they first delved into the earth as they were founding the hold, the first mine they ever established as they founded that realm of the mountains, led by Grungni Himself, a fact the old Clans take no small measure of pride in. The historic and religious value make some sense in that context, and explains the heavy protection afforded to the place. Veteran Masons of Grungni, Warrior Priests of a sort, armed with mauls and wearing the heaviest of armor, guard it, thirty of them at a time, all their material bearing Runes of The Runelord of Karak Azul throughout the long ages, crackling with puissance. A further twenty miners are kept stationed on watch rather than mining proper, and for all their gear does mildly compromise to serve their duel nature as both warriors and active miners it would be a mistake to presume they could not drive their mattocks through even a king's harness if so pressed, as many raiding orcs have learned to their displeasure.

Also, they make good use of their mining charges.

Aside from protecting the temple they also cleanse it, for those tunnels are vast and good places for abominations to lurk.

In spite of the many thousands of years that have passed, the mine is still positively rich. By and large, the results are mundane gems: sapphires, rubies, emeralds, diamonds and amethysts, among other precious stones that are sent to the best of craftsmen throughout the Karaz Ankor, a gifted jewel a sign of great esteem from the Cult of Grungni.

There have, however, been occasions when more esoteric jewels have been found. Even in those cases they are by and large only what we now know of as Hearthstones, Wyrren Duraz, Dronril and other such common, mystical stones. Seeing that fraction of a fraction that are, for instance, Siddereal Sapphires, Solar Rubies and other, more potent gems is a double-edged sword for the miner who discovers as such, for it surely means that the amount of magic in the world is increasing, itself a sure sign that Chaos moves to cause no end of misfortune. At the least, a Storm of Magic on the horizon, leaking into the world; Chaos waxing, having brought together a true army whether Beast or Daemonic or Mortal; Skaven scurrying in the deep readying to boil up; or worst of all, Greenskins.

Warnings are risen up, and the king himself warned of the coming evil, even as that precious jewel is sent on to the Runelord, to make beautiful things worthy to face the evil that is to come. There is a reason that in the armory of Karak Azul there are no less than fifteen hammers and axes named "Duraz Urkdrengi".

The outer fortress is Runed with the Master Rune of Sky's Hate, given the Heart of the Chaos Spawn Senak, though to call it merely Spawn is to underspeak its atrocity. Eight spikes of red crystal jutted from its back, constantly leaking sparks of shuddering red lightning, unmaking entire scores of Dwarf Warriors, burning hot and leaving statues of brass behind. Six arms jutted out in unnatural angles, two flabby and fattened, two thin and emaciated, and two tattooed and jeweled, each. Seven legs, four covered in bubo and pus and shaped like fly limbs, two sheathed in ice and snow, and one smeared in ash, in dust, in loss. Nine heads jutted from its neck, each a different bird, malignant, wretched, shifting from one moment to the next with mutation beyond mutation, drooling magic from the beak of a condor, a vulture, an eagle, a hawk, a falcon, an owl, a buzzard, an osprey, and a kestrel. Each was crowned with horns of moonlight silver or flaming gold or brilliant prism or disgusting smear shaped to jagged, burning, unnatural fractals, lines upon lines upon lines that burned the eye to look at.

Its body was roughly shaped like a centipede's stripped of its shell. Its flesh was riddled with the marks of lesser spirits of Chaos, seeking to claim power for themselves, sigils carved into its flesh from unwell powers: A rat, its back erupting with horns; a bull, wreathed in fire; a two-toned skull; a million more besides, each a symbol of self-destruction and what's worse, self-deception.

It shook mountains with each unwelcome step.

Grungni Himself had to slay the beast, according to legend.

This, and the gifted jewels both mundane and otherwise, are taken as signs of the blessing of Grungni.

The mine within, meanwhile, is also Runed, if much less dramatically so. The Rune of Grungni, to ensure the miners within do excellent work. The Rune of Earth's Burden, the better for them to strike and endure. And the Master Rune of Energy, giving the Dwarfs within ample focus and energy. In short, they become the best of miners and surpassing warriors as well. Miner-Priests of Grungni continually plumb its depths, which reach far, far, far indeed, and it is also not unknown for Runesmiths, young and old alike (though it must be said that it is easier for a Journeyman to find the time to do so), to mine in it, hoping for Grungni sent reagents and even if not, the jewels are still considered a good way to consecrate their craft to Grungni.

 

[Voikirium]

The Other Runelords Contribute - Brynna

The last of the commissions, at least of Kraka Drak. One of the more surprising too, at that. Rumors have swirled around about Brynna being busy with her own project, quite possibly (indirectly) responsible for the incident that had ended up maiming her. That she had responded to the king's call for gear had been a surprise.

But a welcome one.

He's not inclined to put stock in the idea of her looking for an honor-guard as The Gift-Giver had, but if she was, managing to make the time to arm champions of the Hold would be one way to do it. Circumstantial evidence, and for all the Reckoners warn against putting too much stock in it, so too do they warn against not considering it at all.

"Welcome, Prince. Please enter, be well, and may no evil come upon you within my home."

"I thank you for the boon of your hospitality, honored elder, and would not impose upon your precious time."

He puts aside such thoughtful airs for the moment to instead do his duty and collect the work.

There's an air of formality, quite Zornish, on the Longplait as she welcomes him into her home (or perhaps inner sanctum is more appropriate, given the slow and steady growth of fortifications around it for all she does not desire a Kazaghar). The decoration is tastefully opulent, gold and silver and stone and gromril, the four best materials by any Dwarf's estimation, with ivory to accent and comfortable looking, particularly plush furniture all around the place, enough to seat he, his guard, and a few dozen of their closest friends all told. A seamless gray wall with Thungni's face in gold, more thoughtful than anything, surrounded by Klinkarhun prayers and enough precious gems to light the place in shimmering teal light, dominates the vast southern wall. Even odds it's (a) workshop, though how interested he is in that pales in comparison to his interest in armor upon the rack in front of it.

It's lighter than he expects of his people, that much he can say for sure: hardly the rawhide and scraps of the Gori, nor the maille-and-harness of the Elgi, but there's little, if any, articulated plate as he'd expect, instead relying on scale-and-maille for the most part, with the closest thing to real plate being the greaves (not even sabatons) and bracers (no gauntlets proper). He approaches, carefully, very carefully, looking at it. Each and every link has invocations of Grimnir chiseled onto it in the finest, but still yet legible, writing, Aldrhun at that. The gromril of the Maille has been blued to protect it from rust, a shimmering thing like the flames dancing in the hotttest, brightest forge.

The invocations all draw on one aspect, His Rage. Grimnir Bellicose Guides The Ax, Grimnir Raging Grant Me Vengeance, Grimnir Furious Make My Hide Stone, link after link after link of such raging words, the armor of one intending to slay, much as the armor itself is intended to provide as much freedom of movement as possible, relying on the nature of Pure Gromril to offer protection rather than pure coverage. Hardened scales of pure gromril cover the waist up to the neck, the scales colored red to protect from rust, bright as fire, layered over the maille. The aftermath of battle after battle that Grimnir won are etched into them, lined in wire of purest white.

The helmet, the greaves, and the bracers alike are all pure white, like the hottest of fire. They are relatively simple in geometry, but well decorated: An aventail dangles, directly attached, to the helmet, covering the whole of the head but for the eyes in Pure Gromril, the hardened plates intricately etched with the Kin of Grimnir and their legends, particularly the violent ones: His own forefather, the Ironarm himself; King Gunn; The Drakebeards; and many more aside, brightest vengeance and glorious victory and honorable sacrifice and no matter what, no matter, no surrender. To break up what could be an otherwise boring color palette the images are all lined in gold the yellow of fire, emphasizing and framing the lot of them.

The bracers and greaves are similarily decorated, though the greater space allowed her to get more detailed with it all: Otrek the Founder slaying the Frost Wyrm, slaying Kholek, and now his father leading the battle against the Fimir, all the foes who would dare to threaten his people faced at the edge of an ax. Aside from gold, Trollslayer's blade has been marked by a pearl socketed into a hearthstone the better to emulate its skyfires.

War.

Decoration of war, intended for a thing of war.

He smiles at it.

Brynna has not been subtle in laying down the Runes, the three burning marks yet flaring to brilliant life over where the heart would be: the Master Rune at the center, and then flanked by its compatriots on the scales to the left and the right.

"The Master Rune of the Boar, the Rune of Berserk, the Rune of Grimnir. Each comes to a singular point, each fulfills one purpose, harmonizing like a skald's story: The bearer shall be as stubborn and as skilled and as raging as your forefather, Prince. No blow shall slay them, no attack turn them aside, no strike dissuade them, lest the foe be mighty at arm indeed. And in battle none shall be their equal, no foeman greater, no party the more threatening. May that it shall be worthy of the champion the king offers it to; may that it meets the standards of the Royal Clan; may that it never fails in battle."

He can't help but examine the face of his great-grandfather, the man he was named after, the man he knows he cannot fight as.

But perhaps he can live up to his legacy in another way.

"It shall more than suffice, Lady Brynna. A reminder to myself and my descendants of the standards we must bear. I promise you this, I shall speak with my father to see you properly compensated. It will be done. Of my own vault if necessary." He bows at the waist to her, younger to elder, even as the huskarls that accompany him grab the piece and leave behind the initial payment.

 

[Voikirium]

Wizardly Argumentation

Chrace and Cothique have dominated the Norscan trade; and through the Norscan trade, contact with the Dawi and by proxy of the Dawi, the Brana, those strange, intelligent griffins. That's not to say nothing comes to the other Kingdoms, to Ulthuan as a whole, but it is a slow thing, in particular magic for the Mages of Cothique and Chrace alike greedily drink up what lore they can, their hunger for knowledge, for wisdom like a great maw, ever hungry for more, insatiable at the best of times. The scraps, already worked over, slowly filter their way through the other Kingdoms, examined by those mages. The different grasps of magic they hold, ten Kingdoms slowly cohering, they can catch on snag on different portions of what comes to them.

"What in the world are you talking about?"

And it seems one of those self-same mages sees something he is unenthused by.

"Stormcallers is right. Elementalists..."

Very unenthused indeed.

Aesaith Starsong of Nagaryth is a man of standards, after all. Veteran of the Great Catastrophe, his was a subtle but terrible work against the minds beastly that, shrouded in Ulgu, had casted themselves against his home: arrogant and sure they were, as was so often the curse of Ulgu, that their machinations were beyond all sight.

And what was beyond the sight of the stars and their light? What beyond the bright sun shining?

What beyond the sight of birds?

Very little indeed.

Not, mind you, that he had shied away from using Ulgu to strangle those same beasts on occasion.

But Azyr...Azyr was a Wind of grace and subtlety and foresight. The Heavens. Not simply cracking cloud and raking skyfire! Subtler, wiser motions, that allowed the stroke of a pen to destroy an army just as easily as some half-hearted shaman tossing about lightning and ice like a rank amateur.

Besides, dropping falling stars was much more effective and much harder to ignore.

And yet this Stormcaller, this Skyfire, all but fawned over such cheap conjuring, like some nascent Hekartite bloviating over "the song they sing" and "wild hearts" and so much worship of raw, naked strength, ignoring that strength without conscience was nothing but a nightmare. Bullies at best, monsters at worst.

There was a reason noble Ulthuan sought to constrain the followers of Hekarti, for all they would not move against Her. He could intellectually acknowledge, of course, that She had Her place, that there were reasons not anger Her in even the most peaceful and honest heart. Her cruel whim could sabotage Archmages better than he was.

But to kneel to Her, it was to kneel to what was worst in magic and its practitioners. Arrogance, ego-centrism, sadism, the love of knowledge untempered by the need to put that knowledge to good, productive use. Power hungry, politicking, domineering.

In short, a path to nothing less than Dhar. To endless war, and endless suffering, and slavery and subjugation to those who ought to know better, to be better, to set a better standard for all.

Nothing else for it: time to speak to this Griffin as he would any colleague.
--
"What the hell are you talking about?"

The Brana have not been slow, themselves, in acquiring the Lore of the Elves to further refine their own magic. Whether it be their tomes on the Winds, Grimoires containing spells, training manuals, anything, they will take it. They drink it down, for many reasons: natural curiosity, of course. A desire to be better at their jobs. And to a certain extent, a desire to more or less catch up to their allies, the Dwarfs. Their mysticism has existed for millennia, their Runecraft refined for thousands of years. In comparison, the Brana have existed for a paltry handful of centuries and, for all they punch far above their weight class, the signs are there. Getting to develop their magic, it is important.

And so they trade with Cothiquian Storm Weavers and Caledorian Priests and Chracian Beastwalkers, the Stormcallers and Silverbound and Bloodhunters looking for wisdom from an elder people.

"Bunch of cardsharks, soothesayers and ne'er-do-wells!"

But wisdom, much like beauty, may lie in the eye of the beholder.

The One Who Spits Brightest Fire From the Skies, or Skyfire to the Dawi, grinds his sharp claws into the stone of his home as he examines the oversized tome.

This Aesaith Starsong is diffident and airy at best, a slothful coward at worst. "Mystic Azyr, more like good-for-nothings!"

Magic was meant to be used, to face great evils, to turn aside the worst of harm. He had not survived the Great Catastrophe by prognosticating in his tower, examining the stars for portents and speaking to birds! He had wreathed his wings in lightning and summoned thunder in his voice and split flesh with claws covered in arcing menace!

And here this Elgi was, droning on and on about responsibility! And where was his? In a tower, as daemons swarmed the land? As Beastmen, cloaked in shadow, walked the land and only the heights, only a bird's eye view, allowed one to see through the deception and to take decisive action, to break their will with the call of thunder and and the hiss of ice.

Anything less than confronting that is an abrogation of duty.

Foresight is all well and good, unless it means you do nothing for fear of the flowing futures that fly by you! What is what is to come in the face of what is certain, what is now? That's the only thing that accounts in truth, all else being mere hot air as the case may be. The future is nothing more than a building series of now, and much like a house of bricks one hardly needed magic to see the foundation, just a good eye and even the slightest ability to extrapolate!

And what of the youth! Always prone to oddity, what if they adopted the diffident ways of this idler and his mysticism?

No, clearly that could not be allowed to come to pass!

So Skyfire pressed his claw against the stone, preparing to carve the Klinkarhun...
--
Beware the Elements!

...Action is all well and good, but to act without consideration or foresight is the act of dread Hekarti. Azyr, most of all, must turn its mind towards the repurcussions of its actions, and work with grace and care. A little bird speech can go much farther than any lightning bolt. There are those, among them Eltharia the Lightningbringer, Yolan the Cold, and Skyfire among the Brana who forget this; but to their own peril! You lose sight of the responsibility of Azyr, and place yourself at risk of being nothing more than any mere sword swinger when you do. The Winds, turned to the same end as a heavy rock tossed by some strong man: it is abjuration of wisdom, and wisdom is the path of any true wizard! Look to the stars and not merely to the ever shifting clouds, which blind you to higher mystery in the crack of thunder and the spitting of lightning. Look to Hoeth's constellation for guidance my friends, and away from that which would bind you solely to this world...
--
Diffident Sloth.

...Action is required! Magic is a tool, meant to be used, not merely to be fawned over as a lover might be! Those who cling too deeply to the mysticism of our Wind, of the Sapphire, they lose sight of that responsibility, ironically even as they themselves speak of responsibility. Among them I name Aesaith Starsong among the Elgi, and among the Brana proper I name and shame Starbringer and Smokelover for their prognosticating. Good sense can allow one to know the future, good sense and a basic understanding of cause and effect: but only we can shape the storm, only we can see through the lies of Quicksilver, only we may bring such devestation short of proper warmachines. This mysticism you study from among the Elgi, it is nothing more than an attempt to brew sloth in you, sloth, idleness, and a corrupted youth...