RHUNRIKKI STROLLAR (Warhammer Fantasy Golden Age Dwarf Runelord Quest)

[ThatOneGuy050]

(Some) Varieties of Alcohol from throughout the Karaz Ankor
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Winter Cider - A cider produced by Clan Frothbeard, made from apples grown in the orchards they tend to. Said to be able to stave off even the most harsh chill.

Frothbeard Brandy/Ranger's Brandy - An apple brandy made primarily in Khazid Valdahaz by the northern branch of Clan Frothbeard. Known and well-liked by those who prefer such a drink. Clan Frothbeard have several rangers within their clan, many of whom brew their own brandy, hence the name Ranger's Brandy. Typically made in late autumn or early winter, this brandy will keep a dawi warm in even the biting cold of the Far North. The rangers of that place sometimes carry a horn or two of this brandy for the harsh blizzards that can catch them out during their patrols.

Frothbeard's Reserve - A brandy made by only the master brewers of Clan Frothbeard, who were originally taught by Bodin Frothbeard, a dwarf who had over eight hundred years of experience in the art of brewing and the founder of Clan Frothbeard. Produced from only the finest fruit of their yearly harvests, aged for at least half of a century, and with at most a half-dozen barrels produced in a year, this is a drink for only the most absolutely discerning of palates. Known to be enjoyed by any and all who drink it, even those wine-loving elgi can't help but appreciate the amazing flavor of this most exquisite and rare of brews.


Hearthfire Ale - A brew made by Clan Winterhearth, with minute differences and subtle variations depending on what branch of the clan the brewer comes from. Often reminds the drinker of fond memories, of enjoying the warmth of the hearth with loved ones, and of times long since past. Not overly strong, but certainly a fine choice of drink.


Bryngal Mead - A type of mead produced by Clan Goldenbrew of Karak Ungor, with honey sourced from the apiaries of Khazid Vorn. Is known to be deep gold in coloration, as well as having a somewhat sweet flavor. Even though bees are often persnickety and hostile creatures, once they were domesticated the process of gathering their honey was not overly complex.


Ironeye Beer - A beer made by Clan Ironeye of Karak Azul. Quite strong for a beer, and often drunk by garazi in an attempt to strengthen their constitutions. Certainly not the worst choice for those seeking a strong drink.

Irongut Beer - A much stronger beer made by Clan Ironeye. Hits the stomach like a bar of solid iron.

Leadbelly Brew - The strongest drink made by Clan Ironeye. Too strong for all but the most hoary of longbeards and enduring of warriors. Often the brew of choice for drinking contests between hazkali where both contestants wish to prove their mettle. Described as akin to being struck by a particularly belligerent ram. (OOC: Unless your name is Frederick von Hohenzollern, then this is not fit for human consumption. It is barely fit for dwarf consumption, and really is only made for either the horribly overconfident or those who drink beer like it's water.)

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Khazalid Trivia​

Khazid Valdahaz - Brewery Town (Valdahaz literally means brewery, and I couldn't think of a better name. I'd put this somewhere near Kraka Drakk and definitely in its domain, nowhere near as close a Khazid Okraz, but maybe a week's worth travel in optimal conditions and without interruptions like trolls or wildlife attacking travelers.)


Khazid Vorn - Farm Town (So, Vorn literally just means a farm. Farm Town sounds kind of weird, but also like something dawi would absolutely name a village or small town that is primarily used for farming.)(I'm only just realizing that this could translate to Farmville, because I'm an idiot, but I'm also an idiot who likes stupid jokes, so it stays.)


Bryngal - Bright/Shiny Gold. Basically just translate it as lustrous gold.

Garazi - Young(and therefore foolish) dwarfs. Beardlings.

Hazkali - Plural form of hazkal.

Hazkal - A spirited young warrior.
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---

So, one way to analyze a culture is through their culinary arts. Seeing as I don't really know what kinds of foods the dawi favor, I went with the next best thing, and made up a bunch of different drinks because inspiration hit me. @soulcake If you threadmark this and give it a bonus, just put it to whatever roll you think it might help.

So, I did another thing. I hope you all liked it. I really didn't want to write another thing about alcohol. But, Inspiration got out the Inspirational Sledgehammer and kept hitting me until I stopped being a lazy bastard typed out this pile of dreck. If someone else(i.e someone with more talent and/or motivation) wants to do something similar, feel free to do so.

 

[Voikirium]

Kazad Rinunrikkaz
The Fortress of Queen and Hammer

If one journeys into the Realm of the Norse Dwarfs, that strange band who have made their living in the most cursed land on the planet, one enters first into Kraka Ravnsvake, a land of many unique treasures and great works of artifice. Follow that same path northwards, and eventually you will come to a great Dwarf fortress rising out of the snow-capped peaks like a dragon taking flight.

Not just any hall, but a great hall carved out of hard granite, rising further than any such construction could. Hard and and angular, gold lines the otherwise perfectly, utterly smooth pillars, mundane runes glorifying Valaya. Carved into the snow-white stone, which though low and squat in proportion are taller than many lesser city walls, are images of Valaya's many myths, legends, and stories, particularly though not only those of a more martial bent: the Slaying of Paranthax, the Endowing of Winterhearth, the training of Whitebeard, all are included, and a thousand thousand more beside, many in life-like size. Twin statues of the Ancestor, solely in Her martial form, flank the massive gates that serve as entrance, and unusually for the Dwarfs they are not grim of repose: still serious, perhaps, but there is a calm, measured acceptance on Her face, rather than the grimly lined anger that so often defines these things in Dwarf construction. Their armor is made of gold, their weapons' blades gromril purified until snow white, and their plaits of silver from Karak Eight Peaks; so well constructed it seems they should be able of moving, fighting, living, though I place no credence to such legends.

The Gates themselves are a treasure in their own right. It is a simple but beautiful thing, a depiction of mighty, warring Valaya advancing against an enemy sorcerer, a Daemon wielding Shadows. Great hunks of Obsidian have been shaved and shaped and beaten and carved into being, until the shadows flow like waves, in particular a great blade made of it that unfolds like a flower until it slams into the queen of the Ancestors. Valaya Herself, clad in armor forged and Runed by Her son, advances through the magic as carelessly as you or I might walk through a stream, mighty Kradskonti splitting and unmaking the magery such that it is as she advances towards the daemon, represented not by presence but by absence, a spot where there is nothing on the gate but a perfect, amethyst jewel, marred by a streak of black within. Valaya Herself wears armor perfectly crafted in imitation of her own, and Kradskonti has been measured, examined, and perfected until one feels they can take it up with their bare hands and fight.

Three Runes burn upon the door: the Master Rune of Spite, the Rune of Roots, and the Rune of Security, all of which combine to ensure that one is better served attempting to blast through the stone than through the gromril: and fifteen-feet of stone is no easy thing to carve through in the first place, that much is certain.

If allowed entrance, the true size of the thing becomes apparent as one sees the great chambers spread out like a giant going to sleep in some great valley. By my count, and I am a good counter but the Dwarfs are excellent at keeping secrets, there are thirty levels to the fortress, each roughly equal to a floor in our own buildings and with a greater radius than you'd think, and I can say with certainty that the structure is divided into three portions, ten levels per portion. The Upper Levels, or Kazarunk--the Hall of Battle. The Middle Levels, or Kazokri--the Hall of Craftsmen. Last, but not least, the Deep Levels, or Kazamhorn-- the Hall of Shadows.

Kazarunk is perhaps the most famous, and certainly the most important, part of the Fortress. It is here where Valaya is remembered, as the Protector of the Dwarfs. It is here where the most war-like Dawi women learn to fight in emulation of their goddess, here they learn to battle. Storage halls containing training equipment, barracks, sparring grounds, smithies, you name it it exists. Youths are sent, and Warriors depart, capable of fighting and enduring and suffering and striking as no other group can (while it is most common for girls to be sent here, it is not unknown for male dwarfs to be trained here, if rare, offered to further develop the martial skills of Thanes, priests of Grimnir, and all other warriors). Though not all sent become Valkyries they are common as air, as clear water, as breathing. Images of Valaya are on just this side of tasteful, including both statues and engravings, and hard wooden pillars provide much support.

The Master Rune of Triage, the Rune of Recuperation, and the Rune of Sanitization all burn throughout this portion of the, to put it plainly, complex, for as one journeys one grows to understand it is more than simply this portion. This is to ensure that as they train, and fight, and struggle the students learning here heal quickly from said training, allowing them to push their limits, and surpass every obstacle placed in their way. As you also may expect, quite plain fights between students are not an uncommon occurrence and such is a good way to ensure there is no gross escalation.

Next, the Kazokri. Mundane metal smiths, of course, work in this collection of smithies, producing the goods the warriors of this great fortress will need. Armor and weapons and ammunition and all other such goods are produced. More prized, however, and perhaps the more valuable is a small but varied community of Runesmiths, ranging from apprentice to Master (indeed it is not unknown for a Runelord to work for such a time in the place, though there has not been one when I have visited). The Runesmiths, of course, gain practical experience working with a client, make connections with future clients, and network among themselves, even if they will not admit it; while in return the cream of the crop of Valaya's martial cult receive fine Rune work that will allow their already expansive skills to punch even stronger. In this hall the sound of molten metal being beaten, the taking of grit to wood, and the roaring of fire is common as grass upon the field.

The Rune of Smelting, the Rune of Copper, and the Rune of Tin all make metal work so easy that even I found my skills flourishing during my journey and my stay under the hospitality of the High Valkyrie Kazadna, being when I finished my sword. Steel is made pure as flowing river water, moves as easily as an elf, and melts like ice before dragon fire. To perform the blacksmith's art within the Kazokri is nothing more and nothing less than a joy, a great expression of the pure and innocent happiness that is taking your hammer to the metal and making something where once there was nothing.

Last, but not least, and yet most shrouded in mystery, is Kazamhorn. Little is spoken of and known for certain except for among the highest ranking Dwarfs, and the Dwarfs will not speak of what is hidden there. I can tell you however, that every entrance I ever saw was guarded by heavily armored, greatly armed, distinctly unfriendly looking Dwarfs, each of whom was armored in such great regalia that a lesser king would be bankrupted seeking to produce something of that caliber. Each is swathed in armor and wields a fine two-handed ax shaped in imitation of Kradskonti. Whatever is in there, I would not want to try and see it or claim it. Rumors claim that Asrai Wizards snuck in and reclaimed truly dreadful Elven artifacts from the War of the Beard relatively recently, and were never seen nor harmed a soul during the proceedings; if it is so it would be most impressive and restrained on their part.

Kazad Rinunrikkaz was created in response to the parting of the Ancestors, but was not finished for quite some time. How it seemingly breaks the Rule of Three is perhaps a question best answered by (one of) its designers, one Karstah Khazadsdottir, the supposed heir of the mythified Snorri Gift-Giver, the visage thrust upon Snorri Klausson. An adopted member of Clan Winterhearth, they, aside from Thungni who is the root of all Runesmithing, were nearest and dearest to Valaya; and so it is perhaps only appropriate that to show her new allegiance she would build a temple, training ground, and monument to Valaya all in one, and a fine fortress aside. Its location, to judge by the speaking of the Dwarfs, is as much that the Priestesses of Valaya were of a more martial bent in Ravnsvake for a number of reasons including influence from the Handmaidens of the Everqueen as it is anything else.

-Leandre Agua, Relics of the Gods

 

[bird yells]

Jorri settled into the armchair with a satisfied grunt and accepted the proffered tankard. "Thank you, Snerra."

"You're welcome, father." Snerra smiled her signature little smile at him and sat herself down in the other chair, so they could sit side by side before the fireplace. "How was your day? The negotiations are going well, I hope?"

"Oh, well enough, well enough. They're not so difficult it's strictly necessary for me to be here, to tell you the truth, but Folki wants to see his daughter get the best bride-price possible and he did me a good turn a few decades back, so I saw no reason to refuse when he asked me if I could help. If nothing else, brokering a marriage contract with Bryggeroot makes for a nice change of pace, compared to the stress of managing our holdings in Winterhearth Hold. Some wagging tongues back home have actually taken to calling me Jorri 'the Prosperous', can you believe it? Bah. More like Jorri the Pugnacious, considering how many beardling heads I have to knock together to make 'em see sense..." And he wouldn't miss out on an excuse to go visit his daughter, of course, although that should go without saying. But it really was pleasant work, negotiating a marriage between clans whose alliance already rested on such a firm foundation: Snerra's first little escapade back then had produced a surfeit of grateful Bryggeroots, and over the centuries there had been plenty of opportunities for them to repay their debt in ways large and small, if not to Snerra personally then to her clansmen. A caravaneer travelling topside, say, might meet a Bryggeroot trader going the other way and receive a quiet word about a particular danger up the path and some extra provisions to help alleviate it. Or a wide-eyed beardling on his first campaign might find himself pulled out of the way of a beastman's claws at the last moment, thanks to the especial vigilance of an older Bryggeroot fighter. Now the brewers, in doing those things, might think they were only satisfying a debt of honour, but no Winterhearth with an ounce of self-respect would be content to receive an unusual kindness without responding in kind. That meant one Bryggeroot or another would get a helping hand in his time of need, somewhere down the line, which would engender yet more gratitude... and, occasionally, an opportunity for a strapping young man to catch the eye of a fair lady. That in turn meant marriages, and new kin welcomed joyously into one's own clan and old kin gone bittersweetly to join the other, until at last two clans were joined together in truth: not because of the designs of thanes and powerful men, but rather as the natural profit of ordinary honest folk repaying good with good for a great many years. In Jorri's own opinion, it was a far better way of forging alliances than the politicking most noble clans dabbled in; words were only air, no matter how honourable the man who spoke them, but Jorri had no need for words when appraising the Bryggeroot, because each kind act given unto his family was a link in a great chain and he had held that chain in his hands and knew it to be without flaw.

Well, come to think of it, he supposed they'd got started more quickly than usual on the marriages, in particular. Old thane Olaf had joked, back in the day, that some promising lads and lasses had better be joining his Bryggeroot clan now that so many of his longbeards would be busy safeguarding the jewel of Winterhearth. (Mentally, Jorri made a note to visit the temples next day and make a libation in Olaf's memory, because the old gravelchucker was long dead. The current Bryggeroot thane was a stripling of not even five hundred years, and wasn't that yet another uncomfortable reminder of just how ancient Jorri himself had become, at some point when he wasn't paying attention?)

And all of it, the alliance between clans, this entire monument to their people at their finest, had come about because his daughter, at the time little more than a child and still an apprentice, had once felt grateful over a routine commission and repaid her commissioners beyond their wildest dreams. While Jorri engaged one half of his brain in nattering with Snerra on inconsequential topics, he put the other half to use interrogating how he really felt about her accomplishment. There was pride, of course, and wonderment, and love... but also a melancholy recognition of just how little credit he could claim for how she'd turned out.

He could remember with perfect clarity that day when Ma had marched over his threshold, having just learned of his plans to send Snerra away to study under Snorri, and demanded to know what he was thinking, uprooting such a promising seedling at such a sensitive time in her life. He remembered - with reluctance - the argument that had followed; she really had been livid, in a way he'd rarely seen her before or since. But for once he'd stuck to his bolt throwers, no matter what Ma thought. Honestly, Ma (he'd said to her), it's not like we're making her live in some surfacer's shack, fending off wolves with a broomstick. She'll be with her uncle - your son! And not just with him either: there's a hold's worth of Winterhearths up there, with plenty of elders to keep her on the straight and narrow and solid kinswomen to teach her all a young woman needs to know. All the proper rites will be followed, all the demands of honour met. And just think of the opportunity! To which Ma had glowered at him and replied he was trading a good daughter for a great smith, and she just hoped he could live with the results. That had stung, even at the time, and with the turning of the centuries Jorri had wondered more and more if Ma might not have had a point. A young prodigy needed a master, and there could be no greater teacher of runecraft than Snorri, but a child of eighteen also needed her mother and father, and Snorri... well, Jorri loved his brother but one need only look at how badly he'd botched poor Karstah's adoption to understand that playing the part of a parent did not come naturally to him. He could fill a youngster's head with wisdom and her hands with skill, and the old rockhead surely loved Snerra in his own way, bless his heart, but could he show his love in the manner a child sorely needed, when navigating the difficult final years of her childhood? Jorri rather suspected - as he suspected Ma had known all along - that he couldn't.

Jorri did not precisely regret his decision to have Snerra start her apprenticeship so young. Partly that was because he'd promised Ma he wouldn't, and if he permitted himself to feel regret in spite of his promise then he was pretty sure Ma would punch her way out of the Underearth just so she could have a go at wringing his neck. But he also didn't regret it because - why would he? Snerra was a runelord, and all agreed that it was only a matter of time before she eclipsed Snorri as the greatest living Winterhearth smith. She'd beat Ma's ominous prediction, too, because with age she had become both good and great: wise to the world's cruelties but not inured to them, callused but not callous, strong but not stern. She had realised all the potential he'd seen in her as a child and then some; how could his choice have been wrong if it had produced such an excellent daughter, beloved within her clan and admired outside of it? His choice to kick her out of the only home she'd known, ten years too early, and make her go live among strangers who happened to share a surname. No, Jorri certainly didn't regret his decision... he just sometimes wondered, in moments of bleak introspection, if maybe he sometimes hadn't done quite right, by his youngest.

What did Snerra think of all this, he wondered? It seemed for all the world like she'd weathered the ordeal of her upbringing effortlessly - and honestly, out of Snerra's many great achievements, spending her most formative decades under brother Snorri's roof without turning into a complete sourpuss was probably the most miraculous - but then she would have made it look effortless, wouldn't she, no matter how she might have felt? Even if she'd had to figure things out for herself, with her father absent and her uncle unaware of how to act like one? Jorri felt like he at least owed her an honest conversation about the matter, an opportunity for her to unload any small kernels of resentment she might carry and to hear him explain his choices if not defend them. But how did you even start a talk like that? Sorry for making you live with your depressive uncle for a hundred years, but at least you turned out all right in the end, hey? Sorry for forcing you to be ready to strike out on your own, so much earlier than anyone should have demanded it of you? After a lifetime of knowing just what to say and a fortune built out of knowing how to say it, Jorri found his eloquence deserting him. And so, coward that he was, he just continued chatting away with her about trivial things, as he had been doing all throughout his little bout of soul-searching. But at least - at the very least - once it was time for him to retire for the evening, and after he'd given her a rib-creaking hug, he made sure not just to tell her he loved her and was proud of her but to look her in the eye while saying it, too, so she could see he was serious. Snerra just smiled and said love you, Da, but her smile was a little different than usual and something in her eyes told him, somehow, that she understood.

His daughter certainly had a great many fine qualities, he thought as he was making his way to the front door, but she really could do with keeping her dwelling a bit tidier. With all this dust stinging his eyes, some stranger outside might see his face and think he was being weepy.

 

[bird yells]

Seated at a table set for two that could easily have accommodated twenty, in a room that was silent but for the clinking of cutlery, Karstah contemplated how blessed she was.

At the temple, as a very young child, she had fantasised about her birth-parents coming to rescue her, that they were not dead but had merely been separated from her and one day would take her someplace far away, to live happily as a family within some vast and prestigious clan. She'd never completely abandoned her girlish daydreams but she'd compromised with them; as she grew older and hope was gradually crowded out by disillusionment, she had cast away the most fantastical aspects of her wishes bit by bit, as if she could bargain her way to making one mundane enough to come true. Maybe her parents really were gone forever, but she'd discover at some point she had some other relative alive out there. An uncle, or a cousin. Or maybe there really was no clan to which she belonged, but she'd at least have the comfort someday of knowing her mother's name. By the time she'd turned thirty, her dreams had been modest indeed: she had thought she would be content if she could leave the temple and one day have an elder look at her with something other than pity.

And just let them look at her now! She was a master acknowledged and ordained, not only trained by the hold's pre-eminent runesmith but also his heir in truth. Greatbeards two hundred years her senior competed to commission her work. She was a member in good standing of a great guild and had been accepted into a clan of impeccable reputation. (She recalled with a mixture of fondness and embarrassment that first time when Lady Snerra had called her 'cousin', and how flustered she'd felt then.) She had wealth and respect aplenty; her life really had developed in the manner of a fairy tale, in a way exceeding even the wildest flights of fancy her eight-year-old self had once indulged in.

Did it mark her as an especially ungrateful woman, then, that even now she sometimes found herself wishing for more? She glanced at the room's other occupant, eating in silence. She had spent a lot of time with Master Snorri, these past fifty years, and by this point there were very few people who knew his runesmithing as broadly as she did. But of Snorri Klausson she still knew little. What had he been like as a young man? What had his wife been like, who he never mentioned even obliquely? What was it that had first got him started on making toys? They could spend an entire day together, speaking frankly and easily about rune-making and dragon-rearing and runesmith politics and the like, but the instant their conversation strayed into an area remotely personal to Master Snorri it'd collapse under its own weight. That was what had happened this evening, just as it had so many evenings previous: she'd made a few abortive attempts at small talk, he'd answered monosyllabically and then a cloying silence had descended upon them. She'd spent the rest of dinner with her thoughts, peeking at Master Snorri now and then and wondering if she was only imagining things or if he was peeking at her, too, when she wasn't looking. No, that couldn't be right; Master Snorri was solid as bedrock and could not possibly feel as awkward as she was feeling, right then.

Their relationship was as close as as one between teacher and pupil could be, as tightly-knit as one could expect from predecessor and heir. But even still she wished to share something more, with the old man she admired more than anyone in the world. (Her thoughts strayed dangerously close to that forbidden word she dared not voice even inside her own mind.)

...Even knowing how shameful it was to ask more of someone who had already given her so much, she could not help but yearn for it.

As if he'd somehow heard the mumblings of her treacherous heart, Master Snorri pulled his chair out and marched out of the room without a word. Good going, idiot, she berated herself internally. Here you are, given all the world on a gromril platter, and still you can't be content with what you have. No wonder Master preferred to duck out, with you moping like this- his footsteps were growing louder again. Was he coming back? He was, and he was carrying a... toymaker's kit. He glanced at her once, furtively, and settled down to work.

Karstah sat motionless and stared at him, for a little while. Then she bustled off to fetch her own kit.

---

She held up the little toy warrior she'd been whittling in the rune-light, examining him critically. The grain of the wood really had come out beautifully in his beard, to the point it was almost a shame she was going to paint the figurine. But it was part of a set and she couldn't very well leave the thane's beard a wooden brown while his underlings' were coloured white, so painting him it was. Oh well, it was something to keep in mind for the next set she'd make.

It was... nice, making toys like this. Even if they were doing something separately in the same room, rather than doing something together, and even if they were speaking no more than they had been; at the very least it made the silence less oppressive when she had something to busy her hands with. And she got to observe Master Snorri while he worked, which was something she would always treasure. His skill was as exquisite as ever, but he'd also developed some new tricks in recent decades: she was still not quite sure why he'd spent so much money and hard work on learning elven "al-kemy", but one outcome of his efforts was that he now knew how to make dyes and pigments with properties she never could've imagined. Like the doll he was making at the moment, for example - her diadem was not merely coloured yellow in imitation of gold but actually shone in the light almost exactly as gold would, to the point it almost seemed like Master Snorri had made a little piece of jewellery in real gold and shaped it like fabric. And yet she knew it was just cloth, as anyone else would once they felt the doll with their hands. He'd deployed his al-kemical knowledge to other parts of the doll too, to similarly impressive effect: the commanding glint in her blue eyes; the silkiness of her plaits; the rougher texture of her palms, hinting that this particular princess wasn't just ornamental but knew her way around swinging a weapon, too. Even knowing who made it, she thought it a remarkable creation. Sometime soon, Master was going to make some poor little girl somewhere deliriously happy.

"I hear Asta's preparing to see her apprentice off," she said, eventually.

Master Snorri did not look up from his sewing. "Good for her."

"You don't disapprove?" she asked cautiously. "Fifty years is a little on the short side, don't you think?"

"Hmph. When you're as old as I am you learn to express your opinions sparingly, lest some beardling overhears you and mistakes them for ancestral commandments." He kept working, but she could feel his focus shift more fully to her all the same. "Certainly I have my own views on how long an apprenticeship ought to take, but the truth is masters have argued over how many years is enough since long before either you or I were born. Some even say a long stint is harmful: it stifles the apprentice, they say, makes him cast too closely in the mould of his master. Hinders him later on when he should be developing his own branch of runecraft, distinct from his teacher's. My thinking may differ on how much smithing the apprentice should learn at his master's feet and how much the journeyman should discover on his own, but as long as young Asta stays within the bounds of respectable masterly opinion it's not for me to disapprove or not, of how she raises her student." All throughout his exposition his hands had moved with dizzying speed to finish the toy he was working on; with his needlework done, he put the doll to one side and looked at her squarely. "The number of runes an apprentice learns is ultimately secondary; a journeyman can learn them all on his own, in good time, as long as his master's made sure his foundation is secure. In fact, when you drill down to the core of it all, there is only one quality a journeyman absolutely must have, that a master must instil in his apprentice before the two part ways. Do you know what that quality is?"

Karstah thought back on her own journey; on a newly-founded hold in the middle of the wilderness, and the occasional triumphs and bitter defeats she'd experienced in its defence. On staring down a limitless tide of beastmen and shouldering the terrifying responsiblility of defending the settlement against their fell sorceries, not because she'd thought herself remotely equal to the task but because there was none other who could. On those times she'd fallen short, and the good men and women who had died because of it. On marching out to meet the enemy in the field, later on, and the shame she'd felt, retreating to safety while a venerable runelord was dying in the muck behind her. Or, for that matter, on chasing Yorri across the breadth and depth of Kraka Drakk so she could deliver his damned axes. She thought back to those of her master's lessons that had most helped her, in those difficult years; how to ignore pain, shrug off fatigue and push past adversity in pursuit of her craft. How to keep chipping away at a problem that seemed intractable. In her head, Karstah had always summarised those lessons as: you do the job in front of you, no matter what. "Is it... perseverance, Master?" she ventured.

Master Snorri mulled her answer over for a little bit before replying. "You're some of the way there," he allowed. "A journeyman must always persevere, certainly, even when all the world seems against her. But apprentices can be stubborn too, usually to their own detriment. Leave them unsupervised for any length of time and they might well keep banging away at whatever you've put in front of them, but if so they'll just compound their own errors. Or even if you don't leave them unsupervised, for that matter - if and when you take apprentices of your own, Karstah, you'll be amazed to see how quickly they generate misconceptions, seemingly spontaneously, and how much work it takes to correct them. I'd say it's like pulling teeth, but a bad tooth once pulled at least has the courtesy not to grow back bad as soon as you've got your back turned."

That caused a particular memory of Karstah's own early apprenticeship to push its way uninvited to the forefront of her mind, and she ducked her head. "I'm sorry, Master."

Master Snorri frowned. "You've nothing to apologise for. Youth is a crucible we all must pass through; you were no worse than I myself was, at that age. But it's all beside my point, anyway. The one essential quality every apprentice must learn is not perseverance but mindfulness: the ability to judge one's own work without flattery but also without rancour, to see clearly what could have been done differently and to understand what sort of practice and experimentation is necessary for improvement. The question I ask myself of masters about to release their apprentices is not for how many years they've been teaching, but rather if they can be sure their students, with no-one to turn to for advice and only their own good sense to guide them, will end each year better smiths than they were at its beginning. If young Asta can look me in the eye and say yes, without hesitation, then I am content with her decision." He sniffed. "Although no apprentice of mine will ever leave my workshop after a mere five decades, obviously."

She considered her set of toy soldiers, and all the little microscopic adjustments she'd made as she was whittling them, from the first to the last. Always with a view to doing better next time, without even really thinking of it. The mindfulness to see what could be done differently... she didn't think Master was hinting at anything in particular, but there was certainly one topic in particular that loomed large in her mind, when she heard him say it. So she marshalled her courage and spoke, words tumbling over each other in her haste to push them out before she could lose her nerve. "You know, Master, recently when I'm not busy with my duties I've gone out exploring the environs - not to search for reagents or anything, just hiking and, and fishing or hunting mouflon sometimes - and I've found some scenic vistas I quite like - they're nothing grand really, nothing like your azrilwut groves, but I think they're quite beautiful - and it's got nothing to do with runesmithing, but I was wondering, that is to say - would you like to come with me sometime," father?

He looked at her for a few seconds, face inscrutable. Then he said: "You know what? I think I'd quite like to."

 

[Voikirium]

Next Steps

"Not a hammer." Nain's stylus flows over the velum as he sketches out the solid, straight lines of metal. He's got a talent for it. Everyone knows it. From Drazh up they know it. And that is part of the problem: they all know it's what he's good at. Gorldrazh, the one piece he was most famous from, is one; and everyone comes trying to get a hammer forged by him. He has no problem with it, it's good business to have a specialty, but he's a damn RUNESMITH, not a hammersmith. He's master Snorri's student, blast it! He has more to offer than that. And he'll prove it with his Masterwork if he has to kill himself to do it, by his beard! And besides, the hammer would be too easy.

So why can he not come up with anything? Axes, rings, clever machines for mining, picks, lockets and circlets, cloaks, shields, they all seem unworthy of the work he's put himself too. They litter his pad, dozens, hundreds of sketches; the materials for a few even lurk in his workshop. The good news is they are...fine. Fine things, the next time he is commissioned. To create a circlet, a cloak, a shield; none would shame him. But as a Masterwork, as a sign to his former Master that he is worthy of learning all he has to teach, he needs more. He needs to be better.

Bronn would have it done already if he were us.

Nain closes his eyes and lets the thought flow over him. He's beyond cheap and petty comparison with his cousin at this point; but there is a part of him, old and spiteful and self-loathing and deep, that will occasionally cough up its vile opinion, unwanted and unasked for and unneeded. Even that part of him is beyond wishing to see his cousin fail, just once. A single time to remind everyone--Nain, Bronn, and the rest of the world--that he is mortal, that he is not so categorically supernaturally above Nain. That he is not the distilled essence of a Dwarf, spritzed onto the mortal plane with the rest of them.

Hm.

He starts to idly sketch Runes. The essence of a Dwarf, hm? A silly idea; but his stylus nevertheless begins to sketch out Rune arrays. He might not know all of his master's Master Runes; but he knows enough, enough to have ideas as he sketches on his pad. Gromril, Stone, Iron? No, too straightforward, too simple; not a bad idea for a creation, in fact he'll keep it in his back pocket for now, but not fit for a masterwork. Spite, Fury, Grudge? Aye, the world must be balanced; but that is not what he wants his legacy to be--he needs to eat, too, but he'd never try and argue that's the essence of the Dawi. He taps his fingers on the table and the stylus on his brow, getting a small black smudge on it.

And then the thought comes to him.

And he etches it out.

Tirelessness. Smednir. Thungni.

For the essence of the Dwarfs is creation. A desire to make, to take raw materials and shape them into art. To withstand months, years, decades of trying, just to make sure what comes out is right. And so Tirelessness. By Gromril and brass and iron and flame to work them did Smednir, mighty Smednir, teach them how to do so in strong metal, good metal, trustworthy metal. And Thungni, Thungni gave them the tools to surpass even the finest metal, to shape desire into physical reality, to take bucking magic, wild and unreliable, and make it as worthy as good, solid stone under his hand.

Make a dwarf no longer need to endure, and they'll create for fun. For the simple pleasure of shaping and making and working with the hot metal and the hard stone and the paint.

Give him a world where every Grudge is settled and a Dwarf would still make for the joy of it, of working with their hands and creating art.

Yes. Yes that is the essence of a Dwarf. Creation. The arts. There may be those more skilled...but there will never be those more dedicated, and that brings an ability all its own. He starts to sketch, then truly begins to draw, squat, angular lines that form good, solid armor: the armor of a true master Runesmith. It will be simple, and its simplicity will be its strength.

The pauldrons will depict Smednir teaching Thungni craftsmanship, engraved in smooth, flowing lines, more subtle than the usual knotwork, into the surface shiny and purple except where the edges are trimmed in brass, to help reinforce them and protect from rust. The left pauldron will depict Smednir in particular forging an axe for Thungni to emulate, while the right will depict Smednir looking in approval at Thungni forging a mighty ax indeed. The Rune of Smednir and Thungni, respectively, will be on the left and the right. In the brass trimming, there will exhortations to the lords of craftsmanship, asking them to smile upon one who follows in their wake.

A part of him is, admittedly, tempted to engrave the armor of the torso with the story of Master Snorri creating any of the dozens of works he's bled and suffered to make sure come out right. A smarter part of him realizes there is a good chance Snorri will think it's ass kissing, probably because it would be ass kissing. So instead he thinks some more, and some more, and keeps thinking. And thinking. And thinking. Until he's carved it down to three distinct possibilities. Either engraving the creation of the Throne of Power by Grungni, the epitome of the art, all along it and placing the topaz that is to represent that golden beauty right above where the heart should be, the carving flowing outward from that in sharp, strong lines depicting the Father of the Dwarfs creating that which gives them their strength.

Or the forging of Gorldrazh; of that which had marked him as worthy to become a master. A simplified hammer made of blackened gold, carvings spreading outward, ever outward, long intricate things, flowing from the creation itself to all he had to prepare for it. Learning under master Snorri; becoming Hammerhanded; gathering the materials; so on and so forth. Until he had it, the physical embodiment of his skill, his ability.

Or last but not least, the Steel Plate that had given his clan their name: fine armor, scale in fact, made of scale. Carved by Skadri the First, forging it under the eyes of their Master, and creating a thing of art and beauty. A set of armor hard enough to turn aside an angry minotaur, alternating between precious stones and the hard metal, specifically treated to make them finer and harder; and yet still it was light enough that the Elgi could have made it, but as protective as a man could ever want.

And what of the runes themselves? He wants this to be the armor of a craftsman; the armor of an artist. The armor of a maker, not just a killer. They need reagents, then. Visions of a truly ancient stonehorn's horns empowering tirelessness above and beyond its already potent nature fill his mind's eye, but so does taking in the tusks of a thundertusk, to keep the armor cool; or even a truly ancient mammoth's tusks, the better to force endurance into. A bar of Adamant, fed to the Rune of Thungni, fed to make the Rune strong, stronger than strong. And oathgold, purified and refined and perfect, given to the Rune of Smednir, the finest of material for the finest of workmen.

He pauses, does some math, and winces as he considers exactly how much that will cost. He's a runesmith, he's hardly struggling, but any one of those would be a healthy purchase; all of them together will do more damage to his treasury than he ever thought possible. He'll need to come up with some kind of way to defray the cost. And then there's the labor he'll be missing, the possible commissions he'll not get simply because he's in a fugue as he makes the damn thing himself. An impediment on the path.

And then his eyes go to the letter from Clan Brightwill. They apparently seek a master for their son. They might be a bunch of hyper-conservative wazzocks, pretencious and insufferable at the best of times, but it seems the acclaim of being hammerhanded outweighs that, which is the most sensible thing he's ever heard. The boy himself is, apparently, something of a handful to his fellow beardlings, though of course raised to be respectful of his elders. Nain sniffs at that, only good sense really. Who wants beardlings going around, trying to have opinions when they haven't seen the world for more than a minute? Conservative, Moderate, Radical, it all pales in comparison to the fact that Beardlings bumble; not that Nain does not bumble before his elders, he's humble enough to admit that, but he is at least old enough that it's the funny kind of bumbling, rather than the sad kind.

But yes, Tholinn Goldbeard. Head already stuffed full of nonsense by his parents, not allowed to have a normal childhood because his parents instead wanted him to hyperfocus on his future as a Runesmith. Excellent parenting really. And he would prefer not to reward that kind of behavior, what a way to sabatoge a Dwarf's future, except this might be the best chance to get him away from them and keep him from losing his mind, gain access to their network of hunters to at least get the materials cheaper, and have an apprentice to help with labor and serve as a secretary to get him in contact with possible clients.

Hm.

 

[bird yells]

The warden spoke in tones of infinite patience. "Yes, I understand how the application of your fire to our trollgut bombs might agitate the acid inside and theoretically make it splash across a greater area when the bomb bursts. But the thing is, Zharrok, your fire would also burn through the bomb's outer layer and that layer serves a rather important purpose in keeping the acid away from us while we're holding the bomb."

"But don't you see, the cover wouldn't burn instantaneously, so if you only timed your throw to just before I hit, there would be time for the bomb to fly clear before it breaks. In fact, if it detonated in midair and the acid rained down that could make the weapon even more potent. And it'd be safe. Probably - I meant provably! It would provably be safe."

Vikken glanced at the byplay from a little ways away. "Well, at least they're keeping that one distracted, for the moment, while we figure out what to do about the other. Really, how can someone so big manage to just disappear like this?"

"It's an unexpected situation, to be sure," Ylva said in response. "And after we've sorted it out, I will be having a few pointed words with certain people about letting him sneak off, but for the moment our focus should be to get eyes on him again."

"So, uh. Should we be worried?"

Ylva tilted her hand from side to side in a so-so gesture. "I've spent enough time with young Izgrom to be confident he won't do anyone any real harm, at this point, even running around unsupervised. That still leaves room for a lot of less serious misbehaviour he could get up to, intentionally or not, and our report to Lord Snorri will already be shameful enough as it is - imagine how much worse it will be if the dragon actually causes any kind of trouble before we find him. The sooner we have him corralled, the better."

"Right, then. Split up to look for the blighter, meet back here in half an hour and if we've still not found him we call for reinforcements?"

Ylva nodded. "Go."

---

One of the most important facets of the personal philosophy Vikken had developed, over the course of his long life, was that unexpected strokes of good fortune were rarer than veins of white gold and so one should be properly appreciative whenever they came along. Therefore he allowed himself a few seconds to untense and offer a quick, quiet prayer of thanks to the ancestors for the gift of good luck they had sent his way. He'd found their prodigal dragon much quicker than expected, the mess he'd found the dragon in seemed eminently salvageable and, most excellently of all, someone was having a very bad day and it wasn't him.

"So," he said, savouring the moment.

"So," Izgrom echoed, with no enthusiasm whatsover.

"So, drakkling. Are you going to tell me why you're wearing a little griffon as a hat?"

Izgrom appeared to have some difficulty formulating an answer. Happily, the accoutrement on his head filled in for him: "I am not a hat! I have defeated this fell beast in combat, and by the laws of honour it must now serve as my mount!"

"We helped!" another voice peeped from somewhere further behind. Vikken craned his head to the side and, sure enough, there were two more cheeky little devils clinging to the dragon's back. He'd not seen them at first, being as they were obscured by the bulk of Izgrom's head and not immediately conspicuous like the one on top.

The first griffonlet squawked in outrage and twisted his body round so he could glare at the other two. Izgrom grimaced; the kid was digging his talons in to keep his balance and it was evidently causing some discomfort. "No you didn't! I leapt upon the dragon's back firstly and boldestly. You just clambered up afterwards to hog my glory!"

"Is it my turn to ride on his head yet, big brother?"

"No, I hardly even made my way up here! You're such a whiner-"

Izgrom attempted for a moment to look up cross-eyed at the top of his scalp where the one rider was squabbling with the second and third, before his eyes focused forward again. Not for the first time, Vikken regretted his lacking talent for poesy, because he knew when he told this story to the lads and lasses over drinks later on he'd struggle to capture fully in words just how funny the dragon looked, right then. His spines, already depressed in some places from the unfamiliar weight sitting on top of them, positively drooped. His copper eyes were practically patinated with embarrassment. Ach, what kind of simile could possibly do the image justice? Some kind of small woodland critter caught out pitiably in a rainstorm? No, Vikken had it: in that moment Izgrom was as a beardling who'd just wetted his moustache on a spoonful of soup. Painfully aware of how foolish he looked and acutely chagrined by the sheer banality of what had defeated him. "...They won't get off," he said, miserably.

"Yep, there's your problem right there. How'd they get on in the first place?"

Izgrom's nostrils flared. He was probably trying to project a dignified kind of anger but, honestly, the tableau vivant he was participating in rather undermined the attempt. "I was merely passing by when these three accosted me and started climbing up my tail! I could flex my spines, or roll over and dislodge them, but that would cause injury and the little pests are shamelessly abusing my mercy-"

"Don't let the snake backtalk like that, big brother!"

"Yeah! Peck him so he'll learn who's boss!"

"-by clinging - ow - clinging to my back and - ow - treating me ignominiously like - ow - like a beast of burden."

"I see," Vikken said, taking care to let just enough of his mirth show that Izgrom would pick up on it. "What a battle it must have been, young warriors, when you bested this drakk, mighty as he is - if also a bit sausage-shaped." The sausage-shaped one growled; Vikken ignored him. "Tell me, what first made you aspire to become dragon riders?"

"It was cousin Thunder Wing, who's always going on adventures and carrying some dwarf with her-"

"It's so unfair, she never lets us ride on her back, so we decided-"

"I decided who needs Thunder Wing anyway? I'll find a way better mount to ride on and go on way better adventures, that'll show her."

Vikken hummed. "A worthy ambition, to be sure. But won't you be a little limited in where the drakk can take you, compared to where brana such as yourselves can go? This one has no wings, after all."

"Yeah but big brother still hasn't learned to fly, so he can't afford to be picky-"

"Shut up shut up shut uppppppp-" the head griffonlet yelled, and as he did he forcefully flapped his wings up and down, one after the other in an offbeat pattern: left-right, left-right, left-right. Perhaps he only meant to make enough noise to drown out the voices of his little siblings and so prevent them from further embarrassing him. The effect of his actions, however, was that Izgrom suffered the additional indignity of having alternating sides of his face slapped by the griffon's wings over and over, and if they were not yet strong enough to carry the little hellion in flight they clearly had strength enough to sting when used as dragonswatters. Once the rider had finally calmed down some, Izgrom took a moment to spit brana down out of his mouth and then looked pleadingly at Vikken. "Please get them off me?"

Oh-ho-ho. "I would love to help you, drakkling, really I would." Vikken tilted his head back and put one hand on his hip; the other he raised upwards, backhand pressed against forehead in a grotesquely overacted display of regret. A poet he might not be, but let no-one say he could not perform a decent farce. "But alas and alack! My treasured smoking pipe disappeared mysteriously some time ago, and without any way to smoke my pipeherbs I simply do not have any strength to my limbs. Why, in this condition my Vicegrip is hardly any kind of grip at all!"

Izgrom brightened. "Oh! I know where-" he stopped himself, having at the last moment spotted the trap that Vikken had set out for him. "I mean. Hypothetically if I knew where your pipe was, would you help me after you got it back?"

Vikken glanced at him sideways while still keeping his ridiculous pose. "Hypothetically, you say? Oh, it would help if the pipe were to be found, for sure it would - but if someone just knew where it was right away, that would imply they'd already known for some time and hadn't told me. Or worse, filched it off me and hid it as some kind of prank. Were I forced to confront the reality of such a betrayal, my poor nerves would be completely shot. In this hypothetical scenario, I would probably be so distressed I couldn't help anyone at all."

For a few seconds, Izgrom agonised visibly over how to navigate the treacherous straits he'd found himself in. "I could... help you look for it?" he tried.

"An excellent idea, youngster! Let us be off at once." Vikken straightened himself up and set off back the way he'd come from, at a brisk march, knowing the miserable mischief-maker would follow in his heels. He supposed he'd show a bit of mercy and let Izgrom arrange things 'luckily' so they 'stumbled' upon the place where his pipe had 'accidentally' ended up - eventually. He'd make sure their search started in places he'd already looked and knew for sure there was no pipe, though, because he wouldn't want the valiant little dragonriders to be deprived of their ride too quickly, would he? And in the process he might teach Izgrom a valuable lesson, of the sort beardlings of all species needed to learn sooner or later: mess with adults and you pay the price.

"Faster, steed!"

"Ow - cease your pecking, accursed creature!"

 

[Ambit]

Birdsong

The littlest chick of the clutch was nameless. This was not unusual in itself, for most nestlings of the aerie were nameless until they fledged and left their parents' nests before earning or taking on a true Name of their own.

Regardless, the littlest daughter of the littlest egg of the littlest clutch (of only three chicks, in fact) of She who Sees Through Trees and He who Reads the Breeze was oh so very little indeed. Though she possessed starkly pure white downy feathers across her body with nary a hint of any differing coloration, or pinkish milky eyes that belied strangely poor eyesight on par more with the Mountain Folk, those were not what caught the attention of any of the Flock nor Folk alike when they first set eyes upon her.

When she had first hatched, she was about at roughly three-fourths the size of both of her brothers, and that size difference only grew more stark over time. Did that bother that littlest chick? Perhaps in the beginning when chicks did as they do and childhood tussles and "challenges" from her brothers became grew to be more like bullying on their part, for it was true that her reduced size meant that she was physically weak. But She who Sees Through the Trees could easily see through her own nest, the experienced mother had put a stop to that, and her brothers had learned.

Yet so had she--for such experiences had a way of imprinting themselves on the minds of the young. The littlest chick of the clutch was now also the most withdrawn chick of the bunch, from which there was nary a peep.

And She who Sees Through Trees, or Sharpeye to the Mountain Folk, had decided that the littlest chick was in need of a new perspective.

---

It was the first time that the littlest chick had ever gone out of the nest, or even out of the peak. Down, down below did the littlest chick and her mother go, down did they descend into the Made-caves beneath the mountain to visit the domain of the Mountain Folk. The flight on the back of her mother had been exhilarating, the darkness and stifling nature of the caves, less so. Yet still, the chick was enraptured as she followed after the steps of her mother. Everywhere she turned and even with the nearsightedness of her vision, there were new sights of faint glittering stone, furs, and gems dancing across her eyes. There were smells of something fiery, tasty, pungent, and even more intermingling in the air--but it was the sounds, these sounds of different tongues and voices of a spectrum so unlike the caws that she was used to that rung so loudly in her ear and caught her attention.

She heard deep timbres and shrill tones raised in anger and happiness alike. She heard the rumblings like boulders falling off the peak of the mountain from Mountain Folk with chin-fur that stretched low to the ground, and the dismayed yips and yaps that those who must've been chicks like her try to answer them. She heard faint hisses of breath on the wind from Folk sitting together at far-off tables covered in fur and cloaks.

A sudden caw, and the littlest chick flinched before she felt the reassuring nudge of her mother. "It is a strange sight, is it not? To see a flock that is very much not of our own," spoke She who Sees Through Trees softly to her child. "But the Mountain Folk have always been good to us, as I had told you before." Ah yes, the littlest chick remembers the stories, certainly. Of the brandished claws and talons of shared violence, of the low, pained bows of shared suffering, of the outstretched then embracing wings of shared brotherhood from a time before anything the littlest chick has known. And with that bit of wisdom, the littlest chick continued to follow after her mother to take in the sights, smells, and especially sounds of the newly enlarged world around her.

And this is also where a strange section of the wheel of fate was about to make itself known.

You see, such as described was had always been the way of storytelling within the Flock--and that was the only form of storytelling that the littlest chick and indeed, most Branakroki had ever known. For much like their art, the Branakroki expressed themselves in a truly wild way, with spoken caws interwoven with expressive gestures. It was without any real rhythm or order, only emotion.

Truly, it must be remembered that the Branakroki were truly a young people, only merely centuries old--and for all their intermingling with the Mountain Folk, they were reticent and stubborn-minded people in their own way, and so the rate at which they developed as a people was rather slow. The Branakroki largely hunted, scouted, and fought--and even those closest to the Mountain Folk usually only traded and gathered trophies for their nests. These trophies had grown to vary in nature over time, true--some Branakroki even gathered books and built makeshift libraries--but a common train of thought amongst the Branakroki was to leave that which the Mountain Folk was good at to the Mountain Folk.

The Mountain Folk cooked, brewed, and farmed, the Branakroki did not.

The Mountain Folk made great crafts, tapestries, and their own kinds of art, the Branakroki did not save for their own claw-wrought style and stories.

In fact, even then that was a concept that had been introduced to the Brana purely accidentally when the first Aerie had been built and the Mountain Folk had asked for them to add their history to the walls. Yes, the Brana shared stories through uncontrolled movement and an oral history of caws, and through the claw and talon strikes and feral writing drawn across their walls and nests.

Yet, a people grew over time--and for the Branakroki, despite their pride and the way they clung to their identities and singular names, that remained true even so. The Branakroki may had so far truly attunted themselves to the nature of Azure, Ruby, and most recently Gold, and these Winds may have many mysteries still left within...

But the Brana were about to take a hidden step towards learning a new color on this day, for as the littlest chick followed after her mother, she began to hear...

A song.

It started with a beat. A building beat and rhythm, so spaced out evenly, yet so deep and echoing it reverberated straight through the chick's bones. The littlest chick stopped straight in her tracks and swiveled her head in the direction of that strange noise-that-wasn't-noise, of that wordless-pounding-with-meaning--yet she saw nothing but the flock of Mountain Folk, and beyond that was blurry to her vision. Entranced, she started to walk...

"The throng walked long, and crested over the hill,"

A bass, deep and resonant, bloomed before her vision. Though she knew not the words that were spoken, she knew what was being told--that this was a story, a Mountain Folk story, so beautiful and unlike she'd ever heard before.

"Unknowing of the tricks yet coming still..."

She sees it, in her mind--a hill being climbed by a great flock of Mountain Folk, overlooking a too silent plain filled with milling prey.

"When trolls and daemons were made one by pact,"

She saw that prey be empowered by a terrible darkness, be joined by monsters like she had never seen...

"The Greed Slayer rose to raise his axe."

And the littlest chick beheld a figure in a cloak of red, ridden in seams of light.

Eventually, ignoring all around her and even tumbling more than once in the way of aggrieved dwarves, she saw it. Radiant, beautiful Diamond--a brilliant white, orderly, resonant, and pleasant. A white that she had never seen before. A white that almost reminded her of her own feathers. That Mountain Folk--that 'skald', she would eventually learn as they were called, was moving his lips and raising his voice for so many to hear. It was controlled, but still thrumming with emotion. Of vengeance, of pain, of bravery, of respect.

And then, after that building crescendo that sent visions tumbling into the littlest chick's mind--to their littlest chick's awe, other Folk began to join in.

"The Greed Slayer laid the horde of daemons low..."

"The Greed Slayer stilled all fel magic in one blow..."

"The Greed Slayer sent Greed tumbling down, far below..."

"The tale of Trollbane Hill, of the Greed Slayer all should know."

"There you are!"

She who Sees Through Trees burst through the crowd to reach the side of her foolish daughter. "What were you thinking, losing yourself in the flock of Folk?!" she scolded, even as the chick was unmoving. "I saw you almost trampled thrice before I finally caught up to you from your foolishness! What were you--" And then, she stopped.

It was faint. Perhaps only a Brana could have heard it, but a Brana she was, so hear the mother did. Faintly, underneath her breath, and unknowing of even herself, the littlest chick sung. Trilling along with the melody, like that of a songbird and unlike that of the call of any Brana, Griffon, or even an ordinary eagle. It was clumsy, it was slightly out of tune. It was emotionful, it was heartfelt.

It was dim. Perhaps only a Brana could have seen it, but a Brana she was, so see the mother did. Faintly, out of the throat and beak of the littlest chick, was light. Weak light, incomparable to anything that the Branakroki most attuned to the winds could call upon, yet it was so stark in her vision due to the fact that it was that of a radiant, Diamond white.

Little did mother, chick, or even the skald know how fate had changed that day due to all three committing actions of their own accord unknowingly--that the skald decided to set himself up in that specific spot that day, that the chick decided to indulge in her curiosity for a moment, and that the mother decided that a change of perspective was the best way to get her child to regain some of her confidence again.

It remained to be seen whether the littlest chick, who in the future would be named She who Sings a Thousand Songs to the Flock or Brilliantsinger to the Mountain Folk, would ever again harness the Diamond wind. Yet, even if that weren't certain, she would set the Branakroki a step down that path. She would be a start.

For what was sure, when the nest was left and the littlest chick was not so little anymore, was that she would want to sing her own songs.

Brilliantsinger was going to establish a new form of Branakroki art.

Spoiler: Author's Note

For clarity's sake, this is an omake about progressing Branakroki culture over time, not about shoehorning in another wind. That's why it says that Brilliantsinger only might figure out how to use Hysh (and it isn't certain at all), but she certainly will start getting the Branakroki to start writing and singing songs and their own take on skald culture. Said culture of songwriting and performance also, once again, might get another Branakroki to utilize Hysh one day or for a white Branakroki egg to be laid that absorbs all the Hysh in the area, but I left things muddled on purpose for a higher chance of canonicity.

Eagles have bird calls that don't really resemble singing, so I figured sapient Griffons wouldn't think of doing that naturally until eventually, one decided that it was a cool idea.

 

[soulcake]

Overview of Zornish Interpretations of Thungni

━<><><>< 300 A.P. ><><><>━​

The nature of culture and society is one of inevitable, if glacially slow, change; and as the veneration and beseeching of Ancestors are so fundamentally a part of Dwarf Culture, so too does that change. While we Dawi are a strong and steadfast folk, a keen eye can observe clear periods and trends in society and among the Dawi over the progression of the ages. While Chroniclers such as I prefer to categorize our people's long history into neat and distinct periods, reality often proves this a theoretical tool at best, and a fool's dream at worst. Indeed, even the fall of Old Zorn and the ushering of the Ancestors was a period measured not in moments, but in centuries, one that we merely demarcate with the official cessation of hostilities between the followers of the Remit and the Ancestors for the sake of sanity. If one can agree that we Dawi are a stubborn folk, then it should be no less mind boggling to believe that adoption of the Ancestor's methods did not prove instantaneous.

Quick, blisteringly so, yes and just one part of why the Ancestors are so exceptional, but not instant.

So the examination of such cultural trends is more often than not a battle of technicality and argument to decide where exactly one period ends, and another truly begins.

Not so with Thungni.

Indeed, Thungni's example is often used by Chroniclers to introduce their apprentices to the topic, because unlike almost everything else in our lives, Thungni provides a very real and unarguable shift in perception through the ushering of Runecraft. So much so that it has become a common turn of phrase when discussing Thungni to delineate between the Pre and Post-Rune periods of his life. As an aside, this is not to be confused with his discovery of the Glittering Realm, which is often done by beardlings and the foolish, but rather the first public appearance of the art that would catapult Thungni into legend.

With that in mind, let us begin examining how such an Ancestor was, and currently is viewed by one of the few Holds old enough to have an appreciable amount of evidence before and after that aforementioned event.

Karak Zorn.

That Zorn venerates the past is known to any who have spoken even in passing to a Dawi of that Hold. The bright past, when their forefathers laid the stones that they stand upon, the time when Zorn was the zenith of Dawi civilization, when she and she alone sat atop the peak she built off the backs of countless wrongs, a mountain whose shadow was long and dark indeed.

Zorn venerates the past, more than most others, this cannot be denied. One would think then, that their disdain for the new was consequently fell into the opposite extreme. After all, novelty represented the end of the Remit, the curtailing of Zorn's might and the humbling of her Kings. Proof positive that nothing good for Zorn came from the new, at least in respect to her ruling elite.

In reality, Zorn's relationship with the novel is far more complex than hearsay and stories suggest.

In relation to Thungni, the First Hold claims to be one of His earliest supporters, viewing Him with great respect and honouring Him even before the advent of Runecraft.

A half truth at best.

While it is true that Zorn did honour Thungni with the other Ancestors before the introduction of Runecraft, the reasons were not so pure as implied and they conveniently gloss over the forty-some year period where anyone with the blood of Thungni was treated little better than the Clanless.

To explain, one must examine the intent and nature of just how the King's of Zorn honoured Thungni in the Pre-Rune period. These early Kings venerated Thungni as the dutiful son, the obedient, the pliable. For you see Thungni was a fetching prize to the Lords of Zorn. Not only was He the third-born son of Valaya's principal Husband, to the Zornish He displayed several traits they found incredibly appealing. Thungni Himself carried none of the potential liabilities or expectations that His elder siblings possessed. Not the perfect Heir of the new way that Snorri Whitebeard was, neither the newfangled, to the Zornish, Engineer that Morgrim became, and not as brusque and work focused as Smednir.

Compounding this, from what can be gleaned from the material available Thungni also spent the most time with His Uncle, Gazul, out of the Ancestors' many children. An odd thing to find appealing to the modern Dwarf, but consider the perspective to Zorn's Kings. Gazul was, of all the four elder Ancestors, the least problematic or grating for the Zornish to venerate. For Gazul was the Warden and Protector of the Honoured Dead, codifier of Ancestral Veneration, and the Slayer of Monsters you see, He did not carry the same negative baggage as the Ancestors who had more directly humbled Zorn. So that Thungni associated so much with Him pointed to only good things in the eyes of the Zornish.

So Zorn chose pragmatism, and plied Thungni like He was a maiden accepting suitors.

Gold, accolades and even brides were all thrown Thungni's way, statues erected that painted him a dutiful and stalwart, respectful of the past and keen to assist his kin. A perfect Dwarf. As an aside, such tactics were employed by Zorn's royalty before, and how they incorporated more than one of the Ancestor's many other children under their umbrella, but never to the extent that it was done with Thungni.

Indeed many of Zorn's Royal Clan wondered if perhaps Thungni may even end up becoming the ruling King of Zorn after he agreed to marry King Tharkaz's most beautiful daughter, Vanya Skellasdottir, a perfect way for Zorn's ruling family to cement itself in a position of high standing in the new regime the Ancestor's ushered and begin regrowing their influence.

Those dreams died in fire after Thungni returned from the Glittering Realm.

If one recalls earlier in this chronicle as to the unique nature of studying Thungni's life for a moment, understand that no finer example of that exists outside of Karak Zorn, and the exact reason why this is the case requires a minor detour into Zornish history.

After Thungni introduced Runecraft, King Tharkaz's centuries-long effort seemingly crumbled before his eyes, and in response the Old King withdrew all support from Thungni. Of course he could not do so in a public or particularly ostentatious manner, for that would not only bring down the wrath of the Ancestors upon him and his, but also because it would undermine Tharkaz's own standing to make such an about face.

Nevertheless, while Tharkaz did not rebuke or insult Thungni with public censure, he did indeed make his displeasure known in more subtle ways. For the final forty-nine years of Tharkaz's life, Thungni and his budding Clan were persona non grata. Contracts made were ended without fanfare, courtships and marriage negotiations shuttered, and kingly boons withdrawn completely. And in a particularly petty example, the statue of Thungni within a newly hewn vault that was in the middle of construction at the time remained in a state of "delayed construction" for the totality of Tharkaz's final years, only completing in the first year of Galbaraz's reign1​. This, more than anything, created a permanent rift between not only Tharkaz and Thungni, but between the King and his daughter, and in the centuries after the fact would be one of the key reasons why Clan Thungnisson would leave Zorn to settle Izril, and later Karaz-a-Karak. Had Tharkaz lived longer, or if Thungni had introduced Runecraft earlier, it stands to reason that Zorn would have suffered perhaps, dire, consequences2​.

Thankfully, Tharkaz's heir, Galbaraz the Golden, was not his father.

The cause for Galbaraz's stance is uncertain and is hotly debated even to this day3​, but the result was, if not a complete reconciliation, then at the very least a great thaw in relations between the Royal Line and Clan Thungnisson.

What is of significance to this Chronicle however, is that in those forty-nine years, not one statue, image or piece of work depicting Thungni was made.

Few cleaner breaks in continuity exist, and those that do often arise from far more tragic tales than not 4​.

The Post-Rune era of Thungni veneration in Karak Zorn depicts, in this Chronicler's opinion, a Hold trying very hard to forget the past forty-nine years of cold relations. An immediate complete and total reversal wasn't practical, but it was rather close as was possible. Alongside a wave of patronage5​ from Galbaraz, rapid construction of new statues, images and depictions of Thungni began in earnest as well, and they represented a major shift in aesthetic from before.

Where once Thungni was depicted as the dutiful son, often dressed in a tasteful amalgamation which drew on motifs from His parents and uncle, these new depictions were a wholly different and unique design in line with Thungni as Dwarfs know Him today. Dressed in either the robes of His priesthood or in armour of His own make, wielding both Gormwand or Karaz-Kazak-Rhun, often Thungni would be seen delving the depths and finding the Glittering Realm, posed like an explorer and discoverer of a great and powerful treasure. Summed up more succinctly, Zorn now celebrated Thungni as a pioneer of a new and unquestionably good addition to Dwarf society; an utter celebration of Thungni's position and contribution where before there had been near total scorn.

In fitting Zorn fashion, this particular interpretation is the one they carry to this day with an admirable level of care and adherence to. And some would argue in even more fitting Zorn fashion, also the one they tell the younger Holds is the best and most accurate depiction of Thungni due to its age.

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[1] Based on visual comparison to both Pre and Post-Rune works of Thungni, most scholars agree that the statue is something of an accidental transitory piece. Laying half-complete during Tharkaz's censure before finally being completed in Post-Rune style. Likely at the order of Galbaraz.
[2] The Ancestors were at the time unavailable, which all agree is the only reason Tharkaz was not stopped sooner. Analysis leads this Chronicler and many others to believe this was also likely during the time in which preparations for future migrations to Azul and Eight Peaks were being planned as well as Thungni spreading His knowledge to His Kin.
[3] See Master Archivists A. Grunbadsson and T. Gormsson's competing analyses for a more comprehensive list of possible theories. Though the most common was simply Galbaraz wishing to make amends with his sister given their historically positive relationship beforehand, other theories range to practicality in the face of Runecraft's obvious benefits, to several more outlandish theories that involve Gazul, nightmares, and salacious accusations as to Galbaraz's relationship with the Ancestor.
[4] See Rhunrikki S. Klausson's records of Karag Dum
[5] These include several wonders and artefacts held in esteem by Zorn that include but are not limited to: Mingol Zon-dum, the Sun Crown, The Gilded Vault, The Star Gauntlet, and Karaz-Galklad

━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━​

Mingol Zon-Dum - Watchtower of the Doom-Sun/ the Doomray
Karaz-Galklad - Eternal-Gold Armour/ Gilderplate.

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AN: Here is July's Patreon snippet, a little look into Thungni and how he is seen in Karak Zorn. I hope it's interesting. Something something shill my patreon in the signature to also get the chance to vote something something, anyway don't forget to C&C. I'll get to all these Rune-Ideas posts you guys made eventually. Yeesh, that's a lot. :^o

 

[soulcake]

━<><><>< 2XX A.P. ><><><>━​

The herds do not meet often.

Such were the words of The Mother; ensure all may eat, protect The Young, and carry The Memory forward. To congregate beyond a herd would starve the land, would risk The Young, and would jeopardize The Memory.

But there were times when such wisdom was disregarded.

When the Last Son of The Mother beckoned them, that was one such time; the bass tones of his song reverberating halfway around the world, calling any who would listen to meet.

From disparate individuals like solitary Bulls to representatives of entire herds, The Children of The Mother come together, coalescing like mountain streams into great rivers of fur and ivory as they get closer to the source of the call that has brought them so far from their stomping grounds to a place where only the elders usually go at end of their Songs.

It is a great assemblage of their kind, of children, parents and grandparents, of siblings and cousins, of friends and rivals, of living and dead.

There amidst the bones of countless generations The Children stand and listen to the tale of the Last Son, the one the strangers call Angkor.

They hear with feet, and ears and eyes as the Last Son weaves a new verse in his song, of fighting off strangers who would harm the children of his beloved Sisters, of being led into a trap and being captured for nefarious purposes. An angry chorus that leads into a woeful dirge that details his captivity, yet as it crescendos changes to a Song of hope and fortune.

Short things, who smell of melted stone and fruit gone bad, who saved the Last Son and slew a corrupter and his captor. Warning and message in one, to beware a new foe and to watch for those who would not mistreat them.

Who else, the Last Son trumpets, who else would sing aloud the song in their mind, and share it to The Memory of those here!

And at his call did others join their songs in harmony. The herds from the east were cautious and patient, having evaded the tall ones who mistook them for the Children lost to the Wildness and Corruption, their Songs forever dimmed. Bondage was not the wish of The Mother, many sung, take care in trusting all when it is clear that there was discord among these strangers just as there was discord among the Children.

Be wary of them, trust them not else be plucked away beneath the mountain just as our own were taken beyond the clouds.

Yet a source of dissent, a contrasting melody to their harmony, came from one of the western Children.

Kindness may be found among them, the new voice counters.

A lone bull, standing out from the rest not due to size or stature, but thanks to his leg of steel and wood, infused with the magic of those who had saved the Last Son steps forward.

The Gravekeeper would have sung My Song long ago without the kindness of one of them. They are trustworthy, he continues, his call vibrant and youthful, of a bull not yet at his prime.

Bound! Subservient! Others counter, one pointing at the torc around his neck. A collar, no better than the ones plucked away!

A friend, a gift given! I still follow the words of The Mother, for my feet are free! The young bull retorts, stamping his metal foot for emphasis and introducing a metallic clang to the chorus of trumpets and growls from the assembled Children.

They will argue long into the night and over the many days, an orchestra of ideas and opinions expressed in the way they all understood.

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A Master Runesmith sits in a clearing in the depths of the woods. She is alone, having parted ways with her retainers and leaving them several hundred meters back at the camp. The clearing itself is largely untouched snow save for the imprint of her boots, a snow the night prior has blanketed everything in a dozen centimeters of fresh white powder. She disturbs the serenity further by wiping the snow off of a well worn stump before sitting on it and settling in.

For several minutes she merely waits, patiently sitting on the stump and humming a quiet tune to herself.

Then there is a call, a long trumpeting bellow that scares the crows from the pines and makes branches move and jostle. It grows and is soon accompanied by a tremor in the ground, then the sound of crunching snow and cracking branches as something truly massive moves through the forest towards her position. She spots the silhouette out of the corner of her eye, but besides turning to face it fully, does nothing more as it grows in size as the creature gets closer and closer. Only when does the shadow give way to deep brown fur, gleaming ivory and polished steel does Snerra crack a smile.

The first time Snerra has seen Little Bright, a name that only grew more ironic with each passing year, after he returned from his journey is a happy occasion. After a few pleasantries and an offer of fresh grass after the mammoth settles into the ground a meter away from her stump, she is regaled with a fascinating story and new insights into the culture of her elephantine friend. One that began with the call he had heard from an Ancestor analogue, that led to something like a grand conclave of Mammoths at one of the burial grounds of their elders, and ended after a long debate about whether her own people were worth trusting outright or treat with trepidation.

"Your herd supported you then?" she asks.

The mammoth intones his massive head, letting out a little trumpet from his trunk that the torc around his neck translates for her.

"Their words were a boon yes. I do not know if they all believed in your people's sincerity, but at least they believed in your sincerity." he clarifies, "and that is enough for me."

Snerra smiles, taking a sip from a drinking horn she had brought with her.

If someone had told her that a mammoth would end up being one of her better friends when she was younger, she-.

-would probably believe it, considering everything she's lived through was a mammoth friend any more inconceivable than a Griffon friend, than a sky that spat out demons and the little oddities that shaped her into who she was?

Bah, as Master Snorri would say.

"Did you get to meet any of your sisters or mother by the by?" she decides to ask, letting that mental tangent wither on its vine.

He shakes his head, a hint of sadness in his eyes.

"Only the Gravekeeper and two aunts came, and the latter two only came because they found no Bulls worth their time. The others are too busy, the Last Son's call reached this land well after the rut had run its course and the births began."

She nods in understanding.

"Did you speak to them at least? Ask them to carry a message for you, ask about how they're doing and the like?"

A glimmer of happiness replaces the sadness.

"I did. A rare thing for a son to do so, but eagerly taken when the opportunity presents itself. I am glad to have been given the chance. I even met some of my male relatives. Two uncles, a few brothers, and four nephews," he tells her.

"Oh?"

He growls in the affirmative.

"My uncles did not know what to make of me, and the ones my age and younger were more curious about my leg than me. At the very least they are happy I am alive."

"I can't imagine it Bright, even after all these years," Snerra admits, not needing to specify what exactly she was referring to. It had been a topic of some major debate when the Gravekeeper still bothered attending these little meetings, to make sure Little Bright was safe.

Who would separate from kin like that?

"It is our way." Bright replies, bemusedly "One of sadness, and great regret, but like The End, it is a sadness we must nevertheless face. All must eat, all must protect The Young, and all must carry The Memory forward. But Bulls eat more, Bulls fight more, and Bulls cannot mate with their kin either, no?"

Snerra makes a face at that, and it makes the massive pachyderm shake with amusement.

"You see anything else on your journey?"

When Little Bright begins to weave his tale, the Khazalid of the torc attempting to convey his words in a way that matches his intent, Snerra settles into the stump she has claimed and focuses on his story.

━<><><>< 3XX A.P. ><><><>━​

"Aren't Runelords chosen at a much older age? You likened them to the Elders of your Herd," Little Bright asks, looking down at her curiously.

"Yes! It is a great honour," she confirms.

The Mammoth trumpets long and slow, confusion evident.

"I do not understand how one can be made older like that my friend. And yet it is your way, so I will offer my congratulations regardless," he tells her.

"I'm not getting older like that, silly. I'm being given a role that is usually only given to an Elder. Its a great honour."

"If a young one was made the Matriarch it is often seen as the Herd having lost its elders," Bright muses, to which Snerra shakes her head.

"It's not like that. They trust me to act with the wisdom of an Elder!"

"That sounds like a heavy burden."

She nods, unable to deny his words.

"I have a lot to live up to."

"I am not a Dwarf, but I believe you are capable." Bright tells her, lifting his leg to emphasize his point.

Snerra grins.

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The next time Snerra sees Little Bright he has two younger mammoths with him.

Immediately she sees that both are injured in some way; the one to Bright's left has lost one of his tusks and the other has been cracked in half, while the one to his right has his eyelid closed thanks to a massive wound over the eye. Bright himself has several dents in his prosthetic leg, and all three are sporting wounds over their bodies that occasionally dribble blood onto the snow.

Her friend greets her tiredly but she's already jogging over and beginning to examine them for any other, less visible injuries.

"What did they end up fighting Bright? Was it one of the Brana?" Snerra fusses, quietly noting how recent these injuries were. She was no Valayan but she was fairly sure that these hadn't happened any more than a few hours ago.

"The lands are dangerous for lone Children, even grown Bulls. It was not the Griffons, but what you call a Chimera however that left us with these wounds. These two were posturing over a female when it attacked. The battle was hard fought, and they were injured. Friend, can you help?"

As if she would say anything besides yes.

"Of course I can," she says, still examining the wounds, "and don't think I didn't notice the dent in your leg either mister. I'll bet a few gold they weren't the only ones fighting over a lady now were they?"

"Who can say?"

Despite the situation she can't help but chuff in amusement.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

The nature of her meetings with Bright changes after that.

Every so often he'll visit with an injured bull tagging along, and with a small smile and tired grin she gets to work. Snerra has taken to carrying several healing Runes and a measuring kit if she needs to create a prosthetic. She's well aware that by this point she's treated a few dozen Bulls, with around two dozen or so repeat patients at this point, and she has to wonder how many of these Mammoths would have simply died from infection or predation had they not gotten any help.

Her Beerguard shakes their heads but knows she would rather die than stop helping a friend, and despite their best efforts her delightful little apprentices haven't a clue why she disappears every so often but Snerra pays them no mind. She had a friend in need, and she was taught better than to do nothing in the face of that. She knows many would balk, but she's a Runelord now, one appointed by Thungni no less, so they could politely go off and have a warm meal somewhere else for all she cared.

Bright, for his part, is apologetic.

"I must repay you my friend, I know that to do this is your way and we have used your kindness too much."

"I'll be honest, Bright I'm not sure what I could ask of you," she tells him plainly.

A roving band of mammoths didn't have much in the way of aid they could provide that Snerra could publicly and feasibly use, but she was still appreciative of his commitment to repay her.

She must admit it irks her though, not doing this mind, but the inability to offer her friend some way of easing the guilt he no doubt feels over the debt he's accumulated. If there was something that Master Snorri did that she could ever criticize outside of his tendency to squirrel himself away for years at a time, it would be leaving so many feeling utterly indebted to him. Better they feel that than be dead in most cases, she agrees, but honestly.

"I understand. If you find something do not hesitate to tell me, and I shall tell the others. Sharing food is a great kindness, and this is equally so."

She tells him she'll try and think of something, and Bright understands her well enough to let the topic lie.

Hopefully, Snerra thinks as she walks home, whatever it is, isn't something dangerous.

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AN: Here we are! The August Monthly Snippet as voted on by the Patrons. A bit of lore to expand on THIS sidestory by @Xepheria. This is all set in the past if the dates didn't make that clear. A few eggs and hints about Mammoth culture and what they may be up to in recent times. Hope you enjoy, I'll be plonking away at the Turn results over the week. As always, hope you enjoy and don't forget to C&C. :^)

 

[Voikirium]

Far Favor Trading

...Do not speak to me of how Aenarion or Caledor would treat the Little Folk. House Blackfang marched by his side, and my brother still burns in the Great Vortex saving your worthless hide, Prince Anadian.

As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I have made a trade with one of their Runelords. I was eager to see if their Zhufazul could be a functional replacement for the Moraidyr, or more properly its shells. I found the dealing itself much easier than the others suggested it would be; Lady Snerra was a pleasant, chipper, reasonable woman who treated with me fairly, and I in turn. She showed me what she could of the Zhufazul, and I showed her what I could of Moraidyr...
-Loremaster Loken Blackfang of Chrace, On the Crafting of Wonders

Snerra walked through the snow, her curiosity piqued and her target near. The peculiar smell of magic, thick and heady and disquieting, filled the air. More important, however, was the smell of decay, of passing, of rot. Prey hung from trees, the preserved meat eventually to be the sustenance of the great beasts--though not, in this particular case, their spawn. Occassionally she saw them as she walked, their long, undulating forms burrowing through the snow, their form most remininscent of a more brolic centipede in spite of the spider-like webbing that also covered the trees in thick nets. Each was as long as her forearm, filled with enough poison to kill a deer, and covered in a bright black, blue and white shell, glossy when living and nourished by the animals. Death, death, seemed to cling to them.

And they were (mostly) safe, these Moraidyr (A name connected to one of the elves' goddesses of death, though precise translation and etymology would require her to look at her letter).

Of course, they were wild animals. Make them feel threatened, get too close to the hives where they lay their eggs, that sort of stupid, reckless behavior--as the elf that reminded her of more than a few of her fellow Runelords liked to mention called it--and then they would attack, but by and large they wanted to eat and breed and not be eaten before they could breed. A Dwarf, by all accounts, was not worth the trouble, for the beasties hardly only ate meat: they...subsisted, that was the best word the Loremaster could provide for it, on the kind of magic that death provided. As creatures fundamentally not of magic, a dwarf would provide scarce little nourishment for the little things on that account, and they were smart enough to realize that killing a dwarf was not a great plan--mostly a good way for large bodies of armed men to come about with fire and burn the place down. Perhaps that was why they had not been catalogued in great detail yet?

She tried to ignore them as they swarmed about the place, not reaching for her axe, even as the bones that littered the place all shook and jiggled and rattled in the thick silk, serving to make the place more nourishing as one might place food in the soil to make it more nourishing for the plants. Almost as much as she tried to ignore the gift dangling from her waist.

Where she was headed was blessedly far away from anywhere that could enrage the cursed creatures too much.

She stopped as she saw it, matte shell after matte shell littering the earth, marking the snow. The place where the creatures molted and shed shells too small for them. Some were small as her pinky finger, and some were big as her whole entire leg, and she thanked her lucky stars that the things did not eat bipeds. Magic, muted but present, was woven into the things. She could feel it, sense it, with the finely tuned senses of age and time.

And so she set to work gathering some of the shells even as she thought very hard about getting an apprentice so she could make them work with shed bug skin.

Apparently, some of the Elves worked the stuff directly into armor, the better to keep it from interfering with their magic: priests of Morai-Heg--the Dark Seers. Loremasters, Wizard-Thanes with little regard for the concerns of others. Any mages wanting to perform magic without losing protection, for whatever the Elves considered it. They, apparently, would simply chop into the shells, cut it into scales or lamellae, or if very lucky shape it around the parts of the body.

Snerra had no such interest. Not when gromril was right there, singing for her. Not when she hardly had to consider the effects of magic on her except how to keep it as far away as possible.

But experimenting with the shells? Seeing if she couldn't use them for the death related Runes in her repertoire? That was worth her attention. If nothing else they ought to be useful for the Rune of Gazul, as creatures so intimately connected with death. She tried very hard to think about that and not what she was doing. She thought more about the creatures themselves: they were commensalists with Nurgle, flourishing as he brought death to mortal kind, and so their presence in Norsca, though apparently according to Loken it was slighter than the gatherings in the far west, and roughly equal--perhaps slightly larger, perhaps slightly smaller, but not worthy of shame or acclaim in either case-- than their number in Ulthuan, where they stayed around shrines and temples to Morai-Heg, hence the name; they were, in particular, rich in Nagarythe, which was so full of death from fighting the forces of Chaos, Daemons and Beasts and Mortals alike.

Snerra blinked as she realized her bag was full, and shut it. And then, as recommended by the Loremaster, she pulled the gift from her belt and put it on the ground.

Another skull to join the many already in this lair.

And she left, to learn.
--
Eltharin Corner: Moraidyr-"Morai Bound." Theoretically, any creature associated with servitude to Morai-Heg, Elven Goddess of the dead. Practically, a member of a small genus of Athropods, weaving webs, laying eggs, and generally built like centipedes. Mostly only dangerous to the ability to get a full night's sleep.