[image] Lorna Dernasdottir by Renu, commissioned by me
RHUNRIKKI STROLLAR (Warhammer Fantasy Golden Age Dwarf Runelord Quest)
- Thread starter soulcake
- Start date
- Fantasy Users' Choice!
-
- Tags
- warhammer warhammer fantasy fantasy defend in depth dwarf santa end times delenda est fear the pan gift giver great terror of apprentices judgement witheld pending results mountain vietnam no pocket troll tongue slave to the aesthetic the road to hell is paved in shinies theres a rune for that this is a dwarf quest (dwarfs) this is not a vampire quest this is not an empire quest turn format edits will continue until the qm is dead
Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
[Meme] The Certainty of Textile, +5 to a Roll
Last edited:
[AU] Dalbarbin Drengirukul, the temple will exist, x2 +15 to a Roll
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Dalbarbin Drengirukul
Old Gate Beside the Killing Vault
I know where the man who killed my father is.
And I can prove it too.
There are four great temples to Grimnir within the Empire of the Dwarfs as of the time of this writing.
No I have not forgotten how to count.
The most famous, of course, resides within Karak Kadrin, where treacherous king Ungrim awaits the dawn of day. A great monument dedicated to Grimnir The Doomed, Ancestor God of Slayers, who the Dwarfs hold single-handedly ended the Great Catastrophe by marching to the North, barechested and wielding his ax, followed by his son, Morgrim. It is a temple open only to the Slayers of Grimnir, a living, mournful testament to the shame culture that dominates the Karaz Ankor. The Shrine of Grimnir, the Shrine of Slayers, a Shrine to Death, where they prepare to march out their armies to menace once again.
The second, and the largest open to the general public, is the Great Temple open within Karaz-A-Karak. This is a familial shrine, not entirely unlike that clod of dirt dedicated to Thungni, near Karak Zorn. Depicting his great march to the north as described by, the certainly accurate and not at all biased source, Morgrim, his son and fellow Thacytharai.
The third in Karak Eight Peaks. I confess, the magics of Valaya protect it well from me; but I am stubborn, and I am arrogant, and I do not give up. I will learn, soon enough.
The fourth, least but still grand among the Taliobrass, lies within the realm known as Karak Azul, created to honor Grimnir the Strategist by Thalnir the Orphan, a wretched man even by the low standards of the Haclad. It is near, but outside, the Karak proper, and the first layer is a particularly well-defended gatehouse. A great, sloping roof of hard Gromril caps a body made of solid granite, iron worked into mundane Runes. Two statues guard a door made of gaudy Barazgal, carved with his grim visage, where the first and simplest of Dwarf scratch magic sits: The Master Rune of Grimnir's Ferocity, the Rune of Stone, and the Rune of Courage. This gives them courage.
Courage to face the darkness.
Courage to defy Chaos.
Courage to lie right to my face.
Where my father's body is hidden.
This Gatehouse is garrisoned by twenty Longbeads, well-armed with Runic equipment, axes and hammers alike forged by the line of Thalnir the Orphan; hard and sharp and protective they are, if artless, squat, ugly things, of metal and suffering.
But arrogant and stubborn, as all the sons of stone must be. And they did not even think to stop a little fly buzzing in.
And so I entered, and I saw the great elevator made of Wutroth, lined with jewels from each of the Karaks, the visage of Grimnir placed in gold. Down and down, down and down, down and down it took me even as sheathed my visage in the stunted, malformed shape of murderers, even as I felt the Runes press against me, against the will of Hoeth, the will of Justice and Knowledge alike.
Until I entered the second part, a part perhaps more appropriate for the Dwarfs than any other.
A combination of a library and treasure room, dedicated to treasures taken and records of the victories of Grimnir and of his death cult. Tomes, codexes, scrolls. The walls decorated with the soft stone, five floors, libraries and treasure halls alternating by layer. Runes guard it, of course, for they were prodigious in their use of their coping mechanism in those days. Flickering torches only barely light the vast, square halls, filled as they are with death and the memories of death. Broken dragon eggs, the bodies of dead dryads--our allies, our friends, our FAMILY, slain for the temerity of allegiance and alliance and loyalty and the bits of their bodies used to make these abominations.
The Master Rune of Climate, the Rune of Stone, the Rune of Preservation, all serve to preserve these things. The trophies. The texts.
It is so very dwarfish. A bleak, dark, hole in the ground, where wretched, vengeful, broken old men can please themselves to the thought of how they were once mighty, and weep and scorn and complain about the youth of today, and hide themselves and do nothing to help anyone. So busy remembering the past, they cannot ever look forward to the future.
Of course, as much as I loathe them, I almost pity them too for they do not even realize their vaunted honor has been tainted by lies, so busy loathing me they do not even think to ask whether, perhaps, the Longbeard in their midst who had the means, the motive, and the opportunity to plant a blade in my father's back as they both acted as diplomats in Tobaro might have done as much. The priest of the place is a corrupt murderer, or at least has aided murder. Has hidden the body of my father.
I know this, for I saw it, as I journeyed in Ulgu and Ghur, in deception and instinct.
Hidden, hidden, hidden from those too blindly stuck in the past to look around. And take stock. A secret chamber, at the very most bottom level, where too there is a map of the Karaz Ankor entire wrought in Gromril. Hidden there by Helric Whiteax, former ambassador to Tobaro, current head priest of the shine, and murderer of my father.
Understand High Loremaster, you can disavow me if you need to; there will be no poor feelings on my part. But I am going to the king of Karak Azul. I am going to present my evidence. And then he will either turn over my father's murderer, and the body; or I will show him, that the fury of a Loremaster is no slight thing, that we who look to the sun have found a new dawn.
I am not asking for approval. By the time you read this, I will have chartered my vessel, I will be on my way. But I believed you deserved to know.
-Loremaster Finael, writing to High Loremaster Cyeos
--
For the record, I got approval on this from Soul so I don't want to hear any back sass, if you will.
Old Gate Beside the Killing Vault
I know where the man who killed my father is.
And I can prove it too.
There are four great temples to Grimnir within the Empire of the Dwarfs as of the time of this writing.
No I have not forgotten how to count.
The most famous, of course, resides within Karak Kadrin, where treacherous king Ungrim awaits the dawn of day. A great monument dedicated to Grimnir The Doomed, Ancestor God of Slayers, who the Dwarfs hold single-handedly ended the Great Catastrophe by marching to the North, barechested and wielding his ax, followed by his son, Morgrim. It is a temple open only to the Slayers of Grimnir, a living, mournful testament to the shame culture that dominates the Karaz Ankor. The Shrine of Grimnir, the Shrine of Slayers, a Shrine to Death, where they prepare to march out their armies to menace once again.
The second, and the largest open to the general public, is the Great Temple open within Karaz-A-Karak. This is a familial shrine, not entirely unlike that clod of dirt dedicated to Thungni, near Karak Zorn. Depicting his great march to the north as described by, the certainly accurate and not at all biased source, Morgrim, his son and fellow Thacytharai.
The third in Karak Eight Peaks. I confess, the magics of Valaya protect it well from me; but I am stubborn, and I am arrogant, and I do not give up. I will learn, soon enough.
The fourth, least but still grand among the Taliobrass, lies within the realm known as Karak Azul, created to honor Grimnir the Strategist by Thalnir the Orphan, a wretched man even by the low standards of the Haclad. It is near, but outside, the Karak proper, and the first layer is a particularly well-defended gatehouse. A great, sloping roof of hard Gromril caps a body made of solid granite, iron worked into mundane Runes. Two statues guard a door made of gaudy Barazgal, carved with his grim visage, where the first and simplest of Dwarf scratch magic sits: The Master Rune of Grimnir's Ferocity, the Rune of Stone, and the Rune of Courage. This gives them courage.
Courage to face the darkness.
Courage to defy Chaos.
Courage to lie right to my face.
Where my father's body is hidden.
This Gatehouse is garrisoned by twenty Longbeads, well-armed with Runic equipment, axes and hammers alike forged by the line of Thalnir the Orphan; hard and sharp and protective they are, if artless, squat, ugly things, of metal and suffering.
But arrogant and stubborn, as all the sons of stone must be. And they did not even think to stop a little fly buzzing in.
And so I entered, and I saw the great elevator made of Wutroth, lined with jewels from each of the Karaks, the visage of Grimnir placed in gold. Down and down, down and down, down and down it took me even as sheathed my visage in the stunted, malformed shape of murderers, even as I felt the Runes press against me, against the will of Hoeth, the will of Justice and Knowledge alike.
Until I entered the second part, a part perhaps more appropriate for the Dwarfs than any other.
A combination of a library and treasure room, dedicated to treasures taken and records of the victories of Grimnir and of his death cult. Tomes, codexes, scrolls. The walls decorated with the soft stone, five floors, libraries and treasure halls alternating by layer. Runes guard it, of course, for they were prodigious in their use of their coping mechanism in those days. Flickering torches only barely light the vast, square halls, filled as they are with death and the memories of death. Broken dragon eggs, the bodies of dead dryads--our allies, our friends, our FAMILY, slain for the temerity of allegiance and alliance and loyalty and the bits of their bodies used to make these abominations.
The Master Rune of Climate, the Rune of Stone, the Rune of Preservation, all serve to preserve these things. The trophies. The texts.
It is so very dwarfish. A bleak, dark, hole in the ground, where wretched, vengeful, broken old men can please themselves to the thought of how they were once mighty, and weep and scorn and complain about the youth of today, and hide themselves and do nothing to help anyone. So busy remembering the past, they cannot ever look forward to the future.
Of course, as much as I loathe them, I almost pity them too for they do not even realize their vaunted honor has been tainted by lies, so busy loathing me they do not even think to ask whether, perhaps, the Longbeard in their midst who had the means, the motive, and the opportunity to plant a blade in my father's back as they both acted as diplomats in Tobaro might have done as much. The priest of the place is a corrupt murderer, or at least has aided murder. Has hidden the body of my father.
I know this, for I saw it, as I journeyed in Ulgu and Ghur, in deception and instinct.
Hidden, hidden, hidden from those too blindly stuck in the past to look around. And take stock. A secret chamber, at the very most bottom level, where too there is a map of the Karaz Ankor entire wrought in Gromril. Hidden there by Helric Whiteax, former ambassador to Tobaro, current head priest of the shine, and murderer of my father.
Understand High Loremaster, you can disavow me if you need to; there will be no poor feelings on my part. But I am going to the king of Karak Azul. I am going to present my evidence. And then he will either turn over my father's murderer, and the body; or I will show him, that the fury of a Loremaster is no slight thing, that we who look to the sun have found a new dawn.
I am not asking for approval. By the time you read this, I will have chartered my vessel, I will be on my way. But I believed you deserved to know.
-Loremaster Finael, writing to High Loremaster Cyeos
--
For the record, I got approval on this from Soul so I don't want to hear any back sass, if you will.
Last edited:
[Canon cept for a few bits] A Heart Honest and True, Skalla Honestheart will begin teaching at Khazagar
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
A Heart Honest and True
It's a simple seven knocks that makes you look up from the correspondence on your desk and give a gruff "come in" in the general direction of your door, Rudil and the Hearth Guard having given you the knock that company was coming. The stone grinds as it opens, exposing you to the hall, and in comes your guest.
A Master Runesmith. She walks with a quiet stillness, not the onset of grinding, devouring age and mortality but one who, having had peace taken from them, now seeks it in that. Her face is lined not just by age but by stress, and her plaits are long enough to wrap around her waist at least seven times. Her eyes speak to a long life, one filled with struggle.
And with thanks.
Her long, brown cloak is embroidered with apples of gold. The heraldry of Clan Vasttable. It drapes over the chair as she sits acrosss from you.
She says nothing, only examining your armor herself--no, wait. Not the armor. Mizpal Zharr. Looking at the Runes, in particular the Master Rune of Expurgation.
The heraldry of Skalla Honestheart, Master Runesmith of Karaz-A-Karak. Judging by her armor, and her ax, that could be Runelord one day. Maybe even should be.
Not that there aren't many reasons why she's not, either.
Her story is not quite as familiar to you as some others, but you do know the bare-bones. She was a talent to par with Fjolla, as you recall, from a struggling clan. The Vasttables had suffered during the Great Catastrophe, many of their members dead and treasures burned by Beastmen and by Daemons--especially Daemons. So when they had realized that they had such a talent, such a chance to rebuild, as her ability they had made clear they had...expectations. Nothing horrifically untoward, especially since she was well able to meet them, and ambitious enough to want to.
But there are always predators lurking, looking, hunting for their next prey, the next life to ruin. Tzeentch's voice in her ear, Tzeentch's promises and oaths and vows, not that that miserable creature ever would have kept them, hunted her and haunted her and sought her and gave such whispered silken words.
Skalla had gone, immediately, to her Master, and told her. And been honest; and truthful. And kept to the Ancestors. And so for this she gained the title of "Honestheart."
She studied, and she studied, and she studied. Tormented but buoyed by clan and teacher.
Until she finally managed to invent the Master Rune that bears her name, which shines on the ax she no doubt left with Rudil and in the Armor she still wears.
Well, if she's going to play lookie-loo with your ring...
The armor, perhaps, the greater. Thousands of gromil scales, draped over her entire body and pure as can be. The colors alternate between the shining black and a brassy bronze, switching row by row, all sewn onto a backing of troll skin worked until it may as well be silk and yet still tough enough to turn aside a Lord of Change's claws (proved through the most rigorous testing possible, actually doing it), Klinkarhun describing the stories of Grungni, the Ancestor her clan most favors aside, of course, from Thungni etched along the scales. The helm is a simple flat-topped nasal helm, the shade of brass, clasped under her elbow, reinforced at the joints with yet more gromril. The line of Scales lies taut along her arms and legs as well, with hard, articulated gauntlets, joints reinforced with pearls the white of lightning; pauldrons, shaped to resemble the visage of Grungni and Valaya on her left and right shoulder, respectively; and greaves, bearing the heraldry of her clan.
The most important feature, of course, are the Runes.
You know the Rune of Berserk well enough, meaning the Master Rune it flanks must, by rights, be the Master Rune of Skalla Honestheart. It offers a very simple encapsulation of what the armor is for: Finding and killing the servants of Tzeentch, breaking the magic they'd use to try and kill her even as it makes her better at killing them.
As she expertly did, once she finished finally creating the Rune, and gained some peace and quite. And used that peace and quiet to find the statue of pure Warpstone, in the shape of Tzeentch himself, and shatter it with her ax, breaking it to bits and banishing a daemon that had menaced the area in the process. After they had a great feast, gathering the Vasttables from all the corners of the Empire together, and they continue that tradition, with smaller regional gatherings every year and a great gathering every decade.
Above adequate, given her age at the time, but she can do better now and she probably should.
(No, irony is not the name of your ax, thank you.)
She has used that as the most volatile, pure fuel, to learn as many Runes dedicated to spiting Tzeentch in particular and wizards in general as she can, and crafting beautiful things for the deed.
And yet, for all she is--all that, she is no Runelord (yet, anyway). For one, to know that Tzeentch is constantly trying to tempt her is something of a security risk. And if the North is full of Runelords, how saturated must be Karaz-A-Karak?
Perhaps most importantly, she has thrown her lot in with the Radicals, pushing bounds and boundaries to learn ever-more effective ways of spiting Tzeentch. Though her actual construction more resembles something out of Vragni's new exercise in coping--she has a bespoke ax intended entirely for Kairos, a bolt and bolt thrower with the Blue Horrors' name on it both literally and figuratively, and a cloak that by rumor will cover the Changeling in boiling pitch if he gets within a mile of her position--her attempts to both gather up lore and to disseminate it make your own efforts look positively obscure.
A quirkier note, of course, is that most of her apprentices have a talent ranging from average-to-below average; apparently it is a point of pride for her to make something excellent out of lesser material.
"I want to teach at Kazaghar," she says finally, as you finish examining her work and she finishes examining yours. "All the Runes I know to scourge that forsaken bird." She nods her head, thinking. "I have for a while really, but it's something of a trek coming here. But now my fool son has a son, and named the boy after me, and I can hardly dote on my grandson from Karaz-A-Karak now can I?"
It's a simple seven knocks that makes you look up from the correspondence on your desk and give a gruff "come in" in the general direction of your door, Rudil and the Hearth Guard having given you the knock that company was coming. The stone grinds as it opens, exposing you to the hall, and in comes your guest.
A Master Runesmith. She walks with a quiet stillness, not the onset of grinding, devouring age and mortality but one who, having had peace taken from them, now seeks it in that. Her face is lined not just by age but by stress, and her plaits are long enough to wrap around her waist at least seven times. Her eyes speak to a long life, one filled with struggle.
And with thanks.
Her long, brown cloak is embroidered with apples of gold. The heraldry of Clan Vasttable. It drapes over the chair as she sits acrosss from you.
She says nothing, only examining your armor herself--no, wait. Not the armor. Mizpal Zharr. Looking at the Runes, in particular the Master Rune of Expurgation.
The heraldry of Skalla Honestheart, Master Runesmith of Karaz-A-Karak. Judging by her armor, and her ax, that could be Runelord one day. Maybe even should be.
Not that there aren't many reasons why she's not, either.
Her story is not quite as familiar to you as some others, but you do know the bare-bones. She was a talent to par with Fjolla, as you recall, from a struggling clan. The Vasttables had suffered during the Great Catastrophe, many of their members dead and treasures burned by Beastmen and by Daemons--especially Daemons. So when they had realized that they had such a talent, such a chance to rebuild, as her ability they had made clear they had...expectations. Nothing horrifically untoward, especially since she was well able to meet them, and ambitious enough to want to.
But there are always predators lurking, looking, hunting for their next prey, the next life to ruin. Tzeentch's voice in her ear, Tzeentch's promises and oaths and vows, not that that miserable creature ever would have kept them, hunted her and haunted her and sought her and gave such whispered silken words.
Skalla had gone, immediately, to her Master, and told her. And been honest; and truthful. And kept to the Ancestors. And so for this she gained the title of "Honestheart."
She studied, and she studied, and she studied. Tormented but buoyed by clan and teacher.
Until she finally managed to invent the Master Rune that bears her name, which shines on the ax she no doubt left with Rudil and in the Armor she still wears.
Well, if she's going to play lookie-loo with your ring...
The armor, perhaps, the greater. Thousands of gromil scales, draped over her entire body and pure as can be. The colors alternate between the shining black and a brassy bronze, switching row by row, all sewn onto a backing of troll skin worked until it may as well be silk and yet still tough enough to turn aside a Lord of Change's claws (proved through the most rigorous testing possible, actually doing it), Klinkarhun describing the stories of Grungni, the Ancestor her clan most favors aside, of course, from Thungni etched along the scales. The helm is a simple flat-topped nasal helm, the shade of brass, clasped under her elbow, reinforced at the joints with yet more gromril. The line of Scales lies taut along her arms and legs as well, with hard, articulated gauntlets, joints reinforced with pearls the white of lightning; pauldrons, shaped to resemble the visage of Grungni and Valaya on her left and right shoulder, respectively; and greaves, bearing the heraldry of her clan.
The most important feature, of course, are the Runes.
You know the Rune of Berserk well enough, meaning the Master Rune it flanks must, by rights, be the Master Rune of Skalla Honestheart. It offers a very simple encapsulation of what the armor is for: Finding and killing the servants of Tzeentch, breaking the magic they'd use to try and kill her even as it makes her better at killing them.
As she expertly did, once she finished finally creating the Rune, and gained some peace and quite. And used that peace and quiet to find the statue of pure Warpstone, in the shape of Tzeentch himself, and shatter it with her ax, breaking it to bits and banishing a daemon that had menaced the area in the process. After they had a great feast, gathering the Vasttables from all the corners of the Empire together, and they continue that tradition, with smaller regional gatherings every year and a great gathering every decade.
Above adequate, given her age at the time, but she can do better now and she probably should.
(No, irony is not the name of your ax, thank you.)
She has used that as the most volatile, pure fuel, to learn as many Runes dedicated to spiting Tzeentch in particular and wizards in general as she can, and crafting beautiful things for the deed.
And yet, for all she is--all that, she is no Runelord (yet, anyway). For one, to know that Tzeentch is constantly trying to tempt her is something of a security risk. And if the North is full of Runelords, how saturated must be Karaz-A-Karak?
Perhaps most importantly, she has thrown her lot in with the Radicals, pushing bounds and boundaries to learn ever-more effective ways of spiting Tzeentch. Though her actual construction more resembles something out of Vragni's new exercise in coping--she has a bespoke ax intended entirely for Kairos, a bolt and bolt thrower with the Blue Horrors' name on it both literally and figuratively, and a cloak that by rumor will cover the Changeling in boiling pitch if he gets within a mile of her position--her attempts to both gather up lore and to disseminate it make your own efforts look positively obscure.
A quirkier note, of course, is that most of her apprentices have a talent ranging from average-to-below average; apparently it is a point of pride for her to make something excellent out of lesser material.
"I want to teach at Kazaghar," she says finally, as you finish examining her work and she finishes examining yours. "All the Runes I know to scourge that forsaken bird." She nods her head, thinking. "I have for a while really, but it's something of a trek coming here. But now my fool son has a son, and named the boy after me, and I can hardly dote on my grandson from Karaz-A-Karak now can I?"
Last edited:
[Canon] The Pleasurebane Comes, Kazrik Pleasurebane visits the Citadel of Creation
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Pleasurebane Comes
The Citadel looms large, traditional gates of stone etched with gold and jewels guarding its entrance in the Underway from any intruders. That is not the only defense, but it is a righteous one, each rising five-dwarfs high, and whatever it lacks in the simplicity of its materials the breadth of knowledge the shaper, the maker, the creator knows no doubt allowing it to stand head and shoulders above another work, perhaps of better material but lower in knowledge.
A steel hammer with a Master Rune of Conduction will always surpass a gromril ax with a Rune of Cleaving, after all.
The gates grind open, and out steps the very man of the hour.
Vragni Silverbrand.
He nods to you, his gromril slightly jingling, and then turns his back, gesturing for you to follow. The carts of reagents you've acquired, gained over a long, long life trundle behind you.
--
The Halls are huge and ring with the sound of hammers on gromril, the roar of furnaces and the rhythm of chants. Statues of Ancestors and Runelords, legends one and all, line the halls, made in precise, meticulous detail, representing them as they were; or are, perhaps, in some cases. Tile mosaics line the ceilings themselves, while good, solid stone polished and decorated with the mundane carvings of Runes, more than a few of which you invented (and he refined, do not let yourself forget that, do not shame the boy in that way any more than you already did).
You pause as you make eye contact with Master Yorren, before shaking your head.
He'd be so disappointed.
What has Kazrik the Magnanimous, Kazrik the Wise, Kazrik Goodfather come to?
Kazrik Pleasurebane.
But the work continues.
And it will continue, until you can feel that greasy, slimy abomination's blood flowing over your hands. All else pales to that.
Aye, the Citadel is beautiful, but more than that, you can feel it.
A place fit for Runes. A place fit to create.
One of the apprentices from Vragni's cloud of Beardlings appears and gives a slight bow at the waist, directing you to the reason you turned to Vragni, rather than putting your fullness behind the Brilliant Hall or even moreso, Khazagar.
It certainly isn't because you give a damn for Vragni's rivalry with Klausson. You have your opinions, of course, but they pale in comparison to the work he's done: if he wants to pin his legacy on wise men holding Kazaghar until the end of time, bully for him. At worst he is a fool, not a would-be tyrant.
And the world has endured worse foolishness than anything Klausson can do.
But you have no interest in Kazaghar, either. Mild curiosity, at best. And that mild curiosity pales in comparison to what you know you can do, in this place crafted by worthy hands.
Khazagar is a repository of Runelore, but Runelore does not need deposited.
It needs used.
And there is nowhere better to do that, here and now, than here.
You are interrupted in your ruminations by the apprentice opening the door to a forge.
As expected, it is beautiful, if simple. A furnace, an anvil, and a vast shelf of reagents, prepared as you asked. You look to the apprentice, and nod. "Thank you, beardling. Bring my thanks to your master. But please...leave me." The beardling bows at the waist and parts, leaving you alone with an empty room, only waiting to create.
The anvil catches your eye. Shaped to look like Smednir, Thungni, and Grungni are holding it aloft, looking at you, judging you. The motto of the institution is embossed on the purified gromril in gold.
Your mind is your obstacle.
You hold Gomrund's body in your arms, and the world is fuzzy in your sight. It's shameful, that you weep when you weren't even harmed. No, not you.
Your son. The boy you swore to protect, the boy you swore to teach, the boy your swore to care for, bloody and bruised and broken at the edge of your hammer, only his ability--Greater than you were at that age, to be sure--having kept him alive even as you, you were puppeted by Slaanesh, your own mind deceived, lied to, and turned to turning your son into a pulp.
Your son, who looks up at you with delicate eyes. His beard, red and ragged with his blood, hanging limply from his jaw. Wheezing as he breathes, choking as he tries to force air out. "Not your fault, father."
"Isn't that touching? But shouldn't you be angrier, Gomrund? Why that--"
You wing his ax at the daemon and cleave its head from its shoulders, even as you rise up. All your amulets, your rings, your clasps, burn as your mind realizes what's been done to you, as you realize you have been lied to, and turned into a weapon to harm your own son.
The next minutes are a blur. Things only really clear up when the Valayans manage to get in, and find him, bleeding.
Bleeding...but alive. Ancestors be praised, alive.
Your shame is not that great.
A part of you wishes it had been after the Slayers arose, so you did not need to live with the shame. The guilt. That you could merely have shaved your head and marched to a valiant Doom.
The other part only just continues to pour itself into the oath you could make, did make, and have followed through on--
The furnace steams, the great bowl of fire held aloft by Grimnir, Valaya and Gazul letting you know that it is finished and ready to be pulled free. Plunging the tongs in, you pull out the ingot and begin to pound it immediately, no sense in wasting time was there? An ax, always a need for an ax.
--to spite Slaanesh until you can see the abomination's heart, or until you finally join Harroka in the Underearth. Assuming your wife will let you, anyway.
Hm, Smiting, Blazes, Gazul's Flames? Ancestors know, you've got plenty of Reagents to really make it hurt.
The Citadel looms large, traditional gates of stone etched with gold and jewels guarding its entrance in the Underway from any intruders. That is not the only defense, but it is a righteous one, each rising five-dwarfs high, and whatever it lacks in the simplicity of its materials the breadth of knowledge the shaper, the maker, the creator knows no doubt allowing it to stand head and shoulders above another work, perhaps of better material but lower in knowledge.
A steel hammer with a Master Rune of Conduction will always surpass a gromril ax with a Rune of Cleaving, after all.
The gates grind open, and out steps the very man of the hour.
Vragni Silverbrand.
He nods to you, his gromril slightly jingling, and then turns his back, gesturing for you to follow. The carts of reagents you've acquired, gained over a long, long life trundle behind you.
--
The Halls are huge and ring with the sound of hammers on gromril, the roar of furnaces and the rhythm of chants. Statues of Ancestors and Runelords, legends one and all, line the halls, made in precise, meticulous detail, representing them as they were; or are, perhaps, in some cases. Tile mosaics line the ceilings themselves, while good, solid stone polished and decorated with the mundane carvings of Runes, more than a few of which you invented (and he refined, do not let yourself forget that, do not shame the boy in that way any more than you already did).
You pause as you make eye contact with Master Yorren, before shaking your head.
He'd be so disappointed.
What has Kazrik the Magnanimous, Kazrik the Wise, Kazrik Goodfather come to?
Kazrik Pleasurebane.
But the work continues.
And it will continue, until you can feel that greasy, slimy abomination's blood flowing over your hands. All else pales to that.
Aye, the Citadel is beautiful, but more than that, you can feel it.
A place fit for Runes. A place fit to create.
One of the apprentices from Vragni's cloud of Beardlings appears and gives a slight bow at the waist, directing you to the reason you turned to Vragni, rather than putting your fullness behind the Brilliant Hall or even moreso, Khazagar.
It certainly isn't because you give a damn for Vragni's rivalry with Klausson. You have your opinions, of course, but they pale in comparison to the work he's done: if he wants to pin his legacy on wise men holding Kazaghar until the end of time, bully for him. At worst he is a fool, not a would-be tyrant.
And the world has endured worse foolishness than anything Klausson can do.
But you have no interest in Kazaghar, either. Mild curiosity, at best. And that mild curiosity pales in comparison to what you know you can do, in this place crafted by worthy hands.
Khazagar is a repository of Runelore, but Runelore does not need deposited.
It needs used.
And there is nowhere better to do that, here and now, than here.
You are interrupted in your ruminations by the apprentice opening the door to a forge.
As expected, it is beautiful, if simple. A furnace, an anvil, and a vast shelf of reagents, prepared as you asked. You look to the apprentice, and nod. "Thank you, beardling. Bring my thanks to your master. But please...leave me." The beardling bows at the waist and parts, leaving you alone with an empty room, only waiting to create.
The anvil catches your eye. Shaped to look like Smednir, Thungni, and Grungni are holding it aloft, looking at you, judging you. The motto of the institution is embossed on the purified gromril in gold.
Your mind is your obstacle.
You hold Gomrund's body in your arms, and the world is fuzzy in your sight. It's shameful, that you weep when you weren't even harmed. No, not you.
Your son. The boy you swore to protect, the boy you swore to teach, the boy your swore to care for, bloody and bruised and broken at the edge of your hammer, only his ability--Greater than you were at that age, to be sure--having kept him alive even as you, you were puppeted by Slaanesh, your own mind deceived, lied to, and turned to turning your son into a pulp.
Your son, who looks up at you with delicate eyes. His beard, red and ragged with his blood, hanging limply from his jaw. Wheezing as he breathes, choking as he tries to force air out. "Not your fault, father."
"Isn't that touching? But shouldn't you be angrier, Gomrund? Why that--"
You wing his ax at the daemon and cleave its head from its shoulders, even as you rise up. All your amulets, your rings, your clasps, burn as your mind realizes what's been done to you, as you realize you have been lied to, and turned into a weapon to harm your own son.
The next minutes are a blur. Things only really clear up when the Valayans manage to get in, and find him, bleeding.
Bleeding...but alive. Ancestors be praised, alive.
Your shame is not that great.
A part of you wishes it had been after the Slayers arose, so you did not need to live with the shame. The guilt. That you could merely have shaved your head and marched to a valiant Doom.
The other part only just continues to pour itself into the oath you could make, did make, and have followed through on--
The furnace steams, the great bowl of fire held aloft by Grimnir, Valaya and Gazul letting you know that it is finished and ready to be pulled free. Plunging the tongs in, you pull out the ingot and begin to pound it immediately, no sense in wasting time was there? An ax, always a need for an ax.
--to spite Slaanesh until you can see the abomination's heart, or until you finally join Harroka in the Underearth. Assuming your wife will let you, anyway.
Hm, Smiting, Blazes, Gazul's Flames? Ancestors know, you've got plenty of Reagents to really make it hurt.
Last edited:
[Canon] Brynkhaz a Langskaudi, the structure will be completed Turn 59
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
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
Last edited:
[Canon] Brothers Coming Together, Durrik and Emlik's Master Works
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
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?"
(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?"
Last edited:
[Image] What the Runes on Karaz-Kazak-Rhun could look like
I designed the rune on Karaz-Kazak-Rhun using Khazalid and Rune from white dwarf page and total war rune icon
Flamecraft, Breaking, Master Rune of Precision, Thungni's Master Rune of Grounding, Master Rune of Craftsmanship, Forgecraft, Metalcraft in that order.
All Master runes are 3 runes or words combine. Only one that are real is breaking from total war. Other runes use combined words. Flamecraft use fire and clever. Precision use intricate, polished, Artison work. Grounding use thungni, hold down/capture and wise/teaching. Craftmanship use craftsman, tool, work . Forgecraft use fire and temple. Metalcraft use metal and clever. Clever are use in craftsman so I think it fitting.
Last edited:
[Canon cept for a few bits] Surpassing Standards, on Turn 58 Fjolla creates Mythic Ring Guzazi Zhuf, Runes may be different
Voikirium
SV's Estalia Guy
- Location
- Ruritania Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
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.
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.
Last edited:
Turn 57 Results Pt. 1
- Location
- Edmonton
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Winning Vote said:
━<><><>< 473 A.P. ><><><>━
Karaz-Kazak-Rhun has rarely left your hands since Karstah handed it to you.
You are not ashamed to admit that you have taken to carrying the hammer with you wherever you go since claiming it.
Even if the stares you get from doing so annoy you to no end. It is simply something you must come to accept. If you succeed, they will be nothing in comparison.
Because you have sworn, from deep in the core of your being, to the world and to the Ancestors that you would match their example or die trying. You are no longer content to walk in their shadow as a follower, but instead cast your own alongside them as a peer.
As an equal.
And you know several ideas that would be a fine place to begin fulfilling that promise. Proving the worth of Khazagar, solving Durin's Consternation, breaking the Rule of Three. All worthy goals, all crowning achievements.
The Snorri Gift Giver of before would be ecstatic to complete just one of these challenges in his lifetime.
But the Snorri Gift Giver who left that cave will not be satisfied unless he's done them all.
On all that I am and will ever be...
You entrust Karstah with the capstone of Khazagar, an idea proposed over a century ago and have waffled on ever since. You are not capable of spreading your attention in so many ways just yet, and moreover, because you know that Karstah is just as invested, if not moreso, in making Khazagar's crowning jewel the grandest in the Karaz Ankor.
The only thing you tell her, the only stipulation you give, is a simple one.
Spare no expense.
You feel certain that you've made the right choice when you see the look in her eye when she fully digests your words.
━<><><>< 474 A.P. ><><><>━
Deep in the heart of Khazagar, in the lowest level of the Maker's Hall you have gathered your former apprentices together for a special occasion.
Before you had gone south, you made each of them an offer. A gift of Voidstone and a loan of enough Adamant to create their own Greater Dragonblood Smelter. Karstah had immediately accepted, as had Nain, Snerra and Dolgi.
But not Fjolla.
Though she had happily learned the Greater Smelter design from Karstah, her refusal of your offer was a surprise. At least until she revealed that she had already gathered everything necessary to build her own Smelter, Voidstone included.
Knowing that made her decision make a bit more sense. Even if the idea of turning down a second Voidstone felt like passing up on a good deal, Fjolla was a grown woman in the end and the choice was hers to make.
Though that didn't stop you from offering to let her and the others keep their Smelters in Khazagar so that they could benefit from the influence of the Runes of Siphoning you and Karstah placed all over the complex grounds
Which is why all of you are in this specially built chamber, cut off from the rest of the Ghungnaz-Khaz and warded to protect from any conceivable intrusion you could think of, helping Fjolla go through her smelter's inaugural run.
Speaking of, you could not help but notice the distinct differences between Fjolla's creation and Karstah's design. Your older student had chosen to incorporate her specialties into her smelter, and it showed. The most obvious examples were the aesthetic differences of course; using a multitude of precious gems and highly precise and intricate wire knotwork to create glittering images of a Dwarfen forge in use, compared to Karstah's penchant for engraved metal and draconic imagery. More substantially, Fjolla had altered the fluid system on her smelter, leveraging her skill in high precision, small scale metalwork to create a smoother, more aesthetically pleasing, fluid intake system that most other Dawi did not have the skill to recreate. The main chamber wasn't spared modification either, as Fjolla had gone through the effort of creating specific molds that let her process an equal volume Gromril, but in the form of smaller bars, rather than a single ingot you and Karstah preferred. Then there were the more subtle changes of course, the small, milimetre sized, differences in its footprint and dimensions compared to her fellow student's, but that was an inevitability of your kind of work. So while you could tell Karstah and Fjolla's Smelters were meant to be the same, each Runesmith's individual proclivities had nevertheless affected the final product. These weren't ingots or nails after all, but bespoke creations.
"Reservoir check's done!," Fjolla hollers from behind the Smelter, drawing you out of your musing, "Valve seals show no sign of leakage either, not that I expected them to. We're good to start filling. Nain, Dolgi, bring over the blood! Karstah, Snerra, can you begin loading the ingots?"
A chorus of affirmations later, the two men carefully push the cart holding the keg of precious liquid over to where Fjolla stood, while both Snerra and Karstah begin carefully stacking the pre-cut bar of Gromril into the main chamber according to Fjolla's instructions.
That five of them, despite the centuries they have spent working on their lonesome, apart from eachother, can still come and work together as if they were all still learning under your feet was a pleasant surprise. If you were feeling generous, they were working together better than they had as apprentices, compensating for their differences and diverging styles with the centuries of experience they'd accumulated since becoming Masters in their own right.
It did your heart good to see them working together, helping each other.
The only way it could be better if all nine had been here.
━<><><><==><><><>━
"Eye protection on now you lot. It'd be a shameful way to go blind," you order, giving four of your former students pointed stares.
You watch as they all nod and follow your order. Dolgi lowers a winged faceplate made of Gromril with a darkened strip of glass where his eyes would be over his face, Snerra flicks down two silver plates across the spectacles she was wearing, while Nain dons an anvil shaped helmet and Karstah pulls her goggles over her eyes. Each piece of equipment they put on glowing with the light of Runecraft. Only once all of them are done do you let out a satisfied huff and turn back to nod at a waiting Fjolla to begin.
Nodding back, your former apprentice lowers her own protective gear, Rune inscribed pieces of specially grown Quartz that fit perfectly over the upper half of her face, before she activates her Smelter.
All of you watch as the mass of Adamant begins glowing, greedily drinking the energy in its immediate vicinity and in the Wyrm's blood as it purges the Gromril within.
One by one, your students turn away as the light grows in intensity as the Greater Smelter does its job.
You stare straight ahead even as the others shield their faces, watching the Smelter's brightness continue to grow all the more blinding.
Then just as quickly as it began, the glow fades to reveal an inactive Smelter, the white color of Adamant visible to all thanks to the Quartz door Fjolla installed signalling its success.
While the others blink away the stars in their vision, you walk forward and pat Fjolla on the shoulder gruffly. She has done well.
"Well then," you begin, "What's the first thing you're doing with your Adamant lass?"
Your grandniece looks at you, then gives a strange look at Zharr-a-Drakhazi, before she answers.
"I have a few ideas," she says consideringly, "but I won't get to them for a while. I have a different project to finish first."
Well there isn't much you can say to that, and you doubt prying will do anything, so you settle on raising an eyebrow and nodding gruffly.
"If you say so."
Turning back to your other students, you bellow at them.
"Come along now you lot, let's store away this Adamant for Fjolla quickly! Dinner's almost ready and it's rude to be tardy!"
━<><><><==><><><>━
Long after your former students and their families have gone home for the night, their bellies full of food and arms laden with leftovers because that's what a proper host does ya see, you and Karstah sit in front of the fireplace reviewing the month's schedule together.
"Have you decided what to do with the Metalsmiths proposition?" your heir asks, looking at you expectantly from her chair with an unfurled roll of blank parchment in her hands.
You hum.
Gormak's successor had a runner deliver you a letter today. It has been decades since you recall receiving any communication from the Metalsmiths Guildmaster, and the first since Gormak's passing. As foolish as it sounds, seeing Thurgar Drominsson sign off as Guildmaster sent a small jolt of shock through you.
It has always been Gormak.
But it hasn't been Gormak for eighty-something years now you realize dumbly. Before your mind can send you down memory lane, you force yourself to stay on track, and ignore the feelings that bubble up from reading another Dwarf's name on the letter and focus on the contents within. They were asking, as the Engineers had, if they could officially host tournaments within Khazagar too. In fact Thurgar outright mentions the deal you had with the Endrinkuli as the impetus for him asking.
Hmph.
In the decades since the Engineers had begun hosting tournaments, you did not sit idly by. Even if you weren't officially involved, you were still observing from afar, quietly and diligently collecting data out of personal interest and in case you ever needed to defend yourself to the House. The results so far had been in line with what you expected. An uptick in the amount of work that used Engineering Runes coincided with the timing of their competitions, and a growing number of young Engineers seen speaking to Journeymen and young Master Runesmiths. Both were expected.
But there were a few surprises. Several shops both in Khazid Okraz and in the Grozurbaz had started selling precision tooling components as several Runesmiths began dabbling with mechanisms more advanced than the standard crossbow. The fact that it was happening was expected, but not to the degree therein. Nothing on the scale of Guild Secrets were being shared obviously, you and the Engineers would come down on the offending parties like Drongrundum, but you didn't expect the visiting Runesmiths to go quite so deep. Similarly there was a noticeable shift in the attending Journeymen's interests, based on the data you were collecting. From what you can interpolate, it seems like young Journeymen who may have never been exposed to Engineers, were now coming to discover they actually had either a knack or interest in working with Engineering contraptions.
While there are a few key contextual differences between the Engineers and Metalsmiths, you do not doubt that the latter's formal presence in Khazagar would do something largely similar. The question and the concerns however, were still the same. Maybe worse. Two Guilds coming to Khazagar could be seen as the beginning of a pattern by your detractors after all.
Bah.
"Table that for later, I'll have an answer for you by tomorrow," you eventually reply.
She nods.
"Then there's the outstanding matter of Thane Morglum's request…"
You think for a moment. The Dwarf Lord's letter was something you will admit had been sidelined by the events of the past few decades. More pressing matters, more crises to address. It is the bitter truth of things, but a part of you balks at the thought of treating this Dwarf's earnest wish as something minor, to let his deeds and valour go unrewarded. Damned is the day that Snorri Gift Giver fails to settle a debt. Perhaps it is guilt, ego, whimsy or some mix of all three, but by the end of your ruminating you have come to an answer.
"Inform Thane Morglum that his Clan will have their hammer," you say firmly.
"Aye Master," she says with a nod, and you hear the crinkle of unfurling parchment followed swiftly after by the scratch of her stylus.
"What else was there in Karstah?" you murmur, "too many damned letters these days."
And that's the truth.
"Lord Rorek wrote to you," she answered promptly, "as did several other Masters. All about Karaz-Kazak-Rhun."
You hum again.
Ever since the hammer, you have been bombarded with a literal tide of words as every Runesmith and their uncle sees fit to write to you on a scale that even dwarfs the deluge that came after you announced Khazagar. It delayed how quickly you could respond to your more regular contacts, took up time you, Karstah and your retainers normally had to just sort through and prioritize them, and served as little more than a nuisance in general. Only the Messengers Guild, their pouches swollen to bursting from the traffic, seemed happy.
In short, nothing you want to deal with at this moment then. Well, maybe not Getgold, but even he would have to wait.
There wasn't any escape from it either.
Khazagar had grown full with people who were somehow more bothersome than the ones who had been content to simply write to you. No, they weren't the kind who would even use the building for its intended purpose, just gawkers and squawkers with nothing better to do than try and see the hammer or yell at you for having it.
"How have the triplets been?" you ask, still staring at the fire.
"It took some effort to move that slab Izgrom put infront of the barracks, we gave up on figuring out how he even got it there without anyone noticing, but its been cleared." Karstah dutifully begins, exasperated fondness tinting her voice, "I'm going to have a word with him in the morning, reminding him about cleaning up after his messes. Zharrok's been spending more time than usual at his forge, so it seems like he won't be showing off whatever he has planned for a while yet. Grim is giving Ebonsea no small amount of grief, even if she's putting on a brave face about it…."
As Karstah continues speaking, you settle into your seat and quietly begin adjusting your schedule in your mind.
Unbidden, your mind dredges up a memory from the Trial. Of an older face, one that lived far longer than this world allowed her. Still as beautiful to you as ever.
It is a lie, you remind yourself, cobbled together by a Rune from your memories and imagination. But you can't, maybe won't, get the image out of your head.
Instead you take that lie, and imagine something different, repurposing it. A familiar red-haired child, standing between a greying brunette and a pale, wheat-gold blonde.
Your hand reaches over to the empty chair and lays on the spot that, in a kinder world, another hand would have occupied.
━<><><>< 476 A.P. ><><><>━
Straightbeard has come through better than I thought, Rudil thinks as he watches the Order of the Stonewall finish their work, I'll need to buy him a few rounds when we get home.
Over the span of a few days, this prospector's haunt had gone from a few securely stored supply caches into a fortified bunker. The labour of dozens of long suffering Clerics in training being aided or directed by an equal number of Longbeards and a handful of Living Ancestors making the job a quick and relatively painless effort
When the once Priest of Grungni, now sworn Brother of the Order, came to him about calling in a few favours the Hearth Lord saw no reason to stop him.
At most Rudil expected a handful of priests and young clerics to come with them as they escorted Krum's miners into the untamed Deeps beneath the Hold.
He did not expect half the Northern chapter's worth of Dawi to come marching to their aid, nor the same number of Kraka Grom's warriors joining them once word of what was happening spread around. He's certain the Cult of Grungni and Queen Valka have more reason to aid them than simply finding their cause worthy, but that is neither his job nor turn away their aid. With their combined presence, King Vikram has been able to not only protect the miners' expeditions, but fortify and expand the routes, keep beasts and other unsavoury types from preying on Dwarfs living near the edge of Krum's territory, and speed along what relatively few repairs the Hold required.
"Hearth Lord," a familiar voice hollers, grabbing Rudil's attention.
"Aye Himurr?" he responds, turning to look at his fellow Hearth Guard.
"Sifna came back from Krum with a letter from Lady Karstah," he explains, pulling out a sealed tube from his cloak for him, "Asked me to pass it along before they got called to join expedition three."
Nodding, Rudil takes the roll of parchment from his brother-in-arms' hands and after popping the seal, begins reading the letter within.
It begins normally enough, but as he keeps reading he can feel his brows furrowing in line with his growing sense of confusion.
"What in the…"
━<><><><==><><><>━
When Karstah had come to you asking if you knew a variant of the Rune of Siphoning that could be inscribed on a Gronti, you had answered honestly and told her you hadn't, but could probably find one easily enough.
It's rare for her to ask anything of you, so when she had insisted you find that variant as soon as possible, you saw no reason to refuse. Figuring it was likely related to the project you had assigned her.
A year later she delivers a stack of parchment taller than a Dwarf's chest was thick, and written on it in exacting Klinka and miniscule font, was her finalized report for a potential capstone project for Khazagar.
A year later, she proves that your faith was not misplaced.
A year later your heir delivers her plan for Skaudardrengi.
It takes another month to fully read and comprehend her proposal, and half a month more for you to really consider and comprehend what exactly Karstah has proposed.
Over a century ago you recall her mentioning how you could create a Dragon shaped Gronti for Khazagar. At the time you thought it nothing more than a viable, if aesthetically driven, flight of fancy.
But where you simply considered it one option of many, it is clear that it was the only option in the eyes of your heir.
A Gronti-Duraz made wholly of Adamant, meant to wield equipment made of the same metal. A body three times longer than a Bloodthirster was tall, and, if Dolgi's research fulfilled his lofty promises, actually capable of flight.
The cost wasn't just vault draining,but was edging on beggaring even for you. Multiple tonnes of Adamant so much that she had earmarked the creation of two more Greater Smelters, and the tapping of a Waystone to produce enough material sometime before the next century, nevermind the amount of Elder Wyrm Blood needed to make it all. A project that also required dedicated facilities to house the construct as it was being built, the development of entirely new methods to process Adamant at that scale, and of course entirely new Runes to research and apply for both Gronti and its equipment.
And— to your mild disbelief —you don't immediately dismiss it as a fanciful delusion.
Karstah heeded your words, and made something worthy of crowning Khazagar's final tower, something worthy of Karaz-Kazak-Rhun's use.
So instead of dismissal, instead of practicality—
sworn from the depths of his soul.
—you reach upwards, and give Karstah the go ahead.
The look of joy on her face is concerningly manic.
━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━
Endrinkuli - Engineer
Grozurbaz - The Grand Exchange/ Lit. "Big Market"
Khazid Okraz - Lit. "Workshop Town"
Skaudardrengi - Lit."Singing Slayer"/ Lit. "The Roaring Slayer"
━<><><>< Gain ><><><>━
Votes Collated:
[ ] [Khazagar:] Collaborate with the Metalsmiths Guild.
Gain, New actions unlocked. You can do great things with a chapter of the Metalsmiths Guild. The Engineers simply hosting tournaments has been a boon to Khazagar's reputation, but working in tandem with the Metalsmiths would allow you to vastly increase the number of Runecraft Kraka Drakk produces. But of course, the axe over your head is the fact that the House will not look kindly upon such things.
[ ] [Khazagar:] Allow the Guild to host their contest but do not work with them.
Gain, ??? A second Guild will sponsor competitions inside Khazagar. You have a better idea about what may happen this time. The most obvious result would be an uptick in the kind of Runecraft that the Metalsmiths Guild would care most about, usually weapons and armour, with the occasional talisman or helmet. Much the same way that the Engineers Guild's competitions caused the amount of war machines to increase. But in the long term you'll expect to see more smiths form relationships with visiting Runesmiths and vice versa.
[ ] [Khazagar:] Ask them not to.
Gain, Nothing. A second Guild isn't going to be the hammerblow that splits this particular fissure, but you don't even want to smack this. The Engineers Guild's competitions have been a boon aye, but if you continue the trend, you can't rightly say how the House will react. You don't want to gamble on those odds though.
Snorri
- New Variant unlocked! Rune of Siphoning [Engineering] (see below)
Karstah
- (2 [Plan] +1 [Karstah]) = +3 Progress to Drakk Rearing, new totals: [18/?? Actions]
-- Grimgal, length 35m by 483 A.P.
— Training with Hysh continues. Menlinwen is committed to giving Grimgal as comprehensive an education as she can, but apparently it's become increasingly clear to the Elven mage that they are more proficient in Illumination than anything else. By the century's end Menlinwen will begin teaching her Chamon.
— Drakk
-- Zharrok, length 30m by 483 A.P.
— He will be introducing his Master Work soon, his teachers tell you. The details of which he keeps close to his chest.
-- Izgrom, length 30m by 483 A.P.
— Despite his desires to delve deeper and farther, Karstah has impressed upon him the need to actually begin mining the several claims he's found.
- Skaudardrengi Pt. 1 complete! Pt. 2 unlocked!
-- New Combo learned! Combo, Empowered Waking: [Master Rune of Waking, Rune of Empowerment, Rune of Siphoning] (see below)
-- Karstah has compiled a complete report of the material and logistical cost of creating the capstone to Khazagar. It is…well expensive would be underselling the cost in all honesty. It may very well beggar you.
-- You will need x192 bars of [T4] Adamant
--- Which will require x32 units of [T4] Elder Wyrm Blood. Put another way, at your current level of efficiency 6 units of Adamant will require 1 unit of blood. A perfectly reasonable, if expensive, trade that you can manage passively. Producing more bars from activating something like tapping a Waystone or if another Storm of Magic were to appear will require having the extra blood on hand.
-- Dedicated facilities, either within Khazagar or another location of your choosing, will be needed to not only store, but process the Adamant into the necessary forms. See vote.
-- All in all, completing the body will take at least decades [3 turns] of work to complete. While the Rune bearing portions can be completed with relative ease, building something that immense with, at most, 2 people is a massive undertaking. Even for the Gift Giver and his heir.
-- The various pieces of Equipment Karstah mentioned will undoubtedly also take cumulative decades to complete.
-- ConstructsTrait: [0/6] > [3/6]
Retainers
- Expedition, Aiding Krum complete!
-- +1 Standing with Kraka Krum, new totals: (calculated below)
— Standing Bonus proc! [Nowhere too Deep] +2 to Recruit Roll
— Standing Bonus proc! [Lord of Deeps and Crafts] +20 Favour with Kraka Krum, new totals: (calculated below)
— Standing Bonus received! (calculated below)
- +9 Huskarls recruited, new totals: x38
- +6 Engineers recruited, new totals: x36
154 +15 =169/240
Khazagar
- [Mid 474] The Metalsmiths Guild has always had a noticeable, but unofficial presence within Khazagar as no sensible Smith will turn away the chance to have good proper Runework inscribed on their goods, ever since the institution's completion. But now Gormak's successor, Thurgar Drominsson, has come to you to ask the same question the Engineers Guild had decades prior.
- [Early 475] It's only tangentially related to your institution but it's a literal and proverbial stone's throw away. It seems Dwalin's doing something in Khazid Okraz. Some strange combination of inn and stage from what you gathered. Well as long as he doesn't cause any noise complaints that's his business…
New Runes/ Combos
-- Rune of Siphoning [Engineering]: Constructs and War Machines inscribed with this Rune can draw on Deep Magic, roughly doubling the longevity or recharge rate of any other Runes inscribed onto them depending on function. When inscribed all Runes glow gold. Superseded by Structural effects.
-- Combo, Empowered Waking: [Master Rune of Waking, Rune of Empowerment, Rune of Siphoning]: ???. The effects of the Rune of Empowerment are improved, and recovery time is now a quarter of the time afterwards.
Orders
- +1 [Tier 4] Radiant Pegasus Blood, arriving Turn 59
- +1 [Tier 4] Barazgal, arriving Turn 58
- +1 [Tier 4] Radiant Pegasus Corpse
-- +1 [Tier 4] Radiant Pegasus' Heart, new totals: x2
-- +1 [Tier 4] Radiant Pegasus' Brain, new totals: x1
-- +2 [Tier 4] Radiant Pegasus' Wing Tendons, new totals: x2
-- +2 [Tier 4] Radiant Pegasus' Blood, new totals: x3
- +10 [Tier 4] Adamant, new totals: x46
- +3 [Tier 2] Dragon Essence, new totals: x45
Favour and Standing
- -15 Favour with Kraka Grom, new totals: Favours 200
- (-15 +20) = +5 Favour, +1 Standing with Kraka Krum, new totals: Standing 10, Favours 25
-- Standing Bonus received! Standing 10, Deep Delving: Underground "Expedition" options gain a chance to produce mineral reagents when completed.
Trait(s) Gained/Upgraded
Karstah:
- ConstructsTrait: [0/6] > [3/6]
━<><><><==><><><>━
There will be an eleven-hour moratorium for discussion.
There will be an eleven-hour moratorium for discussion.
AN: Pt. 2 has me excited. Stay tuned. It's where stuff gets cooking. How about Empowered Waking though huh? Oh and @_The_Bomb yes I will update Understand the Master Rune of Thungni. As always, hope you enjoy and don't forget to C&C. :^)
Last edited: