RHUNRIKKI STROLLAR (Warhammer Fantasy Golden Age Dwarf Runelord Quest)

[BananaBuddy]

As Dwalin strolls down the path towards his destination he has some time to reminisce on how truly blessed he has been the last few decades. The amount of joy he has gained from being a father of three has challenged his prestigious poet skill to be able to describe.

Taking a turn continuing along the road he doesn't bother to fight the smile that makes its way onto his face as his thoughts turn to his children. Hollar his eldest just had his Kumenouht ceremony a few years back. The boy didn't have the Gift and choose to become a Runescribe just like his mother.

His second son is still a decade off attending his Kumenouht so the lad has plenty of time to choose. You didn't have to be the boy's father to see how enamoured Rorkaz was with all things smithing to see what the boy's path was likely to be. The lad hasn't been showing the signs of having the gift so far, so the path of Smednir it seemed.

And his youngest was such a Joy! Hallar his little daughter was the reason he was going to be late to his meeting. The lass adored listening to stories and practically begged him for one before he left. With a face like hers asking for the Tale Teller to recount a story, well he had to ensure it was a worthy tale. Alas in his efforts to recount the tales of The Stalwart and Warrior Bard rescuing Dawi from the clutches of the Fimir he had lost track of time.

Hopefully his friend will have left him some of the good ale, but it was a worthy sacrifice. Enough daydreaming! He was approaching his destination. Walking towards the tavern entrance he could already hear the noise of merriment and drinking from inside. He gives a quick glance to the taverns sign, showing an image of a dwarf scaling a mountain while drinking from a tankard with the words The Daring Drinker inscribed on the bottom.

Entering the tavern, he spots his drinking companions for the night, he starts to approach and is spotted by Grelda before making it halfway towards the table.

"Well look who finally decided to show up!" says Grelda as several dawi heads and one brana look over towards him.

"THUNGERLUNG!" "DWALIN!"

"GREETINGS TO YOU ALL MY FRIENDS!" he responds back, "Apologies for being late but my little one was insistent for one more story before I left for the night." He says, taking a seat at the table and accepting a tankard from Okri Brewbeard.

"Poor lass, must have been bored out of her mind with your shite story telling ability." Okri bemoans, shaking his head before taking a drink himself.

"Okri you fool! That's the whole point, he is trying to put her to sleep." Responds Dwinbar Grimseal.

"I find He Who Sings Like Thunder tales rather entertaining," interjects the Brana She Who Tells Tales and Sings Songs. Or just Storysinger.

"Bah! Don't bother with these Krutheads Dwalin, they wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a saga and a longbeards grumblings." Says Grim Thunderarm.

Dwalin sits back enjoying his drink taking the banter in good humour. He was surrounded by friends who while not sharing the same occupation shared the same passion, Story telling and singing. Grelda Farstrider a ranger with voice and talent in singing only bested by her skills as a ranger. Okri Brewbeard whose love for brewing just beat his love for story telling. Dwinbar Grimseal, a fearsome warrior who after every victory can be found with a quill in hand recording the battle in song. Storysinger, a Brana who oddly declared in her search for diamonds says she has found it in song. Grim Thunderarm a dwarf with a passion for engineering that is barely match by his passion for saga telling. Many more that aren't currently here tonight and of course himself the Saga Singer and Storyholder. A group not skalds in occupation but certainly so in spirit.

"As amusing as it is to poke at Dwalin's skill or lack of at storytelling now that he is here, we can get to the point of this meeting." Begins Grelda, "Our little group has grown to not be so little anymore, so we can't keep hosting our gatherings in taverns anymore because we won't all fit."

"If you lad wants to use your brains for once I am going to get another drink, I am expecting this to take the whole night."

Joking grumbles fill the table.

…

​

Dwalin wakes with a hangover that if it was described in song it would not be appropriate for the ears of beardlings. Looking around he finds himself in his workshop hunched over his desk on top of a bunch of papers. Sitting up while nursing his throbbing head he tries to recall what exactly happened last night. He remembers discussing plans of where to host their little gatherings…

"WORRY NOT MY BOTHER AND SISTERS IN SONG, IF WE CAN'T FIND A VENUE THAN I SHALL CREATE ONE FOR US! I SWEAR IT UPON MY BEARD!" He shouts to the cheering of his equally drunk compatriots.

Oh dear, well that might be an issue, looking down at his desk and examining the papers more closely he can see it to be a half complete blueprint for a building. Dwalin rises from his seat and walks towards the exit of his workshop. He will have to tell his wife and kids he will busy for the next few weeks; an oath was sworn after all, drunk or not.

…

​

Dwalin is standing before his friends once more as they look over the plans he had created in order to fulfill his oath. He is rather proud of what he has planned, the Brynkhaz a Langskaudi will be a beautiful building located in the Khazid Okraz. It will be a monument to those who love and enjoy song, whether they be a professional Skald or a miner singing miner songs. It will be split into two sections. The upper level being a massive theatre for professionals plays and retelling while the lower level will cater to a much more informal and causal area with a multitude of small stages and a fully stocked bar.



"Well, you Runelords always seem to go beyond expectations." Says Grim, getting small nods and huffs from everyone else.

"Dwalin, you have three young children to take care of right now and a war that we both know you will be joining." Says Grelda, drawing nods once more.

Dwalin supresses a wince. "Ah, one of the plights that come with the profession sadly, but you need not worry I should be able to handle everything." He assures them but he must have failed judging by the glances they are sending each other.

Grim steps forward "Dwalin, I have known you for centuries and I have always valued your companionship and if you will take it, you have my oath to follow you and add you in your endeavours."

Dwinbar steps forward before Dwalin can respond. "Dwalin, you and I have shared a battlefield many of times and on each occasion, you have brought honour upon yourself. If you would take it, you have my oath to follow you and aid you on the battlefield or off it"

Okri this time. "Dwalin, you swore an oath to aid our group and from the plans you have created what I have seen has only cemented my understanding of your character. You have my oath."

Grelda, "Dwalin, you are a right pain in the ass sometimes, but few have such love an dedication for the art we all cherish. You have my oath."

Storysinger, "He Who Sings Like Thunder, you have performed with honour both on the battlefield and off of it, you have wonderful talent for creation. I would swear my oath to you if you would take it."

Dwalin stays silent for a moment, taking the time to gather himself and inspect his comrades. It would not do to not take this moment with the seriousness that it deserves. "Songs and Stories have meaning and purpose, whether it be honouring an act or teaching a lesson to the next generation. Art without meaning is not true art. Choosing to follow me is to act with purpose and with me we shall record moments worthy of sagas and create them ourselves as well!" He pauses taking in his friends that trust him enough to entrust him with their honour.

"If you understand that, then I accept your oaths!"



Brynkhaz a Langskaudi is a large circular building located in Khazid Okraz designed by the Runelord Dwalin 'Thunderlung' Hurgarsson. The entrance of the building is a large Azrilwut door flanked by two huge statues of dawi skalds. Each skald is holding a scroll that is unfurling away from the door going around the entirety of the building. One could notice that the skalds are holding the same scroll but from opposite ends. All around the building from the unfurled scroll are scenes out of story and saga. The depictions from the left skald are stories from the Far North and as they continue around the building they slowly transition to stories from the north then towards the south. The same can be seen from the right skald as the stories start from Zorn and move northwards.



Oklid Zagkhaz (Cunningly Spoken Saga-Hall)

The Oklid Zagkhaz is the upper section of Brynkhaz a Langskaudi which can only be described as an extremely large theatre. Designed to allow for the most impressive of performances, the combination of runes and engineering present in the theatre allows for incredible freedom towards the performers they are able to completely control the light, wind and sound of the stage. The audience will always be able to hear everything from the performance with perfect clarity unless the performer do not wish it to be so. The balconies are runed so that the sound from the performance can be heard but and noise made by the occupants of the balconies cannot be heard. The backstage area is an engineering marvel allow for the transportation of props and scenery. The curtains for the stage are actually two huge runic banners created by Lord Thunderlung himself.



Dangskaud Ungor (Hit/Strike Song Cave)

Dangskaud Ungor is the lower and underground section of Brynkhaz a Langskaudi. If Oklid Zagkhaz is the place you would take your date to then Dangskaud Ungor is the place to would enjoy with your friends. A large area with multiple small out coves with stages on them for anyone wanting their chance to perform. A huge bar stock with ridiculous amount of alcohol even for dwarfs, this place is a place for merriment and joy with friends. A place to share stories and sing even if you aren't a skald.

AN: Thanks to @BungieONI proof reading this story

 

[Voikirium]

Brothers Coming Together

(Turn 56)

Durrik plays the wool through the loom, passing the shed through the warp, his eye trained on the design in front of him. His loom is somewhere between the big floor-looms the guilds make use of and the smaller home looms of domestic use, but big enough in either case to translate the angular designs of the cartoon in front of him into the griffon wool. He could have simply painted a hunk of troll hide cut in the right shape, he could have carved it into some silk with a knife. That would have been enough to satisfy nearly everyone.

Nearly everyone.

But not Master, and that was more important than nearly everyone. He can perform the tedious work of weaving it properly, and so by Grungni's Great Mirth he's going to weave it properly, strong and hard, and weave the Runes properly in it too!

Ah yes, the Runes.
--
Emlik grins as the bronze wire finally starts to soften in the furnace, even as he finishes driving the nails into the body of the Grudge Thrower. A simple promise he'd made to himself: to have the thing structurally sound before he even thought of touching the decoration. Aesthetic and artistry was important, of course, but it would be a lot easier on every count to repair a minor flake in the paint than it would be to repair the structure of the thing.

Wutroth stained a particularly nice cherry red, of course. It is tried and true, and therefore proper, dwarf design: a wooden base and a wheel, axled between two wooden arms, melding into one. Of course, there is one sort of important thing still missing: the actual metal thrower, which will hold the ammunition before it gets tossed.

Mostly because he still has to make it.
--
Durrik has finally gotten to making the Runes runes rather than only their mundane, and thank the Ancestors for that. Dozens, hundreds of hours, he could deal with well-enough as he finally sets the art out right following the cartoon in front of him. He is patient enough for that, he had ought to be: impatience, ironically enough, annoyed Master Fjolla more than anything else.

No, it's the smell that makes him cheery to finally be done. He pops the container with chunky Stone Troll Blood and begins to pour it onto the Rune of Spellbreaking, feeling the hunger fill its belly, surly and bad tempered as the creature they killed for the blood. The yarn is wet for a brief moment but it fades even as the image remains, even as the power fills it.

The crushed Obsidian doesn't smell as bad as Stone Troll anything, really, but he's still a little giddy to put it into the grooves he's woven in the wool. The Rune of Sanctuary flares as it devours the glassy black rock, taking its strength into itself, preparing it to withstand the perfidy of the enemy's sorcerers.

Last but not least he begins to pour the molten Gromril, as pure as a Queen's word and as pristine as the very mountain tops, its silvery sheen seeming occasionally to flash a brilliant, pure, comforting white and, in defiance of good common sense, rather than setting the wool on fire instead the Rune of Valaya starts to flash and gleam as it's fed power, even as he chants under his breath.

The scions of Valaya shall never allow the perfidy of wizardry to succeed against them, not here, not under the mantle of this banner.

He's spent months on this, he will not fail and fall on his face at the last step. He will do it right and proper, as a Dwarf ought to.

So he keeps weaving.
--
The main body of the Grudge Thrower is ready. Angular knotwork depicts his own efforts against the Fimir, the battles fought against the cyclopean lizardmen in intricate detail in the best of bronze, polished until shines and hot enough that it had formed a tight, perfect seal with the wutroth.

So the last thing to do is prepare the bucket.

Of course, it's a damn sight more than a bucket that he's made. An intricately crafted, gromril made statue of Grungni, vengeful Grungni, Grungni who put the sun in the sky, forms a cup with His hands that will hold the ammunition, stylized but still plainly Him unless your eyes don't work and you lived too deeply in the forest.

And, eventually, toss it right at a group of enemies.

Of course, while a big rock at those speed is still a problem, there's ways to make it better.

For instance, light the big rock on fire.

His chisel pounds through the hot gromril, the clank of metal on metal and a chant filling the air with bombatic boom as he strikes the Rune of Burning on the bottom of the bucket. When that's done he pours hot Grimnirzan into the etches and as he hoped, smoke and steam--more than from hot metal meeting cold liquid, anyway--curls up like little tongues. What was already going to be some very hot rock flung about this way and that becomes an inferno as bright and fierce as a king's rage.

But then, just in case he's wrong, he keeps going on.

His moves on the Rune of Tar are precise but quick, youthful enthusiasm driving him, the chant powering his limbs. The Rune of Burning should mean that the tar lights on fire, sticking to enemy flesh. To give it more heat, more burning, more devastation, he pours ground hearthstone into it, letting the rock filling each and every inch of the groove until it sparkles with the broken jewel and the heat within. The tar should start hot--meaning even if the hot hunks of rock don't set it alight, it will start out cooking temperature. Plenty of things that can ignore that, sure, but plenty more that won't.

And just to make sure of that, he carves the Rune of Searing Agony. It takes time, of course it does. It is both a blessing and curse, what he has: it seems like he starts and blinks and it is is ready.

Now, he would like to just use Dragon's Blood on the thing but after having spoken with one and his pet Cothiquean, using it like that would just seem kind of tasteless. Plenty of Drakki go out and start fights, of course...but a disquieting number are having the fight started on them and that is starting to strike him as a mite improper.

Just a tad, really.

So he grinds the Phoenix Feather and lets it fill the grooves instead, making the fire hotter and brighter at the very least. The three together should make it spew boiling poison and tar, all of it hot enough to not simply burn, but entirely cook flesh. Anything immune to the heat would falter to the poisons.
--
He receives some acclaiming nods from the various Dwarfs he passes on the street, banner in hand. Hardly hoary old Longbeards proclaiming him the savior of Dawi, he isn't that, he doesn't have that, but even just decent Runework can please any Dwarf and what Durrik has is a damn sight more than decent. Well-woven wool made of Brana fur dangles from a poll of polished gromril, topped by the skull of some damn bray shaman.

The banner itself depicts the Avenging of Clan Stonehide. Valaya's armor shimmers on the woolen body, seeming almost to be made of hard metal properly rather than merely representation, while the purple of Kradskonti shimmers against the white of the mountains. Wizards, snarling, formless faceless things of magic, cower in front of Her as She keeps Her word, Her bond, Her oath and Her vow: She had promised the Clan vengeance, and brought it to one little girl.

It's title is simple:

Barazkvinni.

Oath Queen.

He stops. At first because he sees Master's house, and realizes he'll have to present his work to her soon enough.

And then because he hears the sound of wheels grinding on the city streets.

He cocks his head and sees his brother Emlik, followed by an entourage of engineers, pushing a Grudge Thrower, hardly vast but well-constructed if understated. Bronze wire inlaid in cherry-red wood depicts various battle with the Fimir and their forces, glorious victories recorded ever onward in precious metal, while the bucket is a statue of mighty and gone Grungni, in the guise of the sun bearer, preparing, it seems to toss whatever ammunition within at the enemy.

The two look at each other for a second.

"So are the Drakki as annoying as everyone says?"

"I don't know. Are the Grom folk?"

There is a silence thick enough you could cut a knife, a silence broad enough to allow whistling wind and screaming cold to fly through. Then they smile and approach and clasp each other in arms, before looking at Master's house.

"Well. No time like the present, eh?"

 

[Voikirium]

Surpassing Standards

I can do better than that.

It's not an unusual thought for me. To look at some piece of work and say, "I can make that better." Old designs sketched when I was a young, young, young apprentice in heavily guarded journals, scraps of paper with every errant thought my little plaitling brain could vomit up for runework, crafts made when I was a Journeywoman just trying to learn how to make my way in the world, and prove I was, indeed, worthy. Maiden's Rebuke, Lhunegal Brynwand, if I put my back into it I could make those again, better, improved, without the flaws, the deficiencies, the failures of youth, the failures of foolishness, the failures of incomprehension. Decades, centuries, grinding me like an ax's head on the whet stone, until all that was left was an improved Runesmith, a better Runesmith.

It's more surprising to me when I can say it about Granduncle's ring.

Zharr-a-Drakhazi.

Not to speak poorly of it, after all. He made me the Runesmith I am today, took care of me as a youth, ensured I would live up to the standards of kin and clan rather than shame myself, shame my family. A living legend, a benchmark, a figure to set myself towards, to try and emulate, to live up to, standard to meet, the goal ever hunted for. A windswept peak I could traverse towards my whole life. The reasoning for it is sound in every level.

And the ring itself is a beauty, both of form-- The Adamant, strong Adamant, lovely Adamant made to look as four wires welded together in the most intricate means, the well-carved rubies, the hearthstone and most of all the dining hall of clan Winterhearth, so shaped and so shaved and so crafted that they may as well live. Detailed to the most minute, pristine and perfect level--and of function, ravaging any enemy spellcasters around.

But.

I can do better.

Oh, there's reasons for that. He's never not put his back into making something, but he didn't empty his heart, his soul, his everything into Zharr-A-Drakhazi. Not like Skarrenbakraz, not like Barak Azamar.

Now those, those I would need a few more centuries, or the right ingredients to surpass and it doesn't look like there's many forefathers of beasts running around for me to kill.

Yes, beardling, let me finish my thoughts. Bah. Now my Granduncle Snorri has more experience making talismans, all Runes even, in his left finger, than I have in my entire body, nevermind you; but I've been naturally good at them from the beginning, only further refined by him and Lady Gemma (and isn't that a benefit he's missing that I have?) until that natural talent shines pristine, pure.

On the other hand, if you ever need a commission for something genuinely out of the ordinary and unexpected, than you'd be well-served looking for my Granduncle. I've picked up a bit of a knack for them myself, but in comparison, there is no comparison.

But I knew I could make a better ring from the moment I saw it.

And I knew I needed a better ring. For revenge, you see, beardling.

So I set to work, preparing myself.

Trying to surpass my teacher, just this once.

Days, weeks, months, years getting every single component as ready as they could ever be.

And, of course, there are a few resources I have that Master Snorri doesn't. He has more, and he has better, but these, there are mine.

First, reagents from the hold Brynduraz. Ancient and thick Stone Troll's Blood, from a beast a few dozen cuts above the usual. Hardly a nascent Greedy One, those are not the kind of things you can order just because you made friends as a Journeywoman, but a monstrous example of the subspecies, potent and ancient and terrible as you'd expect. According to Barra it was surrounded by at least dead Shamans of the Gori, bodies broken like a dry twig put under a hammer, its flesh engorged and its maw caked in blood. A mountain of muscle and fat towering over the mountains, body covered with burns and scars, bolts and arrows and weapons broken into the regenerating flesh and yet still there. It was a survivor of the purest kind. It took three dozen-rangers to poison, sabotage, and corral the thing to its death even as they shot it with bolt after bolt after bolt.

And even then, Barra still had to wrestle with the damn thing to keep it from escaping to cause more trouble later. Damn trolls.

The smell leaking from the cask when it first arrived, trundling on a little wagon, made me believe the story alright: even with Runes of warding and preservation laced along it a smell like ornery goats and vigorous aurochs seemed to dominate the room I kept it in the entire time, the years really, I waited for the rest of what I ordered to come along; worse, if I wasn't particularly careful I could catch the taste on my tongue too, it was just that thick and vile. So much worse than anything your young little mind can conceive of, Beardling.

As much as that was a considerable improvement over the general smell of Stone Trolls, it still made grabbing reagents for more usual, typical orders--tossing a few dozen amulets to the Thanes of the hold, getting banners ready for regiments of huskarls and other warriors, or wedding gifts for wives and husbands alike-- a fascinating exercise in trying to figure out how by Gazul's great skill to get it without having to catch the smell or wanting to wretch until every ounce of ale I'd ever drunk in my life came back up the most unpleasant way possible. I learned, very quickly, how to look through my horde quick as I could; further, it directly led me to better categorize the reagents I had, just to avoid having to smell that blood if at all possible.

The next piece, Barazgal, good Barazgal, from Galbaraz. Flawless and smooth and radiant as all the metals of that place were, shiny and pristine and perfect. The metal of kings, the metal of lords, the metal of oaths. The mark of Grungni Himself, Father of Dwarfs, and so the stuff of defiance and of protection. Gold of the best caliber, gold without peer or competitor, yes better even than the stuff the Caledorians pull out of their parched desert rocks to impress their pet flying lizards into not leaving, the kind of thing burned, invariably, into the dwarf mind as what gold ought to look like. A shade not far from the very best of ale, a shade not far from the best kinds of brew, worked over again and again and again until it was entirely without slag or flaw or impurity.

"Why not Adamant" he asks, bah. BAH! Granduncle may have enough of the stuff to arm the Hearth Guard in it, or Gronti, or any other kind of wonder he should so desire but we don't all have his stockpile or array of the stuff. I needed to be smart and considered with the stuff, not toss it about willy-nilly. I, on the other hand, was still working on setting up my own Smelter to get production up to par and I could scarcely ask Granduncle for some if he knew I was going to use it to try and surpass him, just this once, and do something better than he did. And besides, Beardling, tell me: does Gromril or its derivatives convert magic or just block it entirely?

Ah, so some of what your poor, long suffering master has said does manage to penetrate that thick, stony skull of yours to reside in your head. Good. Aye, Barazgal is the better for controlling, channeling, converting magic rather than denying it entirely out of hand. 'S why the Master Rune of Grungni uses it for converting the spells of the enemy into the protective barrier rather than Gromril, converting it to productive use rather than just denying it out of hand. It's all a matter of context which is more useful: you want to use it to fuel something productive, or spiteful, or both, you could do worse than applying oathgold or purer variants, assuming you can find any. You want to just say no entirely--or, for that matter, just make the Rune work better in most cases, admittedly-- you want to find the best Gromril you can and use it. Consider that your free tip of the century the next time somebody's desperate or charitable enough to commission you rather than saving up and getting what they need from somebody old and therefore better at the job than you.

And so it went into my vault, only just waiting for the moment when I would turn my, not inconsiderable mind, towards converting it into good, solid dwarf work, into something worthy of the effort.

And last, last of all, was the Stomach of a Cygor. They're nasty, brutish creatures: the Brana hate them, and not without cause. Wizard-hunters, who seek out the flesh of spellcasters to consume. We may spite enemy wizards, boy, at least it's quick work we make of them rather than what those hunters do.

The Brana located a beastmen herd that had one of the things traveling overhead, for about the same reason you or I would keep particularly close track of the Frundrar Sorcerers or some of the more spiteful bootlickers of Tzeentch. Among that herd there was a Bray Shaman too, of course, a lot of them actually: no real threat if things were done smart, but doing things smart would require Runesmiths so there couldn't be any spells tossed about.

And of course, history is replete with examples of what could happen if it wasn't done smart.

Now I may not be quite as close as the Rockhead is to the Brana, but I am still a student of the Gift-Giver, the man who Runed their Aerie, and a Master Runesmith in good standing beside and Dolgi cannot be everywhere at once, so when they needed another Runesmith to help make sure the enemy couldn't get up to mischief, they came to me.

It was not a particularly hard battle as far as these things go. Rangers corralled them with planned avalanches, Stormcallers sapped their strength with blizzards even worse than usual, and I got into position with certain, simple traps, getting banners and other parts of an array set up in a valley a few dozen kilometers from Kraka Drak.

There've been better, but there's been worse, to be sure. A single volley from the Rangers managed to cut down the bestigors and other elites, the shamans couldn't cast so much as a damn nightlight with all the banners I'd draped around the place, all of them boiling down to "I don't like magic, so there'll be none" leaving a bunch of Gors and Ungors and in the vast history of the universe I'm not sure there's been a more onesided fight than the average Brana against the average Gor never mind the Ungor. This was not a herd large enough for numbers to make up the difference, either.

Leaving only the Cygor itself.

They're big, tough and dumb just as the Enemy likes 'em, but you know what else is true? They burn. Just the same as anybody else do they burn. So I borrowed Bryngrungni--Emlik's Master Work, that Grudge Thrower with all the fire Runes worked into it--in return for letting him have third picking after me and the Brana, kept it concealed and when it was time, tossed a rock about as big as I am right at the thing's chest.

Coated in fur, oil, grease, filth and Ancestors only know what else, it went up like a damn bonfire.

But it still managed to toss a rock at the Brana before it went down. So stubborn I'm almost impressed.

That out of the way, we set about dividing the spoils. The Cygor was the biggest, most important piece: the Brana took its heart and its brain, for some ritual or another or maybe to craft; I took its blood and its stomach; and Emlik claimed the eye.

And with that, I was all ready to finally begin.

I toiled, long, to see the Ring made. I crafted the mundane first, of course, intricately shaping the bone of a Magma Wyrm to purpose. Chiseling, carving, shaping and working, all my focus, all of my commitment, turned towards that simple jewel, file and knife and chisel alike biting into the dead bone, a strike, ten strikes, a hundred strikes, a thousand, it did not matter for I had a goal, to make something better than even Granduncle Snorri could, to for once in my life surpass that legend. Crisp lines, bright lines, as well-made and as well-carved as any could ever ask for in all that centuries to come of my life. A depiction of the facets and portions of Valaya, in the most intricate detail possible and yet minute as well to fit on it, dividing the ring into fourths: Valaya healing, Valaya brewing, Valaya at the Hearth, and Valaya the warrior, so that none could forget the Goddess of the Dawi in all the ages to come. To honor Her, and to beseech Her, to bless the ring, and to bless my hands not to falter nor shake as I put myself to the task of creating it and making it proper. Silver imported from Karak-Eight-Peaks, the hold favored by Her when She and the others still walked among us, was Her body, made so detailed even you Beardlings can imagine it. Her armor, Her Plaits, Her barrels and Her ax. Meanwhile Her visage was made of accent stones, hearthstones, the stone beloved of Her from Kraka Drak. Divided between the calm face of Matron and Brewer and the anger, the indignation, the spite of the Protector.

Of course, they weren't just generic portraits but stories, legends, beardling. Proper knowledge passed down from those who were elders when I was a plaitling, about as ignorant as you. The Brewer, Valaya teaching good Dawi how to use the brews and drafts outside of Zorn after they parted and began colonizing the rest of the World's Edge Mountains, establishing Holds that dotted the forts. Valaya the Warrior, dueling that shoddy abomination of the Tempter Kal'Tharnix and destroying him so utterly that at the least he's never found the courage to return, assuming he still exists at all. Valaya driving out the poison from the Silverpeak, allowing that place to exist at all, certainly to stand forever as a testament to our people. And Valaya of the Hearth, working with Thungni to establish Her Ancestor Rune and so allow the Dwarfs to defy vile magic when the enemy dares to attempt to turn it against us.

And then the Runes, of course.

The Master Rune of Valaya. I chanted and smote, smote and chanted, my jewelers hammer driving the chisel in as I carved it onto Valaya of the hearth, each blow as perfect as I could manage, each punctuated by a syllable of the chant. Magic and mysticism swirled all about me and around me as I set myself to the task, seconds becoming minutes becoming hours becoming days becoming weeks becoming months becoming long years as I put myself to this test, this task, this thing that needed to be done, this drive to create something for myself and to prove a point, to do as I had set out to do and make a better damn ring than Snorri. Not because he wanted it done, not to prove a point to anyone else, not for fun--well, maybe for fun.

But most of all, to show myself that it could be done. That at least this one time, I could not just meet the standards of my Ancestors, not just exceed the standards of my Ancestors, but in fact exceed the Ancestors themselves in this thing. Perhaps appropriately for a student of the man who managed to invent Gromril chain when everyone was convinced that only Grungni would ever manage to achieve it. If any master would ever take it well, take some gratification out of what I had set myself to doing, it seemed Master Snorri would be the one: he would grumble about it, I think, if he ever knew, of course, but some little portion of him would be validated that I had the ambition, the drive, the wherewithal to even attempt it.

And if I did succeed? If I did make a better ring, a ring of such beauty and worth as to enter myth? Then aye, aye, I think he would allow himself pride, that he had brought up such a capable student, pride that his teaching had been worth it.

Not that I'll ever know that feeling in my apprentices, of course.

And then all at once it was ready, shimmering and shining, glistening and gleaming in the light of torches, only just waiting to be quenched with the blood of a Troll. I poured the essence of that bull of a thing out and out and out, flagons of the chunky, thick life-blood seeming to drain like I had just strung up the troll itself, cut it and was draining it like some kind of stuck pig. I chanted, I poured, and it shimmered, thirsty and needy, needy and thirsty, a thing of endless might and spite only just waiting for some wizard to dare try and attack. But it needed fuel, it needed power, and that power was held in the blood, the blood that I poured for long heartbeat after long heartbeat. I poured the blood until it seemed like the blood itself was coming not just from the cask, but from me, as though some part of me was commingling with the troll, even as it disappeared from reality, burned away or taken elsewhere.

And then all at once it was finished. The shell sprung to life, incomplete, waiting.

So I put myself to the next Rune.

This I carved on Valaya the warrior, the Rune of Spellturning, the rune to turn aside evil magics and return them back onto the enemy. As Her ax could carve through the deranged work of sorcerors and shamans and daemons so too this Ring would, so too this Rune would. Blow after blow after blow, chant after chant after chant, syllable after syllable until it was ready, a vast hungry pit waiting to be fed and so feed it I did. The Barazgal was scorched, melted, waiting in the smelter and so I gripped it in the best of tongs and ladeled it, portion after portion, into the Rune, still chanting, still enduring, smoothly, evenly, ensuring as much entered as possible. It was hot, but the magic of the Rune seemed to agitate it, seemed to perturb it, keep it a bubbling, molten thing held in the clay vessel, the inky black void that had been slowly beginning to glimmer and gleam and glow, a hot, sunny gold shade. It became like the noonday sun in my workshop then, as though a bright sunny noon had descended within my home.

My neighbors are polite enough not to mention it, but I think given they all bought some particularly thick curtains afterwards they must have noticed themselves.

The shell of the Master Rune took on a mirror sheen, and rightfully so. What had been perturbations in the air, a sheen not unlike that of heat, of a hot fire roaring in the forge or in the oven or the stove, became something more concrete, more tangible. Almost like thick sap, or a lens, acting as a bubble, a shell, around the ring just waiting for somebody to toss a spell so it could take some of that energy, some of that power, and return it. The Barazgal, hope among hopes, should make it channel that magic more productively, pour that energy, that power into the Master Rune of Valaya and expand the shell further and further, increasing the radius of contempt for the enemy to heights higher and higher.

Hopefully.

Either way, I was too in it at this point to stop and so I kept ladeling, kept offering, kept pouring and kept chanting, careful not to spill so much as a drop of the precious Barazgal. I did not need it on my floor or on the bone or anywhere else: I needed it in the Rune, powering it, providing it strength.

I needed it working.

There was a short, sharp flash for an instant, and the Rune gleamed like golden fire from then on--it has gleamed since, gleamed as bright as it ever has, as I think it forever will.

Finally, the last Rune.

An appropriate one.

The Rune of Thungni's Presence.

On to the face of Valaya the Healer, biting into the Hearthstone. The chant was second nature, even as the Cygor stomach, ground into a paste, began to boil for it needs to be served piping hot, hotter than hot, to match the fiery hot contempt and disdain of the Rune.

The lynchpin of the thing's function. Either it would make the whole thing function as I had hoped--an expanding bubble, a shell, where any magic could not be cast unless I allowed it and any spell cast from outside the bubble would be launched back at the sender, further expanding the bubble as it went by improving the function of Spellturning and the function of the Master Rune of Valaya-- or it would not and I would have to be satisfied with an, admittedly beautiful, and admittedly still useful--no construction with a Master Rune could ever be anything less--ring. But not one that had done as I set out and surpassed Zharr-a-Drakhazi, not one that let me do something greater than my Granduncle just this once and prove that I was able, that I was worthy, that one day Fjolla would be a name spoken of in legends passed along to my, hopefully bountiful, descendants.

And so I drove my hammer with all the force of my anxieties, pouring them out and emptying my mind of them to ensure I did things properly. Each blow further solidifying the physical structure of the Rune, each blow further carving the physical Rune into the structure of the ring and so into the structure of reality. And as it did, the shell began to flicker, to tense. It was ready.

I took the thing of paste and I began to spread it onto the Rune of Thungni's Presence, still chanting the song of certitude, still honoring my ancestor, still showing my heart and my pride as a descendant, however distant, of one who had wrought wonders, legends and Myths, as I tried to join their number and poured my everything into it, centuries of knowledge, of experience, of effort and training to try and prove myself worthy. The mirror became a black void, a pit, reflecting light and substance even as the Cygor's hunger for magic was joined to Thungni's searing contempt, as the Rune became a ravenous, devouring, hungering thing that no amount of energy, no spell, could ever hope to satiate, consuming spells by the dozens, the hundred, the thousands like loaves of stonebread and coming back for seconds, converting that energy and then shoving it along to the other Runes, allowing the bubble to expand, to grow, to reach ever higher highs, to become an unbreakable void that would take any magic dared cast against me--say, by any angry lizard witch-- and return it to them as a weapon even as the field in which they could not cast grew greater.

And then all at once it was over.

It was done.

I was left with the ring, after I knew not how long.

Guzazi Zhuf, the devourer of magic.

Then I passed out, following my Granduncle's traditions as a proper apprentice ought to.

 

[Voikirium]

A Warrior's Armory

He's not particularly fond of fighting, much like his father in that way. Not one for many things.

Killing. Slaying. Burning. His Grudges have been few, and all the sorts that can be solved with gold or a flung fist rather than taking up his ax, cutting off heads and leaving wailing orphans and widows behind. Most of his Runework has been the honorable but not glorious work, warming people's homes, keeping the lights on, marking the temples with the Ancestors' Runes, and of course working on the Branakroki's infrastructure to get it less shoddy. There've been axes, hammer, shields, corselets and more, of course, what Dawi could not end up runing a few martial items? His hammers have cracked skulls, his shields have saved lives, his armor has turned aside blows. Plenty of colonists in the Black Mountains are running around with his work.

But if somebody really wants that sort of thing, they'd be better served bugging his brothers and sisters. They're better Runesmiths than he is in that way, for all he can put out three in the time it takes them to make one.

But he is Bolgi Dolgison, the son of Dolgi Bolgison, and he does not turn aside. Not now.

Not ever.

So as bodies of good dwarfs, dwarfs who deserved to live long, full lives make their way back on carts draped in funerary shrouds, or defiantly march back scarred by the weight of war...

Well.

He can't just let that come to pass, now can he? Not and retain any sort of honor, as a member of his Guild or the son of his mother.

And that's how he ended up here, staring at a blank piece of Troll Hide, some Wutroth, Rumbler Lung, Grimnirzan and a Hearthstone, plenty of his savings spent to acquire them all and a plan. A way to ensure the enemy can't just keep trying to drown warriors under a tidal wave of worthless bodies and chaff. That they have to come out and fight themselves. A way to even these fights, aside from tossing his father's Master at the lot of them.
--
"Skarri, aren't you busy" they ask, "trying to convince the king about your mad fighting on griffons idea?" He snorts at the memory, rolling his eyes as he examines the ingots of Pure Gromril that make up part of his payment for this commission.

Yes, Blessed Ancestors, he is. But this, this still needs to be done. He needs to get this right, and he needs it now. He can't just look away, only focusing on one thing, his honor pulls him in as many damn directions as there are Holds in the empire if not more.

More Brana intend to campaign against the Fimir. A number of reasons, which they have kept close to the chest; nothing oathsworn, he thinks, but not his business either. Any number of reasons. Some of them even just want to get to talking to the Elves about this, that or the other Zhuf nonsense, and that's their prerogative.

It is his prerogative to make this damn armor, since he's been paid by Forgebright and he's many things but a scam-artist is not one of them. He was paid to make the armor, and he will make it if it kills him. They'll be sheathed in primarily Troll Leather, which is far from nothing, and the Rune itself will be placed on a breast plate made of Pure Gromril...or, well, most of them will be.

Looking at the Elder Dragon's Gas Sac that's part of his payment for the commission, he has his own ideas about where exactly the Master Rune should go.

Yes, he's imagining it, he can finally see it. Forgebright, flying overhead, spewing hot fire and screaming death down on the Fimir below, turning their armor to ash in the process--particularly when it's worn by those who can already zhuf about with metal in the first place. The real question becomes, how to further refine it, how to enhance it?
--
They are outnumbered manifold. Solveg has heard it from kin, and from friends, and from veterans, and yes, even from the Brana, who are generally more inclined to see "many enemies" as "good opportunity to practice fighting/casting spells in an unfriendly environment". Enslaved Gori and Daemons and nobody can even tell what else, all gathered together to try and overwhelm an infinitely superior force, Dawi and Brana and Elgi alike united in common causes. Bolgi sees it, his idea may be defensive and not without cause: Ancestors know The Gift Giver has just cornered the market on offensive banner work and while she loves her brother, he (Probably) doesn't have a Skarrenbakraz in him.

Probably.

She, on the other hand?

Well, the Miner is good work, to be sure. But, she bets she can come up with something pretty good herself. Show ambition and initative, and in any case nobody is going to turn down more bodies to throw at the problem that they don't have to be too delicate with.

And that right there is why she's got all manner of particularly...shocking...reagents ready for the work. Something to emulate the Stormcallers of the Brana, once she has the body of the Gronti all ready, the hardest part to be sure.

It may or may not end up flying, but either way? It will manage what she really needs it to do:

Lightning. Thunder. Death. The end. Flying will be a bonus, at some point she may even construct some wings to allow it...

But she's really more interested in it tossing lightning at anything too scaly for comfort, whether that be Meargh or Balefiend or Fimmi or whatever other names the Grudge-Burdened have decided to give themselves, the tossers. "Lightning-rod" seems a fairer name in this case, all told.
--
The Frost Wyrm Horn taunts him, frustrates him, annoys him even.

Good.

Annoyed is when he does his best damn work, or his name isn't Dolgi Dolgison, apprentice of Dwalin Thunderlung! A Runelord in his own right and with good reason, even if he's not quite as acclaimed as his father's master! He can almost hear him--

No wait, he can hear Dwalin. He shakes his head

Well, irrespective of the shouts he can hear as Dwalin works on his own new pet project, Dolgi can also hear Dwalin telling him not to give up, not to yield to the difficulties of the craft, not to besmirch his honor since he has sworn to aid the warriors going to take their vengeance against the FImir for their duplicity, their cruelty and their malice, their servitude to things of evil and of what is evilest in this world.

To instead, make a song of the matter. So he sang, his eyes closed, and turned about the place, an old song of Thungni slaying the Dumdrakk Kaltharax, and let the song take him as he examined the small closet of reagents just waiting to be used, held with Runes of preservation and stasis until such a time as they were to be used, in yet another glorious work of the line of apprenticeship he's been honored with.

Until at last, his eyes open on exactly what he needs. Obsidian, shiny and black, a mirror he could gaze into. Immediately his mind turns both to what he could craft with that, thoughts of a thing of spiting the magic of their wretched, Zhuf-tossing Dirachs, and of the form it should take:

A great horn.

One to split magic.

His smile splits with glorious spite as he imagines campaigning with his former Master and with Redbeak alike, ensuring the only magic will be that he allows.
--
"I journey to face the Enslavers and the Traitors," Mountainstrider had told him as he commissioned the middle child of Dolgi. "Grant me weapons for to slay the abberations, and I shall grant great portions of it to you. I trust you, my friend."

Bardin is, he supposes, glad that his friend has put such faith in him to see him armed before he journeys in a decade's time, even as he has to consider how particularly to arm him. You can't exactly make Brana an ax, can you? His father has come up with ways and means, of course, like any good Dawi Bardin Dolgison wants to walk in the path of his father but there's a difference walking in the path of your father and just repeating what's come before.

Mountainstrider deemphasizes biting attacks in combat. Apparently he's been working with the Elgi to "sharpen his mastery of the Amber Humor", for whatever nonsense that meant, and that required an open mouth for roars, chants and so on. Not that he's never seen the Brana take a bite out of whatever starts a fight with him, but he is generally more inclined to slice with his claws or throw his weight around in general, slapping people with his wings.

Now, as much as the thought of covering his wings in Gromril so he can slap trolls about with ease sounds fun, and as much as he's big and strong even by Brana standards "by the might of beast and fang" that much weight would weigh him down too much, at least for the kind of Runes he can justify putting on a Brana's weapon.

Hm.

Cover his claws in Gromril, then? And he has stated a kind of seething annoyance for anything and everything that regenerates, particularly anything the Despairing blights the world with. Fire, cleansing fire? Purity and light. That which strikes at the dark things of the world, that which burns away the illness, that which is hateful to the enemy.

Yes. He imagines the already mighty blows of his friend, sheathed in burning, bursting fire, blows carving through fat and muscle and skin and buboes as easily as he might cut through a very nice cut of steak and then searing it shut so it can no more regrow than he could if such fire was turned on him.
--
She grins, a particularly Snerraish grin.

"We'll double the budget. I don't intend to die until I've proven that tosser Valka wrong."

Oh yes, very Snerra. Not the kind, cookie baking Snerra most think of however: more the mad woman who could take a few hundred grams of iron and make a king's ax out of it without trying, that part of Snerra, the one most non-Runesmiths don't get the privilege of seeing, or understanding when they do.

A part of her, admittedly, is sad that she hasn't been called up to armor a Brana, unlike Bardin, Skarri, and apparently Solveg. It would be nice to continue her father's work on that front, and further her Clan's ties with the talking griffins.

On the other hand, she has been allowed to get particularly opulent with it, in a way she normally wouldn't as such a relatively young Runesmith, Master or no. Not quite "no expense spared" but "no expense relevant" to be sure.

Master Engineer Brighteye intends to go to war to see to it her warmachines are used properly and to bust some Meargh heads for breaking her contraptions, and she has the money to make sure of it, that much is certain. Not the pedigree to cut in front of everybody else also looking to commission Runesmiths before the next campaign against the Fimir begins in earnest, however. She could beef up something with Gromril, and Stone, and Iron...or she can do one better. So the Engineer had given her just about everything she'd asked for. Reagents scarce for anyone without the pocket book of Snorri, and the Master Engineer had seen fit to give her just about any she could ask for. A substitution that was more than adequate, given everything.

She'll be coming back right as rain alright, that much Jolla intends to make damn well sure of.
--
Snowhide has brought her Dragon Lung, taken from the body of an appreciably old Elder Wyrm, one of the Black Dragons--it smells of acrid poison and contempt, not entirely unlike most of the Longbeards she knows. She'd asked her for "Some means of making the cowards come out and fight rather than making me try and pin them down" and Siggrun, Siggrun has some ideas for that.

She's a simple woman, she knows. But there are times when simplicity is a virtue.

An arm ring of battle. Something to make her friend fight like the dickens. Master Rune of Challenge, obviously, to draw the enemy out and then something to make Snowhide a good, solid, superior fighter so she doesn't end up in over her head. Now if it were a dwarf asking for it, things would be blessedly straightforward, she could just use the Ancestor Runes of, say, Grimnir and Valaya for a good mix between offense and defense, perhaps Grimnir and Gazul to emphasize killing or Valaya and Grungni for endurance or even Valaya and Thungni for wizard hunting. But it seems a bit odd to toss Runes of her Ancestors onto her friend, who has her own perfectly good Ancestor, doesn't it?

(Not that she'd ever judge somebody for doing it, honest, the job does have practical demands as much as it does artistic ones and the Brana don't particularly seem to care.)

So perhaps then, something to draw up the natural gorm of her friend, her slighted honor, her deep and abiding contempt for the things of Chaos and all those who kneel in subjugation to it. Her natural temper, and her natural rage, normally so constrained on the grounds of everybody else's safety...unleashed?

She looks at all the reagents she has gathered over her career, not terribly long in the grand scope of things but...long enough. More than long enough, for her purposes. For this thing.

She smiles.

It is not a friendly smile.
--
The Troll Hide has been surprisingly easy to work on, all things considered. The pale white leather takes his paint as easily as a dwarf to ale to be honest, as his will guides his hand and his hand guides his brush.

This is meant for a purpose to be sure.

But it also has to be art, and so he gladly turns himself to that end, painting onto the fluttering leather. He does not compare himself to Siggrun, to Bardin, to Solveg or to the others, for once he allows himself to turn off that, to look away from that and instead look towards what he sees in his mind, because it is not a question of being better than them, he picked banners for a reason after all. None of the others touch the things, perhaps out of some pity (or is that sympathy, or respect, or disinterested and they did not even notice) and so right now, right now he can just focus on making it the best he can.

For that's all he can do.

He paints on, stopping the wool gathering to do his job instead. Three enemies of Kraka Drak, now righteously dead. The head of Kholek Sun-Eater, grim, eyes black in death while the rest is a vivid, impossible to miss red, to the right. The Greedy One, a miasmic blue like opal that shimmers thanks to that self-same rock crushed then stirred into the paint, eyes black. Haruzrildrakk in the silver of Gromril, eyes black, eyes dead. Underneath, the weapons of each who killed them: Trollslayer. Zharrgal. Dal-Grund. All surrounded by hard, angular golden knotwork, arrayed horizontally. The pole, of Wutroth, has been shaped to look like an elder hefting an ax.

The message, the promise, the threat, is clear. It would be bait, a trap, even without the Runes to attach; but with them, it will be like ale for a dwarf.

Are you strong enough?

Aye, that will do it.
--
The armor, at least, is complete. The Troll Hide has been hardened and cut into leather scales then laced together with the sinew, not entirely unlike the usual gromril but still light enough to let Forgebright fly while still offering appreciable protection, particularly when it can be reinforced with haste: better to ensure you can endure the blows, of course, but it would be a flagrant lie to act like much has a particularly good chance of hitting the Silverbearer until and unless said Silverbearer deigns to allow it. A breastplate shined to a mirror polish, and a helmet with a curving horn, also bright and shiny, glint in the forgelight, the only really hard components. He's left sword ribs, spear ribs, other, simple measures to keep the enemy's blows from skewering his client lined about the way.

The decoration is more mild than he would usually use as per his client's request, but there is still plenty--he is a Runesmith after all-- of that you can be more than certain. If he wanted pure functionality, he would have made it himself and enchanted it himself, he certainly could have.

The hard ribs that will catch spears and swords and other similar weapons have been filigreed with shimmering, exquisite gold the better to draw the eye, knotwork mountains lining them. The King of the Skies' battle with Kholek Sun-Eater has been etched into the plate and glimmers on the surface, detailed enough to convey but not so detailed as to be overpowering. The Brana's own symbol for their Aeries has been lined in particularly fine golden wire, the same bright and shimmering shade as the sun overhead, and is placed over the heart. A particularly gleaming circle of ivory under the helmet is going to hold the Master Rune of Dragonbreath when he finishes carving it, and he'll have it carved soon enough.
--
Too heavy to fly, and more's the pity for it. But the stone Brana she's made is nevertheless, a particularly fine representation of her family's most consistent clients, that much is sure. It's carved of black granite at base, as large as a particularly impressive man of the species, the wings so well-shorn if you hollowed them they could be covering for any number of those her father has armored and the head a workable helmet if you did much the same. In emulation of The Miner and of the Maiden she has followed the musculature of the Brana's body, asking Thunder-Speaker to model, allowing her to take those shapes and carry them over. The beak is hollow and hooked and sharp, the same as a living Brana. Exquisitely crafted, of course, to the highest degree. The claws have been sharpened with a good chisel, whether front or back.

But there is decoration, of course, not just...base realism, like some sort of soulless amateur documentarian. She is an artist, not something so simple, so mindless.

Well-polished Dronril has been laid at the center of the hawk talons at the thing's front and in the bottom of the back lion's paws, ensuring every blow will discharge mighty shocks even as it rips and tears and bites into flesh, even beyond the Runes she had lined up for it. She has lined the, now protective, wings with brass wire that glints the moment so much as candlelight is available, and the eyes are bluest lapis lazuli set onto white marble in leonine form, as perfect a copy as her merely mortal hands could make. The feathers of the head have the story of Morgrim and the Gift-Giver creating and Runing the Aerie of the Brana, then inlaid with precious metal: gold for the first of the Engineers, and silver for the Gift-Giver.

Now, to grant it motive...
--
The Horn has been shaped, after six months of effort, hollowed and then reinforced with a layer of brass, so that it can carry a note the way it needs to, to act as a wall of sound mightier than the efforts of perfidious magic. A hole has been made and reinforced with brass to allow someone to blow into it without risk of freezing their mouth shut or some other odious failure for the Frost Wyrm horn is cold, if not that cold. Alternating bands reinforce the outside of the thing, polished as it is to a nearly pearl white: Purified Gromril, pure horn, and then precious metal. Small enough to be carried in one hand, but big enough (and durable enough) to be used as a club if need be, for a man does not always have his weapon of choice at hand.

The Gromril has been filigreed with golden Klinkarhun extorting Thungni to look with pleasure upon this work of His craft, the horn merely polished until it gleams like teeth, while the precious metals have been studded with jewels. The metal changes, the first brand of brass lined with beryl of a pale, glittering, pleasing black, socketed in with considerable effort and force (he'd like to see the mortal with thews mighty enough to pry them out); the silver with pearls, many, many pearls, bright and flickering like fire light, seeming to dance like the tongues of heat within the fireplace; while the gold has been covered with emeralds pulled from the mines of Kraka Drak, worked into precisely carved lines, angular and hard, long and thin rectangle really. Frost flickers around all of it constantly, a slight layer seeming to cover the thing, almost making it look asleep, like some mighty beast resting after a great effort.

Which is, perhaps, approriate, really, all things considered.

Now then, to get it Runed before the next campaign. No excuse for idleness in this matter, to be sure!
--
Bardin looks upon his work with no small pride. A finely articulated gauntlet, designed to wrap on around the right claw of Mountainstrider, covering it in a layer of hard, Pure Gromril, hardened in the fiercest fires which seem captured in the Runemetal. It shines with an unusual purity after he put the effort in for a particularly nice billet, something that he'll have to look at later, shimmering somewhere between silver and white. The construction is intricate, efforts taken to reduce the weight as much as possible to ensure his friend can cut and slice as easily as he could if he were wearing nothing at all, with no more problem than wearing a silken tunic.

At the center of the back of the paw, a bright topaz that gleams the same bright, glittery shade of yellow as the sun rests, surrounded by perfectly symmetrical golden inlays that look like stylized rays of that self-same stellar body that Longbeards so often grumble over (thinking he has not realized they are grumbling for the sake of grumbling, of course, they aren't as subtle as they think they are, no not even his father, nor his grandfather, nor his great-grandfather). The decoration of the claws is subtler, but they have been lacquered in a red the same shade as a brilliant, purifying sunset, the kind of thing that can make even the harsh, cold lands of Norsca seem beautiful, if one ignores the perils lurking on the snow capped mountains. To complete the look, old Brana stories about the sun (there being considerably more for creatures who fly than those who live underground, after all) have been etched into it, filigree and other, more obvious methods discarded as too much of a risk for too much weight, and he'll not get his friend killed for something shiny.

It still needs Runes, and so Runes it shall have.
--
Jolla looks upon the armor she's made with a keen eyes, filing off any slight remaining defect.

A plate harness, thick layers of hardened gromril worked into a protection both wearable and all-encompassing for anywhere not protected by the plates instead has a layer of thick scales of Pure Gromril wrapped around it, all of it shined to a mirror finish for, unlike certain people she could name she is not above something shiny. There would be a certain sparce beauty in just the shape itself: there is something innately pleasing in something that simply functions and does its job well, the Brana are not wrong about that. But she does have a higher standard, there are things needed and necessary for it to be worthy of a Runesmith, worthy of a student of Snerra, the Smiling Runelord, savior of the High King, the Last of the Chosen, and she will not fail to live up to those standards.

A trim of reddened brass the same shade as Grimnirzan around most of the plate, first and foremost, then worked in hard, angular patterns, as a bonus acting to stop spears or swords from sliding about all over the place. Certain plates have been covered in an entire facade of the stuff even, though that is a thin skin over Gromril even in those cases. The three-piece pauldrons look like a disappointed Grungni, the worst Grungni of all to face, the top plate his helmet, the middle His face, and the bottom his beard and to that end his eyes are filled with particularly thick Hearthstones, bright and fiery things indeed. The helmet's visor has been carved to look like a particularly snarling, wrathful face, a thing foreboding and furious and hateful to the enemy, while the scales that drape and protect the body have the history of Clan Brighteye carved into them and filled with yet more of the red brass, while decorative Klinkarhun prayers to Grimnir layer the spirit in protection as well, ensuring the eyes of the Ancestors are upon her and she does not shame herself.
--
The ring is complete.

The ring is worthy.

Designed to wrap around the upper front of the right limb, it is in the main a relatively simple thing of ivory that will rest snug against Snowhide's form, enough give to flex with her or to contract as the need may arise in battle--it would not do for either the arm to break the ring or the ring to break the arm in the heat of battle as movements become weirder and wilder. Accent stones dot it, each perhaps the size of her fingernail, alternating between ruby, sapphire, and emerald in precisely that order, socketed in, respectively, bronze, silver, and gold the better to ensure they stand out from the plain white of the ivory, harvested from troll tusks and so precisely cleaned as to gleam like snow banks under the Weal-Moon.

Carved into the ivory is the story of Snowhide's family, an old line stretching back to some of the King of the Sky's eldest kin, and the battles they waged: During the Incursion, at Karag Dum, and now against the Fimir, and more personal battles aside. Each jewel acts to emphasize a singular victory from her parents back to the progenitors, her ancestors, back to the original Windbreath: A Stormcaller ancestor, for instance, has the place where his bolt of lightning overwhelmed the lightning of Dragon Ogres marked with a sapphire, while a ruby emphasizes the work of a Silverbearer, a craftsman, making a torque and so gaining a wife. Her limb is only just big enough to have space for it all, and even then it is some very tiny, very detailed carving, taking her many, many moons to get it done right.

Paying off a part of the debt will be worth it.

And so, for that matter, will be making some Runes worthy of the trouble.
--
The Rumbler Lung sizzles and a hot haze rises up from it as he shreds and rips and grates and tears it apart, feeding it to the Master Rune of Taunting.

If this is to work--and it must work--that shall be the keystone, the necessity, the fulcrum of the lever that is his craft. He chants, all his focus turned onto it for the moment, all his efforts, everything he could be yoked to making it function.

The Rune of Battle, given a Hearthstone, already blazes red and hot on the skull of Haruzrildrakk. Quick shots, fast shots, nimble shots, delivered as though Valaya herself was insisting on their perfection and lulling the enemy into a torptitude, making them jittery and sluggish by turns, neither fast enough to get out of the rain of bolts that is to come nor able enough to dodge them, even as the shots of the Quarrelers underneath are delivered as precisely as possible, too busy imagining death for the Dawi.

The Rune of Cascading Bolts, given Grimnirzan. All under its blows will deliver fast volleys of bolt fire, acting as though Grimnir Himself had drilled them in the art which they needed to perform, the art of war, resplendent and wonderful and terrible. Intimidating, not fear or terror proper perhaps, but something perturbing, to the enemy who sees such effort as well.

A certain aura of disquiet may fill an enemy faced with that, of course, and so the necessity of the Master Rune of Taunting. The enemy could not ignore this, and so rather than trying to drown weakpoints in the line under worthless bodies they will instead come, even as their morale shatters, towards the quarrelers under it, dying in droves to try and finally tear it down fast when they should be slow and jittery when they should be confident, a mishmash of conflicting, sabotaging emotions all driven from the Runes. Give them a secure enough position and sufficient ammunition and such quarrelers would be quiet the hardpoint against such chaff.

If this works.

So he prepares to put more effort into it.

Because it has to be ready, just as he has to.

For it shall be Werul A Urk, the Confuser of Foes.
--
The Runes are complete. They shimmer and smoke and sizzle, slowly weaning off the energy he had fed to them.

The Master Rune of Dragonbreath gleams a familiar, wholesome teal light, though sparks and flickers of the red heat trapped within burst about every now and again. Fire, hot fire, only barely just trapped within, only just waiting to be unleashed by Forgebright at his command and a breath. Strafing runs from above burning holes in the enemy lines, easily exploitable gaps, combined with his own magic ought to turn the Silverbearer into quite the shocktroop indeed, helping turn the tide against the simple tidal wave of numbers the enemy can spit out to try and drown their quality under quantity.

Well, quality has a quantity all its own.

The Rune of Force, given a Hearthstone, and the Rune of Might, given a Phoenix Feather, really only emphasize that to an even greater degree, allowing him to make simple numbers even less meaningless in the main. Dragon's fire already impacts like the mighty fist of Grungni Himself--the Rune of Force and Might only further emphasize that even as they increase his physical prowess as well, turning him into a bitter melee combatant indeed. His charges will end up wreathed in hot fire, the effect of all the fire reagents he's used for this, while the jets of flame he now spits will explode making balls of it that can crater the earth and reshape the landscape given sufficient effort, and if embroiled into pure melee combat for one reason or another his cuts and slashes and bites (if he needs to, of course) will burn and burn and burn, the hottest of fires to face the worst of foes.

It is complete.

It is beautiful.

It is Zharr A Skarr, the Fire of the Skies.

There is a knock at the door.

It must be him.
--
The Gronti leaps from the plinth at her command, little sparks pouring out where the Dronril touches the ground, further confirmation it can't fly until and unless she gives it something to lower its weight.

Oh well.

She'll just have to content herself with sending off a monolith of stone, lightning, and slaughter to face the Fimir. Rather than the power of a Troll's Heart motivating it, a Dronril crackles inside, the energy unleashed offering it motive and force, sending little bolts of static around into the air. Nothing dangerous there...yet. The Master Rune of Awakening crackles on the thing's chest, the bluish white of lightning, of power, of electricity burning, ringing around the teal of Runes.

The Rune of Chain Lightning. With Dronril already both inlaid in the claws and used to power the Rune of Awakening, its attacks already have lightning no matter what. With this, it can launch lightning bolts that arc, that twist, that turn and shift, following along the line of the enemy like a scyth, slaying them from far away or from close up. Dragon Ogre Blood offers it yet more twisted potency, increasing the strength of the bolts and increasing the frequency such attacks can be unleashed.

Rune of Strongarm, to capture enemy power, and slaked with Stone Troll's Blood. Enemy attacks, particularly magical attacks, end up captured, stored away, converted either to power for the Master Rune of Awakening or given to the Rune of Chain Lightning, until they are unleashed, making it function better, and making the bolts more potent, allowing them to be unleashed more often as well by recharging them with the stolen energy.

She'll meet with the king's representative to see it sent off with the next campaign, and then they'll see whether you really can drown a better army in number.

It is Dronar, the Thunderer.
--
The Runes have been laid on the Horn, one for each band of metal, carved on a precious stone.

On the gold, carved into emerald, the Master Rune of Stabilisation. The bearer will be more resistant to magic simply on the face of it for its presence, and an aura traveling along the horn's call will further work to dampen the magic of the enemy, making casting their spells the more difficult in the first place, damping fire balls and turning blades of shadow into nothing more than bad memories and nightmares. There would be those, of course, who could overpower the effects, he isn't arrogant enough to think otherwise.

Which is why he had continued on, of course, just to make as sure as he possibly could.

The Rune of Spelleating. Considerably less chance to overpower that, of course, particularly when given a Troll's Stomach and therefore, appropriately, a Troll's appetite. As he blows, enemy spells will be devoured, the energy consumed, and quite possibly ripped from the enemy's mind if Thungni is feeling particularly surly at the moment. Torrents of fire, pits of shadow, all falling apart as it enters the wall of sound he can make if he really puts his mind to it and decides to channel his master.

And lastly, the Rune of Valaya, given his most expensive reagent, Ancient Stone Troll's Blood (there are a handful of benefits to living next to Troll Country). The blows will destroy enemy magic, and furthermore, offer courage, stout heart and resilience to otherwise flagging, falling, failing dwarfs, healing minor wounds, all with power stolen from the enemy, a spiteful bit of irony, his very favorite kind.

Put them together and it becomes a small but potent field where there will be no magic unless he okays it.

Dolgi decides he'll show his former Master and Redbeak Zhufgrikar on the campaign and not a moment sooner.
--
Bardin looks upon what he's made with both pride and curiosity.

Pride, for it had come out more than alright.

And confusion, for some of the effects of the stranger reagents he had used for it.

The Master Rune of Conduction, for instance, old and faithful to him. Any Magma Dragon Blood is expensive, very expensive, by the standards of anyone not a Runelord, so after moderate experimentation--enough to know it would work, as well, but not enough to say what differences, if any, there might be--he had ordered, instead, mildly cheaper Aesvarinor Hierarch Blood at that and it had, apparently, been sufficient alright, it still burned properly and a swing still had earth rendering force. But where it was usually a hot, magmatic shaded orange fire, in this case it became almost a corrusacting, goopy field of cherry red and lava orange power and energy, more mystical, like it had been sheathed in the earth's blood rather than fire. Not entirely unlike Zharrgal, really, though not so powerful as that legend.

It worked, and it was safe. He made damn sure of that. Only a madman wouldn't test the reagents he, or even moreso, his friends would be using. It was just...different. Whether at all practically or only aesthetically, only experience can tell.

The other Reagents and the other Runes are less odd, for all he still makes use of materials from the elves, looking at their strange properties.

The Master Rune of Conduction obviates the need for strength even further, so he instead turns his focus, elsewhere.

The Rune of Spellbreaking, fed powdered Moraidyr Shells. Death, an aura of spite and strength, worked into it. Magical protection won't protect them from him, or from their ultimate fate, nor keep him from breaking their spells. Things shall pass at his command, and no mere ward, no mere spell, shall protect them from that, fading as surely as metal breaks, any regeneration seemingly cut off.

The Rune of Striking, given Grimnirzan. Every blow shall hit, shall strike clear and true, aimed at the most vulnerable place possible.

Mighty blows, breaking through any protection, striking, shattering, slaying.

It is Grimzharr, Harsh Fire.
--
The Runes demand more of her.

Or, perhaps more accurately, the Rune.

Jolla has placed the Rune of Valaya and given it its Ancient Stone Troll Blood. Magic, esoteric or direct, will strike and falter and fade, worthless, useless, against the will of the Runesmith who made this. Against her, and the will of the Shield-Maiden. It burns on the right pauldron, on Her Husband's grim visage, only just waiting to unleash itself, for an opportunity to prove its mettle.

The Rune of Grungni, given Barazgal. It shimmers, shines, offers protection from arrows and rocks and picks and no end of other, mundane threats. It burns on the left visage, shimmering golden light of Khazagar offering gleaming and glittering and brilliant protection in case she should run into something strong enough to break the steel she shall become, as well as the Pure Gromril she'll be sheathed in. Odds are low, but far from nonexistent.

But the Master Rune of Tirelessness, it demands...much. Perhaps only rightly, for it offers much: An endless vigour, and stamina, and healing, such healing: it's far from the Master Rune of Unyielding which powers Barak Azamar, but near enough to be potent.

So much effort from it and to it.

Effort put in, equal to the kind of effort it will put out.

The Elder Thundertusk Tusk only just wait to be used as she chants and continues to carve, meeting the tirelessness of the creation with her own stamina. It must be invested, that it might grow.

She'll not fail.

Brighteye will have her damn armor.

She'll fight as resilient as the Ancestors themselves and just as protected in a suit of Pure Gromril, and the mere foibles of the flesh will not let her down either: there will be no outlasting her.

It will be Karaz Klad, the Everlasting Armor.
--
Her slight chisel and hammer tink and tink and tink some more on the ivory of the arm ring, marking the Master Rune. It must be done slowly, carefully, precisely, without even the slightest failure, indeed without even the slightest chance of failure, lest that the whole thing should fall apart.

Precise work.

Delicate work.

Hard work.

Her work.

Compared to the blow of the hammer on the ax head, the breast plate, the mail link, it is at least less physically demanding, in that her workshop is kept pleasantly cool, there are no great vats of molten metal waiting to splatter all over everything, and the chisel itself is lighter.

On the other hand, she has been stooped over, looking through this lens and chanting for the past...oh Hell, she's forgotten.

Honestly, she really forgot around the time she finished the Rune of Fury.

Funny thing about Brana, they are mildly more forgiving than the Dwarfs they live with. They'd have a certain amount of respect for someone willing to stand and account for their evil. But to indulge in it and then run away...

Well.

Suffice to say, there's still plenty of rage in that proverbial cage. Rage she intends to harness by pouring Aged Wyrm Blood into it, for the Draks take insults and thefts about as well as a particularly surly Longbeard at the best of times.

Next came the Rune of Berserk. Elder Greedy Troll's Blood, for the things have a wicked, vicious, miserable temper, all tied together with a hunger and an avarice beyond compare and beyond comprehension. They desire, and desire, and desire, and they will take what they want as they want it and woe betide he who faces them in their rage.

The physical shape of the Rune is finally done, and so she begins to chant even louder as she grabs Ancient Wyrm's Lung, without much preamble starting to grind it into the shape, flecks of organic material landing on it and starting to sizzle.

It is simple, straightforward, and effective. Snowhide will challenge the enemy, and they will either meet it or run. If they answer, then her rage and anger will build at the insult of daring to stand against her.

If they don't, then her anger will grow for daring to run from her.

Either way, they'll have to face a very angry, very large Brana in battle.

Ancestors, she is very good at this.

It will be Lidrazen Albarin, the Fast Angerer.

 

[soulcake]

Preface: Allusions to drunken dance with no pants, but nothing too explicit? Figure I may as well give a notice.

━<><><>< 475 A.P. ><><><>━​

Skarri watches the room begin to empty out, he lets out a sigh after a few moments before turning around and beginning to pack away his material.

That wasn't a bad one, most of them had entertained him for the full length of the presentation and asked him questions that showed they were listening to him and not just scoffing into their beards, but he could tell he probably wasn't getting any recruits from this one. It was a longshot of course, but one he and Thunder had agreed was worth the effort. Even one Runesmith and Brana that joined them would be a great boon. The Skarr-khazunki had added three more rider pairs in the five years since they first began officially operating, a victory considering the weight of tradition they fought against, but it was always a battle to stave off the cloud of disappointment that loomed overhead like the King's storm did over the Karak.

Nothing for it but to keep arguing and hoping it made a few finally crack.

"Master Dolgisson and Thunder Wing, a moment of your time if we may!" a voice calls, making Skarri pause and turn around to the source.

He sees that the speaker is a younger kvinn with a very large yet very sleek Brana beside making their way to him. The Runesmith's hair was braided in a single thick plait that she had hung over herself like a sash, ending in like the tip of a painter's brush just barely over her shoulder. The Brana had almost blue plumage, paired with a heavily spotted coat, the fur and feathers shining dazzlingly under the lights of Khazagar's many Runes.

"Master Runesmith Bruna Ironshield," she introduces herself, then gestures to the Branakroki behind her, "and Ghur Claw."

The Brana nods at him before looking at Thunder Wing, sizing up their counterpart in the usual posturing that comes when they see a stranger of their kind. Skarri pays the challenge no mind, trusting Thunder to hold her own and focuses on his fellow Runesmith

"Greetings Master Ironshield, Ghur Claw," he offers in return, "what can my friend and I do for you?"

"My partner and I wish to see if the Skarr-kazhunki are worthy of us," the Brana answers before Bruna can open her mouth, the Khazalid feeling distinctly out of place given how smooth and light the voice from her torc is.

Bruna frowns then shakes her head at her companion before turning to offer Skarri an apologetic smile.

"Sort of what she said, Claw's been trying to get me to do it for a while, but your presentation finally pushed me over the edge to give it a shot."

Skarri blinks in surprise, then he feels a grin form on his face at her admission. While most of it was from having another pair, and a Runesmith to boot, potentially join their ranks, It was also good to know that people were joining because his arguments were sound and not just because of his Clan or his father's teacher.

"That's good to hear! We can hammer out the details and scheduling somewhere less busy, someone else is using this hall after us. But we can walk and talk there if you'd like?"

"That's agreeable with us," Bruna confirms with a nod before pointing a thumb at her friend, "as soon as this is done."

He nods back in agreement.

The two of them settle in and watch the staring Brana, knowing full well that neither will leave until one asserts their dominance over the other.

━<><><>< 477 A.P. ><><><>━​

"Da I—"

"Say no more son," Dolgi interrupts, waving off Skarri's explanation, "The heart is a mysterious thing after all!"

"pl—"

"Why, take how your mother and I met!" Dolgi barrels on, getting lost in the memory "I knew the moment I laid eyes upon your mother that I would marry her or die alone! Though I will say our courting wasn't quite so rushed as yours is shaping up to be!"

Skarri wants to scream, half listening to his father speak and bemoaning his fortunes.

He feels a hand fall on his shoulder, and he turns to see his mother staring at him knowingly.

"We'll let him get this out of his system first, Dolgi's no use when he gets reminiscing. In the meantime, why don't you tell me more about this girl you're courting."

He sighs.

"I am not courting her," Skarri repeats, "Bruna's just a friend, a good friend aye and one who's been a great help with organizing the Skarr-kazhunki, but nothing more! She's not even the only one coming for dinner for Grungni's sake! All of the riders and their partners are!"

His mother nods, but the eldest Dolgiling sighs knowing full well she doesn't believe him.

If he had known that taking the younger Runesmith and her partner Brana on as their respective seconds in command would lead to this? Well actually he'd still probably do it, Bruna and Ghur Claw's skills complemented his and Thunder Wing's well and the former had helped grow the Skarr-kazhunki's numbers faster than if it had still just been the two of them, but he'd have definitely been better prepared before telling his parents

"Of course, of course. We'll be sure to put you both together when we're planning the seating arrangement," his mother insists soothingly.

Frankly Skarri would appreciate it, there were a few issues with their work the last few years that had he'd noticed and he wanted to run some of his and Thunder Wing's ideas by her and Ghur Claw as a second sober thought, but he wouldn't let his parents know that, It'd only egg them on.

"Valaya help me," he mutters again.

"She already has!" his da butts in suddenly, "by bringing a fine young lady into your life!"

Just one meal, he repeats in his mind, just one meal.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

Skarri watches the scene in front of him play out with morbid fascination.

His father's strange hobby had taken on a, in Skarri's opinion, morbid bent a while ago. He had begun trying to learn how to cook, but many of those attempts were startlingly bad when it didn't involve jerky. Eventually his mother had made it clear that she would not let him waste food for his efforts and that she expected him to eat what he made. Hoping that the suffering of eating such a terrible meal, and especially so for his father, making his children eat it too, would give him reason to improve his cooking.

And in all fairness, it had. When Dolgi Bolgisson had a mind to, he could cook up a fine meal.

But it had lit a strange fire under him too. After he proved he could cook good food he had begun trying to make more and more terrible stews that were still edible without any poor aftereffects, an 'intellectual curiosity,' he once told Skarri. Mother refused to kiss him for days after he ate those early attempts because they had left his breath smelling worse than a rundown privy. In response he chased down the stew with palate cleansers and vigorous washing before then eventually finding a way for the concoction to leave no after-taste. When the stench became an issue, it had become odourless. When it was the cost, he had begun budgeting around it. Every limitation or condition that his family had put on Dolgi Bolgisson's endeavours was treated like a challenge to be overcome.

In his life Skarri had seen nothing that made his parents get truly mad at each other, but the business of the stew nearly had.

His father had, thankfully, seemingly noticed that as well, and it was enough of a kick to his system to get him to step back and re-examine everything.

"Stew isn't worth it son," his father had said.

In the aftermath, his parents had come to an agreement about how to move forward.

Firstly, that his father could now only make a single pot of his stew once a month unprompted, and that it would need to be eaten in full, entirely by himself if it came down to it, before he could make more. Second, that offering the stew to anyone would require that he pony up appropriate weregild, and wasn't that word so horribly apt too, for the other party if they accepted regardless of success.

When Skarri had first shared that story with the others over a few drinks on campaign they had all voiced their doubts. Not about the events, but over just how bad the stew actually was. Several of the Brana had even taken it as a challenge of their fortitude and convinced their partners to try it with them.

So, reluctantly, he had asked his father to prepare a few bowls when they got back to the Hold.

They believed him then.

It had been three years since then, and in that time his father had not stopped developing his 'creation.' That was all to say that when the two dozen pairs that made up the Skarr-kazhunki sat down to eat, they politely yet firmly rebuffed the offer to have some of the ominous bubbling black substance inside the pot that his father had made.

Save one.

To the grim astonishment and slight respect of many, and in the case of his father, open joy, Bruna stoically and methodically ate spoonful after spoonful of the stuff without even a sign of discomfort.

He sees the substance in the bowl bubble, and he has to look away before he is bombarded with the memory of trying it himself.

When the dinner is over, he has to ask Bruna what on earth would compel her to do that to herself.

"To send a message," she says with a shrug, "Ale was a nice bonus too."

He can only shake his head in disbelief.

"To who?" he wonders, "If it's my da, I think he's reached a very different conclusion than you had hoped. If anything it'll egg him on more."

"I think he knows," Bruna assures him, her voice sure.

After that his father had insisted she test his stew once a month, and made him act as his messenger to invite her to dinner.

He isn't quite sure how he failed to notice what was happening at that point.

━<><><>< 479 A.P. ><><><>━​

"Bruna," he calls, walking towards her and Ghur Claw.

"Skarri," Bruna looks up from the harness she was adjusting to stare at him expectantly. "What's the plan?"

Skarri means to speak, but he finds his head empty of thought when he takes in her appearance; face covered in grime, a few harpy feathers sticking out of joints in her armour, while a few loose wavy strands of hair, loosened from her braid after she took off her helmet, had fallen and framed her face.

"We'll be contesting the harpies, and if we're fierce enough then we're to strike at their backline. Zhufokri are, as ever, a priority." he says, recovering from the lapse in his train of thought.

"Sensible. What of the Elgi, do I need to keep Ghur Claw from gushing too much?"

He shakes his head.

"They'll be on the other flank, opposite us."

Bruna nods, more waves loosening from her braid with the bob of her head. She grimaces when one falls in front of her eyes and he watches her begin to re-make her braid from the beginning.

"Damn harpies," she mutters.

"I'll leave you to it then," Skarri continues, "be ready for muster and brief in five minutes, we'll need to be airborne soon. I'll spread the word to the others."

"By your leave Blid-Rhunki," she answers, the edges of her mouth quirking upwards at the title.

Skarri had once said he didn't care for that moniker, and had subsequently been saddled with it for foolishly letting the others know that, but he doesn't feel the upswell of annoyance this time.

Ignoring Thunder Wing's curious poking and prodding and the strange feelings in his gut, he instead marches off to inform the others.

He can reflect after this battle is won.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

Protecting the Fimir backline from Skarri and the Skarr-kazhunki is a horde as numerous as the legions they field below. A mass of hundreds of harpies and flying daemons serve as the chaff for a core of larger, deadlier beasts enslaved and empowered through sorcerous dark magic.

Most had been drawn away when the Elves began swooping down upon the ranks below, but that still leaves over two hundred bodies to hover guard.

The Dwarfs can muster only two dozen Skarr-kazhunki to face them.

A grim prospect on paper, but what they lack in number they replace with quality.

The moment they break out of the cover of the storm above, the enemy begins moving to meet them.

Skarri blows on his war horn and blows long and hard. The sound that escapes is a long and ghastly shriek, empowered by the three Runes that run along its length to terrify and stun his foes and invigorate his allies.

Behind him the Skarr-kazhunki get into formation, coming together to make a tightly packed V meant to pierce through the screen of fliers to get to their real target.

He raises his Runestaff both as a signal, and to activate its Runes; unleashing a bolt of lightning thicker than his arm to herald a barrage of magic and metal as more thunderbolts, spears of crackling amber energy and iron javelins follow suit. Dozens die from their volley, falling out of the sky like dolls from the top shelf, but their numbers are so great that it makes no visible dent in the flock now coming towards them.

He lowers his staff and pulls out his axe, urging Thunder Wing faster and faster until the howl of the wind is literally rattling his helm and freezing the few bits of exposed skin his flight plate does not cover.

When their small and orderly formation slams into the horde, they disappear in a sea of feathers, flesh and scale.

For a while the formation holds firm, a mighty wedge cutting through the flock like a bolt through a snowstorm.

But eventually the weight of numbers cannot be denied.

He does not despair or grow concerned when they lose cohesion though, trusting that the others can fend for themselves and reform as they make their way to the other side. Instead he pushes forward, cutting, casting, and killing his way through to the other side and helping his allies the few times he sees them appear.

Thunder Wing banks left to dodge the talons of a diving harpy and Skarri uses his axe to take the place where the Brana once filled. In the air he can't afford to focus on just the enemy in front of him like he can on the ground, but the reverberation of the shaft in his hands, the sound of Gromril parting flesh and feather then the shriek of pain that follows lets him know he has struck true.

A familiar cry, shrill and furious to his lower left, draws his attention away from their enemies. Following the sound leads him to the sight of Ghur Claw, just barely visible from a flock of harpies that surround her. Circling around the ball like a shark was a Chimaera riding Fimir, his club long and glowing with dark power. Quicksilver flashes of Gromril tell him Bruna is reaping a bloody toll among the birdwomen from atop her partner's back, but they are dangerously close to being overwhelmed as more and more harpies fly over.

He alerts Thunder Wing by tilting his body in their direction, and his partner immediately alters their heading towards them, coming into a shallow descent that allows her to pick up speed.

When they get close enough Skarri raises his Runestaff once more, the raven shaped topper crackling with energy for several seconds as the Rune charges before launching a torrent of lightning at the swarm, knowing that Bruna and Ghur Claw's equipment will shield them from his attack. Bodies fall, leaving only the Chimaera rider and his mount to square off with the Runesmith and her partner.

He and Thunder Wing aren't close enough to help them yet.

Instead he is forced to watch as Bruna and Ghur Claw go from fighting a swarm to engaging in a mid air duel. Ghur Claw slams into the Chimaera with magically enhanced strength, occupying the mount while Bruna leverages herself up the saddle to swing her axe at its rider. She and the Fimir trade a flurry of blows, Runed Gromril clashing with Daemonfused Iron so quickly that sparks erupt from their contact.

Their exchange lasts no more than a few seconds, but to Skarri the moment the Fimir breaks her guard and slams his club into her chest feels like an eternity.

The only reason Bruna is not flung clear off of Ghur Claw by the blow are the chains that shackle the two of them together. Instead she is thrown back before the chains arrest her momentum, the sudden movement of several kilos of armoured Dwarf pulls Ghur Claw away just enough for the Chimaera to break free of her talons.

Whatever the Fimir was planning to do next however, is cut short when Skarri's axe finds the back of his neck. The momentum from their dive is enough to carry the blade forward past the rider's neck and through the neck of one of the Chimaera's three heads. Before the beast can even process what has happened, a furious Ghur Claw slams back into it with renewed vigour, ripping and tearing at one head while Bruna attacks the other. The two make short work of the injured beast, and Ghur Claw screeches victory as its body plummets to beneath the clouds.

Much as Skarri would like to check on her, the caw of another Brana in battle forces his hand.

All he can do is offer the recovering pair a nod as he and Thunder Wing fly past.

━<><><>< 480 A.P. ><><><>━​

During one of the times Bruna visits to test his father's stew, he opens the door to see her with a box in her hands.

"Here," she says, pushing it forward insistently, "to repay my debt to you."

He quirks a brow curiously at first but his mind supplies him with the appropriate memory eventually.

"That campaign last year? I thought that was the gift on Nauvsdeg?"

That one had been a cloak of Brana feathers like his father's, marked with the Rune of the Hawk, Strollaz and the Ancestors on the Gromril plates that formed the clasp and buckle. It was a finely made thing, and he saw no need to upset her by not wearing it.

"Different occasion from the year prior," she waves off then pushes the box forward again, "now, take this so I can be clear of the debt I owe you."

"Aye?" he replies good-naturedly, "you'll stake your word on this gift clearing all your debts Lady Ironshield?"

"I'll walk around the Karak in the buff if it doesn't," she responds sincerely, watching him and the box intently.

He almost chokes at her promise.

Deciding the best way to get that particular mental image out of his head was to look inside, Skarri hastily opens the lid—

—only to blink when the soft texture of feathers strikes his face.

Sputtering for a moment, he gently slides them out of the way to see what else is in there, and sees the shine of Gromril staring back at him.

It's a flight helmet.

He quietly sets down the box on a nearby table and pulls out Bruna's creation to get a better look at it.

Two swooping wings rise up from its sides in the style of the southern Holds, but that is where the similarities end. For one thing the wings are bent farther back, following the curve of the helmet, and rather than the pristine white pinions of Great Eagles or the mottled grey of Alpine Hawks the wings are made from the familiar sheen of Thunder Wing's own plumage. The body of the helmet has been forged to take on a distinctly avian shape, and through the clever use of embossing, knotwork and specially shaped scales in the aventail, even gives the impression of being completely feathered. Clear pieces of quartz are set into the eyeholes of the spectacle guard and framed by yet more embossed feathers while the tip of the nasal ridge ends in a distinctly beak-like point. Three Runes are spaced evenly apart across the front half of the rim, glowing with power.

A variant of the Rune of Quick Wits, the Rune of Gales, and in a place of prominence on the middle of his brow, the Master Rune of Grungni shines brightest of all.

"It's beautiful," he says unconsciously, staring up from the helmet to nod at her thankfully.

She scoffs, "Of course it is, I made it."

Unsure of what else to say he can only nod again.

"Now that that's done I ought to go Blid-Rhunki," Bruna continues, patting her hands together, "your father has a keg of ale with my name on it!"

She passes by him, his nose picking up the scent of meadow flowers and berries as she does, and walks into his family home with an air of purposeful confidence

Staring after her, the disparate feelings and questions in his mind these past few months come together into startling clarity.

I see.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

Thunder Wing watches her partner and best friend curiously.

Skarri pacing and thinking aloud are not foreign practices to her. Her friend had taken to occupying his mouth and body while his mind worked through whatever problem it was he deemed most pressing at that moment. This time though, the puzzle he's trying to solve is not planning the future direction of their war-flock, nor how to best convey his opinions and words to the Dwarf King, or even which magical Rune he shall use for his latest creation.

Instead Skarri now grapples with the realization that she and every other Brana in the war-flock had smelled, and many of the Dwarfs had discovered years ago.

And if it was any other occasion, seeing him flail about as he grappled with infatuation would be a source of great enjoyment she would relish bringing up to his future self for the rest of their lives.

But she cannot.

His mind cannot be occupied by such thoughts at this juncture in the war-flock's development. Not when word among the warriors was that they would perhaps be fighting alongside the High King this coming campaign season rather than be sent off to strike at the rear or flanks. Skarri's focus must not be split or drawn away, and even if she knows he will try with all his might to put his feelings aside. As fellow leader and as his best friend she knows he cannot fully put whatever his current worry is out of his mind for long, nor does she want him to.

"Skarri," she finally says, the seriousness of her tone stopping his pacing in its tracks.

He turns to regard her curiously.

"Take Bruna out for some drinks, trust yourself and face your fears. Either pursue or let this end, but we both know that pacing will not give you your answer."

The hesitance on his features is plain to see, but they've been around each other long enough for her to tell that at least one part of him is in agreement.

"It would only be drinks Skarri, give yourself a second reason as a cover if you like. What can go wrong?"

━<><><><==><><><>━​

What can go wrong? He thinks mockingly, Thunder Wing's words ringing in his mind as he stares up at the ceiling of the room.

The warmth of the other body in the bed is both a constant distraction, and reminder of what exactly could go wrong. He had meant to take things slow, be proper, and an all around gentleman like his father. So when Bruna called it in he offered to escort her home, because that was the right and proper thing he was taught to do. He did not complain when Bruna decided to drunkenly meander her way through the most circuitous path to her home, bumping into him every so often while waving off his offers to help. Nor when she decided about three fourths of the way through their walk to go to her workshop and sleep off the hangover the next morning in peace.

The plan had been bidding her goodnight when they got to her workshop, and if he was drunk enough maybe say something to show his interest, wait for Bruna to drunkenly bid her farewells and close the door, then walk home and say nothing to his parents and let things go as they may.

Not…this.

Skarri musters up his courage and turns his head to look at the Dwarf beside him and make sure he isn't imagining things (which would be a whole 'nother can of worms). The first thing he notices is the bare skin of Bruna's shoulder peeking out from under the strands of her hair, the braid having come undone at some point in all of…this. The steady rise and fall of her form telling him she's fast asleep by this point.

He quickly goes back to looking at the ceiling, contemplating what to do and cursing Thunder Wing for tempting fate.

"Da will throttle me when he finds out," he whispers to himself.

Or cheer and break out the good ale then do a jig, then eventually give him a hard time when he entered bride price negotiations with Bruna's Clan.

He hears the bedsheets rustle, and he has to stop himself from making a sound in surprise when an arm lays across his chest and his second in command snuggles up against him, mumbling incoherently.

No, things certainly hadn't gone to plan.

Even so, he can't bring himself to regret the way it all fell apart.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

His father refuses to stop smiling at him.

Skarri soldiers on, trying to get through this discussion with as much dignity as he can salvage.

Oh he'll be eating crow about this till the day he dies, but that's not what's important here.

Bruna's Nauvsdeg is five months away and he doesn't have plans.

Well he did, but a few kegs of his best ale as a gift, doesn't seem appropriate given the status of their relationship.

He had been worried that publicly attempting to court her would alter the dynamic among the Skarr-kazhunki, but he'd only gotten a few scoffs and muttered "finally"-'s thrown his way before things had largely gone back to normal. Save, of course, the fact that his supposed subordinates now added his obliviousness to the many things they gave him a friendly ribbing about.

When he finishes explaining his situation his father doesn't reply immediately. He just keeps smiling at him, and while that's nice it doesnt really help him right now.

He requires a gift that signifies the importance he places on their relationship, and more importantly, that Bruna will actually enjoy and find use for. So Runes of course, were a given, but the form of it, and the purpose, was up in the air. Large golden jewelry was fine enough, but those sorts of things were more meant for the public than it was for her. No, it didn't feel particularly personal to him at all, especially for Nauvsdeg.

"Da please say something," he insists again, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Dolgi raises his hands in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright. Five months till her Nauvsdeg and you don't have anything suitable in mind. That isn't a good look, but we can figure something out. I'll warn you though, it'll mean plenty of sleepless nights you hear? And not the fun kind!"

He nods in relief and listens when his father begins laying out his options.

━<><><>< 481 A.P. ><><><>━​

The shorter the gap between a maiden announcing her openness to courtship and marriage, it is commonly said, can say one or two things.

Firstly, and most commonly, is because the former is a formality to be observed and nothing more. As is often the case in noble Clans who have sworn oaths of marriage or when the involved parties knew well beforehand who'd they pick.

The second, as his da once so nicely put it, "is because somebody got caught with perfume in his beard."

Skarri thinks, hopes really, that most people believe it's the former in his case.

Emphasis on most.

The Brana have a keen sense of smell for one thing and few people can clean up so well that they remove enough that the griffons can't pick up a scent, and several of his family members have been giving him knowing looks and comments.

Not quite sure how he feels about Solveig giving him grief for getting caught more than the inappropriateness of it all before giving him a list of ways to be discrete about certain things 'for the future.'

But he's leaving that particular vein well and truly untouched, till the day he dies hopefully.

That's da's business.

The worst part is the negotiations, not because he and Bruna have no input or anything like that, but because he can feel the scrutinizing gaze of her parents and extended family boring into him accusingly while he just has to stand there and smile politely.

Maybe that's an appropriate punishment in the eyes of the Ancestors.

Shameful as certain things are, he takes some solace that this was the sort of thing most people just scoffed at and muttered about how inappropriate the youth were before quietly pushing it under the rug and moving on with the consequences.

Patience and self control weren't virtues because they were easy, it was precisely the opposite in fact.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

- [Early 481] Dolgi Bolgisson of Clan Scorriling and Begrund Algardsson of Clan Ironshield jointly announce the engagement of the former's eldest son, Master Runesmith Skarri Dolgisson, to the latter's daughter, Master Runesmith Bruna Galkrasdottir. The latter shall become a member of Clan Scorriling

- [Early 482] Svina Brunasdottir, firstborn child of Skarri Dolgisson and Bruna Galkrasdottir, is born and inducted into Clan Scorriling.

━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━​

Blid-Rhunki - Lit. "Lightning Runesmith"/ Lightning Smith

Nauvsdeg - Day of Naming

Skarr-kazhunki - Lit. "Sky carried warrior"/Skyriders. The name for the combined Brana and Dawi mounted company of Kraka Drakk. Maybe even Skarri's Skyriders if you were so inclined.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

AN: This was originally going to be like 2 segments in Pt. 1 of Turn 58, but I decided to release that early given current world events. Even so, I couldn't get it out of my head so I kept writing and my muse led to it getting ballooned out into a sort of slideshow of key moments and build up in Skarri's scandalously short 1-year courtship. A funny contrast to Dolgi's. Sorry for people who wanted Pt. 2 instead, I'll go back to writing about Snorri doing Snorri things and making history defining discoveries now, just had to follow the muse get this out of the noggin. Hope you enjoy what's here, and don't forget to C&C! :^)

Also shout out to the Runescribes that have been helping me fill up the tags and maintain the Rune list, you've been a great help!

 

[BananaBuddy]

"A card game?" I ask.

"Aye you heard me right Olin, it's a card game that I heard The Gift Giver created centuries ago before he moved up far north, That is why you can find the game down South." Yorra explained "I found out about it when coming back from Patrol with some members of the Hearth Guard."

"Yorra ended up buying a spare deck from those lads and all of here have played it before besides you and Rurik." Explains Otrek drawing a nod from both Yorra and Borri.

"The game can be played with 3 to 4 people but where it really shines like Gomril is when its played with 4." Adds Borri taking a drink from his tankard.

"Well, I don't see any problem playing a few rounds." Rurik says.

"Aye, why not." I agree.

"Excellent." Yorra states with a grin before ordering us another round and handing the deck to Borri to shuffle and deal.

***​

"You could not make it more obvious that you are Borri's ally if you tried Olin." Declared Rurik

"Or maybe I was forced to play my queen because some daft fool kept playing the same suit!" I responded

"Bah!"

"Don't 'Bah' me you gremlin!"

***​

"Counting it all out it looks like you two failed by about 12 points." Says Yorra.

"I would have won that if my teammate actually had anything of value in their hand." Otrek grumbles taking another swig from his drink.

"HOW IS IT MY FAULT YOU DEALT THE CARDS!" Retorts Borri.

"Aye I did and some fine cards they were."

***​

"So, a question for the table, say if some very handsome fellow would happen to have all the Kings in his hand." Rurik begins.

"How can the worst player be so bloody lucky." Bemoans Otrek with his face in his hands.

"What would such a handsome fellow do when he is supposed to call for a king for aid?" Rurik finishes.

"In such a situation you can call for aid from the Queen." Answers Yorra.

"Very good. Thank you Yorra." Rurik says we a satisfied nod. "Now what would such a fellow do if he had all the queens as well?"

"Dodge!" I say

"Dodge. Wait wha." Rurik manages to say before he ducks under my tankard I threw.

***​

"Why didn't you play the Beardling earlier Rurik when I played the Living Ancestor?" Yorra questions.

"Well, you hadn't played your king yet, I wasn't sure you were my teammate" responds Rurik.

"Rurik it was painfully obvious that she was your teammate, why do you think she kept letting get her Thanes and Rangers." Borri explains.

"I thought she just had a bad hand." Rurik defends.

"Skill of a drunk blind goat and the luck of the Undaunted." Groans Otrek.

***​

"Well Lads was a fun time, but I have to head off for the night." I say getting up from the table. "Well played by everyone besides Rurik."

"Farewell" "Aye later Olin" "Bye" "Bah!"

"Don't 'Bah' me Rurik!"

Spoiler: Author Note.

AN:
The game they are playing here is called French Tarot and its pretty much the same game as in real life with a few differences. Normally there are only 4 suits (ignoring the trumps) of the classic Spades, Hearts, Clubs and Diamonds but here each deck is unique with each suit being stylised off of a hold from the around Karaz Ankor. So, you might have tarot deck that instead of Spades, Hearts, Clubs and Diamonds it would be Drakk, Grom, Krum and Dorden. In universe you can switch out the hold suits without problem which the only rule being no duplicates and only 4 suits in a deck. The trumps in the deck will always be the same but they are of course dwarf themed with the 3 special trumps (Oudlers) normally called Le petite, Le 21 and L'excuse being instead called the bearding, The living ancestor and the matron.

With 4 players the game ends up being 3 v 1 against the person who bids to win but with 5 players the person who bids to win is able to call for a king to help them win and who ever has the king in their starting hands is on their team. So, it becomes 2 v 3 with the ally of the bidder not being confirmed till the called king is played.

So, in the story the players are calling for the help for the aid of the king of Drakk and who has that is on their team. The king is most valuable and strongest non-trump card, but I would like it in universe that for decks with suits from hold with a Queen ruler like Grom the queen and king positions is switched out. It would be really confusing but I feel like its in character with dwarfs.

The strength of these cards from top to bottom is King, Queen, Knight, Jack, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 (Ace).

My head canon as well is that these cards also become like collectibles with the value being based on who made the decks. The game is really old and probable older than Snorri but in the Far North people Claim that the Gift Giver created the game before coming north. All over the Karaz Ankor you would have story of people claiming that it was some legend from their hold that created it. But decks created by Snorri or Karstah ould be valuable, but I also see craftsmen from the far north or all over making Suits of the hold they come from and maybe other cards.

Oudlers

Le petite – The bearding (weakest trump but bonus points if played on the final round)

Le 21 – Living ancestor (Beats everything)

L'excuse – The Matron (can't be taken from who has it and allows to bow out on one round)

l'ecart/le chien = Cache

Kings = Kings

Queens = Queens

Knight = Thane

Jack = Ranger

If anyone that wants to draw art for this story i would love to see a Dwarf version of French Tarot card
; )

 

[BananaBuddy]

Average Busy Day in Khazagar

Grozurbaz​

Walking through Grozubaz to reach one of its dedicated loading zones Rudil does his best to avoid the large swaths of runesmiths wandering the halls waiting for the market to be restocked. He had heard someone joke that they could lower the number of patrols through Gorzubaz with all the runesmiths doing sweeps of the area themselves.

Of course, in the end that comment is just a joke, the patrols themselves are not for intercepting interlopers. But to ensure someone can be present before multiple regent starved runesmiths cause a problem and at least stop it before a situation escalates above grumbling and shouts. Luckily his Lord has chosen his clan to staff Khazagar, it takes quite a bit experience with runesmiths to mediate with cantankerous runesmiths and every Winterhearth staff member is getting more experience by the day.

Entering Grozubaz Loading Bay 7 Rudil find himself surprised, not enough to get a visible reaction out of him mind you but surprised by the amount of caravanners and the greatly above average amount of cargo they are unloading. He spots the person in charge of the caravanners delivery and to his minor surprise he recognises them.

Walking over to the dwarf, Rudil calls out. "Jorek Jorrison!" The dwarf in question turns to face him and shakes his extended hand. "I am surprised that you would be heading this specific convoy, thought you would all hands on the wall helping out Jorri to be here personally."

"Rudil Donnarsson! Glad to see you in good form." Responds Jorek, letting go of Rudil's hand. "Normally you would be right that caravaners heading for Khazagar can be delegated to one of my nieces or nephews when da can't find the time." Joreks says looking over the cargo being unloaded. "But with the war up here and the influx of runesmiths attending Khazagar, the supply issue became apparent to us." Jorek explains, walking over to one of the caravans to grab its ledger to look through it.

"It became a topic of conversation at the dinner table when ma is finally able to tear pa from his desk for a moment. That brother of mine tells me his plan for Khazagar, the marketplace he wants for it, we design the most Extravagant market, and he still manages to find a way for it to be not enough." Joreks says with his best impersonation of his father. "So, your supply problem ended being a little family project for us to solve and solve it we have!" Jorek exclaims with a smile handing the ledger to Rudil.

Taking the ledger in hand Rudil takes the time to read through it and can't stop himself from raising an eyebrow at the quantity of reagents on the list. The amount of reagents on the list would make the ruler of a minor hold balk at the thought of the cost but more importantly it was a lot more than was expected from fund Lord Snorri allocated. Looking up from the ledger Rudil can't stop himself for asking. "How did you manage to get all this without ruining the clan?"

Rudil knew Jorek was waiting for that question with how his face lit up. "Glad you asked! You see da was rather proud with the solution we got and wanted me to explain everything to Uncle Snorri, but ma managed to haggle him down to send one letter full of fatherly pride. Here it is," Jorek says while pulling out a rather worriedly thick letter from his pouch and handing it to Rudil. "Ill just give you the brief notes on how we did it."

Putting the impressively thick letter away to deliver later he nods at Jorek to continue.

"So, first of all we tried to think of a way of funneling the reagents from most of the foes being killed by the great throng up here. we quickly realised that the runesmiths on march are already fighting over every scrape so that was a bust." Jorek explains.

"Trying to buy from around the whole Karaz Ankor would not be financially viable so that was a dead end. At some point da ended up talking about the holds out east and how the lands are full of beasties and this is where we started seeing a solution. The lands out east are constantly full of monsters and beasts that need to be killed that they would be fine to part with. The thing is that the holds out east don't need gold because that have mineshafts brimming with seams of the stuff. What they do want and will pay handsomely for is foodstuffs." Jorek Says.

"So, now the problem is where do we find all the food and Huldra says how about out west there is food just running around those mountains and those holds are still growing. She suggests we go have a talk to some farmer guilds of the holds out west. Da explained that the western holds are going to be expanding their food production infrastructure so it would be unlikely that they can provide much food stuffs but they do have a growing market of new reagents. So Huldra talks to Thimburr about buying food stuffs from the southern hold to deliver out west and think it more than possible but that the southern hold would be happy for us to take over the food shipments." Jorek continues to explain.

"So, Huldra and I go west while Thimburr goes south to get everything organised and knowing that the food is going to feed beardlings in the east there are no problems for anyone. In the end we get the foodstuffs from the south and some more from the west with reagents. We bring them all the way to the east where we were paid a rather hefty sum in both gold and reagents. Now this isn't sustainable, and we are barely breaking even but it's helping build relations with both western and eastern holds and should last for the next few decades." Jorek finishes.

"Now the west is safe thanks to the High kings efforts but there isn't any underway to the east isn't a caravan full of foodstuff a tad dangerous for an overland trek out west?" Rudil asks.

Jorek nods "Aye, normally if you aren't protected well enough but I did say this was a family project." Jorek says pointing towards the carts and workers. Talking a closer look Rudil can see they are all wearing runic equipment and the crates and carts are runed as well.

"Ah, Lady Snerra and Karstah's work." Rudil say.

"Aye, some pieces from apprentices and master of the clan. Now how is Karstah? Good lass but needs to write more often, too much like her father. Tell her ma wants her to write more often." Jorek grumbles.

"I will pass it along but why didn't you ask for help from Lord Snorri?" Rudil asks.

"We know how Uncle Snorri thinks, you ask him for a ladder you get an elevator and the head of the local engineering guild ready to build you another two." Jorek says shaking his head.

Karaz-Irkul​

Every part of Khazagar is a wonder and beautiful sight to look at but if one were to ask Bron of Clan Winterhearth what he would say that the most beautiful place in Khazagar was? He would respond Karaz-Irkul without a doubt in his mind every time. He still feels a thrill of awe and wonder every time he gazes upon the recreation of the night sky with all the glimmering constellations. The sight is all the beauty of the night sky with the benefit of not having to be outside under the open sky.

Being stationed at Karaz-Irkul is Bron's favourite posting out of all the places in Khazagar. All he has to do is wander around and provide information and direction every so often. Well, it used to be like that but now, recently it has been a much less enjoyable experience being stationed in the Central Hall. The once semi-occupied semi-peaceful hall is now bustling with dwarfs and the foot traffic coming through the area has become ludicrous. Bron and the others had to plan around tournaments creating a lull in foot traffic just to be able to sweep the floors during the day!

Oh, and the questions he gets these days, don't get him started! Before it was 'Where can I find this?' or 'Where is the tournament being held today?' or even 'What is the recipe for the troll jerky from Trogg-Khaz?' how he wishes he could return to those day, now it's just a mess. These days the only questions Bron gets are 'Where is The Gift Giver?' or 'Where is the Hammer?' or 'Is The Gift Giver currently carrying Karaz-Kazak-Rhun, if so where is he?' or 'What's the Troll Jerky Recipe?' or 'When is Grozurbaz getting restocked?'

Of course, he can't tell them where Lord Snorri is because he doesn't know! But the answer of, 'he is in Khazagar' doesn't seem to satisfy as many dwarfs as Bron would hope. He barely gets any time to gaze and admire the beauty of Karaz-Irkul these days. Bron is removed from his very limited daily wool-gathering time by the sight of a trio of dwarfs approaching him. They don't have the look of runesmiths so hopefully he will actually be able to answer a question.

"Greeting sirs, how may I be of assistance?" Bron asks with a bow.

"Greetings to you as well dawi, my compatriots and I would like to inquire about any current or upcoming runesmithing tournaments?" The one leading the trio says.

"Not an issue." Bron replies with nods and refers to his clay tablet. "There are two tournaments scheduled, one later today and another in a months' time. The first is a tournament sponsored by the metalsmith guild that will be located in Grozurbaz later today, the second is a tournament sponsored by the engineering guild that will be located in Tiwar-Khaz."

The trio of dwarfs thank Bron for the help and wander away while grumbling and at the same time another dwarf approaches Bron.

"Where is The Gift Giver?"

Bron holds back a sign with experience that would make the ancestors proud.

Kazaki-Khaz​

Deep within the Kazaki-Khaz Gurna sits at a desk repeating the mind-numbing task of reading and compiling all of the security reports from the last few years. The number of reports ever since The Gift Giver has claimed the Karaz-Kazak-Rhun has increased to a staggering amount. A large majority of the reports can be summarised as a dispute between runesmith or minor cases of public disturbance. The most interesting and amusing reports in between the dull repetition of runesmiths bickering with each other are the reports of one the Drakk siblings getting up to some mischief or spooking some dawi from the south. Reading those always gives her some much-needed moments of levity before returning to grinding of her soul that is cataloguing these reports.

No matter how dull of a task it is, there is an incredible level of importance to have these ready in case one of these 'simple disputes' escalates to a point where there is a reckoning. At that point it would be extremely important for the relevant report to be used as evidence.

Still makes her almost hope for a siege for a distraction. Almost.

Trogg-Khaz​

Before coming up north Svaldi of Clan Deepdelver was sure that this Khazagar business was a mistake and now that he has seen the place for himself. He is pretty sure that parts of this Khazagar business are a mistake but now he can confirm that the Trogg-Khaz was a good choice.

Svaldi was one of the few master runesmiths that was sent up north to try and get a look at the Karaz-Kazak-Rhun instead of being sent down to the depths of Izril in the clans search for Thungni's Glittering Realm. Also, by pure coincidence since he was in the area he would also be able keep an eye on a few of the journymen from Clan Deepdelver that made the trip north. Just to make sure they didn't pick up any odd ideas about runesmithing from this place.

He had yet to lay eyes on Thungni's hammer, but he had learned that one of the clans Journeywomen managed to get a sight of it for just a moment. The lass was already swarmed by her fellows to describe what she saw and that would only get worse when she finishes her journeying and returns home.

Now where was he… oh yes Khazagar! The place was absolutely swarming with runesmiths at the moment and when he wasn't stalking the place looking for the hammer, he spent his time in Trogg-Khaz feasting and chatting with his fellow runesmiths. It was rather nice, good food, good company and all the same profession so much more relatable banter.

"I am telling you lads; I can't go a decade without getting a commission that asks for the most uninspiring work. Always something along the line of 'A weapon to strike down the mightiest of foes'." Mord begins to grumble and the rest of the table join him.

"Aye Mord, we know it's the same everywhere." Responds Magda.

"A weapon to strike down the mightiest of foes, Armour to withstand the strongest of blows and a banner destroying magic wherever it flows." Svaldi says before he continues, "Let's not grumble about uninspired commissions, we will be at it all night. What are everyone's most interesting commissions?"

The question causes a round of thoughtful looks, as all of the master runesmiths reminisce. Mord is the first to speak up. "I once had someone ask for an axe that would smash its foe as a hammer if it couldn't cut them down." Mord says, summoning a round of thoughtful hums from the table.

"Once had a ranger ask for a cloak that would hide them but also make them fall through air as if they were a feather." Magda answers.

As the group falls into sharing stories with each other Svaldi must confirm that this isn't a bad way to pass the time. Now only if he could find Thungni's hammer.

Tiwar-Khaz​

Jedda wakes from her peaceful slumber to a state of not so peaceful wakefulness. Groaning while nursing a hangover Jedda looks around her room in Tiwar-Khaz for a moment before getting out of bed. While she gets herself something to drink, she can't help but think on how her journeying is going. The only reason she has this room in the first place is because she came to Khazagar before the rush of runesmiths, if she had shown up a few years later she would have had to find rooming in the town outside of Khazagar.

She wasn't sure what was expected when her master released her to her journey but never did dream that she would be going through what she has experienced here in Khazagar. Well, she mainly expected to learn how to make a Chain Forger, but she ended getting swept up into so much more. Such as the tournaments that seem to happen every other month and she only entered because she was having trouble finding commissions for funds and the prizes for the tournament would have been enough to tide her over even if she didn't win. In the end she didn't but fortunately for her, she must have impressed someone with her work because after she was approached by a few clients for commissions.

She also enjoyed the company of all the other journeymen and journeywomen that she interacted with during her stay. She is going to make sure that she stays in contact with them after all this, especially Konna. Fighting the blush that is over taking her face she shakes her head and clears her thoughts. She can say with certainty that she enjoyed her time at Khazagar but now it was for her to continue on her journeying.

Ror-khaz​

Angval Shieldshatter is one of the lucky members of the cult of Valaya assigned to the medical station attached to Ror-khaz. Ever since every runesmith and their master decided that it was time to come visit Khazagar the place has been overflowing with the lot. To say that Ror-khaz has become active because of the increased members in attendance would be to do a disservice to the multiple words that exist to describe the situation. The whole thing suited Angval fine, as it allowed her charges a frankly fantastic number of opportunities to treat minor wounds and practice on calming hot-headed patients.

She is knocked out of her wool-gathering by one of the Winterhearth guards assigned to Ror-khaz entering the medical station. "Hoddri, what brings you here?"

"Priestess, I felt it prudent to warn you that you might be getting a large influx of patients soon." Hoddri say with a shallow bow.

"How bad, is it?" She asks and signals to her charges to start preparing the fortifying ale before heading toward Ror-khaz with Hoddri.

"Quite bad, what seem to be a discussion that I can only assume on the use of reagents in one of the alcoves then spiraled into an argument about what is the best reagent to use on the rune of impact. At that point the group had gained multiple more members and moved to one of the plazas." Hoddri explains and they make their way to said plaza.

Entering the plaza Angval is greeted by a large crowd of runesmiths arguing at each other all screaming about goats or crabs. "Hoddri, what am I looking at?" she asks.

"Well, the subject then evolved on to the use of goat or crab reagent and then someone jumped into debating whether if a Drak sized Goat could beat a Drak sized crab. At that point I decided it was best to come warn you." Hoddri response looking over the mass of dawi screaming points on which dragon size animal would win in a fight, the starting argument about runes all but forgotten.

Grungnaz-Khaz​

When thinking of all the Runelords of Kraka Drakk its rather easy to overlook Lorna Dernasdottir compared to the other Runelords in the hold, well as much as one can overlook a Runelord. The Lorekeeper doesn't have the constant overwhelming presence that The Gift Giver has over the hold, nor does she have the unmistakable prodigal talent of Thungni's Chosen creating expectation defying objects. Neither does she have Thunderlung's electrifying passion nor the encompassing confidence in their creation of the Steelplate and Gildedeyes.

But as Thurna has learnt from her time learning the Master Rune of Wandering from Lady Lorna, one should never underestimate a runelord no matter what. While the Lorekeeper is Lady Lorna's preferred epithet she is also known by the hold as the Dragonsmiter which she earned by smiting a Drak that was a danger to her hold. When Thurna went to ask the runelord questions after her teaching session she was humbled by the experience. While Lady Lorna might not be as visible in her activity she is truly a talented teacher and runesmith.

It also helps that she has good taste in literature even if it was intimidating to be invited to a bookclub that has two runelords in it.

Kron-Thindrongol​

Ottri hums to himself as he carries one of the newest addition to be added to Kron-Thindrongol once the appropriate copies are made from the original of course. He believes that The Gift Giver will be pleased to hear that the latest purchases have arrived and are ready to be added to the Library. Looking down at the title of the book that clearly reads Dreng's Almanac, a book that is an encyclopedia of all the currently know beasts that the dawi in the east have been facing over there.

Not the most relevant subject but a welcome addition, well Ottri shouldn't assume what information could be helpful to a runesmith. At least the option existing will allow it to be helpful and it is a nice break for him to copy a book instead of wrangling runesmiths that occupy Kron-Thindrongol these days. well. Well, Ottri thought to himself, there were some moments of levity that could be found in these trying days, It was always amusing to encounter a runemsmith reading a book penned by Lord Snorri for the first time.

There were two main types of dawi that read books written by Lord Snorri, the first type are the knowledge seeking and ambitious who practically jump at the chance to read something written by a member of the Burudin and the second type are those who slowly approach the book of their choice with a mix of dread and resignation. The only difference between the two is that the latter dawi has already read something written by the Gift Giver before.

If Ottri was asked describe the Gift Giver's books he would politely say they are thorough or extensive and if he were to be less polite about his description he would say they are exhaustively painstakingly detailed. It is a common sight to see a reader bored out of their mind try to skip a few pages only to be confused by terms and details explained in the previous pages. It is not to say those books were not full of pertinent information but it does require a level of will to read those books. That is why there is the second type, they know each book is a bursting vault of information even if they have to mine through a mountain of limestone to reach it.

The Runelord's Workshop​

Deep in the depths of Khazagar is the workshop of the legendary Runelord Snorri 'Gift Giver' Klausson who is currently involved in research that will change Karaz Ankor as it is known.

For too many years your project has had to wait in the sideline and now finally after dealing with all the disturbances you have found the time to complete it. Your masterpiece, a part of you never expected to be the one to do it but you have.

Looking down at the troll jerky he has created in the silence of his workshop The Gift Giver nods to himself in satisfaction. He has improved his troll jerky recipe.

AN: Thanks to @BungieONI for proof reading and @soulcake for taking the time to give this a look over for me.

 

[Voikirium]

The Hope Comes

Fires burned like bright, blazing stars brought to the world below as mystic forces unleashed themselves, in the west of Norsca. Bodies fell like the needles of a great pine forest, blanketing the earth, too many of proud Dawi. Blood flowed like ale, and the thirsty mud ate and ate at armor, coating gleaming gromril in the black muck and brown filth. Arrows sung the hummingbird song, and bolts answered like screaming bees, stinging and stabbing. Metal clanged against metal, wood against bone. Soldiers threw themselves into battle with vigour, fearless, dauntless, song on their lips and rage in their hearts. Slayers soothed their shame.

The Dawi struggled valiantly, their lines meeting.

The Dawi fought bravely, their axes biting.

The Dawi slaughtered manfully, blood spilled like a river.

The Dawi were losing.

An unwelcome alliance, a last gathering of Fimir, Beastmen and Daemons throwing themselves against the throng. Servants of Nurgle, what little remained, seeking to take vengeance. The world wilted where they walked, the rivers turning cloudy with effluence. The trees dropped their many leaves. The snow turned putrid, brown, wretched and vile. The Ice became a green and yellow miasma that stank like carcasses and rot.

These Beastmen, these Fimir, these daemons, abominations they may have been, and wretched they may have been, and depraved they may have been: but weak, unmanful, they were not.

The Beastmen were mighty, blanketed with the vile gifts of Plague-Father, Lie-Speaker, The Despairing One. Even the least of Ungors among them was coated in a thick mucous, a thick slime, that seemed to sour what should be telling blows, which covered the greatest of wounds in mere moments. The Bestigors, the Minotaurs, the highest among that wretched lot, quite aside from the marks of the Plague-Father--open wounds, filth, worse--were marked in armor of bronze and bone, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight, their fury bright and harsh. Three columns, three forces, three foes, led by three mighty, wicked creatures: The Great Centigor Chief Rot-Hoof, the elven-arrow jammed in his flank still pouring wretched blood that made the world sizzle as it touched the earth; The Great Bray Shaman Icetongue, follower of Nurgle Algidus, Nurgle of the Cold, Nurgle of the Frost, Nurgle of the ice; and so he was covered in an armor of ice, a pelt of snow, a mane of frost that could turned aside a spear, that had turned aside spears; and the Beastlord Blacktooth, whose teeth have rotted and decayed and become strong for it, black as iron, strong as iron.

Mercenaries to the Daemons, mercenaries to the Fimir, slaves to the Four.

The Dawi were falling, all seemed lost as warrior two-by-one and one-by-two were picked apart and punished, slain and slaughtered, ravaged by that enemy, the Beastmen, the foe.

Then there came the blast of horn; then there came the break of noise; then there came a bright light. The battle lines upon that Norscan field ceased for a moment as a great Runesmith, a Runesmith of worth, a Runesmith of ability approached.

Morek Hopebearer. Morek who loathes Nurgle.

Morek the unyielding.

Morek the student of Vragni.

His armor gleamed like the stars in the sky, shaped in the visage of his ancestors, not scowling, but proud, of black gromril the shade of the soltice night and gold that glimmers best. His beard was long and red, seeming to shimmer like the finest silk in the light of day. His shield, hardest of oak and hardest of will, was the deep brown of ale and gleamed with the Rune's might. His hammer of burnished steel was a vibrant blue, sheathed in teal fire, as he brought down 'gain and 'gain into the flesh of the foe.

But it was the might of his banner, erupting from his back, that seemed to draw the eye. It was wrought of some weird gold, a slab of sorts with the story of Clan Aleheart etched into it: The Defiance of the Broken Road, the Death of Kalkorax, the end of the Great Incursion.

Morek infected. Morek weakening. Morek fading, falling.

Morek healed.

Morek alive.

Morek angry.

At that, carved with the best of care and the most able of skill, given the very heart of a mountain, the strange gold, a Master Rune unknown hummed its fury, hummed its rage, hummed its contempt, pouring out over Dwarf and Nurglich alike in equal measure. The poisons and plagues which had brought weakness and loss to the dwarfs were snuffed out as one snuffs out a pipe. More than that the dread, the despaire, passed from them.

Even as despair and dread and loss and pain, yes, pain, poured itself onto Fimir, onto Beastmen, onto Daemons. The apathy of Nurgle was broken and shattered where he walked, the diseases progressed, ravaging, a symbol of something else: of beings made to look at what had become of them in their subjugation to that that creature, that primordial disease, that liar who would kill the world just so he would not rot alone.

Most of all, they were reminded of what it was to be mortal.

And to be reminded of mortality, forced them back into its ken.

Morek banged his hammer on his shield even as the Dwarfs redoubled, seeing the opportunity to reclaim the initiative, to kill foes who otherwise would not die. And he pointed that mallet at the three who led, Icetongue and Rot-Hoof and Blacktooth, and he sneered a steely sneer at the creatures with all the contempt of a student of Vragni Silverbrand. "You made my brother cry."

And with that he launched to battle, and with that he launched to melee; with that he launched to slaughter, with that he launched to Grimnir's work. His hammer flashed and his shield bit deep into flesh as he carved his way through the foemen, smashing them down like cheap matchsticks, all who got in his way: Daemon and Gor and Fimir alike, broken at the fury of his hammer.

First he came upon Icetongue and bashed his way through the cold, cold magic of a cold, cold heart, and ended it with one blow of his hammer, Kazabaraz, the War-Oath, upon the head, shattering the ice.

Next came he upon Blacktooth. The wretched thing sought to sink teeth into the armor of the Runesmith; the wretched thing sought to end his days, but the armor was strong, the armor was Runed and so its teeth found no purchase and with one blow of his shield, Branbar, did he end the thing, a blow so mighty they say it cleaved the mud open and left a pool we now still know as Morek's Lake.

Finally he turned bloody fury upon Rot-Hoof, wrestling with the chief. The Chief was strong, and Morek knew he could not over power the brute; so with a mighty blow he slammed his hammer onto the elf-arrow, forcing it deep into the body of the Centigor, cutting spine and heart alike, ending him at last, ending him at least.

And with that the enemy faltered at last, as the Dwarf's resilience grew; and with that the enemy fell, as the Dwarfs flourished.
--
Records from the Citadel of Creation, as translated and transcribed by Leandre Agua

 

[Voikirium]

Mortality and Excellence

He can recite the lore of Clan Brightwill to a thousand-years hence. His parents had made damn sure of that--as his brothers had been trying to woo maidens in the Hold, in particular some planned maiden excursion, instead, knowing his excellence, they had ma--allowed him to journey to the clan's personal library and for sixth months he had studied the deeds of his Ancestors long descended into the Underearth. Thousands upon thousands of pages of tomes, fo-entered into his mind so that he could understand his place.

To keep his mind focused, where his brothers had...suffered the pain of being with grandfather for months as he passed, mother and father had instead de- allowed him to take his mind off of troubles by sending him with a mining expedition to get a feel for the material he would work with as a Runesmith so that he would excel, to let him gain practice working with completely mundane construction.

As his brothers grew more familiar with their parents, he was reproached, reminded to keep the dignity of a Runesmith, a Runelord one day if he was so lucky and chosen--no, not lucky, driven.

From the day he was born and they had known he would take on the family's legacy properly, his parents have...pushed...him to excel. Have not allowed him to rest on his laurels or at all. They have known he would be the best because they have pruned every other possibility. They have ensured his name will go down in the annals of Kraka Drak as a legend of worth for they have mangled the mere mortal who might otherwise weigh that ability down.

And so they had leaped, jumped at the opportunity as Nain Kazzarson, apprentice to the Gift-Giver, and student of Gotri Hammerspite, was rumored to be looking for a student, and paid him quite a sum of money hoping he would finish ripping out mortality and leave behind a shell of excellence.

The training had been difficult, of course. How could it not be? But he had excelled for how could he not? Not after the efforts of his parents to prepare him for the thing, not after the efforts of his parents to ensure he was an equal to the task. He is very quiet, and he has very good ears, so he has heard his master call him as such, when he thinks Tholinn Vikramsson is not paying attention. He, and Fjolla, and Karstah, and the other apprentices of Snorri and the Gift-Giver himself, a figure if anything more marvelous than the stories convey, clad in Runes and wonder.

They talk about other things too, of course. Exactly what they think of his parents. An assessment he can't quite disregard. For all some part of him can't fully agree with it, either.

To be around so many Masters of the craft is...edifying. Even if his fellow apprentices can be confusing and better company than most of his closer kin has ever been, whatever else they might say. Dolgi's kin are loud and warmhearted and open when they have no need to be but honest and capable Runesmiths. His conversations with the younger children are purely an attempt to learn more about Runesmithing Lore, of course, since that's the easiest way to hide how much time he's wasting from his parents, who have their ears to the grapevine. Gandazi and Andvarri, younger than he, and so in need of an elder's guidance, as much as he could and Andvari a lesson in not putting his foot in his mouth from a mouth who's gotten too, too used to watching his words when he doesn't need to.

Every milestone ever placed before him he has surpassed, every attempt to turn him from the path failed. He will be a Runesmith, he will bring honor to Clan Brightwill for how else will he ever make missing his grandfather's funeral worth it.

He is excellence itself, and the cloak he has made lives up to that. It may be a simple apprentice's piece, and to be sure his master had made sure to point out a few points of improvement for later, but it will do what it needs to do, of that he is sure. The red wool lightly trimmed with a vanilla shade of particularly Brana down at the collar and along the edges, with images of the history of Clan Steelfist embroidered in white yarn, would keep out the cold of Norsca as a particularly thick piece of mundane work, never mind the handful of warming runes his Master nudged him to use for the gift. It is more than fitting as a gift from Tholinn Goldenbeard.

So why is he so stressed about giving it to Thorek Steelfist aside from the bleeding obvious? The man wants to journey throughout the cold of Norsca, to be a warrior, to see the world so it certainly fills a practical need? A beardling's gift to a beardling warrior is well within parameters, in fact if anything it is over par given how these things usually work, so it isn't that. Thorek has been whining about how cold out it is, so it's something he wants, so it certainly won't be a waste not matter what else then.

So why, then, is it that he's sitting in the tavern, at the edge of the bar, nursing some ale, holding the gift, trying not to stare at the noble who hasn't realized he's there? Why can't he just get up, march over there, and give it to him? Why can't he be-

His thoughts are interrupted by an Elder in a thick red cloak accidentally stumbling into him, knocking him from his stool onto the ground and getting the attention of just about every patron there, including Thorek, oh Ancestors, even as the Elder brushes some dirt off of him and grumbles apologies, checking him over for a moment before giving a grumble to the effect of "he's fine". He accepts the apology in the spirit intended, besides he's far more concerned how his associate (Friend) is walking over with a smile on his face and another tankard, which he passes over to Tholinn with a practiced ease. "You alright, prickly?"

"I am indeed."

Screw your courage to the sticking place, beard boy.

The unknowing client is here. "I suppose since you're here, I may as well give you this." He hands over the cloak with little fanfare and tries not to notice how Thorek's eyes light up as he traces the deeds of his forefathers and grandfathers and father down through the ages. "You've been whining about the cold so much and I needed the practice, I figured I may as well give you something to get over it. Even my constitution can only last so long, Steelfist."

"I will cherish it so long as it lasts, my friend." He pulls up a stool and sits next to the apprentice.

"You'd better, you have any idea what brana down costs these days?"

And with that the two fall into easy conversation and the man is allowed out of the cage for a time.

 

[BananaBuddy]

Dwarf Culture Corner​

Now every Dwarf in the realm is expected to be able to cook and feed themselves. It is a basic skill that all Dawi are expected to reach a basic level of competency. While some are truly hopeless when it comes to cooking you can still expect them to be talented at one meal. The worst of the worst are still able to make edible food, even if it doesn't taste good.

Now on the other side of the spectrum are Dawi that have a knack for cooking and build upon that. These are the Dawi that are able to make meals that quieten the grumbling of the most cantankerous of Longbeards. I am talking about proper Dawi Chefs and cooks. The fellows that have such skill in preparing meals that they have their own stores and if they don't have their own store you can expect to find them in the kitchen of a tavern or even in the King's (or Queen) Kitchen.

I shouldn't even need to state this, but I would bring shame upon myself for creating something educational and not covering all my bases. So, there are differences between the kinds of cuisine between holds all over the realm. Yes, each hold has the same staples of dwarven cuisine that we all know and love, like stonebread for example but even then, they will be different. Whether it be due to the local environment encouraging or even preventing specific plant growth or the kind of wildlife located around the hold. There will be differences between all the holds.

Now the proper way to learn of this would be to visit all the holds and try their local cooking but some of us are busy making sure the beardlings don't collapse the hold. So, in that vein I will be providing an extremely short summary of the cuisine of the holds, so it might convince a few to actually visit and get a proper understanding.

Kraka Drakk

Reputation & History

While it might come to a surprise to those who know the Hold's runesmithing reputation, Kraka Drakk is actually the most traditional hold in the Far North when it comes to cooking. While they do have their quirks, they all fall within the boundaries of tradition. Kraka Drakk cuisines has large preference towards troll cuisine. The Hold's proximity and frequent culling of the nearby Troll Gazan has supplied the hold with a large amount of troll ingredients. Kraka Drakk is always well supplied with a sizable harvest of crops year-round due to multiple factors such as trade as the centre of the far north underway, influx of troll meats from Troll Gazan and the Hold's many farms. Kraka Drakk possesses a prestigious amount of farmland which can be put to the Hold's runesmiths being numerous and affordable enough for the farmers guild to commission them and the presence of The Grobar-gazan. The Grobar-gazan is an underground cave system discovered by the Gift Giver full of lush greenery that thanks to a little aid from runes, is useable farmland throughout the year no matter the weather.

Thoughout the history of Kraka Drakk the only point where there was a significant change in the hold's cuisine was around 196 A.P when multiple Zornish clans settled in Drakk. The clans of Zorn brought with them the many spices that are local to Zorn and used in their cooking. Initially this led to the spices being imported, which was costly but affordable for a hold such a Kraka Drakk but with the use of The Grobar-gazan a small population of Zornish Spices are being grown locally.As Zornish Dawi integrated with the Hold, especially through marriage, the rise of recipes that use Kraka Drakk's native foodstuffs according to Zornish and Drakk tastes, have also begun cropping up.

With the hold always having supplies available to them whether through others by trade or their own production, it has led to the Hold's inhabitants to be rather generous with their serving sizes. To the approval of many Valayans but has the hold wide habit appeared due to more of the dawi trying to follow in the footsteps of the generosity of the gift giver or is it due to something else?

Local Cooking

Kulgur (the art of cooking Troll) and Khulgur (the art of HUNTING Troll) is practiced nowhere near as universally as it is in Kraka Drakk. So you can be very confident that if a food uses Troll, it is known by the dawi of Drakk. With there being no shortage of the stuff and its tastes being enjoyable to the majority of all dawi, it is not unexpected that every chef in the hold knows a dozen recipes using the stuff. Even with the Hold's preference it does not mean there is a lack of other meat options. It is very easy to find options that use boar, wolf, bear and deer. With the introduction of Zornish spices, many meals are always sure to be tasty as well as filling. The hold is also home to all the classical stonebread recipes that could be found all over the Karaz Ankor.

Unique Cooking

The Far North and more specifically the area around Kraka Drakk is home to a hearty tuber locally dubbed Durazkul. The plant was shown to have healing properties when consumed, which was discovered by the Gift Giver and the local Valaya cult. The plant was also discovered to be extremely stout, being able to grow in the poorest of mountain soil and even through the winter. Such a plant seemed like a blessing from the Ancestors themselves if not for one issue, Durazkul tasted little better than eating stone. So, while they could be used as a medically beneficial but unbelievably dull stew, there wasn't much appeal behind eating them on their own. While the cult of Valaya commissioned the local brewer's guild to make a brew from the plant. The chefs of Drakk took up the challenge to see if they could succeed in making a tasty meal of the Durazkul. Succeed they did as multiple recipes were created, such as Durazkul Chips , Durazkulbread and Durazkul Stew to name a few. The brewer's guild managed to make a brew from the stuff as well, tasteless but deceptively strong.

Kraka Ornsmotek

Reputation & History

Kraka Ornsmotek is a Hold that has been fighting off all the beasts and monsters the Far North has had since its inception. The Hold is also known for its Monster Wardens, rangers who specialise at hunting down beasts that would dare roam around their Hold. So, it would come to no surprise that such a Hold has a very steady supply of meat. Ornsmotek is called eagle's peak for a reason due to the fierce wind currents that batter the mountain, but such winds have another benefit. The cunning Dawi of Ornsmotek have been able to learn how to harness these winds to preserve their food. This has allowed for Ornsmotek to make jerkies and dry-aged meats at such a surplus that they can comfortably sell it as a trade good.

The chefs of the hold have become extremely skilled at cooking and preparing all manner of monsters that the foam their lands. This has led to the dawi in the hold having a very high meat-based diets even among other Dawi. The hold does import the majority of what little non-meat food stuffs it requires from other Holds, as the winds and thermals that lets Eagle's Peak dry their food so easily make the surrounding land unsuitable for farming.

Local Cooking

To the surprise of absolutely no one the local cooking of Kraka Ornsmotek is extremely heavy in meat. Whether it be in a stew, roasted or even dried, the dawi of Kraka Ornsmotek seem to greatly enjoy cooking with the stuff.

Unique Cooking

With the wide variety of monster that prowl the mountains around Kraka Ornsmotek, you can be sure that there are some truly strange beasts. You can only be sure that the dawi of Kraka Ornsmotek have also killed the thing before or are about to for the first time. After that you can be sure that an Ornsmotek dawi will be cooking up some of that monster meat.

Kraka Ravnsvake

Reputation & History

Kraka Ravnsvake is a hold that has been through a lot of changes and at a pace that would make many dawi grumble. It seems to many that if you look away from Kraka Ravnsvake for only a few centuries and then look back you find Elgi and Brana all over the place. Kraka Ravnsvake being a coastal hold means it the main point of connection with the Elgi for the Far North. The Kraka hosts an Elgi Embassy and docks for the Elgi boats. These Docks are an Elgi invention because those boats can't come onto land and have to stay in the water. So, it's a building built into the water and connecting to the land to allow ease of access for boats. There is also the Karazbinvarr Aerie of the Branakoki located near the Kraka. The Brana with the approval of the King of Ravnsvake made a new home for their people. Recently with the onset of the great war against the Fimir Kraka Ravnsvake is now home to a Dawi navy.

It is fair to say that the Dawi of Ravnsvake are no stranger to change and this can be seen in the cooking culture. The cooks of Ravnsvake seem to have experienced so much change recently that they can't seem to stop mixing things up. What would have been the norm for some chef might change a century later. Even the other dwarfs of the Far North find this odd, but nobody can critique their skill when it comes to cooking riverine fish and the heartiness and fortifying taste of their Stonebread, if one ignores the strange swirling, elgi-like designs often found on their loaves. Who knows how many more changes to the local cuisine will happen in time.

Kraka Ravnsvake is a hold that imports a fair number of foodstuffs from other holds, with it being mainly dried meats and preserved goods. Ravnsvake regularly trades salt in exchange for dried and cured meats from Ornsmotek. With the advent of ships and sailing, much of it is destined to supply the ships of the growing Dawi fleet, with expectations for that demand to only grow with the fleet.

Local Cooking

In Ravnsvake you can find plenty of taverns and bakeries serving meals that you could find all over the Karaz Ankor such as Troll stew and Boar roast for example. Dawi prefer eating red meat, but it doesn't stop them from enjoying some white meat from time to time. With the main example of this being fish and some birds they manage to catch, and while the Elgi have, on multiple occasions, assured the Dawi that oceanic fish is delicious when prepared properly few save the most foolhardy of beardlings even entertain the idea. The inhabitants of Ravnsvake have no interest in them compared to riverine fish, like mountain trout, that the Karaz Ankor have centuries of tradition behind catching and cooking. At the moment the dawi of Kraka Ravnsvake continue to cook with what they know; Fish (riverine), Crayfish and freshwater eels while the Elgi can keep their Fish (Oceanic), Lobsters and Saltwater eels.

Ravnsvake has multiple rivers near the hold where they have bountiful riverine fishing operations. While the harvest is plentiful, the hold never gathers enough to even begin exporting any and all production remaining in the local market. This has led to the cooks of the hold to make large amounts of fish dishes that would be much rarer around the far north. While the preference for fish is still nowhere near as popular as traditional red meat, who can tell how that would change if the dawi expanded their fishing operations to include the open sea and its bounty.

Unique Cooking

Although very very recently some could say that the Dawi of Kraka Ravnsvake have begun oceanic fishing. To which the Dawi of Kraka Ravnsvake would respond saying that they are not and are instead expanding their riverine fishing operation and if a fish is found both in the river and in the ocean, then it's a river fish and clear game. Salmon being a prime example of this for the dawi of the hold. This does lead to some dawi fishing ship sometime catching oceanic fish, they are either sold to the local Elgi or some adventurous beardling tries to cook something with it. But on the subject of the Elgi, Ravnsvake is one of the only places where dawi can try Elgi cuisine. This does occur usually as the result of a dare or losing a bet, but it does remain an option.

Kraka Grom

Reputation & History

The full history and details of what led to the founding of Kraka Grom are not completely relevant and can be found by those who deserve to know. A truly short summary is that the dawi that founded Kraka Grom originally come from a hold named Karag Dum. Karag Dum was founded around the same time as all the other Major Holds of the Far North but contact with the hold was lost after the Incursion. In 213 A.P. an expedition to Karag Dum was held to regain contact with the hold but what the expedition found was that Karag Dum was under siege by an unspeakable foe. While the expedition was successful in defeating the foe and rescued the dawi of Dum, the hold was deemed tarnished and destroyed with the inhabitants to go found another hold. If you were paying attention, you would know that it would go on to be named Kraka Grom.

Needless to say, the event had impacted the people of Kraka Grom which have led the inhabitants to be suspicious of all. Many dawi will be meet with suspicious looks when visiting Kraka Grom, the folks not very trusting even to their fellow dawi. The initial years after the founding the hold imported a large quantity of all manner of food and beverages that they had run out of during the siege and some of the folk had never had. This buying spree has calmed down over the centuries and have become to import at an expected rate. What has not changed is ever since the founding is the holds preference of buying food and goods from Clan Winterhearth traders. Some families to this day will only buy goods from Clan Winterhearth members and trust no other option. The Hold has dozens of decentralised siege stores scattered in secret caches across its depths and territory. Each one so large and well stocked that it would make a living ancestor boggle with the quantity compared to population. A leftover from the generations of near-starvation level subsistence their eldest endured.

All of this is reflected in the cooking traditions of Kraka Grom. Meals in Grom are a private affair and there are in fact very little public chefs in the Hold. To the folk of Grom, it requires a large amount of trust to eat the food prepared by another. So, most chefs are extremely private, trusted family members or thoroughly vetted private chefs for a single Clan, and makes it difficult to enjoy the local cuisine but not impossible. To successfully be a public cook is to be a member of highest standing and trust in the hold.

Local Cooking

Due to the limited number of public cooks that are available in the hold it is difficult to truly carve a mural of what the local cooking looks like. On the base level the cooking shares a lot of what one could expect from a hold in such an environment. A large majority of the meats used in cooking come from hunting the surrounding wilds for the local wildlife. So, expect a lot of wolf and troll meat in the meals.

A certain quirk of the cooking in Grom is the preference towards meals that keep well. There is a focus on stews and slow cooking that goes beyond the normal dawi sense of practicality. The meals found in Grom are very humble and you will rarely find dawi cooking with spices. The Dawi of Grom seem distrustful of cooking that use spices and do not trust things that could be added to meals that are not easily identifiable ingredients.

Unique Cooking

Kraka Grom is home to a large number of underground mushroom farms, the spores of which were brought with them from Dum, which can be found deep in the Hold in well-guarded areas. Alongside several traditional recipes passed from their time under occupation, the availability of the fungus means they are almost always found in Grom's dishes. The chefs of Grom seem to have found every method there is and then some for preparing mushrooms. Stews, roasted , boiled, pickled and even mushroom Stonebread, to name a few ways that Grom utilizes the plant. I heard rumour that a Brewing clan was even trying to make a drink from the mushrooms.

Despite its traditional prevalence, traditional importance and seeming universal ubiquity, the individual opinions on these Mushrooms vary from Dawi to Dawi; running the gamut from despisement, shame, and indifference, to forlorn fondness and appreciation. The oldest of the Hold's population, those who lived from the beginning of the betrayal especially, trend towards the negative end; viewing it as a reminder of the indignity and betrayal that suffuses everything from those times. For those born during the occupation and after the move to Grom, it trend towards the more positive associations. These younger Dawi see these dishes as a tradition they have eaten since they were babes, and they lack the firsthand negative association of their elders. If pressed to explain further, then they usually say it is also a way to connect to their past; a recognition of the struggles and sacrifices their ancestors made to survive until Vengeance was met against the Unbaraki by Gazul and Snorri Gift Giver.

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The Grobar-gazan - The Evergreen field


AN: Welcome to Dawi Cooking lore that nobody asked for! I hope you all enjoy and please call out any spelling and grammers mistakes. Thank you to both @soulcake for answering all my question when writing this and @BungieONI for proofreading this for me.