RHUNRIKKI STROLLAR (Warhammer Fantasy Golden Age Dwarf Runelord Quest)

[Voikirium]

The Walking Storm

Why?

It's a fair question for me, I suppose. Could it be my ego, wanting to assert myself after Fjolla made that ring? Some attempt to meet Master Snorri's standards? That king Gloin had called for warriors, and the High King too? A plain and simple desire for revenge, to strike out Grudges? Some desire to test myself and gain glory?

I can't deny some of that might be working in me. I won't insult your intelligence that way.

But I can say, if you asked me, in the darkest nights, and in the brightest day, and in the gray twilight in between, as I cleared my schedule and told Klorah I'd be going west with the campaign, why, I'd only have one consistent answer, for better or for worse. One thing that kept coming to my thoughts, even when my pride was most checked and my ego quiescent, even in the times when my mind was clearest and unfogged by anxieties or rages or deepest, unending loathing.

My children were going.

Now, I'm not really a fighter. I've gone on campaign before, of course, who couldn't in this world corrupted by evil, but I usually prefer to stay home and make good work for the Brana and mark my presence on the field that way. But with Bardin and Solveg, at least, going to fight those monsters, well.

There's not a chance I'm going to let them fight alone.

Not my daughter. Not my son.

But equally, there's not a chance I'm going to march unprepared and unready. I'll not die a fool's death, rushing into battle unprepared or underprepared.

I'm a Master Runesmith, with clients among the Brana and the reagents they provide as payment; never mind my own education under Master Snorri, a living legend who lives up to the legend. So as I examined the gear I've made over the years, of course, it's all still to par, if a bit underwhelming: but then, it was what I made in my spare time in case of the worst possibility. As I said, it's rare for me to campaign; but this, this is a worthy cause indeed.

A simple set of Gromril scale and a horned helmet, designed to offer as much protection as possible while also remaining light enough to move in. A simple cloak of troll leather dyed a vibrant silver and gold. A belt, made of soft fur and lined with three silver plates, made by my wife and Runed by my own hand. A ring, much the same. Runes to emphasize protection in all things, first and foremost, armor against bolt and blade and bewitchment.

But most of all, my ax, my weapon, my foe-slayer. The construction is...adequate. The Rune of Cleaving, the Rune of Fury, the Rune of Speed. Simple stuff. The weapon itself is a head of Gromril, carved into a single-bit ax-head, fit on stained wutroth, lightly decorated with the images of angry Longbeards bellowing their rage at the enemy. Tested during the Great Incursion, a slayer of Dragon Ogres and of Daemons alike. Blood coated and it soaked it, many foemen slain by haft and edge and back alike for in my time I have used the whole of it, as a cudgle if nothing else.

it's not enough.

Not for the fighting I'm about to plunge into.

That's the biggest weakness I would have, that ax. I could trust Fjolla, with her ring, to handle magic; Master Snorri, if he comes along, can quite simply rend apart entire regiments, entire cities, if need be; but what of the mighty? Champions who can endure his storm, who don't wield magic in that way? A weakness, a gap in my panoply. No shame to Master Snorri, but that he still bares Old Reliable when he could do so much better is a continual mark of confusion to me.

It's time to fill the gap. Besides, I could hardly look bad in front of my children, now could I?

So I immediately grabbed a roll of parchment and started to sketch, even as I thought about the resources I could bring to bear. The Runes I could mark it with. How it ought to be made, both mystically and physically.

My mind immediately turned to the Dragon Ogre Shaggoth's Heart held within my hoard, trapped within Runes of stasis, of preservation, and so still as fresh now as it was decades ago, when it had driven muscle and sinew and power. One of those abominations, a leader if far from cursed Kholek's potency, attempting to bully a band of Beastmen into following him so he could attack Kraka Drak. Vengeance for Kholek, vengeance for a father.

If he would waste his life on it, let him join his father in the blackest pit.

The Brana had scented it, the gathering force of darkness, smelled the wickedness growing as cancer and brought down their storm on it, slaying Shamans and Gorebulls and Abominations in equal measure in a flurry of ice and lightning and cutting winds. They were death from on high, as certain as a cave-in and as deadly a gas leak.

Hm. I noted that down on the parchment as I continued to sketch, drawing out the mighty ax, the shaft, the blade.

A duel between one of the Brana's champions, a descendant of the King of the Skies by the name of Golden Oath, and the Shaggoth had seen it slain. He had been vigorous, that Shaggoth, and mighty and had taken much killing: blood and horn and skull and bone was pulped, ruined, destroyed by the end, rended and cleaved and cut by sharp claws and hard paws and a wicked curved beak. Nearly everything in fact, ripped and torn to shread not helped by the armor the thing wore being thick and strong, the collar of some Daemon god. In the end it had been all too similar to nothing other than base wrestling, like surly beardlings out from their mothers' eyes for the first time.

Except, of course, that both Griffon and Shaggoth could have picked me up and tossed me like a ball if they were inclined, an experience I was not inclined to join Master Snorri in experiencing.

But for all the Shaggoth's armor was effective if both ugly and corrupt, it did not prove finer than the Armor I proffered to Golden Oath for the deed as they set out hunting, bane of Chaos one and all, in one form or another. The Master Rune of Grimnir, the Rune of Obligation, the Rune of Confrontation: A thing fit to slay Chaos. Slightly singular in purpose...but I've always believed the client has final call, and the client really, truly, loathed Chaos.

Understandable enough, really.

So after a battle that saw a good chunk of the forest turned to splinters, in the end Golden Oath managed to put a tree trunk through the armor, a good tactic indeed as I understand the matter. For this I gained the heart, a wretched, pumping, mighty thing that had pumped mighty blood and devoured greedily of the storm and now mighty pump it greedily once again.

A fit reagent for a fit Rune.

The Rune of Lightning, perhaps? Or the Rune of Chain Lightning. A tiny of part of me was almost inclined to the Rune of Fury, though I put that aside for the moment to keep sketching out potential arrays. I knew what I wanted, I saw it.

I let my mind go over the Reagents in my hoard, stretching back and back and back, some of them from all the way back to my days as a Journeyman, breaking every bone in my body.

My mind in particular went back to a treasure I'd been lucky enough to claim: A single feather of the most antediluvian of Great Eagles, during the Great Incursion. It was back, in fact, during the cleanup after the Great Incursion that I would claim it. One of the Bray Shamans would have the thing in its pack, a twisted trophy, a cruel jape. He'd been repelled from the walls, survived, and made a living raiding travelers and Otrek, Otrek had dispatched me and some Rangers to kill him and his tribe to the last to avenge the Grudges. I believe Master Snorri was still recovering from his fight with Kholek, perhaps why he never heard about it, if he hasn't anyway.

We found him in a slowly degenerating bit of forest, not yet fallen but close, so close, on the precipice. I was young and naive then, but I understood soon enough that there was daemonic energy gathering, perhaps months from more summoning, and I refused to accept that.

He was...he was riddled with tattoos that burned my eyes to look at, the shaman that is, that flowed and danced and seemed to invite, as is the way of Slaanesh. Script, unholy, which made my eyes water to look at traveled up and down his bare body, muscled, lean, graceful and quick. His robes, I did not realize that they could craft that well for there was beauty wasted in that moment and in a second I understood the real crime of corruption, of the stuff of Chaos. But then I realized he had a staff, and I didn't give a damn, for that staff of the finest of wood was topped with a skull. A dwarf's skull.

A Runesmith's skull. The symbol of the Guild crudely carved into the bone and then filled in with silver.

Mockery? Warning? It didn't matter. All I knew is that I wanted it destroyed, unmade, rendered into nothingness but ash and a bad memory to be cleansed with copious ale.

I don't know...much about Master Snorri's past, before he journeyed to Kraka Drak. It's never seemed right to pry, and he's not spoken about it much. But there are whispers, about what he did to the Broken Band. I know more about Karag Dum, including breaking the Gate like a twig.

If half of what is said is true, I think I understand a little, thinking back to when I saw that accursed, wretched, unholy, never should have been thing. When I understood the sheer depravity, the absurd waste of a life, the disregard for common decency, for the intrinsic value of a thinking mind, I saw Grimnir's red.

Perhaps you think we fought them in battle? No such luck. Too much risk for not enough reward, particularly when there were better ways. Poison supplies were low, and so we drugged their alcohol instead; they were asleep, the lot of them.

We slunk into the camp, and as they slept, we butchered them with as much mercy as they had ever shown to anyone else, to the last. I personally took the Great Bray-Shaman's head from the rest of his body, to make sure he was dead. And I took the Great Eagle Feather, to remember, forever to remember. And I personally destroyed the staff.

It's only appropriate, perhaps, considering what I intend to do now, to use it on this. And I know exactly the Rune to use it for.

And again, perhaps only appropriately, I considered the last reagent from my hoard even as I continued to sketch.

The Brana don't have quite the same beliefs regarding dead bodies as we do. Oh, to be sure, besmirching one is still a good way to enrage and threaten them, if nothing else they can grasp that it's meant to be a serious insult and a threat even if they don't personally care and they take as well to attempted threats and insults as a Dwarf to raw magic: screaming, fists thrown, and everything lit on fire by the end. And of course there's the simple fact that Brana are still griffons and therefore could be used as reagents and have their bodies stolen that way. Some burn the dead to keep them from being insulted, others dispose of them in hidden dark places, some have simply taken to creating mausoleums in the style of the Dwarfs. They're a considerably more varying people, the Brana, for all the King of the Skies has enforced a relatively consistent code of conduct.

They are also deeply practical about the matter, as I've said before.

So some--Not many, the Brana have picked up some of our own distaste about the matter, but some--to cut out the middle man have begun donating their bodies to Runesmiths or their own craftsmen to ensure that at least whatever gets made serves their kin and their aerie after death. And what Runesmith do they trust more than He Who Girds the Many, the Branawongr? Who better to turn this to a productive end (and to be sure, I did tell them exactly what I had planned, they knew it was to be a personal weapon).

I say "it was in my Hoard" but keeping a Brana brain around would be...ghoulish and weird, neither adjectives I want applied to me. For my own sense of decorum and good taste I instead asked from among those donations if there was one I could use, one from an Elder, a mighty Brana indeed. An old Stormcaller's, wreathed in cold and lightning and magic, was granted to me as a boon for my work. Poisoned in the Fimir War, he had had his last will written down and taken to Kraka Drak, for he had foreseen in futures only that his body was stolen and used for evil. There could be no escaping being stolen, being forged: but escaping the evil that sought to use him? That was within his power, by ensuring it would instead be used by one of worth, one not of evil born but someone pure, righteous, unmarked by the depravities of the world.

It had arrived in a chest perhaps a month after I had decided that I would be heading out and begun asking around, preserved with enchantments and not Runes, a sure sign perhaps of the continued development of the traditions of the Brana, developing apace, developing things of both subtlety and of ability. Not simply exploding everything they disliked with lightning and ice shards and shearing winds but really, well and truly subtle weavings of the winds to improve their lives, such that it was.

There was something gratifying in that.

And so, the time came to forge even as I finished sketching.
--
The fire crackled as I examined the plans, the Runes providing power as the bars of Adamant heated in the forge until I pulled it out and began to beat it on the anvil.

It was to be one, simple construction.

The head was first. A double-bitted thing, filigreed the pure gold color of the lightning and lacquered the darkest blue of the stormy sky. Symbols sacred to Grungni would be etched into the gold, telling the story of the forging of Drongundum as passed down by the priests and the elders, flowing along in Agrurhun, acting as a border for stories of the storming, the raging, the bellowing and bellicose, the one who sundered Senak, the one who saw the coming darkness on the horizon etched into the night-sky blue. Ancient stories, and therefore the best of stories. Grungni in the visage of a warrior, every glorious battle won, every terrible foe vanquished, as many as could be marked in the space of little more than my pinky nail and yet still detailed enough that the wise could see them indeed: The Death of Senak on the foothills of Azul, the breaking of Kairos in the Great Incursion, the Cleansing of Karak Ungor, victories stretching back millennia for a great Ancestor indeed for this ax.

The Ancestor most suited to summon the storm, for all His weapon was the hammer.

I saw it, I saw it done, and yet there was still work to do and so I pushed forward, even as the heat grew to a hellish fire and the forge, the smith, my workshop became as the indeed of a great, smoky brazier that burned and burned and burned indeed.

The haft, Adamant as well to ensure it could withstand the power I sought to unleash. Long and thick, for durability, left lacquered blue as the ax itself was. Etched in silver bands like the storm clouds themselves, more peaceful stories of Grungni, a reminder of His wisdom and His Foresight. For the death of Senak? Erecting the Keep over top Dalgrung Ankor, creating the Runes that would protect it. Another band, opening the mines of Karak Ungor and taking sapphires, rubies, emeralds diamonds and more, the appropriate stones studded onto the silver to emphasize their beauty. Kairos' defeat, the procession of trophies through the streets of Karaz A Karak taken from his mortal slaves. On and on it went, through the ages, back and back and back, until it reached the most important victory of all: Leaving Zorn. I would include a grip of pearl as well, shiny and pristine, white as the lightning, and split from the rest of the body with precious jewels indeed, ten well-cut dronril above it and ten below it, carved like rain drops and shimmering in the forge light already.
--
It passed quickly, and so now it was left to me to make the Runes.

Power Flows.​

I pressed the chisel against the Adamant, still red hot, and began to mark the symbol. The Master Rune first, the Master Rune demanding the best of me, all of my ability and all of my skill, for all that I would never, ever, produce anything but my best, no matter what. I was sweating already, but I kept the eye on the prize. On the Master Rune of Currents.

Skill Guides It.​

Blows and chants, chant and blows. A simple process, drilled into me over centuries. "Strike the metal hot in honor of lordly Grungni, mighty Grungni, Grungni whose voice is like thunder and whose exhalation is like the gales at the very mountain's peak, His icy wrath paramount." A potent Rune indeed. It strikes with fierce cold wind indeed. Sharp and unblockable and fast, most of all I needed fast for the Dawi have many strengths but speed is not among them, not in that sense. So my chisel beat it, and beat it, and beat it, a million strikes if I needed a million, even as I ignored the sweat pouring down my brow like so much ale down a chugging beardling's whiskers. I had more important things to focus on, after all.

Need Calls It.​

Soon enough the physical structure was done. At the moment, blinking little sky blue sparks danced about it, demanding sustenance, demanding to be fed like a needy garazi and I had the meal for them right where I needed it. Taking the Stormcaller's Brain in its wooden bowl I began ladling it into the Rune and the second it touched the mark it disappeared, the power contained and constrained within immediately channeled and harnessed by the metal of the ax. Wind blew around, so cold it froze the stone of my workshop, the wutroth of the furniture, the tools nearest the furnace and indeed the furnace itself steamed.

Ability Demands It.​

I ignored it all, and instead I simply kept focusing on feeding it, even as my beard was mussed and the apron I wore was tousled and the fire roared and I heard the winds whipping around. It would take more than some cold air and some bad attitude from this bratty, hungry Rune to break my will, not when my pride as an artist was on the line. I simply kept ladling instead, scooping up more and more of the brain even as the winds grew fiercer and fiercer, colder and colder. As the room grew cold in spite of the crackling fire, as ice began to travel up my hammer, as crystals formed on the wood--until there was a single, last screaming gale and all at once, the Rune was complete, shimmering on the hot Adamant which itself had seemed almost already to form a patina of sorts, for all I knew it could not be so.

Power Flows.​

No rest for the artist, I began marking the body of Senak, that abomination, with the Rune of Chain Lightning, or at least its physical structure at the moment (it would need something mightier indeed to be worthy of this construction). A simple Rune, but a potent one in the right hands. Powerful already, and then combine that with the unblockable potency of the Master Rune of Currents? I could simply toss freezing cold shocks at the enemy, unblockable and sharp. They'd have no choice but to fight me, or risk dying by my hand anyway since I could simply keep tossing the bolts of lightning from as far away as I wanted. And fighting me, with this, would not be a winner. And if it was a horde I faced, some nameless thing of more numbers than sense, the unblockable bolt I unleashed could leap from foe to foe, stopping hearts and minds as it went along its grim work.

Patience Channels It.​

The Rune twinkled a little, a healthy blue light, after so many hours, and so I gave it what it asked for properly, like it had some manners to it. The heart of the storm, the heart of the evil, the heart of the lightning, and it took it gracefully, certainly in comparison to the tantrum of the Master Rune of Currents. Bolts discharged to be sure, but little things, small things, ones not nearly mighty enough to harm a Runesmiths, ones not mighty enough to harm a student of the Gift-Giver, ones not mighty enough to harm me. They kept away from my beard, too, for that matter, as I painted the Dragon Ogre Shaggoth's Heart, rendered into a paste, into the Rune.

Refinement Shapes It.​

But of course, I did notice some difference from the usual Rune. Rather than the light blue, the lightning slowly but surely began to take on a royal shade of purple, something shimmering and prismatic, like a jewel or something altogether more eerie, depending on how inclined you were to superstition of the worst kind. Was it some part of the heart Remembering what it had been? Was it the Rune taking on some portion of the abomination's nature for it had been given the heart like a seed? Was it merely the nature of such power?

Focus Crystallizes It.​

I scarcely cared. Beyond that Master Snorri had used Kholek's brain in Skarrenbakraz (and with no testing for that matter) with no ill effect, I myself had done tests, research, looked at the results recorded in Kazaghar, and looked at folklore, at myth. Power, rage, might harnessed and then unleashed in its purest sense as an abomination aged beyond age was turned to an end more productive than his original life, a spiteful use indeed. They were mighty scions of Chaos; but not, it seemed, mightier than my will, or the Brana they had sought to snuff out like a candle light in the mine.

Power Flows.​

The last Rune. My body wavered, hunger and thirst finally making themselves known, but I ignored it, ignored the strain after I did not know how long, to instead focus on carving the final Rune. A Rune of worth. The Rune of Shearing Winds, the Rune to finalize this ax. With this, I could be a storm, much like Master Snorri, less potent perhaps but more controlled, more harnessed. And deadlier to singular combatants. But with this, I made myself a threat to the many, as well, for the shearing winds would carve and flow and slice along with the lightning and the currents.

Heart Fuels It.​

Entire lines of enemy soldiers carved down like the wheat before a sickle, the stone before a pick, a cliff before the tide. The lightning of Grungni followed by the slicing winds, cold as the gales at the mountain top. And what of a singular champion? Mighty creatures could cast themselves against it and mighty creatures could be unmade, unworked, shattered, broken, cut apart. There are abominations that can survive it, thrive in it even, but they are few and far between even in a world this grand and this depraved and this expansive. And for those that can survive, a hard edge of unblockable Adamant awaits.

Mind Forges It.​

A rebuke, an edge, a taunt, and a gap filled. Could there be a better dedicated thing to murder singularly excellent opposition? Almost certainly. If the Hammerspite desired it, if Snerra put her back into it, they could shape something that would unmake daemons and Beastmen and aberrations alike, Great Unclean Ones and Lords of Change and Keepers of Secrets and Bloodthirsters with the ease a dog barks. Certainly there's that which can kill the masses better, Master Snorri's burned cities with his cloak alone, never mind any of the other potent legends he's forged.

Love Quenches It.​

But this? This can do it all. And not just adequately, not just passably, not just decently, but excellently. A living storm, a bank of lightning and cessation and death pulled down from the mountain tops and unleashed. The Windswept Peak, spoken of in Myths, something strove for unleashed now and unto the end of the Empire, unto the breaking of Azamar, unto the shattering of things. It is spite manifest, it is an ax with few equals.

A Father Wields It.​

It is Dronaz-Druegi.

It is the Thunder War Ax.

It is mine.

 

[Voikirium]

Abominations and Ancestors (1/3)

He heard the snow being disrupted by Prey, bigger than the morsels of earlier. Lesser bodies shifted and awoke as his mind returned from sluggish Torpor to wakeful contempt, blood pumping as roots growing throughout its domain shifted and carved through the earth and through the trees and through the rock, stalking the prey, catching the scent. The noise of the jingling-dirt, the stink of mind-killer, the flutter of worked-skin draped over the prey's shoulders dragging through the snow. It was unaware as it walked into the hunter's den, and that served The Hunter's purposes very well, much as the smaller prey had earlier.

"Abomination." Grinding stone striking each other poured out of its throat as it looked up. It was a coincidence, of course, that his Stomach was exactly where the prey looked, as it devoured his last meal. "I don't know what you are but you scared the hell out of that Garazi who saw you. Fortunately for you being ugly is no Grudging offense." His body tensed as a tendril, tipped in hard rock too strong to digest, drilled through the dirt towards it. "But I'd be very straightforward, get out here and explain yourself. Now."

The tendril ripped through the dirt, erupting in a shower of clods and pebbles. But the prey moved adroitly, too adroitly, and before he could do anything it had wrapped a not-dirt paw around the tendril. "Can't say I didn't warn you." And then raising its barbed claw it carved through the Hunter's tendril, black ichor spewing out to make mud of the whole snowy mountain forest. The Hunter's body tensed as he screamed in rage and pain and fury that this food had dared to harm him even slightly, made it waste energy on making that thing.

The Stomach burst from the dirt and opened, pouring out acids that sizzled as they mixed with mud and snow to begin melting away at the rocks and carcasses buried within, the great chamber of meat and flesh and muscle opening to devour her whole and consume her for ten-thousand years, until this world had passed from this age to another. Tendrils poured out from the gray meat, whirling and whipping, enraged, furious, hungry. The prey's heart beat faster, its sweat poured out like a flood, its muscles sparked. It tossed aside the maimed meat, letting it land and start to wriggle and bleed on the forest floor.

Then it pointed the frozen-moonlight at the Hunter, and said something the Hunter had heard from the maggots as he had lured them away from kin.

"Guzzen."

The Hunter felt instincts and senses and mind alike race, shudder, tense as his shadow (or the shadow of his Stomach, at least) was drawn by the frozen moonlight. He felt a presence, a pressure, a contempt and spite and rage, roar in the vilest fury, as the shadows were sculpted, worked, carved by something younger--younger, yes, but wiser, and vigorous.

But most of all, something angry.

Shadow ichor dripped, black tendrils whipped, red-hot fury and red-hot rage filled him as he cast himself against this not-shadow. The tendrils, some fat and thick and muscular, some small and thin whipping spears, some tipped with mouths filled with jagged teeth, lunged at it, at the prey with rage for daring to steal what was rightfully his.

There was a titanic crash as the shadow smashed against his Stomach, grinning, cruel. "Not liking what you see in the mirror then, abomination?" It ripped and pulled and shredded, the tendrils of his stolen shadow wrapping about his tendrils and pulling, squeezing, tearing, ripping, blood spurting as it did for it was pressingly strong.

Worse, he realized. Essence, power, followed. Millennia of meals, battles won, torn away and fed to this thing as it scrabbled and scrambled and fought with him, trying to harpoon the shadow-demon, trying to kill it but it was feeding on him, and he was a fatted thing indeed. The most potent of hunters, the most excellent of slayers, was being drained like cheap prey, consumed like blood from offal.

Finally he managed to wrap his tendrils around the shadow and screamed in triumph, shaking the mountain slope, and pressed the demon into his cavernous stomach. He gurgled in triumph.

He gurgled in victory.

He gurgled in...pain?

He felt something clawing, cutting, tearing, ripping at him from the inside, blood and magic alike spurting from his Stomach, even as the Brain and Heart alike beat faster and screamed in their agony, forcing more and more magic to the chamber of blood and acid.

But it was too late. There was an awful noise, a tearing like someone had just ripped off his fur in an earlier life, and then all once magic and blood began to pour into the chamber, feeding the Shadow Demon, giving it strength and vigor. He gurgled as the Stomach died and the Brain roared its outrage.

He would, he would live, he would have revenge, he would kill her, tear her apart, have his revenge.

He would.

And then he would try and recover what was lost, after ten-thousand years of effort was wasted.
--
Fjolla looked at the clearing, covered in tentacles and tendrils and unseeing eyes and saw the meat twitch and undulate as the thing's stomach died, but only the stomach. If it--if he--was really truly dead all the way, the meat should be dying, not simply twitching, bleeding out, rotting and fading.

Meaning it was still alive.

She sighed. "Can't even die without causing trouble, can you?" She cracked her neck and hoisted her ax: the foolish elder thing had underestimated Guzazi Zhuf once, she doubted he would do it again. She might have to put a bit more of her back into killing him this time, rather than letting him do something foolhardy and then punish him for the arrogance.

She ventured deeper into the forest, ignoring the maddened chanting from the abberation.

 

[soulcake]

[X] [Grimgal:] Accept. ✓

[X] Plan: Go all Out ✓
- [X] [Simple] Gronti-Bay: [Cost: any 2 actions] Peerless Production will proc.
-- [X] Hirelings: [Cost 5 Favour with Kraka Drakk] x7. [-35 Kraka Drakk Favor]
-- [X] [Location:] Overtop the Anvil of the Earth: +3 actions to Gronti-Bay. Can use the Anvil of the Earth when crafting.
-- [X] [Scope:] Dedicated General Facility. +2 actions to Gronti-Bay. Every 3 request actions building Monumental Items add 1 extra progress.
-- [X] [Runes:] Do Both. +3 actions to Skaudardrengi. Double reagent cost for Skaudargrengi's Runes (not including equipment). Gain an improved variant of The Master Runes of Waking for monument-scale Gronti that would cost at minimum double the reagents.

[X] Plan: A Crack In The Consternation (Turn 58)
Snorri & Karstah
- [X] [Difficult] Starlight Pt. 1 [1 Karstah AP]
-- [X] Choose: Master Rune of Conduction (Radiant Pegasus Blood + Dragon Essence), Rune of Lightspite (Radiant Pegasus Blood), Rune of Echoblow (Elder Wyrm's Gas Sac)
- [X] [Difficult] Flamedrinking Pt. 2 [1 Karstah AP]
-- [X] Choose: Combo, Flamedrinking: [Rune of Thungni's Presence, Rune of Thungni, Rune of Forgeflame]
- [X] [Simple] Once more with Smelting [1 Karstah AP] [Note: This Smelter is being built near a Waystone near the Anvil]
- [X] Write-In: Talisman, AetherAethyrbinder Pt. 1: [1 Karstah AP]
-- [X] Arm covering made of plates and metal loops linked together by adamant chains that fits over a dwarven arm, either armored and unarmored. Looks like a very sturdy dwarf jewelry and it is marked by knotwork pattern of a forge and the implication of a smith working at the anvil in the background. Rune inscribed near shoulder, below elbow, back of hand.
-- [X] Choose: Master Rune of Purification [T4 Voidstone], Rune of Worldly Warding [T4 Ancient Stone Troll Blood], Ancestor Rune of Thungni [T4 Adamant]
- [X] Aetherbinder Pt.2 [3 Snorri AP, with KKR/BA/Skarren, after ESP]
-- [X] Choose: Combo, Master Rune of Purification (T4 Voidstone) + Rune of Worldly Warding (T4 Ancient Stone Troll Blood) + Ancestor Rune of Thungni (T4 Adamant)

Research
-[X] Extra-Sensory Pt. 1 [3 Snorri AP, before Aetherbinder Pt.2] ✓

Retainers
-[X] Expedition, Grungaldrin [2 Retainer + Industry of the North AP]
-[X] Expedition, The Throng is Mustered [1 Retainer AP] ~✓

Orders ✓
-[X] Order: T4 Elder Storm Wyrm's Brain
-[X] Royal Authority Order 1: T4 Cockatrice's Eye [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order 2: Slave Wyrm Corpse #1 [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order 3: Slave Wyrm Corpse #2 [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order 4: T4 Elder Wyrm's Blood x2 [-30 Kraka Grom Favor]
--[X] Royal Expedite [-30 Karak Ungor Favor]
--[X] Royal Expedite x2 [-30 Karak Ungor Favor] VOIDED
-[X] Royal Authority Order 5: T4 Lightning Oriented upgrade to Stonehorn Horns [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order 6: T4 Ancient Greedy Troll Heart [-15 Karak Ungor Favor]
--[X] Royal Expedite: T4 Ancient Greedy Troll Heart [-15 Karak Ungor Favor]
-[X] Princely Hunting: T4 Ancient Greedy Troll [-15 Kraka Drakk Favor]

[X] [Social:] Nain talking to other Runesmiths about his work expanding the lift.
[X] [Social:] Dreng dueling the Hearth Guard in a friendly spar.
[X] [Letters:] Knowledge about Phoenix King Bel Shanaar [Standard]

Click to shrink...

━<><><>< 484 A.P. ><><><>━​

It spoke to the esteem that Grimgal and the siblings held yours, and probably moreso Karstah's, opinion that they asked for your permission at all.

After all, when a thirty-five and change meter long Shard Wyrm wants to leave—

—Well actually you could stop it, but you're probably one of the few things that could.

But that's besides the point!

After not that much deliberation, Grimgal has been given leave by King Gloin to volunteer their services in the war against the Fimir.

Which is why you're here, just a ways off from the cheering crowd, to see her and the Throng of Kraka off for yet another season of campaigning with the High King.

Behind Clan Winterhearth's clan companies, surrounded by a coterie of Hearth Dawi, the largest triplet shows no sign of discomfort at the myriad stares and whispers at her presence.

Beside her is Karstah, looking serene and no doubt entirely happy to let the Drakk soak up the attention that she would normally be getting.

A condition of your heir's acceptance was that she come along and keep an eye on Grim for one or two campaigning seasons, to soothe over any friction that may arise from Grimgal being… well herself really.

Still, for all that Grimgal's social etiquette may still need some tutoring, the same cannot be said for her lethality in battle.

There's a baseline level of threat that a Drakk of her size brings to any battle of course, but Grimgal isn't just a thirty-five plus meter long Shard Wyrm. She's also a wizard with two pieces of enchanted gear to boot.

They were Zharrok's Master Works, presented to his Brana teacher as proof of his talent. He had intended to enchant them himself, but Grimgal had ahem persuaded him to let her take charge on that end. Despite his obvious annoyance, he had let the nominally eldest sibling get her way on the condition that he take part in whatever it is she was planning.

If anything that only made Grimgal happier, now that she managed to rope an unknowing fifth participant in her plans.

She had, under your noses, devised and prepared two rituals to enchant Zharrok's work, and had not only convinced Zharrok, but Menlinwen and the two Silverbearers that taught the siblings into helping.

Quite the queer thing, and the set up for a particularly strange joke you think, to watch two Drakk, two Brana and an elf all chanting and standing in a circle.

Neither you or Karstah were able to see it up close; given it was her first ritual, as unlikely as it was, the chance that your presence could deaden the Winds at an inopportune moment wasn't a possibility that any of you even wanted to entertain. Though that didn't mean you couldn't watch at all of course, it just meant you had to do it with a multi-lense contraption that the Engineers Guild made on your behalf from a safe distance.

But even if you weren't able to see the process as well as you'd like, the results could not be denied.

Atop Grimgal's head, radiating literal light as well as Hysh, was a wreath of her upturned spines set into a frame of Gromril wires, accented with silver inscriptions while the largest spines near the ends had had their tips replaced by diamonds. A focus and tool meant to make the casting of spells easier than it already was for her.

Its partner was a mantle of golden spines and Gromril chain that not only did the same for Chamon, but could be activated to harden her already near-Gromril tough body and create a barely visible protective barrrier around her.

Fine works according to Menlinwen and the siblings' tutors.

Wasn't Runecraft of course, but for Zhufokri work it would maybe survive one or two strikes from Zharrgal.

You watch until the Throng is a pinprick in the distance, and Grimgal's light becomes invisible amidst the warm darkness of the Underway.

But you can't stay forever.

There is work to be done.

━<><><>< 486 A.P. ><><><>━​

Lord Klausson requests many things, from his King, from his retainers, from his students, and from the Dawi in general.

But not nearly as much as he provides.

The Gift Giver is beloved and quietly despaired over in equal measure for the very reason he has earned his moniker. For Snorri Klausson does not give the uncountable Dawi whose lives he has changed through his generosity the opportunity to repay their debts easily.

They try of course, oh they try and try, and they largely fail.

Because for every mason and carpenter who agreed to participate and build such a volatile idea as Khazagar because their grandfather was given a Rune-weapon, for every business and merchant that came to and supported Jorri Klausson's ventures because his brother gave their own a new arm, for every Runesmith that shares what he knows because he has learned the secrets of Gromril chain from his teachings…

…for every Dwarf that has tried in some way to repay the Runelord, there are far more who become or are still indebted to him.

Because for every small debt repaid, there are far more that have been incurred at the same time. Because there are more Dawi whose forefathers were given Runecraft by the Gift Giver than there are his projects to participate in. More Dawi who receive life changing prosthetics through the direct and indirect efforts of the Runelord than can work with his brother. More Dawi who have ultimately benefitted from his efforts than can repay whatever he could think to ask of them.

It is safe to say that for every debt Kraka Drakk has repaid, they suffer the misfortune of Klausson's generosity several times over.

So when the Runelord does occasionally provide them that chance, and offers a request that the average Kraka Drakk Dawi can fulfill they quietly and stoically scramble at the opportunity.

After all, its the chance to repay uncounted centuries of owed debts, passed down from parent to child, and more than likely grown since, in an unbroken chain since the Hold's founding. Their holders are all too happy to relieve the weight of such a burden upon their psyches.

They don't quite weep, nor do they cheer, but several hundred Dwarfs will certainly walk with lighter steps in the coming years even as they scramble, negotiate, toil and work to meet the Legendary Gift Giver's demands.

They say nothing when they pass off cartloads of material to the silent and stoic Hearth Guard, nor do they wonder, aloud at least, about what exactly the Runelord could be doing with so much Drakk's blood. Because they remember the times the Runelord has called before; when the walls of Kraka Drakk were raised, when the Foundry Hall received its Pure Gromril Smelters, when the Underway was connected, when Khazagar was built, and so many other smaller occasions, and all that came from them.

These Dawi heed the wisdom of the past, and they trust that the Runelord will take the fruits of their labours and make something beyond their wildest reckoning from them.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

It should feel momentous.

And it is.

But you have already cackled at your success, already shed tears of joy, and basked in the warmth of vindication.

You have known for nigh on a century now that Durin's Consternation was solvable.

What you do now is simply finishing what you started.

The Rune of Windsight you have been using is good, magnificent even, compared to what was possible before.

But it isn't done.

It is not the Second Sight, the so-called Seventh Sense, or whatever other name that the Elgi and Brana use to describe it. Not yet, and you have quietly worked for decades to, if not match the breadth that those two races can perceive, compare to them in the one way you care about.

To sense the Winds, as you have learned over the long decades of research, was not a singular experience. Just as insane and varied as Magic often was, so too are the ways to see it. Examples of individuals who perceive the Winds through any, several, and all five regular senses, plus even some more strange and unique mediums are rampant in your research. And as ever, each and every new account you come across has then been collected, examined and catalogued until you could fill a bookshelf with just the footnotes. More importantly It is a sense that can be trained, honed and refined in the same way a warrior learns to wield an axe, or a miner their pick.

You knew early on that you could not recreate true Windsight with your Rune, but as you learned more you better contextualized the enormity of the work that had to be done. No Rune you know of was capable of growing more refined like that on its own, nor do you think it is even possible when Runes, by their nature, are meant to be static and unchanging. You could empower a Rune, raise the ceiling so to speak, give it more power, but there was a point of no further improvement, and that improvement was always consistent with what the Rune could do. Not the Runes on Barak Azamar, not on Skarrenbakraz, not even the Hammer of Thungni could do it.

Runes did not change over time, they did not grow independently. It was against their very nature.

New synergies and interactions as new Runes were added, new tactics as the user learned and grew, yes, but a Rune that made fire could not grow over a few centuries and make Lava on its own. A Rune could be made to create Lava under the right conditions, yes, but those had to be built in from the beginning even if you didn't know it was there to begin with. There is a limit to be reached, but not surpassed. While you no longer believe it is impossible to do so, given again, your own experiences with Mhorni and the Anvil, those exceptions were all outside forces acting on Runes.

There was simply a point that you had to make a better Rune if you wanted more.

The cost of reliability and consistency was the ability for change and growth.

So that already precludes you from recreating true Windsight, but you could make a kind of Windsight. One that would suit the purposes of the Runesmiths, where what it would lack in scope compared to the more holistic experiences of the other races, it would make up for in universality and consistency. One that was, also, safe.

You hope.

The issue of fidelity and scope had been solved, albeit unexpectedly, from insights you gained from completing the Rune of Heat Sight. Unfortunately that solution had closed off several hopeful, but ultimately unnecessary, features you wanted. For one thing, you could not make a Rune that delivered the same thematic and imagery-based vision of the Winds you knew was possible. You had hoped that you could make a method of alternating between the coloured vision you currently had and the thematic vision you hoped for, but efforts there proved you had to pick between one and the other if you wanted to keep this limited to a Regular Rune. Not even Snerra's Rune of Piercing Sight was this complex, and if that Rune was on the cusp of being a Master Rune then you're dancing on a wire thinner than a beardling's first chin hair.

Though your other discovery made that a bit of a moot point.

For one thing you couldn't create anything that worked with Azyr, and you heavily suspected that this was due to the whole fortune telling nonsense ahem, atemporal nature, that the Sapphire Wind possessed.

Damn sky-watching wazzoks.

And then, if that wasn't enough, the visions you saw in the Winds that you could get it to work for were static and unchanging. Flame for Aqshy, water and plants for Ghyran, animals for Ghur, and so on and so forth, it was always the same kind of vision, the same imagery. You could change the kind of things you saw by tinkering with the Rune, switching to emotions and even strange and horrible little faces that silently screamed at you, but it did not change on its own. Which was, understandably, not that useful.

Seeing an Aqshy suffused rock as a rock with a layer of semi-transparent angry faces superimposed atop it was of no use to you.

You're also unsure if that unchanging nature is because of you being a Dwarf, or the Rune, but until you fixed it, if you even could mind you, it made incorporating such a feature undesirable for the time being.

So that was a wash.

And If that wasn't enough, as you continued to work and improve the Rune, you discovered another limitation.

Like true Windsight this Rune could not be turned off, not without physically removing the prosthetic it was inscribed on from the eye-socket. It wasn't an issue of complexity, per se, or at least it shouldn't be, but every attempt to incorporate such functionality failed. Figuring out why was impossible, but your best guess involved getting too close to the actual nature of Windsight than not, because everytime you added it, the fidelity and accuracy of the Rune took a nosedive that made it little better than your current eye.

So you decided to pick and choose your battles.

But in limitation, you often find creativity.

Without the weight of incorporating anything more than colour vision pressing down on you, you had the metaphorical room to make sure that you had damn good colour vision.

What resulted from those efforts is perhaps one of the most specific and singular applications of the Rule of Form that you've encountered in your life.

There are a few more specific cases, but those were often from failed Runes. Like that one time you made a Rune of Fortitude that could only be inscribed on a very specifically shaped shield as an apprentice.

Your Rune of Windsight had to be inscribed on a Gromril sphere that contained at least 10 different and specifically hued precious stones embedded within it. The first eight were understandable enough, one for each of the individual Winds, but the latter two were their own mystery. You're fairly sure that they'd there for Dhar and Qyash respectively, but that made no sense. You shouldn't need entire new gems to see what, in Elven theory at least, is simply the failed and successful way of mixing multiple Winds of Magic together, and yet the Rune demands it.

But those inconsistencies aside, those limitations aside, those challenges aside, you have done it.

Windsight.

Durin's Consternaton, and the spectre that has hung over your Guild since its inception, is ended.

You need only make it.

━<><><>< 487 A.P. ><><><>━​

The Runelord pulls the ingot out of the forge, orange hot, and onto his anvil. His furrowed gaze is solemn and contemplative, examining the work to be in his mind.

He looks down at the two hammers to his side. One is the Hammer of his Ancestor, the other is his hammer, a tool that has proven its worth.

Fingers hover over the Hammer of Thungni, tentative, before they move and grasp the hilt of the second hammer.

Much as it may make sense to use the former, sentimentality drives him to wield the latter.

The work began with Zharrgal, it shall come to an end with it.

He raises it high, the head coming alight with Aethyric fire, energetic and eager, then slams it back down onto the ingot.

It takes three blows to form the half sphere from the Star Iron. Perhaps the Ancestor's work would be faster, but he is in no rush.

He looks down at the sphere, eyes squinting critically as his mind examines everything in detail.

Then he nods once, satisfied by what he has seen.

Zharrgal swings downward once more onto unyielding metal and forces it to obey.

Power Flows​

He is honouring his craft by making a piece of art. And make no mistake art is his craft, for all that its medium is so often wonder and metalwork. And here is no finer example of it, for it represents more than his individual labours, more than his beliefs and thoughts.

It is a story.

One who's first pages were written by a great man long before his birth that was sadly left unfinished, but by fate and chance was carried past his loss, hurtling forward through time and the hands of countless others...

Until it came to him, the one that circumstance had left situated to do what others that were equally and more talented could not.

The artist tasked with finishing the work of another.

To make a memorial and tribute worthy of the First.

The end of this story, his story.

And the beginning of another.

Will guides it​

Again and again, he hammers ceaselessly and unerringly, centuries of experience and talent brought to bear to bring the creation in his mind into reality.

It is the answer to an obstacle encounterd by thousands.

It is the dream of hundreds, once doomed to remain unfulfilled.

It is the death of one, and the sorrow of two.

It is a Consternation.

At last soothed.

It deserves to be done justice.

Joining the clang of metal and the roar of flame, the words of a chant of his own devising escape his lips in a low, sonorous, timbre.

Let song remind you​

"In honour of Lost Durin, Ancestor and Firstborn of Lord Thungni. Strike the Gromril thus..."

━<><><><==><><><>━​

Around them the sounds of battle ring like the caretaker's dinnerbell. The stench of blood, the cries of her foes/challengers, rouses the beast like little else has, but they wrestle it back into submission. Her crown flares with Diamond light, banishing darkness and making the neverborn cringe and shriek. By happenstance, she, Caretaker/Mother and the Hearth Guard/Wardens have found themselves beside the High King. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Azamar/Eternity shines brilliantly, unceasingly, entirely unconcerned with the world around it.

"Storm the walls my kin! Khazuk-Khazuk-ha!" The High King/Eldest roars from atop his Throne. "I have wagered a fine tankard that it will be Dawi boots that stand atop those walls first, and I shall not be denied my drink!"

The throng roars back in affirmation, the weight of the Ancestors' gaze pushing them onwards.

She pays none of it any mind.

Another roar, different and wretched, counters the shout of the Dawi and draws her attention. A pair of crippled things, what they were once destined to be/the fate they denied, were prodded and ordered to stand in her way.

It is an affront/abomination/prey and it angers their pride that any would think it would pose Grimgal any challenge at all.

A trio of minds come together, and unity is found in anger.

A lance of burning light spears the first Slave Wyrm through the heart, killing it instantly. A second, smaller lance, decapitates the Fianna rider that was crushed under its falling bulk.

Grimgal roars in victory, her roar joining the cacophony of noise.

Girded in the gifts of her littermates/brothers and wielding the fruits of their talent, they will show them death.

"Snorrisdottir!" The High King/Eldest shouts down at Caretaker/Mother, "A fine showing from your drakk! But It won't do for the Son of Grungni to get shown up by my subjects so easily though! Thronebearers, keep my seat warm for me now!"

He stands up from his seat, hammer and Axe/Doom/Death in each hand.

"Keep up if you can!"

Azyr coils around the Dwarf like a cloak, and with a shout he raises his weapon skyward, disppearing in a bolt of thunder.

Within them, the beast snarls.

"Grim…" Caretaker/Mother warns.

Above her the cry of dragons, the winged annoyances who look down upon her, ring out, adding insult to injury and flaring her temper. Insults, so many insults and challenges that must be answered with proof of her superiority.

She chooses to release her frustrations in a productive way, opening her mouth and allowing the Hysh to coalesce.

━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━​

Zhufokri - "Current/Torrent Craftsman"/Mage
Zharrgal - Golden Fire

━<><><>< Gain ><><><>━ ​

Snorri
- Gronti-Bay complete! Skaudardrengi Pt. 2 unlocked!
-- A facility dedicated to Monumental scale construction, not quite building, but well beyond even a Gronti.
-- -35 Favours with Kraka Drakk, new totals: (calculated below)

- Extra-Sensory Pt.1 complete! Extra-Sensory Pt. 2 unlocked!
-- Rune complete! Rune of Windsight: (see below)
-- Revealed in Turn 58 Results Pt. 2
-- +1 Progress to The Secrets of Light Pt. 3a Utility, new totals: [Cost: (4 -1) = 3 actions]
-- +1 Progress to The Happening of Things, new totals: [Cost: (8 -3) =5 actions]
-- Master of the Odd [7/15] > [9/15]

Karstah
- +3 Progress to Drakk Rearing, new totals: [21/? actions]
-- Grimgal, length: 36.5m by 493 A.P.
— Her growth is still terrifying to behold. She'll break 40 meters sooner rather than later at the current rate of growth.
— By far the toughest of the three, and Zharrok's creation have allowed her to better use her magical talents.

-- Zharrok, length 31m by 493 A.P.
— Spines lengthening the most by proportion, and unevenly so.
— Greater dexterity than the others, likely from training.
—Has finally made his Master Work(s). Zharrok had intended to enchant it himself, but Grimgal persuaded (read bullied) him into letting her do it instead. The enchantments are not as good as Runes of course, however Menlinwen says they are well made for one who has only so recently begun their journey wielding the Aethyr.
— Zharrok (and Grimgal)'s Epic Creation of Note, Wreath of Light
---- A wreath made to be worn around the head, with the main Gromril structure obscured by the forest of upward pointed spines that Grimgal donated. The spines all glow softly with Hysh, and the largest spines, placed close to the ends, have had their tips replaced by Diamonds.
---- It increases Grimgal's ability to wield Hysh, as well as naturally collecting it.
---- +10 Bonus to casting Light Magic, further +10 Bonus to casting Illumination Spells.

— Zharrok's (and Grimgal)'s Epic Creation of Note, Mantle of Metal
---- A mantle made of gold forged into the shape of Shard Wyrm spines connected by links of Gromril chain, with the largest at the center over the wearer's chest and growing smaller the farther from the front they get.
---- +10 Bonus to Combat and casting Magic. When active, spines are hardened and take on a golden sheen while barely visible golden barrier covers the wearer's body

-- Izgrom length 31.5m by 493 A.P.
— Spines lengthening as well.
— Claws haven't grown as thickly as his siblings, thin and more ductile but still as durable.

-- The increasing dimorphism between them is notable but not a cause for concern right now.

New Runes/ Combos
- Rune of Windsight [Engineering, Prosthetic]: Must be inscribed on items with at least 10 different flawless gems. Items inscribed with this Rune always provide one form of Windsight. Viewing the Winds of Magic as multihued threads of energy superimposed over everything in their field of vision.

Retainers
- +15 Former Valkyrie Guard recruited, new totals: x25
- +8 Masons of Grungni recruited, new totals: x13

23+ 169 =192/240 +1 retainer action

Losses to be calculated.

Khazagar
- [Mid 484] The sheer number of Runesmiths has apparently done the opposite of what you expected. Contests are clogged with contestants, and stores are running empty of reagents. Good problems to have, but problems are problems! Bah. Nothing's getting done with all these dunderheads about. Still, through sheer numbers alone more Runecraft is being made, if not to the same level of efficiency as expected.

- [Early 485] Skalla Honestheart's presence has drawn several other bird-hating Runesmiths to the Hold. These Dawi, united from across any and all spectrums have deemed themselves to be wronged by the Changer, and come to learn Runes that spite it in turn.

Orders
- +1 [Tier 4] Ancient Storm Wyrm's Brain, arriving Turn 60
- +1 [Tier 4] Elder Dragon Ogre Shaggoth's Heart, arriving Turn 59
- +1 [Tier 4] Medusan Cockatrice Eye, arriving Turn 61
- +1 [Tier 4] Ancient Greedy Troll's Heart, arriving Turn 59
- +2 [Tier 4] Elder Wyrm's Blood, arriving Turn 59
-- Item Order Expedited x1 times

- [Tier 2] Slave Wrym Corpses x2 yields
-- +8 [Tier 4] Elder Wyrm's Blood, new totals: x18

- [Tier 4] Ancient Greedy Troll corpse x1 yields
-- +1 [Tier 4] Ancient Greedy Troll's Heart, new totals: x5
-- +2 [Tier 4] Ancient Greedy Troll's Blood, new totals: x6

Favour and Standing
- -60 Favours with Karak Ungor, new totals: 120

- -50 Favours with Kraka Drakk, new totals: 40

- -90 Favours with Kraka Grom, new totals: 110

- +1 Standing, with Kraka Ornsmotek, new totals: Standing 10, Favours 75
-- Standing Bonus received! Standing 10, Here be Monsters: Reduce turn timer on native Far Northern Monster orders by 1. (minimum 1)
— Ex. Trolls, Frost Wyrms, Chimaera, etc. If unsure, ask.

- +1 Standing with [Region] The Far North, new totals: Standing 10
-- Standing Bonus received! Standing 10, Paragon of the Peninsula: All [Region] Far North favour is now interchangeable. All individual Far Northern Hold favour converted to "Far North" favours.
-- [Ancestor] In the event of Snorri Klausson's death, he will be honoured as a Minor Ancestor God in the Far North, a source of pride and wisdom that all Norscan Dwarfs will remember until the ending of the world.

Trait(s) Gained/Upgraded
Snorri
-- Master of the Odd [7/15] > [9/15]

━<><><><==><><><>━​

AN: Hey gang, have a doot. Earlier than I thought, but I think several of us need a bit of fun today. Hope you enjoy, as always don't forget to C&C. :^)

 

[Voikirium]

Kazadazharr

Fortress of Fire

In the Eastern Holds, where the grim dawi of The Dark Lands hold sway and nearest to Barak Zharr, though far enough that in truth it acts more akin to its own settlement, there is a temple of sorts, a place sacred to Gazul of the Flame, who wages an eternal battle against Hashut, god of tyranny, dominance, and fire, ever breaking and yet never quite broken. A small ziggurat of black and red stone one-hundred meters in perimeter and eighty meters tall rising on the plains near the mountain. Sacred stories of Gazul are carved into the stone and inset with blackened iron from the pit where Gazul shattered the dark god Hashut with His mighty blade Zharrvengryn, culminating in the top most altar. Statues depicting Gazul and his most famous followers, sculpted from onyx black and reddest of rubies, have been erected around the walls, practically acting as crenelations and hiding a brazier where one may light their weapon ablaze, fed by hearthstones imported from frozen Norsca and Kraka Drak.

At the top of the ziggurat, there is an ever burning fire housed inside a chamber that is decorated only with a statue of Gazul that seems to spite magic, where suspected servants of Hashut are tried and tested.

It is...unseemly.

It is marked by the Master Rune of Purifying Radiance, given the Blood of an Ancient Ice Dragon; the Rune of Spellburning, fed a Hearthstone; and the Rune of Valaya, sister of Gazul, fed the stomach of a truly antediluvian Cygor to give it an endless hunger for magic. No secret sorcerer of the Bull God may long endure within that place, for their magic itself is burned, lit aflame within their very flesh, as though they've been trapped inside the hottest, fiercest furnace. To be tested there, and found unwanting is the surest sign of purity; to fail, the surest sign of corruption.

Within, a number of chambers house artifacts from the forever-war against the Frundar, things of dark will and black purpose that have not yet or cannot be destroyed or purified by Runesmiths: broken sets of armor, shattered by the blades of priests; scrolls and texts of dark lore of the Bull's cult; and perhaps most damning of all, the work of Grunni Thungnisson, The Wanderer. Among them Zharrgor, the Great Bull of Fire, a bullish Gronti of fire and black gromril that exults in the presence of Chaos; The White Troll Aldurki, a Gronti shaped like a troll; the Chimera abomination Dari, a gronti with the head of a bear, a wolf, and a lion; the wings of a phoenix; and a tail ending in the screaming visage of an eagle; Drengak, a spider gronti made of the hardest steel; The Hunter, an homage to Gazul shaped like that patron made of black granite; among other creations that most infamous son of Thungni sculpted, though we shall return to the nearly-censured in due time.

The chambers of the inner ziggurat are made of blackest stone, insets of rubies of a particularly glimmering red etched into them as prayers to Gazul and as invocations that seek to burn away the darkness, to repel magic and corruption: It was far from Kazaghar but nearer to that place than any other test I have so endured. It bears the Master Rune of Expurgation (Or a near-enough facsimile independently invented anyway) fed the broken remnants of The Bloodstone; The Rune of Valaya given the blood of a Stone Troll, ancient beyond ancient; and the Rune of Enchantment, given the spines of Zanhangron Gor Hierarchs (Aesvarinor to most of the rest of the world), harvested from sheddings rather than gained from their broken bodies. A place designed to spite creatures of magic, a place designed to break the spells of wizards, a place designed to be a fasthold in the perennial war against what remains of the cult of Hashut.

A coterie of Witch Hunters and priests of Gazul lurk in that place, soldiers of The Order of the Flame, the order of Dawi dedicated to rooting out corruption whether spiritual or physical. As the epicenter of the original Hashut incursion, which only the intervention of the Ancestor Gods averted, both metaphysically and in the bluntest possible method, though there are cells throughout the Karaz Ankor, not as subtle as they think from a bird's eye view but subtle enough for their work, those of Kazadazharr are a particular breed. They are capable, of that there can be no doubt, well-armed, doughty, unafraid and experienced; but they are also arrogant, in the manner of all the old, not prone to error but deeply prone to doubling down when they are incorrect.

Still more tolerable than the average Imperial Witch Hunter, of course.

Perhaps the matter most of interest to historians would be that so many artifacts of Grunni Thungnisson, one of the most controversial Runesmiths of the Golden Age, not entirely unlike the mythical Snorri Gift-Giver and his many tall tales, are kept in the fortress, and none can tell whether as trophies of victory or as weapons to be wielded or as yet more corrupt artifacts waiting only for the one that can destroy them. As the name would imply he was a son of Thungni and Vanya, one of the younger of their children (A very relative term given the lifespans placed on the fable of Alric Thungnisson). He was a master of Chaos' esoterica, knowing the signs and symbols, strengths and weaknesses, and facets of the Great Enemy in a way that other members of the Guild did not, to an extent that some considered troubling. This was only further exacerbated by his love of shaping Gronti, which could range from the odd (Who would craft a Giant Spider, never mind a damned troll) to the downright sinister given future events (His masterwork was Zharrgor, the Great Bull of Fire, a Gronti of black Pure Gromril wreathed in flames which given the events that would befall the East, and Gazul's campaigns there, is a positively terrible look). Unkind whispers swirled, even in his own lifetime, about this son of Thungni, and when he disappeared into the east nearing the end of the Great Incursion, those implications became all-but-accusations.

In life and with what scarce writings have been passed to posterity he was, ironically it seems, a staunch conservative of the Runesmith's Guild, deeply holding to the Rule of Pride in particular, if only as means to force himself to discover new, bespoke forms of the Master Rune of Animation to serve his many purposes, a factor his students continue to hold even today.

 

[Voikirium]

Mission 11: Soothing the Grudge

The camp was a flurry of activity, a mosaic of unfamiliar, often unfriendly people gathered today together in common cause to face this darkness down once and for all. Old enmities were pushed aside in so many cases, Kislevites and Bretonnians comparing lances, Spellsingers and Archmages comparing their lore, Dwarfs and Cathayans showing the others their thick armor, a melding together of common, valiant hearts and of the desire for victory. It would be the path forward, outnumbered by the darkness but brought together in a desire for something other than ashes.

"I call horseshit."

"You call everything horseshit, Manling."

Which made the brewing storm at the heart of leadership all the more disquieting.

Surprisingly it was neither Vardanis nor Silval starting a fight with the Dwarf who had summoned them, that ancient old Runelord who nearly everyone had aceded to.

Instead it was a human, an Estalian, a Gale Caller, one of their craft-wizards, her face covered by her wooden, draconic mask, the blue steel around the horns twinkling in the sunlight. Azyr crackled about her, weak sparks, more than most magic could bring about around the Runelord for there was a reason she had claimed that title. Her focuses, from mask to tabard to cloak to deck of playing cards, speak of her story: A street urchin, grown to wander the world and to learn all she could in the doing.

"Snorri Gift-Giver my left foot, how are you to be someone who doesn't exist? 'Ah yes, a mediocrity of a Runelord wandered into Norsca, killed an abomination of a troll, helped integrate casters as allies to the Karaz Ankor and then turned about everything that ever had existed in the Golden Age, culminating in claiming Thungni's hammer even though he's the wildest damn radical imaginable in spite of living in a sclerotically conservative society that only barely managed to hold on in the face of the damned Goblins! Oh, but we'll never ever show verifiable proof, and claim he's just lurking in Khazagar, can't come out and help though!'"

"Mediocrity!" The Dwarf bellows, his lungs straining at the insult to his name. "Long before I went to Norsca I was making wonders that make your shoddy little palmist of a guild leader and all the rest of you Zhufzaki look worse than they already do!"

The skies snarl with the Gale Caller as magic bucks and strains against the one who freezes it at her inner fury. "That's Domina to you, you fading relic! Insult her again at your own peril, particularly when it's basest slander! Why perhaps next you'd like to tell me that Zorn was real-"

--His face splits a little in a smile at the Plaitling making a fool of herself--

--"That Vragni Silverbrand really knew a thousand damned Runes"--

--"That braying ass knew more, in fact"--

--"Yorri the Wanderer was a real figure"--

--"He was my master, you"--

--"Or that Grunni Thungnisson didn't exist because he'd be too embarrassing!"

The smile that had been building fell off the dwarf's face, and his eyes seemed to burn with an inner, ancient light. "How do you know that name?"

It's her turn to smile at that, at knowledge gained and used if for spiteful (perhaps appropriately) ends. "You are not as subtle as you all think you are, and the Chaos Dwarfs tell such stories of that monster maker, the bull who wanders. I think what's more embarrassing is that you all didn't realize exactly what he was."

Snorri breathes, bellicose, furious, bullish breathes, making his nostrils flare even as his fingers clench in his armor and the power constrained within answers to his will. To her credit, whatever else one might say about Leandre Agua (And there has been plenty), she does not shrink away, even as the Runes of power upon his armor, his cloak, his talismans, seem to burn away the shadow as they respond to their maker's will, instead in fact her own power, her own spells, seem to glow with her power, from the playing cards at her waist which flicker and shimmer to her tabbard, the embroidering starting to animate, to come to life, the focuses that are the epicenter of a Windseeker's mysticism, weakness and strength in equal measure, stability and trap.

But Snorri does not swing. Snorri does not roar. Snorri does not boast or rage.

Instead he reaches into his cloak, his cloak that has become a thing of crimson leather and scales of adamant, his armor turned from glimmering gray to a pristine white, the hammer at his side burning now with a new golden fire as he whips another at her from the cloak in his own bit of sleight of hand. Her own instincts, sharpened by the training of a mage, kick in; and her muscles, gained in learning at the feet of ogres, strain but hold as she manages to grasp the weight.

The bigger, of course, is that for all his fury, Snorri is not the kind to kill someone unarmed and without warning (The Gori and The Dumi, of course, aren't people).

But she puts that aside, puts all of that aside to stare at the hammer.

No.

The Hammer.

Karaz-Kazak-Rhun.

She looks it over. One-handed handle made of dark Wutroth, exactly nineteen-point-two-nine-one-three inches as the dwarf had (disgusted by the inferior measurement system) told her. A head and end cap not of Adamant, nor glimril, but of merely Pure Gromril, as a Runesmith even in the Age of Reckoning could claim. Silver wire makes a diamond braided pattern that shines in the sunlight like the Silver Guildhall back home at high noon. The head a piece of Pure Gromril eight-point-two-seven inches (allowing for rounding in this case) from face to claw. The decoration, though simple, is beautiful too, inlaid lines of black Gromril and turquoise sapphires to make images of Valaya the Warder and Grungni the Smith, four spirals down the length of the claw.

Runes, of course. So many Runes. The Rune of Flamecraft, the Rune of Breaking, the Rune of Forgecraft, the Rune of Metalcraft, the Master Rune of Craftsmanship, the Master Rune of Precision, Thungni's Master Rune of Grounding, a thing made to destroy and create in equal measure, and spitefully breaking the rules of His own craft in the process, much as all Ancestor Craft did. What else could be said? Little, indeed, little at all, without risking much, without looking and in the looking losing.

She has seen better work only once before, and not less a divinity for that: Myrmidia's spear, Justus Unguis, the mark of Her Transition from Goddess of Beauty to Goddess of all Civilization, and of war.

"This is..."

"Proof? Irrefutable, unquestionable, proof, that I am no damn liar? Not less than Barak Azamar upon my body, nor Zharrgal at my waist, nor Zharr-A-Drakhazki upon my hand?" His armor is radiant, his armor burns.

A craftsman to another, a windswept peak.

"Never call me a liar ever again."

And with that he stomps off, leaving her alone and watched.

"...I need material."

Objective: Destroy Beastmen Forces for Reagents
-Bonus: Do not make use of Dwarf Units
--
Another thing in the little "AOM Alike" Rts I had proposed.

 

[soulcake]

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

━<><><>< 475 A.P. ><><><>━​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods back in agreement.

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

━<><><>< 477 A.P. ><><><>━​

"Da I—"

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

"pl—"

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

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

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

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

He sighs.

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

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

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

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

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

"Valaya help me," he mutters again.

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

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

━<><><><==><><><>━​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They believed him then.

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

Save one.

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

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

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

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

He can only shake his head in disbelief.

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

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

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

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

━<><><>< 479 A.P. ><><><>━​

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

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head.

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

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

"Damn harpies," she mutters.

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

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

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

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

He can reflect after this battle is won.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But eventually the weight of numbers cannot be denied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

━<><><>< 480 A.P. ><><><>━​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He almost chokes at her promise.

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

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

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

It's a flight helmet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I see.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

Thunder Wing watches her partner and best friend curiously.

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

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

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

But she cannot.

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

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

He turns to regard her curiously.

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

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

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

━<><><><==><><><>━​

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

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

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

Not…this.

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

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

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

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

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

No, things certainly hadn't gone to plan.

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

━<><><><==><><><>━​

His father refuses to stop smiling at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dolgi raises his hands in mock surrender.

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

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

━<><><>< 481 A.P. ><><><>━​

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

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

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

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

Emphasis on most.

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

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

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

That's da's business.

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

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

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

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

━<><><><==><><><>━​

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

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

━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━​

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

Nauvsdeg - Day of Naming

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

━<><><><==><><><>━​

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

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

 

[Voikirium]

Abominations and Ancestors (2/3)

As Fjolla wandered through the snowy forest, feeling the weight of dark magic press against like water, she had to give the abomination this:

The Heart was subtle.

To find the Stomach, beyond asking sobbing, terrified Garazi and interrogating infuriated Fullbeards she could have simply followed the stench of rotting meat and corpses, found a meat tentacle (that, of course, unfolded like a flower to reveal a single eye), started chopping and just not stopped until the thing was dead. Straightforward, if either tedious or difficult, depending on how much a threat such a creature would be to the one who'd slay it.

The Heart, though? That was proving a harder hunt. Perhaps the surest sign she was in the right area was the constant thrum in her ears as magic was pumped to power this creature from eons long since passed, rather in emulation of, well, a heart. Why was it they could never stumble on something friendly in these scenarios--

Fjolla took a second to put her ax through Joll, sending his body to the ground, splayed out. It bled for a moment.

Then it started to break down into shadow and mist and lies.

The other surest sign, that. Constant hallucinations that she was being assailed or attacked by the people nearest to her. It was partially why she was going it alone: Better not to run the risk that she actually end up putting her ax through somebody other than this freakish thing. Just asking for trouble, that.

Besides, she could kill it without any help.

"You keep this up and I swear I'm gonna use some part of you to make a gronti that cleans outhouses," she said. More to fish for a reaction, and to put up a brave front, than for anything else.

Two things were simultaneously true as she walked through the woods, hunting. She could keep it up for as long as necessary, to make sure this bad memory faded; and constantly hallucinating her loved ones attacking her was unpleasant, and seeing their dead bodies was worse.

Not enjoying the nightmares, old woman?

She barked a particularly cruel laugh at the thing as it wurbled out its first comprehensible words in the past hour, though even its communication had to be freakish, of course, talking in her brain (which is some nonsense when, as far as she knows, she's hunting the Heart and not the Brain, yet anyway). "You have no idea what my nightmares look like."

I've peered through them enough to know that's not true, Maggot. I know your heart, and so I'll break it.

"My heart's gromril, beast. You don't have the hammer hard enough."

And it was true.

Much as was true her nose had caught something.

Her uncle can sniff out metal, it's how he found his Gromril mine. Useful.

But her? She can sniff out a good gem. And she has to say there's one right, about--

She reached down and put her armored fingers through the snow and as expected, wrapped them around hard crystal. It's an odd thing alright: Most blood she's aware of comes out bright red then dries to a flaky, unappealing brown. The smell of blood certainly fills the air as she grabs the gem alright, but rather than that red or dried brown it's simultaneously a sludgy brown, chunky purple, pus green, eye-jelly white and not in some kind of slurry way, but rather like oil on water. Vessels connect it to something, covered under the snow. "Blood's never a particularly aesthetic substance, beast, but somehow yours is uglier than most."

STOP!

"No. No, I don't think I will." She grabbed one of the vessels and yanked, pulling it up through the snow and following it. The magical heartbeat started to grow faster and more erratic as she squeezed and journeyed, following it and following it, and most importantly stopping the flow of magic.

And stopping the flow of magic meant the spell the thing was weaving would break.

One second there was nothing, the next it was a crystal larger than three dwards standing atop each other and shaped like a tear drop, split into four chambers, filled with the same vile substance, beating and beating and beating as it swallowed magic. She hefted her ax, but even as she did and as the thing screamed, the false copies of her children and husband and parents and uncle and apprentices and friends--everyone, really, or at least everyone whose opinions she cared about--appeared from nowhere, eschewing the subtle summoning the thing had started with at first for forcing them out. For all they were weak, shoddy copies at best there were more of them than there were her, and for all they were shadows as the new scar on her forehead could attest they were real enough to cut, to slice, to hurt.

I SAID STOP, PREY! CEASE YOUR STRUGGLES, MAGGOT! I WILL TORMENT YOU FOR TEN-THOUSAND YEARS!

In response she hefted her ax and advanced on the one that resembled Snorri first. The thing's copies were acceptable fighters, all told, but she was more than acceptable, as she moved on her heel into range and put her ax through the paper copy of Barak Azamar, but even as she did she was still pressing forward and putting her hammer into Joll's knee, sending the facsimile into his ribs, shifting her armor to catch the blows she couldn't dodge or dispatch in time, she had all of two hands after all.

She was advancing, of course. Slowed, but not stopped, she advanced her way towards the thing's heart, inexorable, fire and contempt filling her alike, because for all she was not yet Snorri City Breaker this thing was no Fimir, no Gori, no Daemon.

Just a monster.

And the Dawi have gotten very good at killing monsters.

THE BRAIN WILL KILL YOU!

"Not if I put my ax through it first."

She kept cutting, kept killing, kept chopping, trying very hard not to internalize certain images, until all at once she stood before the crystalline heart. With no fanfare for a beast that merits none she slammed her hammer into it once, twice, thrice, and it shattered as Conduction forced heat and power through it, making it fall apart like glass.

And all at once, the thing was two-thirds dead.

Now to find the Brain.

 

[BananaBuddy]

"A card game?" I ask.

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

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

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

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

"Aye, why not." I agree.

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

***​

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

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

"Bah!"

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

***​

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

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

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

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

***​

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

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

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

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

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

"Dodge!" I say

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

***​

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

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

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

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

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

***​

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

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

"Don't 'Bah' me Rurik!"

Spoiler: Author Note.

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

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

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

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

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

Oudlers

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

Le 21 – Living ancestor (Beats everything)

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

l'ecart/le chien = Cache

Kings = Kings

Queens = Queens

Knight = Thane

Jack = Ranger

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

 

[Voikirium]

Abominations and Ancestors (3/3)

The snow clearing spun. Bouts of fire erupted from the earth, turning the snow into steam even as hot fissures cracked in the earth and spat hot magical death. They weren't quite Master Snorri's certainly, but there were many, many more sprouting. Perhaps the best argument, in fact, for why it had had to be a really elder Runesmith at least for this particular problem and not just a thane or adventurer with an ax to grind.

Because for all the abomination was turning itself into a maelstrom of magic, it was struggling, intrinsically, with the fact that she repelled magic, by her nature, fortified with the training of a Runesmith and then twice fortified with Luneghal, among many other artifacts and talismans that burned with an inner light so bright it seemed to light the clearing itself. The Brynwand itself shone bright as the forge in the frigid night, the prismatic light glinting off the frozen snow like gems.

The Brain was both more and less insidious than its compatriots. On the one hand, it had returned to the brute force strategy of the Stomach, throwing away the Heart's attempts at psychological warfare in favor of tossing magic around like a drunken beardling tossing around paper after falling.

On the other hand, for one as far as she could tell the Brain was quite simply a better wizard than the Stomach had been, and more cunning too. The first thing it had done was neutralize Guzzazi Zhuf, a burst of syllables and magic that had made the thing spark and twitch, the hearthstones gleaming for a moment before dulling even as she cried tears of blood, felt her ear drums burst and spat out the last meal she'd had before coming out her to kill this thing.

On the other hand, judging by the way the thing had screamed in agony, Thungni, at least, was none too pleased with the thing daring to peak at His wisdom, and the ring was not broken.

A part of her was proud enough to say it simply can't be broken period, and even the most humble part of her, the one most willing to acknowledge her weaknesses, her failures, also has to acknowledge that anything breaking the ring would be a bit more of a lightshow than the relatively simple dulling. Runes did not work that way. With the amount of energy put into the forging, there would not be a clearing, particularly after such a sloppy destruction. Thungni could futz about with that rule, the Brana were maybe careful enough with magic for it, the Elves possibly, but this thing?

No.

So at the least it would work when the thing died, and it had wounded the Brain even merely being disabled, an acceptable trade.

On the other hand, a swathe of her other anti-magic talismans, prepared over a lifetime, had popped in multi-hued sparks that burned to look at, rings carved from bone, a belt buckle (good thing she had a spare), a necklace, marks of a lifetime simply gone, a simple wooden figure carved by her son.

The thing had to die for that alone.

The bouts of fire that were spewing out of the ground followed the path of least resistance, and so with Lhunegal they were forced away, bolts of light launched at the Brain in retaliation. The visions of terror seemed mostly to make the thing fight harder, all the harder, an almost respectable stubbornness, if the thing wasn't a disgusting cannibal and murderer anyway. Spellspite didn't seem to be working on the thing, and Fjolla had a sneaking suspicion why on that account as well: it was simply casting a different spell each time.

Her inner monologue was interrupted as she slapped her palm down, covering the earth. A moment later a vent of super heated water spat out at high pressure exactly where she had covered, only just stopped from drilling through her through the magic of the Rune of Warding.

Another trick in the thing's arsenal. There seemed to be no end to its capacity to shape the environment to its whims, and it was hidden somewhere Fjolla could not find even as it was all around her. The steam was less potent than the fire, but could arise anywhere; the fire was the stronger, but following the path of least resistance meant she'd need to be herded into it.

The Brain did not speak, at least.

On the other hand, the meaty gurgling that filled the air was far from music to her ears.

On instinct she whirled around and slammed her ax into what a knife of ice, not worthy of Brana but they could weigh her down and they seemed to fill the air constantly.

An endless assault, slowly dragging her down. She had scored the beginning victory by searing the thing with Thungni's rage for its desire to steal, but there had been few victories since.

But that victory had given her one crucial advantage, aside from the pleasure of hearing the predator scream.

She slammed her boot down and grinned as she heard the ice and mud and dirt start to break, weakened by the battle.

It gave way, and she landed hard but in control on rough, uneven stone even as rock and ice and mud and bodies and meat fell all around her, a gaping chamber perhaps as large as a living room in the usual dwarf's home.

The Brain was before her, and where the Heart had been crystal and the stomach flesh, the Brain was...other. Almost metallic it seemed, though there was a goopy, black layer of blood dripping it from it, connecting it to the walls. It was seated in repose in the middle of what almost looked like a fire pit, perhaps twice as tall as she was, but thin and gangly, and seemingly made of strands that connected to the walls. It was black, like obsidian, and seemed to reflect the light of fire and torch and who could even tell what else around. But it was not fit to run, leashed as it was by the meaty strands.

"StOp." Its voice was unwholesome, untested, raw, as though it did not speak vocally often.

She advanced, ignoring the thing's words and raising Lhunegal, ready to use it to dash the thing apart and smash it into bits if necessary.

"I have integrated your spite into my very nature."

She continued to ignore the cretins' words, advancing on the abomination.

"Strike me down, and you will die."

She grabbed another necklace, marked with the Rune of Regeneration and the Rune of Warding (see if the lizards could play her the same way twice), and grinned a savage grin. "I'll take that bet."

And indeed, as she struck the first time she felt her ribs pop, only to immediately knit back together.

The second time glimmering Rune light protected her.

The third time she felt her hand crack, the regeneration slow but sure.

Sure enough for her to take up Lhunegal a last time and put it through the thing's top pseudohead.

And by the time she exited, to be met with thanes, the wounds had healed as though they were never there to begin with.

 

[Voikirium]

(Source)

Karstah Snorrisdottir (Rider)
Director Goredolf,

The Christmas Singularity is here! A Santa Challenge, laid down by Skadi to all those who've served as Santa over the years, whether Quetzalcoatl, Karna or Nightingale! And our most obvious contender has summoned his most trustworthy help: His daughter and apprentice, Karstah Snorrisdottir, but perhaps more pressingly, Drakksdottir.
-Ritsuka Fujimaru
"A giant Gronti in the shape of a dragon," Karstah quietly adds, drawing looks from Snorri, Yorri and the two Hearthwardens in the room.

Class: Rider, 5 Star

-The Drakksdottir, first and foremost. The mind that originally proposed Skaudardrengi, the caretaker of Shard wyrms, her connection to dragons is emphasized, double emphasized, and then triple emphasized in this Spirit Origin. Ironically, as the surest sign of her split from her father this is Karstah at her most herself as well in terms of personality, and the one likliest to be summoned, for all she could be summoned as a Caster as a Priestess of Thungni, at the least, or Berserker as Lenasdottir.

Titles: Heir of Klausson, Drakksdottir, Snorrisdottir, Firemane, Lenasdottir

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Attribute: Sky

Parameters:
Strength: B
Endurance: EX
Agility: C
Mana: E
Luck: D
Noble Phantasm: A+

Class Skills:
Magic Resistance: A

-She has the intrinsic magical resistance of a dwarf, further refined in training as a Runesmith, however she lacks the sheer breadth, the sheer grasp, of her father in the matter. For all she followed the path of Windsight set out by Snorri, and for all studied with the Brana, she lacks the esotericism required to be really dangerous. On the other hand, she is a longplait of the Golden Age and on that account ruinous to any magic she does not allow.

Drakksmottir: C

-A particular variation of Riding, born of Karstah having been both the original proposer and designer of the great white beast Skaudardrengi and the one who took care of the trio of Shard Wyrms Izgrom, Zharrok and Grimgal, leaving her capable of not merely riding but of influencing dragons to be friendlier to her, though she is not much for horseback riding. Shuten, Mordred, Elizabeth, they all seem to place much more stock into what she says than they "should" though it's far from an absolute. By that same token, however, dragon slaying attacks, from Georgios, Sigurd, or Siegfried, for instance, do more damage than they should, managing to carve through her armor like a wet paper towel, and not the good stuff either. Furthermore, she herself is a catalyst for summoning other Dragons, hearing her call and answering

Divinity: D

-Like all Runesmiths, a distant relation of Thungni Grungnisson, the mythical progenitor of many Clans and founder of multiple Holds who discovered the art of Runesmithing in the first place.

Personal Skills:

Stout Arm of Brutality: C

-Her Journey brought her into conflict with the Beastmen during the same pivotal campaign that saw Snorri Whitebeard cleanse the Black Mountains of them at the edge of ax and the face of hammer, with fire and fury. They were lessons she never forgot, lessons that make her a nightmare for the beasts of the world, lessons she would show again and again during her life and now that she has been summoned. Her blows unerringly seek out and destroy such taint.

Myth Maker: B

-She raised three Drakks, all of them mages of a sort; taught apprentices to boot, many of whom went on to shape the world itself; as well as making mighty treasures for the Hearth Guard which even now endures, protecting Khazagar in the far north. Suffice to say, she has proven herself one who shapes the myths and the events of the world around her, one way or another, usually for the better.

Usually.

Silver Drakks of the Karaz Ankor: A

-Three Shard Wyrms follow her, three Shard Wyrms influenced by her, three Shard Wyrms kin to her and to her father. The connection is strong, but three such beasts require a vast amount of magic to maintain, more than can be easily drawn up (most of the time, anyway). However, by stockpiling magical energy she can slowly but surely and indefinitely summon Grimgal, Izgrom and Zharrok. As three Shard Wyrms, that is a potent force indeed.

Noble Phantasms:

Skaudardrengi( Screaming Death From the Skies Above)
Rank: EX
Anti-Everything
Range: 100
Targets: 1000+

-The Great Silver Dragon Gronti, the great destroyer of armies, the capstone of Khazagar, Daemonsbane, Foefeller, the titles won in victory could be etched on each adamant scale and you would run out of scales long before victories. Karstah can temporarily summon the beast to kill whatever has the audacity to annoy her, breaking it at the edge of its lightning screams and beating wings, however a longer term summon on the same scale as, for instance, the Triplets requires a bit more doing.

Azrilzhufgotten( No Stone May Block The Path)
Rank: A
Barrier
Range: 1-10
Targets: 1000+

-A banner made of troll hide topped by a troll's skull dipped in silver and marked with the image of fallen Karag Dum and oaths to Valaya to protect the innocent and to take retribution against the guilt. A wreath of bright fire surrounds Karstah's allies, one that offers the best of protection to each individual. Further on the charge her allies are strengthened, and no obstacle may stand before them.

Dwedrakk( The Fruit of Bright Mercy)
Rank: A
Anti-Army
Range: 100
Targets: 1000+

-Karstah summons the three dragons whom she cared for, temporarily feeding them magical energy to bring them to her side. One would be a terrible threat; three makes her a force that can shatter armies and kneel nations if she should so desire. If summoned in such a matter it is deeply temporary taking much of her Contractor's magical energy; if they have been summoned as Servants themselves then they are brought to her position, assuming their master is friendly.

Personality: Not quite a young Karstah, but not really an elder Karstah either. Her rage is still bright and fiery hot, and yet the influence of raising three dragons still shows itself in her. Grasping, acquisitive, desiring to make some mark for herself, that remains the same, as does her loyalty, to her Master and to her newfound Clan, and more beside. Patient and adventurous, wrathful and caring, perhaps the most consistent thing in her is a streak of pity for her fellow orphans and those who ended up without parents, one way or another.

Relationships:

Artoria Pendragon (Lancer)

"Bah! Girl, what in the world are you wearing? Go put your armor back on before you catch your death of the cold!"

"...Very well, elder."

"Turn away for five seconds, and they lose their damn mind, I swear."

Artoria may be the Lion King, may have the goddess Rhongomyniad whispering in her ear--but as certain as night is dark and day is bright, too she has the core of a dragon, and the core of a dragon cannot let her ignore the words of Karstah. She offers more than a little consideration to the words of the Drakksmottir, and allows Karstah to speak to her in a way she would allow few others. For her part, Karstah pities Artoria for casting aside her mortality for the sake of her people, a decision she has seen before and was not overly fond of then, never mind now. She tries to offer advice, council and wisdom to the woman, wisdom she sees as sorely lacking around Chaldea. Why else would an eighteen year old be stuck doing just about everything? I ask the same question, really.

Merlin (Prototype) Lady Avalon

"Unfortunately for you, I haven't suffered severe and irrepairable brain damage unlike the rest of these people. I know exactly what and who you are."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean."

"A lousy teacher, a shoddy teacher, a shameful teacher. Return to Avalon, now."

To a student of the Gift-Giver, a student of an excellent teacher, the behavior of Merlin from that other world is somewhere between shameful and infuriating. A deep veil of loathing falls on her as both student and teacher alike, having heard from Arthur exactly the kind of behavior she indulged in, abandoning him as a lad to try and figure out how to save his people, and she has no patience for it. It is not simply on sight in most cases, it is even simply to know she is around. This is not entirely unlike her relation with Merlin proper, though whatever one may think of his behavior at the least he never abandoned Artoria in the way Lady Avalon abandoned Arthur.

Of course, she may rage so much she's missed more subtle secrets...

Mordred

"Calm down, give her back the sword."

"If she can't keep it, does she deserve to have it?"

"You sure you want to find out how I'll make you give it back?"

"...Fine."

A house and fire. Mordred wants attention, and Karstah is willing to give it if only out of pity that both her mother and her father refused to deal honorably with her, and that has given her power over the Knight of Rebellion, a power few have ever managed to wield. She is one of the few people who can properly discipline Mordred and make her stop acting like an upjumped delinquent, at least for a time. Mordred, for her part, offers thought to Karstah's advice, and gives consideration to the wisdom of her elder, though as the Knight of Rebellion for all her inner Dragon gives credence to Karstah, she does manage to make considerably more of a production out of the whole affair than any of the other dragons do in listening to her.