[Canon cept for a few bits] A Storm's Call, Thorgrim Yorrison exists as one of Vragni's apprentices.
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Voikirium
#1 Voltaire Hater
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
A Storm's Call
A thing of smiting. A thing of heroes. A thing of champions.
Forged by the student of Vragni Silverbrand, the mythologized founder of the great workshop that is the Citadel of Creation, Thorgrim Yorrisson, of no relation to the fable Yorri the Wanderer.
Thorgrim, it seems, was quite a weaponsmith and Runemaker; but more he felt a shame that it was his master's rival and foe, Snorri Klausson of the academy of Khazagar earning glory in the war. Karstah Snorrissdottir and the shardwyrm Grimgral had journeyed with the High King and earned acclaim in the eyes of the people of the north. Snerra, Snorri's niece and apprentice, had saved the High King from the magics of the Fimir. Fjolla Goldy-locks had been wounded in battle against those wretches.
And where the students of Vragni? Morek, aye, but who else?
And that, that would not do.
So he disappeared into the guts of the great workshop, disappeared into the Tong-Vault, disappeared into dark places lined with gold and jewels and gems that glimmered and gleamed the light of Ancestors and the light of Magic, the light of the very fire at the mystic core of the earth, the fire that fed the workshop, the fire that fed the world.
And he harnessed it.
Purest Gromril, so pure it shone like the snow upon the river bank, though of multitudinous colors. Fine red wutroth, deep as the wood of a cherry tree. Stained and strengthened in lacquer of eldest troll's blood, until it could not be marked nor scuffed, no, not even by the harsh environment of war and battle, of travel and struggle, of effort and strife and siege and slaughter and worse.
A hammer shaped in reverence, a prayer and plea to the disappeared father of the Dwarfs, Grungni. The stout striking face, the blunt, shaped like the head of a great eagle, symbol of Kraka Ornsmotek, of a dark, ruddy gold shaped until a gronti ought to have been made of the thing. The eyes precious amber around a void and carved into the pupil, invocations of lightning, of the wind and of the storm and of the breaking of things. To pierce and split and stab the wings erupted from the back, a darker thing, flowing from the head to the tip. Feathers are worked into its surface, and into those feathers, so well-made they could be portraits and he could have walked them, Thorgrim inscribed the history of Kraka Ornsmotek, from its founding to the great war against the Fimir, intricate and detailed enough to tell one Dwarf apart from the other.
The haft, long enough that it would require two-hands for a man never mind the stubby dwarfs, made of that best wutroth and stained with troll's blood. The thing's skin he worked into the center for a grip, decorating it into geometric patterns; from that he carved the faces of the kings of Orsnmotek, from the first to the last, and filled those carving with precious silver, shining and splendid. The pommel, a simple affair compared to most dwarf work, but he did emulate his teacher in burning his very mark into the glimmering silver.
And important for the poor historian who must try and discern what is the arrogance of an old Dwarf and what is verifiable fact, it is one of the first creations of the Citadel of Creation to burn with the bright orange light of fire and lava that we can verify the provenance of aside outside the dwarf epistemology of "just trust me, Beardling."
Runically, it is a thing as simple as it is potent. The Master Rune of Grungni, given Barazgal that fable and legend alike claim was retrieved from Frundrar who had sought to use it for their own wicked purposes, taken in battle, taken in honor of Grungni. Such a bang, such a crash, such a racket, was never heard before nor since as the sound that pours from this thing as it strikes its foe, pouring the thunder itself into the enemy. The Ancestral Rune of Grungni, given a Sidereal Sapphire taken from the mine-temple of Grungni at Karak Azul Dalgrung Ankor during a pilgrimage as a journeyman. The lightning, the storm, the thunder flow within the hammer, a thousandth-thousandth of the might of Drongrundum--but a thousandth-thousandth of a god's weapon is no idle thing. And the Rune of Force, given the blood of Dragon Ogre Shaggoths, given the might of unholy things, until the storm seems to crackle.
It is the Storm's Call.
With every blow a storm of sound and lightning is unleashed, traveling within the target to cause immense damage to whatever has the poor luck to be struck so by it. No enemy may stand before it. No foe may stand against it. No champion can stand to bear it.
And no gate may deny it, as Thorgrim would prove in the Battle of Fimman Gal, where Thorgrim would march to the great black gate smeared with evil symbols of evil deities, smeared with wicked symbols of wicked gods, smeared with depraved symbols of depraved villains, and with naught but three blows would smash it apart into so many shards and so many poor memories of those dragged into slavery into that wretched place, allowing the Dwarfs of Kraka Ornsmotek.
Naturally I distrust such a deed. It reeks of the Dwarfs of the Citadel of Creation attempting to one-up their master's hated rival, the founder of Khazagar and myth in his own right, Snorri Gift-Giver of Kraka Drakk, a matter of which I have spent more than enough ink writing. Something to the effect that one of his apprentices managed to outclass the feats of the Gift-Giver.
Oddly enough, it is students of Khazagar most inclined to say Thorgrim truly did do it. After all..."much the easier to destroy Shoddy Fimir work than dwarf efforts, even those wretched Frundar and their evil efforts so only a student of that idiot would puff their chests out so much about it."
-Leandre Agua, Histories of an Elder People
A thing of smiting. A thing of heroes. A thing of champions.
Forged by the student of Vragni Silverbrand, the mythologized founder of the great workshop that is the Citadel of Creation, Thorgrim Yorrisson, of no relation to the fable Yorri the Wanderer.
Thorgrim, it seems, was quite a weaponsmith and Runemaker; but more he felt a shame that it was his master's rival and foe, Snorri Klausson of the academy of Khazagar earning glory in the war. Karstah Snorrissdottir and the shardwyrm Grimgral had journeyed with the High King and earned acclaim in the eyes of the people of the north. Snerra, Snorri's niece and apprentice, had saved the High King from the magics of the Fimir. Fjolla Goldy-locks had been wounded in battle against those wretches.
And where the students of Vragni? Morek, aye, but who else?
And that, that would not do.
So he disappeared into the guts of the great workshop, disappeared into the Tong-Vault, disappeared into dark places lined with gold and jewels and gems that glimmered and gleamed the light of Ancestors and the light of Magic, the light of the very fire at the mystic core of the earth, the fire that fed the workshop, the fire that fed the world.
And he harnessed it.
Purest Gromril, so pure it shone like the snow upon the river bank, though of multitudinous colors. Fine red wutroth, deep as the wood of a cherry tree. Stained and strengthened in lacquer of eldest troll's blood, until it could not be marked nor scuffed, no, not even by the harsh environment of war and battle, of travel and struggle, of effort and strife and siege and slaughter and worse.
A hammer shaped in reverence, a prayer and plea to the disappeared father of the Dwarfs, Grungni. The stout striking face, the blunt, shaped like the head of a great eagle, symbol of Kraka Ornsmotek, of a dark, ruddy gold shaped until a gronti ought to have been made of the thing. The eyes precious amber around a void and carved into the pupil, invocations of lightning, of the wind and of the storm and of the breaking of things. To pierce and split and stab the wings erupted from the back, a darker thing, flowing from the head to the tip. Feathers are worked into its surface, and into those feathers, so well-made they could be portraits and he could have walked them, Thorgrim inscribed the history of Kraka Ornsmotek, from its founding to the great war against the Fimir, intricate and detailed enough to tell one Dwarf apart from the other.
The haft, long enough that it would require two-hands for a man never mind the stubby dwarfs, made of that best wutroth and stained with troll's blood. The thing's skin he worked into the center for a grip, decorating it into geometric patterns; from that he carved the faces of the kings of Orsnmotek, from the first to the last, and filled those carving with precious silver, shining and splendid. The pommel, a simple affair compared to most dwarf work, but he did emulate his teacher in burning his very mark into the glimmering silver.
And important for the poor historian who must try and discern what is the arrogance of an old Dwarf and what is verifiable fact, it is one of the first creations of the Citadel of Creation to burn with the bright orange light of fire and lava that we can verify the provenance of aside outside the dwarf epistemology of "just trust me, Beardling."
Runically, it is a thing as simple as it is potent. The Master Rune of Grungni, given Barazgal that fable and legend alike claim was retrieved from Frundrar who had sought to use it for their own wicked purposes, taken in battle, taken in honor of Grungni. Such a bang, such a crash, such a racket, was never heard before nor since as the sound that pours from this thing as it strikes its foe, pouring the thunder itself into the enemy. The Ancestral Rune of Grungni, given a Sidereal Sapphire taken from the mine-temple of Grungni at Karak Azul Dalgrung Ankor during a pilgrimage as a journeyman. The lightning, the storm, the thunder flow within the hammer, a thousandth-thousandth of the might of Drongrundum--but a thousandth-thousandth of a god's weapon is no idle thing. And the Rune of Force, given the blood of Dragon Ogre Shaggoths, given the might of unholy things, until the storm seems to crackle.
It is the Storm's Call.
With every blow a storm of sound and lightning is unleashed, traveling within the target to cause immense damage to whatever has the poor luck to be struck so by it. No enemy may stand before it. No foe may stand against it. No champion can stand to bear it.
And no gate may deny it, as Thorgrim would prove in the Battle of Fimman Gal, where Thorgrim would march to the great black gate smeared with evil symbols of evil deities, smeared with wicked symbols of wicked gods, smeared with depraved symbols of depraved villains, and with naught but three blows would smash it apart into so many shards and so many poor memories of those dragged into slavery into that wretched place, allowing the Dwarfs of Kraka Ornsmotek.
Naturally I distrust such a deed. It reeks of the Dwarfs of the Citadel of Creation attempting to one-up their master's hated rival, the founder of Khazagar and myth in his own right, Snorri Gift-Giver of Kraka Drakk, a matter of which I have spent more than enough ink writing. Something to the effect that one of his apprentices managed to outclass the feats of the Gift-Giver.
Oddly enough, it is students of Khazagar most inclined to say Thorgrim truly did do it. After all..."much the easier to destroy Shoddy Fimir work than dwarf efforts, even those wretched Frundar and their evil efforts so only a student of that idiot would puff their chests out so much about it."
-Leandre Agua, Histories of an Elder People
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