Snorri Klausson of Clan Winterhearth Complains About Cities and Adopts Three Children
(A Fate/Grand Order Crossover)
If you were to ask Snorri Klausson of Clan Winterhearth what he was feeling at the moment, it would be a rather even split between confusion and grouchiness. Confusion, for he had suddenly awoken in this smoldering, wrecked Hold of a style thoroughly unknown to him, clad in Barak Azamar and Skarrenbakraz with Zharrgal and Karaz-Kazak-Rhun holstered at his hips, and grouchy because the beardlings who must've built this place clearly had no understanding of the proper way things are done!
Look at these buildings! Placed with no rhyme or reason or any consideration to good hold planning! No clear demarcation between zones of business, zones of pleasure, and zones of residence! There weren't any outerwalls! How were you meant to properly defend this place? What's with all the Valaya-damned glass? Not only is that not a sturdy building material, how is anybody supposed to have any privacy? Even if this place wasn't clearly dilapidated and damaged, he'd still be harboring thoughts of taking whichever fool of a beardling plotted all this out over his knee and disciplining them, and he wasn't even a member of the Builders' Guild!
Just about the only thing Snorri could call passable, if you chopped off his arms and legs, wired his jaw shut, restrained him to a slab, and held a razor up to his beard, was the foundations of these strange, tall buildings. They were solid, and were an earthquake to happen, they'd passably keep whatever was built atop them standing upright... for the most part. He doubted all of the damned glass would survive, and it certainly wasn't built to survive whatever brought about that massive gouge running across the hold, like an az-wound chopped into some poor dwarf's arm.
The smell of smoke and ash and death was thick in the air. Magic pressed against his senses. Snorri had some idea of what had brought about this hold's end, and he found himself rather displeased. These people had foolishly let Mages work and live in their hold and suffered the consequences when things inevitably went wrong.
Bah. Just standing around wouldn't solve anything. He had a hold to get back too. If only the smoke wasn't blotting out the sky, then he could figure out which way was North and start walking. Snorri supposed he would have to try and find somebody to shake down for answers. Much to his consternation, Snorri realized quite quickly that he might actually have a moral imperative to stick around and help out to some degree, rather than immediately making his way back towards Dwarfen territory (this place certainly wasn't part of the Dwarfen Holds, not with its shoddy construction). That reason was the rampant necromancy. Within ten minutes of wandering, Snorri had turned a blind corner and come face-to-face with a gaggle of skeletons, wielding swords made of bone and... not having any skulls, for some reason, just the jaws. They certainly weren't Dwarfen skeletons, their frames were much too tall and skinny. The closest things Snorri could draw comparisons to were those human bodies he had seen in his raids against the Fimir and the Elves.
Putting some thought into it, Snorri concluded that these were bespelled human skeletons, and that he was in a hold of humans, not Dwarfs. The Elgi, he knew, lived amongst trees, and Snorri had not seen a tree around for kilometers.
Thankfully, the skeletons were as fragile as he expected them to be. Unfortunately, he had encountered almost a throng's worth of skeletons so far, and not a single living being. This entire hold might've been enveloped by fell magics... in which case, it was his duty as a proper Dawi to see all of these poor souls properly laid to rest, so that whatever Gods these people worship may properly shepherd these lost souls to their rightful places.
His ears, sharpened and honed as the ages went by, picked up the sounds of metallic clanging and shouting. Those skeletons didn't have any metallic weaponry, so those noises must belong to living souls. Thank the Ancestor Gods, some folk still live... although the damned wazzocks apparently fell to infighting instead of banding together like right-thinking Dwarfs...
Bah! Beardlings! They must be beardlings and plaitlings. Foolish youths, falling apart without any elders to guide them. Snorri immediately pivoted towards the clamor, pumping his legs faster. Damned buildings, so many blind corners.
As he rounded a corner, he finally caught sight of the fight. The first thing he noticed was that his earlier hunch was right. This was definitely a human hold, for those were definitely humans he was seeing in front of him. The second thing he noticed and cataloged were the two sides of this spat: closer to him was a group of three. Two noncombatants and a combatant. Snorri's brow furrowed as he felt the humming of magic around the fighter. The waif was up against two others, both of whom had the buzz of magic surrounding them.
Bah! At least one of the foolish mages had enough sense in their head to protect the humans affected by their big screw-up...
The third thing Snorri noticed was...
Bah. Bah! BAH! BAH! What in Grungni's hallowed name was he looking at?! That waif-mage was lugging around a shield as big as she was! She was smacking her opponents with it! She had no proper weaponry, and she wasn't even wearing armor! Her opponent was swinging around a farming tool! That was meant for reaping your wheat, not drenging, you fool! It said something sorry about the state of the warriors in front of him if the only person even close to being properly armed was wielding daggers! Daggers, of all things! Bah, bah, BAH!
Snorri broke out into a sprint, making sure Zharrgal was grasped firmly in his hands. May Valaya give him the wisdom to properly guide these younglings to safety... and actual armor and weaponry. If you were to ask Mash why she was about to be gutted like a fish, she'd tell you it was because she had no training in the art of combat. Oh, sure, she was certainly accumulating a good deal of experience throughout today, but actual training? No, she had no such thing to go off of, only her instincts. That's not even considering Ritsuka's inexperience as a commander.
Was this an excuse? No, not at all-- well, okay, it was an excuse, a very reasonable one in her mind, but that wasn't how Mash was intending these thoughts. Rather, it was more an explanation as to why Mash was about to have her stomach and chest opened up like a pair of doors with a scythe. The shadowy Assassin had thrown her and her shield off-balance, and the Lancer capitalized on Mash's weakness with all the ferocity and speed of a wolf. Not that she had ever seen a wolf, what with living in a secret facility in the Antarctic, but she had heard that wolves were vicious little things...
As the scythe swung down, Mash squeezed her eyes shut and tensed her shield arm as tight as she could, hoping that somehow, someway, she could swing the giant slab of magical metal into position to block the blow.
CLANG!
"Wh-What?!"
Hmm. How curious. That was certainly the sound she expected to hear if she miraculously managed to interpose her shield, but the sensation of pressure against her limb, of it being pushed backward by force, was distinctly missing.
Mash opened her eyes to see a thick, heavy mallet slam into the gobsmacked face of Lancer, the Servant being thrown backward by the force of the blow. Mash looked down at her savior... and goodness, it felt so strange to have to look downwards. Servants, in her mind, were all tall figures, whatever other qualities they may have. They were quite literally the incarnation of larger-than-life figures, of heroes. Never had she ever expected such a figure to be shorter than her, even while wearing armor.
Yet even as the figure raised their hammer, head alight with golden flames with just a hint of teal, and swung, sending a fireball sailing towards the Assassin, Mash couldn't help but fixate on the fact that her savior didn't even reach her shoulders.
"M-Mash, focus!" Ritsuka called, drawing Mash from her trance. "They're still--"
"They're about to find out why I've managed to live through three wars." her savior interjected, voice wisened and clear. "Unless these foolish youths wish to put down their... weapons and surrender?"
The two enemy Servants collected themselves, tense and ready to strike. Mash watched as Lancer picked herself up off of the ground, the anger in her face swiftly turning into smug superiority as she took in the new factor in play.
"Hmph. Me, surrender? You're far out of your league, old man." Lancer readied her scythe and crouched, legs tensing. "That armor won't save you when I put effort into my swing." Mash flinched at the jab to her combat ability. Was she truly losing to an opponent who hadn't even put in any real effort?
Lancer sprung forwards. "NOW DIE-- OOF!!" Mash's savior rammed his shoulder into Lancer's gut, and Mash watched on, stunned, as several things happened all within mere moments. A construct formed out of the asphalt, leaping forward to tackle Assassin to the ground and start pummeling it. The old man in immaculate armor threw Lancer to the ground and slammed his hammer down on her skull, just as the stone-- er, asphalt golem brought both fists down upon Assassin's. Both Servants vanished in flashes of golden light.
Her savior watched on in silence for a moment or two, the golem smoothly standing and making its way over to his side. "Bah. Magic," the short old man muttered as he shook his head, quiet enough that Mash probably wouldn't have heard if she wasn't a demi-servant herself. Her savior finally turned around to face her and Ritsuka and Director Animusphere, somehow seeming to loom even as he directed his stony gaze upwards at them.
"Are you alright, younglings?"
The End
Initially, I intended for this to feature a POV from Ritsuka, who would be characterized as a stressed out internet kid who's teetering on the edge of having a breakdown and rapidly losing his patience for Olga and her bullshit, but it felt like it was starting to drag on. Maybe I'll make another one covering Olga's and Ritsuka's perspectives.
Anyways, in regards to Snorri bodying Lancer and Assassin... well, first of all I would like to state that my only experience with the Fate Franchise is the first three or so chapters of Fate Grand Order and thus I don't really know the sorts of feats Servants have demonstrated throughout the franchise. I'm operating mostly on osmosis'd information and Vibes™
From what I understand, Fate Grand Order had an awful lot of power creep when it came to Servant power levels. In Fate Stay Night, Servants were like... the upper end of Street Level? I think? Like, leveling entire neighborhoods/cities with one use of a Noble Phantasm is supposed to be an example of the very high end of Servantdom, not the middle of the pack. So since Shadow Servant Assassin and Lancer!Medusa are based on Fate/Stay Night Servants, I had Snorri body them because this guy has fought armies worth of opponents and won handily. Like, if Snorri with Barak Azamar equipped can survive being melted/fused with his armor in the center of a storm of magic, I sincerely doubt anything Shadow Assassin or Medusa Lancer could do would damage him in any significant capacity, unless a Noble Phantasm was brought into play. We'd have to bring one of the extra-bullshit Servants like Karna or... begrudgingly Gilgamesh, I suppose, into play before I start thinking Snorri might actually have to worry about getting got.
[Semi Canon] The Burning Forge, +15 to a Roll, There is a Fimir with a Grudge
Bright fire burned in the stone pit. Mystical energies folded, forced, fed into the flame. Brightest Aqshy, fiercest Aqshy, a screaming furnace to forge the brightest, hottest metal. To imbue it with Power, force, might. A sharp eye turned upon it, an old eye, a wise and able eye. Aged and learned in secrets held to death, secrets held to oath, secrets held to the end. Secrets not to be shared with the unworthy. Secrets beyond the ken of the common folk, secrets beyond the comprehension of the common folk.
The Dirach raised his hammer.
Akhash'Ksy, Blood Guardian, awaited.
A blade, sharp and hard. A sword, as the knife-ears pranced about with. A sword swathed in mysticism, a sword swathed in the knowledge gained by centuries. The black steel thrummed as he shaped it and gave it form and substance, gave it mass and weight. He saw it in his mind's eye, saw the devastation, saw the one, single, chance for victory. And to that he shoved power, raw, unthinking power, Dhar as black as pitch, as black as night, as black as obsidian, into the steel until it was all but saturated, groaned it settled, groaned as it expanded, groaned as he made it hold, groaned as his will constrained and shaped and forced magic into submission and compliance.
Pressed on all sides by foes. Attacked by Slaan and Elf and Dwarf alike, dragon fire streaming from the skies to burn out entire cities. So many kin lost, turned to ash and dust. So many kin, to be forgotten if he should die here.
So he would not die. They would not die. They would live on in his memory. The cities would live on, and bear their touch. He swore it, to the Four, to a mother perished, to a father gone, to brothers dead and lost and to children sacrificed.
A tall, broad thing, a cleaver more than anything else, he saw it in his mind's eye. The steel answered to his song as he worked it into shape, a thing made to cut through armor and flesh with equal ease, weighted to concentrate the force precisely to the edge so that it crumple thin plates of gromril and ithilmar as easily as he could cut through roasted flank. No elf nor dwarf would ever manage to bear it, only the incomplete project to the east or the damned Kroxigor could even lift it never mind find it. Sigils he inscribed, invocations of protection along the single edged blade. It was straight of edge, the spine reinforced and thick, to be layered with power stones. One from every Wind, gained at great expense either from other crafters or as spoils from the isle to the west.
To be layered with death.
As he pounded the steel on the hard stone of the anvil, of the Sanctuary, of the consecrated place. He whispered prayers. To the Four, of course.
An invocation of Khorne the Warlord, to make the bearer able and fierce in battle.
To Slaanesh the Artist, to make it keen, to grant him focus, even as he felt the Daemons bucking and braying for his soul.
To Tzeentch the Wizard, to allow that he should fold the magic ably, craft the enchantments well.
To Nurgle the Enduring, to make it strong.
But he prayed to more than that. He prayed to all that he could.
To Malal, who hates all, to make it a conduit for his feast.
To Necoho, to make it cleave the perfidious work of a so-called deity.
To Zuvassin, to undo the works of the lesser craftsmen.
He would have offered prayers to any willing to hear him.
Any and all he called, with one goal: to hurt the enemy. To make them suffer. To break them. To take victory in blood and ash.
His smithy sang with the chorus of daemons and the screaming of magic as he gave it power and focus and clarity, as he shaped it into being, as he created this: A blade so sharp and so fierce and so terrible that it would cut the Old Ones if it but struck, a blade so sharp and fierce that even the City-Breaker would know its bite, a blade so sharp and fierce that even the Defender would bleed, a blade of such potent ability that none, not even the Skyborn Slayers would ever, ever manage to defy it. A thing to shape fates, a thing to defy the End, a thing to gainsay destiny itself. They swore it, the voices of things from beyond, they swore to him, and to him alone they promised victory. So he continued to spit magic, to spit dhar into it.
As he invoked he finished the blade, the sigils of contempt, the sigils of loathing, the sigils of power having melded and shifted and moved at some point to become a proper frescoe, engraved into the steel, showing the Otherworld, showing the Fimir victorious.
Wishful. But either he would succeed, or it would not matter would it, for they'd all be dead.
He began to shape the hilt as the steel remained molten. He let the voices of daemons guide him as he forged, shaped, worked and wrought it. It would be a fairly simple thing all told, really more akin to a haft than his usual hilts. A long piece of bone from one of the dwarfs griffons, already saturated with Azur, a lightning white. He carved holes into it, divots fit to hold jewels, divots fit to hold power, four of them that circled around the hilt.
Around one divot he layered brass, and that brass he shaped to resemble a scowling wolf's head.
Around another, pink gold, scored and shaped and carved and marked to resemble a coiled serpent, eating its own tail.
A third he carved into the bone, and a third he lined with blue coral, and from the coral trailed the mark of the wizard.
The fourth, a ring of emerald shaved to look like an open maw.
And into these four divots he laid glass orbs, of red and purple and green and blue, that shuddered and if you held your ear to them you could hear the bellicose cries of Daemons enraged.
He ignored them, ignored them all, to as he planted each one carefully into the sockets, allowed gravity to keep them close to the long, thin bone.
But yet he was still not done. For a last stone there was, more terrible than the others.
He beheld it and grasped it.
Not mere Warpstone. The Chittering Ones would claim that yet, it was not his time for it.
No.
No, it was a bright jewel like the sun, a bright and hot thing that danced from a solar yellow to a vibrant red to a shimmering orange. Carved to resemble an unblinking eye, carved to resemble the end.
Taken in...sacrifice. Taken at cost.
He ignored the cost though, ignored everything for the sake of revenge, as he pressed the gem of One-Eyed Balor against the hilt and heard sizzling and roaring as the heat made it begin to melt into the bone, mold with it, even as he prepared to slide the hilt onto the blade itself and the vat of King's Blood boiled...
[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 [T4 Radiant Pegasus Blood + T2 Dragon Essence], Rune of Lightspite [T4 Radiant Pegasus Blood], Rune of Echoblow [T4 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: 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: T4 Cockatrice's Eye [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order: Slave Wyrm Corpse #1 [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order: Slave Wyrm Corpse #2 [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order: 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: T4 Lightning Oriented upgrade to Stonehorn Horns [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order: 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 Elder 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]
Thungni's Brilliance, DC 80: 34, 13, 21
Peerless Production, DC 40: 82, 42, 67
━<><><>< 487 A.P. ><><><>━
You look at the orb in your hand, now cool enough to touch, and quietly contemplate what it represents.
A hollow sphere of Gromril that, like your first Windsight eye, has an opening for light with the Rune of Windsight inscribed on the inside wall opposite it. Ten rhombus cut gems have been embedded around the hole of the iris like the petals of a flower and ground flush with the metal. The surface is covered in flowing knotwork, ten lines originating from the back of the sphere on the other side of where you inscribed the rune, going out in varied paths before they end up framing a jewel each.
How so small a thing could represent the defeat of such a fundamental obstacle to your craft would make you chuff in amusement were you not so intimately aware of the centuries of personal effort, let alone the millennia of institutional efforts, behind it.
You're apprehensive.
A thousand fears and a thousand dreams circle around in your head endlessly, threatening to send you down a long, long spiral of introspection if you entertained even one of them.
So you don't.
Without another moment to get lost in your worries again, you place the prosthetic into your waiting eye socket.
━<><><><==><><><>━
"With me Hearth Guard, to Grimgal!" Karstah roars, pulping the head of a bloodletter with a swing of one of her hammers. She watches the body fall, already falling apart into a puddle of evaporating gore before a flash of blinding light, followed by a terrific screech of pain, draws her focus.
Looking away from the corpse of her foe to glance at the Shard Wyrm, deep in the Fimir lines and wreaking terrible havoc from the sounds of it. Every so often a flash of lightning slams into the earth farther up ahead as the High King slaughters his way through the Fimir leadership, other times the swooping form of Prince Malekith's mount flies low, spitting flame and death among the Fimir lines before disappearing into the clouds above. Both moments only seem to incense Grim, and make the dragon push forward harder to keep up. But unlike the High King or the elf Prince, her charge didn't have a way to get out of there if things got hairy.
The sound of whistling air and her own instincts give Karstah just enough time to raise her other hammer up to block the swinging glaive of a Fimir warrior.
Grunting, she twists her weapon around so that the greathammer's head hooks in, and she can yank the weapon out of his hands.
More wroth than anything over being unarmed, the warrior pulls out a wickedly pointed warpick and rushes her, shield raised.
Training with Dreng to wield her hammers was a painful and often sad state of affairs. Even decades into it, she still finds herself flat on her arse every nine bouts out of ten whenever she duels the Living Ancestor.
But it is paying off.
The one lesson Dreng had drilled into her head over anything else was that her weapons were still greathammers. Even when both were balanced to be carried like a one-handed war hammer, they were still the size of weapons normally built for two hands. And that meant they had the appropriately long handles that gave her the variety in reach that she could put to good use at the right moment.
Like now.
With a yell she lets her hand slide down Drakkgrund mid-swing just as Dreng taught her, adjusting the distance so that the hammer's head swings past a Fimir's raised shield and slams into his shoulder, cooking flesh and cracking bone.
The whoosh of a bolt passes by her left, slamming into the agonized Fimir's eye and through the back of his head.
Dwarf portable Bolt Hurlers, like their siegeweapon sized counterparts, were slower to reload, but packed a far greater punch. Morgrim's gift, first given to the Engineers of the North as the Endrinkuli serving her master gleefully point out to the southerners in the Drangthrong, before heading to Everpeak.
"Right in the eye Daril! Just like I told you! That's drinks on you now Wazzok!" one of her retainers yells gleefully, Daril's grumble of displeasure intelligible despite the din of battle.
Before Karstah can say anything, a new groaning roar echoes over the battlefield.
Turning to its source, she sees a great cloud of fog bulge and deform as the looming shadow from within begins to tear its way through it, more of that same low roar rippling out like a horn over the battlefield.
"To me! We head towards that cloud Hearth Guard! I've a mind to put a stop to theFimir's scheme before it can begin," she orders, adjusting her grip on Drakkgrund before raising it high, "Forward! The Ancestors witness—!"
━<><><><==><><><>━
—you this day.
Because you have done it.
There's no grand revelation, no great chorus of voices proclaiming victory, or anything of the sort that happens when you put in the prosthetic of course.
In one moment you saw the world as you have for over one-thousand years.
Then in another, you do not.
A part of you expected a sense of wrongness, like the time you stuck on a prosthetic arm to give yourself an extra limb, but nothing of the sort manifests.
If anything, it's a bit anticlimactic, but then again reality could never hope to match the image in your mind.
You see the Winds of Magic in their totality now. You see them with a level of detail and clarity that is beyond the bright lights of your old eye. You can see them coil and suffuse everything in your workshop.
How they congregate around that which calls to their nature.
How the different strands come close, mingle and even entwine with each other without ever mixing.
How the stone resists and serves to mostly confine the currents to the space of the room, but not so much that the individual Winds can't permeate through at differing speeds.
How your Runes interact. From creating volumes of empty, clear space around themselves, deadening and stilling whatever is nearby and/or pulling the strands in to fuel themselves, the Winds seemingly losing color as they are consumed.
You begin to walk towards a nearby Rune—to go and use the Rune for the very reason you wanted to pursue this knowledge in the first place—when an idle thought runs through your mind that makes you pause mid-step.
Your old eye showed living beings as amorphous masses of light, colored by the most prominent Winds within their bodies. Most often a mostly equal mix of all eight with a slightly higher portion of Ghyran or Ghur, save for a few edge cases like Grim, Zharrok or a Wizard. All of your sources agreed however, that there was a distinction between the soul and the Winds. They were related as almost all believed that both ultimately came from the Aethyr, and the latter was a constituent part of the former, but they were emphatically not the same. From your research you also knew it was possible for a Zhufokri with sufficiently developed Windsight to read the emotions, intent, even the very souls of others with perfect clarity. Ignoring the part about how a soul appeared to a wizard was perhaps even more individually unique than the different manifestations of the seventh sense itself, you also strongly suspected that such a level of detail was most certainly in the realm of a Master Rune, and that many of the details they described were likely locked behind the same restrictions as thematic vision. At the very least you knew you couldn't even read the mood of others with your old eye like even the most middling of mages apparently could, let alone see into the depths of their soul.
But maybe your new eye could?
Even if it wasn't really what you made the Rune for, seeing any improvement would be a nice surprise.
So with that in mind, you look down at your hands, expecting little, only to blink in surprise.
You see the Winds of Magic; both from the environment and inside yourself. The energy outside moved as fast as molasses and only got slower the closer it got to you until most of it stopped good two meters away from where you stood. After that only a few stray whisps break past the invisible barrier and continue to sluggishly crawl towards you. In comparison, the Winds you see within yourself move much faster, but in a way that is slightly more orderly than the currents outside; bands of color rising from your skin temporarily before sinking back into you and disappearing from sight. Where both sources meet, you see the Winds make a brief connection before the outside is buffeted away by some invisible force.
That alone would have been more than enough to satisfy you.
But there was also something else.
Every so often there's a flash of something translucent that appears for a moment before it's obscured by your—well—you. An instinctive flex of your fingers gives you pause, and after a few more repetitions you wonder if you're hallucinating.
Was that—?
You move your hand closer to your face, and to your disquiet you see a ghostly reflection of your limb, covered in veins of gold like, move to where your mind wants it to go before it's obscured by your physical limb.
Curiosity and trepidation bloom into your mind, causing a wisp of dull grey Ulgu to flicker up from you like steam.
"What in the—"
━<><><><==><><><>━
"—name of the Ancestors was that?" a Hearthwarden mutters.
"A damn freak of nature is what," one answers bitterly, leaning on his crutch.
"Drakk," another says grimly.
Even rendered to nothing more than offal and ground meat the corpse is large, larger than Grimgal even. In life it had the bodily proportions of a Shard Wyrm, but beyond that little else was similar. Regular, if horribly maintained, scales covered the length of its body, with patchy matted clumps that looked like hair at some point randomly scattered along its spine that became tangled in a mass of uneven, disjointed and broken horns. The most defining feature of the drakk's head though, wasn't the halo of horns nor the maw of equally mishapen and mutated teeth that was eerily reminiscent of the Fimir.
No.
It was the large, cyclopean eye.
An eye that was so full of dark magic that, even in death and after it had been destroyed, putrid black smoke wafted off the socket like the worst sort of steam and black while black, viscous blood dripped down and polluted the ground.
The Fimir had brought it out from the fog near the battle's end. Perhaps as a desperate final gambit to turn the tide, but from the way it killed its handlers as readily as it did Dawi and Elgi, was more likely a spiteful final act against them. It had crashed into their lines and tore open a ragged hole in the shield wall. An entire company of warriors, all Longbeards, had been subjected to the paralytic magic of its gaze, rendered unable to move out of the way of its flesh melting breath attack or scream as they were rendered into piles of viscera -covered armour in a puddle of caustic acid.
A further three companies of elves and dwarfs had died or been maimed from swipes of its claws and its fang-filled maw, sending bodies flying as it continued its rampage. The number of casualties was, in the grand scheme, a rather small amount of damage for something so large, but that was only because it had been challenged by something of comparable size.
Grimgal.
The eldest Shard Wyrm triplet had immediately changed course and charged at the Fimir's creation the moment it appeared, delayed only by the mass of enemy bodies she had to cut down to reach it. When they had gotten close enough, she fired a beam of light magic that had grabbed both the monster's attention and ire.
Karstah had watched it turn to face then charge at Grim in turn. Saw the two behemoths barrel past whatever unfortunate thing was standing between them as they ran headlong into each other, heard the loud thudding crush and smack of flesh and metal as almost forty meters of armoured Shard Wyrm slammed into this unique and even larger specimen of a Slave Wyrm.
And she had watched Grimgal lose that ensuing battle.
Slowly and not without taking her own pound of flesh from her enemy, but losing all the same. Blows that tore through a fully armoured Fimir noble barely scratched its iron armour, lances of purifying light that could pierce centimeters of steel and deform Gromril were shrugged off and the wounds healed over by ugly weeping scabs.
They had rushed over to intervene, both to shore up the shield wall and aid her charge.
Together with the Heard Guard, Grimgal finally managed to hold the Fimir's monster in its place and turn the tide somewhat. Even managing to blind it, tearing out its eye with her maw before it sent her thudding to the ground with a strike of its tail. Victory though, was out of their grasp.
At least until the High King and Prince Malekith arrived and slew it for good.
The ultimate cost had been three dozen injured Hearthwardens, and only one death.
Thrimbold Gorsbane, Elder of Clan Bryggeroot and one of the first inductees into the Hearth Guard, had died distracting the beast from finishing off a dozen young warriors that had bravely and foolishly charged in to aid them. Continuing to fire his crossbow and shout obscenities even as the Drakk crushed his legs with its tail and grabbed his broken body in its claw. The Living Ancestor even had the spite to laugh mockingly when it failed to crush him, unable to deform the Runed Gromril armour he wore.
It was the beast's caustic breath that finally did him in; overpowering the already overtaxed Runes that were keeping him alive, and causing his flesh to melt and fall away to reveal bone that fared only slightly longer. It had happened quickly enough that he didn't have the time to suffer at least.
Gone in less than three heartbeats.
A cold comfort.
Where once was a living Ancestor six centuries old, a great grandfather of eight and pillar of his Clan and community—
— was now nothing more than a pile of Runed Gromril equipment in a puddle of unspeakable liquids.
She had watched it happen, the blows of her hammers doing little to distract the monster.
He had died saving others, just as Lord Truthteller and so many other elderly Dwarfs did she found. Short of simple time finally doing one in, dying in such a way was one of the worthier ways for a Dwarf to die.
But it felt like—no it was, nothing more than posthoc justification, like the one her people gave every other death. Pretending the bitter taste on their tongues was ale and not the hemlock it actually was.
"My Lady," a Hearthwarden, Daril she recalls, calls to her, "the High King wants to have a word if you have the time."
She lets herself linger on Thrimbold's remains for another second before she turns away, squaring her shoulders and nodding at the Hearth Guard in thanks.
"We'd best not keep him waiting then."
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You aren't normally one to indulge in people watching when there are other things to do. It was as textbook an example of wool-gathering as you could find after all, and was solely the realm of open gossips and rumour mongers.
And like any good elder of your people, you were an inconspicuous gossip and rumour monger.
More than that, most people don't want you to look at them despite what they may otherwise think.
Getting your attention required they do something extraordinary after all.
And for most people, it was more likely than not extraordinary in the way they cocked up what should be simple and straightforward tasks.
But you'll make an exception this time.
Trying to look at your own soul is an exercise in frustration after all.
So instead you pop out of one of your many hidey-holes that criss-cross Khazagar—far away and well hidden from everyone on account of the fact that it's several meters in the air above a statue of Thungni— and settle in to look at the crowds that walk Khazagar's walls.
You believed that seeing souls with a great level of clarity was beyond your Rune, because every text you read made it clear that only wizards with the most sensitive and highly developed Windsight could manage it.
Which makes it a surprise for you to see the souls of these other Dawi with such, perhaps disappointingly mundane, clarity.
No amorphous blobs that were only vaguely the shape of a person or masses of emotions and memories. Instead you saw the souls of most of your fellow Dawi as nothing more than semi-transparent versions of themselves that walked in almost perfect lockstep with their physical bodies.
They weren't all a perfect match or equally clear of course. Several Dawis' souls looked like an older or younger version of themselves from what you could tell, those who lacked physical limbs were curious, their souls often varied between looking whole or mirroring their physical forms and lacking the same body parts, with clouds of Chamon over their prosthetics. The Runesmiths piqued your curiosity the most, though you couldn't see with enough clarity without getting caught, you noticed that they too had specks and veins of gold running through their bodies.
The memories of your discussions with Blizzardwing come unbidden.
She had described your people as stone, and Runesmiths as rocks that bore ore. And funnily enough, that lined up rather well with what you saw here.
It could be nothing more than coincidence, but when you dealt with magic that was rarely ever the case. The most workable theory you had was that the Rune conveyed the Winds of Magic through a distinctly Dwarfen lens, and that you hadn't so much as removed the individually unique nature of Windsight but moved it from the individual to the Rune itself. It was an idea that lined up well within the existing framework of Runecraft at the very least, and barring Windsight completely upheaving those theories, it was the most grounded by evidence.
If every different method of inscribing a Rune resulted in an entirely new Rune, then in reality every new variant of the Rune of Windsight would be individually unique. But at the very least these unique forms could actually be shared, unlike those of the elves or brana.
A variant of this theory was that the Rune of Windsight actually pulled from the collective metaphysical psyche of Dwarfkind to determine how it presented Magic to its user.
That though, brought up questions that quickly started to tackle with the nature of time and was best left for when you were either very bored or very drunk.
The second most likely possibility was that you simply were that good and managed to create a Rune that mimicked someone with highly developed Second Sight.
Bah.
You relegated that sort of monumental hubris to the goals and expectations you set for yourself.
Snorri Klausson will prefer his ale warm and flat before he would ever be anything but brutally, critically, honest of his own work.
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Rudil looks at the shrouds blankly. Some are whole, others are in pieces. They are the lucky ones, the ones who had left anything behind.
Sixty Hearth Guard and, at King Dorr's insistence, one hundred and twenty Ornsmotek warriors marched into the lower Deeps of the Hold to slay the thing that had been terrorizing the Hold's miners.
In a few short years they had lost forty of those warriors and ten Hearthwardens.
He knows each one, knows how they died.
How he failed them.
His first mistake was believing the enemy was a beast. The bodies found had been savaged, and the targets just outskirt operations or the occasional prospecting group never returning from an expedition.
Rudil had bid the Hearth Guard lead the search and scout the tunnels, taking a third of the Ornsmotek warriors with them while leaving the others to defend and patrol those tunnels they had vouchedsafed.
That had ended when three squads were found dead within a span of two days.
He recalled everyone, and spread out the Hearthwardens to lead groups of their younger allies.
Even now he can't tell if his foe was just adapting and finding a new opportunity or if the entire thing was intentional action.
Regardless, that was when his own men had started dying.
Daggi; dragged into the dark only to be found in pieces by the terrified Ornsmotek Dawi he was assigned to lead.
Ketil and a half dozen others, taking an axe between the shoulders despite standing back to back in a circular formation.
Dargo, killed by a granite boulder that came from a ceiling that showed no signs of structural failure and was made from Limestone.
Starki had given them the first clue as to this monster's identity at the cost of his life. Based on the arrangement of corpses, their best guess was that he had been the first target, cut in half with a single stroke, before the attacker went and picked off the others as they ran back to camp, not realizing the stubborn old goat was alive. He had likely crawled to the nearest wall and begun writing on it with his own blood before the killer came back and finished the job, cutting off his arm at the elbow and was in the middle of smudging out most of the word before backup arrived.
Had they been even a few seconds later, he was sure that there'd be nothing for him but a bloody wall and a dead friend.
Eleven Dawi had died, and all they got for it was a half smudged letter "M."
After that, Rudil had realized that keeping the Ornsmotek Dawi here would only lead to their early demise. So he had led the party back to the Hold, not foolish enough to break into two groups, and relayed his suspicions to the King before marching off with just the Hearth Guard in tow.
Many would argue that lessening their number wasn't the smart move to make. But he would argue that 80 untrained and underequipped bodies to defend would only spread out his warriors more thinly. Better that they remain tight and cohesive and better prepared against an enemy that seemed to only take opportunities to pick them off one by one. Quality over quantity.
And in hingsight, it meant he had less deaths on his conscience.
He had attempted to be more prepared, modified his plans according to his suspicions. Norgrim and the rangers were pulled back to tighter perimeters, fewer, and larger scouting parties, watch rotations randomized and the number of sentries doubled.
It only made their enemy more obvious, but no less deadly.
Storris Longnose and Blackbrows, found half a meter from each other by the sentries that were meant to relieve them, died from deep wounds to their chest that left their armour Runes drained but the plate physically untouched.
Cormak had managed to shout in alarm before a blade found itself in his gut, but his death was delayed when Rogni rushed to his aid.
The former was beheaded for the attempt, before the attacker went back and finished off Cormak..
Rudil was almost sure by that point.
But these last three had made him certain beyond doubt.
Zammin was found half embedded in the rock, his face a rictus of anger and despair, hands frozen clawing at the stone.
They had to crack open the boulder to find Thingol.
And Vikken.
They had joined the Huskarls under King Otrek together. Sworn into service in the same ceremony in fact.
Both had survived the Siege together, stuck as partners guarding the way to their Granduncle's workshop.
Then, when their Granduncle announced the formation of the Hearth Guard, the two of them had been the first to be accepted.
Only for Vikken to be slain by his own shadow.
"Rudil," Norgrim grunts out, smart enough not to pat him on the shoulder, "it's time."
He doesnt reply verbally, but Rudil does turn his head to nod at a patiently waiting Logain.
The priest of Gazul returns the gesture and steps forward, beginning the process of giving Vikken his last rites.
Normally their dead would be carried home, afforded the respect usually reserved for Nobles and Runesmiths of being entombed with their kith and kin leaving this world beneath the same stones they had entered it under.
But Rudil can't guarantee the safety of his subordinates even when they're at full battle readiness in these tunnels, let alone when several of them would be occupied carrying the dead.
Much as it galls him, dishonours him, Vikken, his cousins and friends must be buried here.
His vengeance was for the dead, but his duty was to the living.
━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━
Riluzkuldrakk - Lit. "Brilliantly shining skull Dragon/Monster"/ The Bright Death
Zhufokri - Lit. "Current/Torrent Craftsman"/Mage/Wizard
━<><><><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!
-- The ability to see the Winds of Magic is no longer outside the grasp of your people. Everything is different now. (Information hidden by Windsight will be revealed when appropriate/asked, otherwise I'd be stuck updating information for days)
— Souls appear as translucent versions of the mortal's body with a few minor visual differences that likely reflect their self-perception.
— The Winds of Magic appear as a layer of multi-colored trails and bands superimposed over reality.
-- Rune complete! Rune of Windsight: (see New Runes/Combos)
-- Gain Trait, Windsight (see below)
-- (Hidden) Mythical Deed, The Consternation Soothed: (see below)
-- +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]
-- The Movement of Things Pt. 7 unlock condition met!
-- The Rune Metal Pt. 7 unlock condition met!
-- 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 the user a form of visual based Windsight. Viewing the Winds of Magic as multihued threads of energy superimposed over everything in their field of vision and the souls of mortals most often as translucent versions of themselves with a few minor differences.
Retainers
- +15 Former Valkyrie Guard recruited, new totals: x25
- +8 Masons of Grungni recruited, new totals: x13
- Grungaldrin complete! (conclusion in pt. 3)
-- The Shadow Hag reveals itself after decades in hiding. Slaying 40 Ornsmotek warriors and 10 Hearth Guard by 487 A.P.
-- (revealed in Turn 58 Results Pt. 3)
--10 Former Huskarls, new totals: x28
- Expedition, The Throng is Mustered complete!
-- The Drangthrong of the High King and Prince Malekith encountered a massive example of a Slave Wyrm, one unlike any seen before. A cyclopean monstrosity that could paralyze with its gaze and melted flesh with its breath. The Hearth Guard would have been badly depleted holding it back if Grimgal had not been there.
-- (revealed in Turn 58 Results Pt. 3)
-- -1 Hearthwarden Rangers, new totals: x47
169 +23 -11 =181/240 +1 retainer action
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.
- [Tier 4] Ancient Greedy Troll corpse x1 yields
-- +1 [Tier 4] Ancient Troll's Heart, new totals: x5
-- +2 [Tier 4] Ancient 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]
- Windsight:
-- +2 to the total Specialty Modifier when researching Runes,
-- -2 total cost to all [Difficult] Research options, and
-- -1 total cost to all [Simple] Research options
- Mythical Deed, The Consternation Soothed:
-- Durin is lost but his soul, wherever it may be, shall rest easy knowing that one of the two great struggles that defined his life has been conquered.
Grimgal
- Title, Riluzkuldrakk (The Bright Death)
━<><><><==><><><>━
EDIT:
AN: Update, Its really late. I had Rudil suffering and Karstah suffering down pat for weeks, a come down from Skarri's whirlwind decade-long romance of sorts. Understandably I think, most of the delay stemmed from trying to convey how a Dwarf would react to being able to see the Winds. I asked a lot of other QM's for their thoughts and ideas. I want to give it justice, but not just default to shock and awe. Its an entirely new way to percieve the World, so all the little details and discoveries wont come crashing into Snorri at once.
I agonized a lot about how to portray souls especially, and solicited then received a lot of great ideas from people about how to do it. But the very literal and only slightly magical view of an intrinsically metaphysical concept definitely had the biggest Dwarf vibe to it, and serves as a nice core for me to add the most compelling bits and bobs of the other ideas to. After all, Dwarfs use the suffix for physical objects "-az" for abstract concepts if they're important/real enough.
Hope you like it! As always don't forget to C&C. I'm gonna post the Nov picture with Pt. 3 (which will be after the Dwarf Si chapter, sorry patrons I didn't forget you!). A long needed update I think. The Christmas picture is gonna be good too, hopefully I don't take that long to update though! :^)
This was found scratched into the stone of the ruins of Nurgksy, one of the fallen Fimir fortresses within Norsca.
The Silver Wind Comes,
The screaming death awakens, forged by ancient seeing hands,
Gods' fury, gods' rage, elder and terrible,
Sings a song to break the darkness,
Knows a tune to kill the mist,
Masters music to shatter chain,
makes metal to murder Mearghs.
Despair, rage, hope, celebrate
For the end comes on white wings,
and lightning shall rake the world.
Twinkling doom,
and a glittering host readies itself in the shape of adamant will,
and these fools have not ear to hear
nor heart to comprehend.
A prophecy of doom, though whether it be doom to come or doom arrived is, as ever, unknown.
Walking through Grozubaz to reach one of its dedicated loading zones Rudil does his best to avoid the large swaths of runesmiths wandering the halls waiting for the market to be restocked. He had heard someone joke that they could lower the number of patrols through Gorzubaz with all the runesmiths doing sweeps of the area themselves.
Of course, in the end that comment is just a joke, the patrols themselves are not for intercepting interlopers. But to ensure someone can be present before multiple regent starved runesmiths cause a problem and at least stop it before a situation escalates above grumbling and shouts. Luckily his Lord has chosen his clan to staff Khazagar, it takes quite a bit experience with runesmiths to mediate with cantankerous runesmiths and every Winterhearth staff member is getting more experience by the day.
Entering Grozubaz Loading Bay 7 Rudil find himself surprised, not enough to get a visible reaction out of him mind you but surprised by the amount of caravanners and the greatly above average amount of cargo they are unloading. He spots the person in charge of the caravanners delivery and to his minor surprise he recognises them.
Walking over to the dwarf, Rudil calls out. "Jorek Jorrison!" The dwarf in question turns to face him and shakes his extended hand. "I am surprised that you would be heading this specific convoy, thought you would all hands on the wall helping out Jorri to be here personally."
"Rudil Donnarsson! Glad to see you in good form." Responds Jorek, letting go of Rudil's hand. "Normally you would be right that caravaners heading for Khazagar can be delegated to one of my nieces or nephews when da can't find the time." Joreks says looking over the cargo being unloaded. "But with the war up here and the influx of runesmiths attending Khazagar, the supply issue became apparent to us." Jorek explains, walking over to one of the caravans to grab its ledger to look through it.
"It became a topic of conversation at the dinner table when ma is finally able to tear pa from his desk for a moment. That brother of mine tells me his plan for Khazagar, the marketplace he wants for it, we design the most Extravagant market, and he still manages to find a way for it to be not enough." Joreks says with his best impersonation of his father. "So, your supply problem ended being a little family project for us to solve and solve it we have!" Jorek exclaims with a smile handing the ledger to Rudil.
Taking the ledger in hand Rudil takes the time to read through it and can't stop himself from raising an eyebrow at the quantity of reagents on the list. The amount of reagents on the list would make the ruler of a minor hold balk at the thought of the cost but more importantly it was a lot more than was expected from fund Lord Snorri allocated. Looking up from the ledger Rudil can't stop himself for asking. "How did you manage to get all this without ruining the clan?"
Rudil knew Jorek was waiting for that question with how his face lit up. "Glad you asked! You see da was rather proud with the solution we got and wanted me to explain everything to Uncle Snorri, but ma managed to haggle him down to send one letter full of fatherly pride. Here it is," Jorek says while pulling out a rather worriedly thick letter from his pouch and handing it to Rudil. "Ill just give you the brief notes on how we did it."
Putting the impressively thick letter away to deliver later he nods at Jorek to continue.
"So, first of all we tried to think of a way of funneling the reagents from most of the foes being killed by the great throng up here. we quickly realised that the runesmiths on march are already fighting over every scrape so that was a bust." Jorek explains.
"Trying to buy from around the whole Karaz Ankor would not be financially viable so that was a dead end. At some point da ended up talking about the holds out east and how the lands are full of beasties and this is where we started seeing a solution. The lands out east are constantly full of monsters and beasts that need to be killed that they would be fine to part with. The thing is that the holds out east don't need gold because that have mineshafts brimming with seams of the stuff. What they do want and will pay handsomely for is foodstuffs." Jorek Says.
"So, now the problem is where do we find all the food and Huldra says how about out west there is food just running around those mountains and those holds are still growing. She suggests we go have a talk to some farmer guilds of the holds out west. Da explained that the western holds are going to be expanding their food production infrastructure so it would be unlikely that they can provide much food stuffs but they do have a growing market of new reagents. So Huldra talks to Thimburr about buying food stuffs from the southern hold to deliver out west and think it more than possible but that the southern hold would be happy for us to take over the food shipments." Jorek continues to explain.
"So, Huldra and I go west while Thimburr goes south to get everything organised and knowing that the food is going to feed beardlings in the east there are no problems for anyone. In the end we get the foodstuffs from the south and some more from the west with reagents. We bring them all the way to the east where we were paid a rather hefty sum in both gold and reagents. Now this isn't sustainable, and we are barely breaking even but it's helping build relations with both western and eastern holds and should last for the next few decades." Jorek finishes.
"Now the west is safe thanks to the High kings efforts but there isn't any underway to the east isn't a caravan full of foodstuff a tad dangerous for an overland trek out west?" Rudil asks.
Jorek nods "Aye, normally if you aren't protected well enough but I did say this was a family project." Jorek says pointing towards the carts and workers. Talking a closer look Rudil can see they are all wearing runic equipment and the crates and carts are runed as well.
"Ah, Lady Snerra and Karstah's work." Rudil say.
"Aye, some pieces from apprentices and master of the clan. Now how is Karstah? Good lass but needs to write more often, too much like her father. Tell her ma wants her to write more often." Jorek grumbles.
"I will pass it along but why didn't you ask for help from Lord Snorri?" Rudil asks.
"We know how Uncle Snorri thinks, you ask him for a ladder you get an elevator and the head of the local engineering guild ready to build you another two." Jorek says shaking his head.
Karaz-Irkul
Every part of Khazagar is a wonder and beautiful sight to look at but if one were to ask Bron of Clan Winterhearth what he would say that the most beautiful place in Khazagar was? He would respond Karaz-Irkul without a doubt in his mind every time. He still feels a thrill of awe and wonder every time he gazes upon the recreation of the night sky with all the glimmering constellations. The sight is all the beauty of the night sky with the benefit of not having to be outside under the open sky.
Being stationed at Karaz-Irkul is Bron's favourite posting out of all the places in Khazagar. All he has to do is wander around and provide information and direction every so often. Well, it used to be like that but now, recently it has been a much less enjoyable experience being stationed in the Central Hall. The once semi-occupied semi-peaceful hall is now bustling with dwarfs and the foot traffic coming through the area has become ludicrous. Bron and the others had to plan around tournaments creating a lull in foot traffic just to be able to sweep the floors during the day!
Oh, and the questions he gets these days, don't get him started! Before it was 'Where can I find this?' or 'Where is the tournament being held today?' or even 'What is the recipe for the troll jerky from Trogg-Khaz?' how he wishes he could return to those day, now it's just a mess. These days the only questions Bron gets are 'Where is The Gift Giver?' or 'Where is the Hammer?' or 'Is The Gift Giver currently carrying Karaz-Kazak-Rhun, if so where is he?' or 'What's the Troll Jerky Recipe?' or 'When is Grozurbaz getting restocked?'
Of course, he can't tell them where Lord Snorri is because he doesn't know! But the answer of, 'he is in Khazagar' doesn't seem to satisfy as many dwarfs as Bron would hope. He barely gets any time to gaze and admire the beauty of Karaz-Irkul these days. Bron is removed from his very limited daily wool-gathering time by the sight of a trio of dwarfs approaching him. They don't have the look of runesmiths so hopefully he will actually be able to answer a question.
"Greeting sirs, how may I be of assistance?" Bron asks with a bow.
"Greetings to you as well dawi, my compatriots and I would like to inquire about any current or upcoming runesmithing tournaments?" The one leading the trio says.
"Not an issue." Bron replies with nods and refers to his clay tablet. "There are two tournaments scheduled, one later today and another in a months' time. The first is a tournament sponsored by the metalsmith guild that will be located in Grozurbaz later today, the second is a tournament sponsored by the engineering guild that will be located in Tiwar-Khaz."
The trio of dwarfs thank Bron for the help and wander away while grumbling and at the same time another dwarf approaches Bron.
"Where is The Gift Giver?"
Bron holds back a sign with experience that would make the ancestors proud.
Kazaki-Khaz
Deep within the Kazaki-Khaz Gurna sits at a desk repeating the mind-numbing task of reading and compiling all of the security reports from the last few years. The number of reports ever since The Gift Giver has claimed the Karaz-Kazak-Rhun has increased to a staggering amount. A large majority of the reports can be summarised as a dispute between runesmith or minor cases of public disturbance. The most interesting and amusing reports in between the dull repetition of runesmiths bickering with each other are the reports of one the Drakk siblings getting up to some mischief or spooking some dawi from the south. Reading those always gives her some much-needed moments of levity before returning to grinding of her soul that is cataloguing these reports.
No matter how dull of a task it is, there is an incredible level of importance to have these ready in case one of these 'simple disputes' escalates to a point where there is a reckoning. At that point it would be extremely important for the relevant report to be used as evidence.
Still makes her almost hope for a siege for a distraction. Almost.
Trogg-Khaz
Before coming up north Svaldi of Clan Deepdelver was sure that this Khazagar business was a mistake and now that he has seen the place for himself. He is pretty sure that parts of this Khazagar business are a mistake but now he can confirm that the Trogg-Khaz was a good choice.
Svaldi was one of the few master runesmiths that was sent up north to try and get a look at the Karaz-Kazak-Rhun instead of being sent down to the depths of Izril in the clans search for Thungni's Glittering Realm. Also, by pure coincidence since he was in the area he would also be able keep an eye on a few of the journymen from Clan Deepdelver that made the trip north. Just to make sure they didn't pick up any odd ideas about runesmithing from this place.
He had yet to lay eyes on Thungni's hammer, but he had learned that one of the clans Journeywomen managed to get a sight of it for just a moment. The lass was already swarmed by her fellows to describe what she saw and that would only get worse when she finishes her journeying and returns home.
Now where was he… oh yes Khazagar! The place was absolutely swarming with runesmiths at the moment and when he wasn't stalking the place looking for the hammer, he spent his time in Trogg-Khaz feasting and chatting with his fellow runesmiths. It was rather nice, good food, good company and all the same profession so much more relatable banter.
"I am telling you lads; I can't go a decade without getting a commission that asks for the most uninspiring work. Always something along the line of 'A weapon to strike down the mightiest of foes'." Mord begins to grumble and the rest of the table join him.
"Aye Mord, we know it's the same everywhere." Responds Magda.
"A weapon to strike down the mightiest of foes, Armour to withstand the strongest of blows and a banner destroying magic wherever it flows." Svaldi says before he continues, "Let's not grumble about uninspired commissions, we will be at it all night. What are everyone's most interesting commissions?"
The question causes a round of thoughtful looks, as all of the master runesmiths reminisce. Mord is the first to speak up. "I once had someone ask for an axe that would smash its foe as a hammer if it couldn't cut them down." Mord says, summoning a round of thoughtful hums from the table.
"Once had a ranger ask for a cloak that would hide them but also make them fall through air as if they were a feather." Magda answers.
As the group falls into sharing stories with each other Svaldi must confirm that this isn't a bad way to pass the time. Now only if he could find Thungni's hammer.
Tiwar-Khaz
Jedda wakes from her peaceful slumber to a state of not so peaceful wakefulness. Groaning while nursing a hangover Jedda looks around her room in Tiwar-Khaz for a moment before getting out of bed. While she gets herself something to drink, she can't help but think on how her journeying is going. The only reason she has this room in the first place is because she came to Khazagar before the rush of runesmiths, if she had shown up a few years later she would have had to find rooming in the town outside of Khazagar.
She wasn't sure what was expected when her master released her to her journey but never did dream that she would be going through what she has experienced here in Khazagar. Well, she mainly expected to learn how to make a Chain Forger, but she ended getting swept up into so much more. Such as the tournaments that seem to happen every other month and she only entered because she was having trouble finding commissions for funds and the prizes for the tournament would have been enough to tide her over even if she didn't win. In the end she didn't but fortunately for her, she must have impressed someone with her work because after she was approached by a few clients for commissions.
She also enjoyed the company of all the other journeymen and journeywomen that she interacted with during her stay. She is going to make sure that she stays in contact with them after all this, especially Konna. Fighting the blush that is over taking her face she shakes her head and clears her thoughts. She can say with certainty that she enjoyed her time at Khazagar but now it was for her to continue on her journeying.
Ror-khaz
Angval Shieldshatter is one of the lucky members of the cult of Valaya assigned to the medical station attached to Ror-khaz. Ever since every runesmith and their master decided that it was time to come visit Khazagar the place has been overflowing with the lot. To say that Ror-khaz has become active because of the increased members in attendance would be to do a disservice to the multiple words that exist to describe the situation. The whole thing suited Angval fine, as it allowed her charges a frankly fantastic number of opportunities to treat minor wounds and practice on calming hot-headed patients.
She is knocked out of her wool-gathering by one of the Winterhearth guards assigned to Ror-khaz entering the medical station. "Hoddri, what brings you here?"
"Priestess, I felt it prudent to warn you that you might be getting a large influx of patients soon." Hoddri say with a shallow bow.
"How bad, is it?" She asks and signals to her charges to start preparing the fortifying ale before heading toward Ror-khaz with Hoddri.
"Quite bad, what seem to be a discussion that I can only assume on the use of reagents in one of the alcoves then spiraled into an argument about what is the best reagent to use on the rune of impact. At that point the group had gained multiple more members and moved to one of the plazas." Hoddri explains and they make their way to said plaza.
Entering the plaza Angval is greeted by a large crowd of runesmiths arguing at each other all screaming about goats or crabs. "Hoddri, what am I looking at?" she asks.
"Well, the subject then evolved on to the use of goat or crab reagent and then someone jumped into debating whether if a Drak sized Goat could beat a Drak sized crab. At that point I decided it was best to come warn you." Hoddri response looking over the mass of dawi screaming points on which dragon size animal would win in a fight, the starting argument about runes all but forgotten.
Grungnaz-Khaz
When thinking of all the Runelords of Kraka Drakk its rather easy to overlook Lorna Dernasdottir compared to the other Runelords in the hold, well as much as one can overlook a Runelord. The Lorekeeper doesn't have the constant overwhelming presence that The Gift Giver has over the hold, nor does she have the unmistakable prodigal talent of Thungni's Chosen creating expectation defying objects. Neither does she have Thunderlung's electrifying passion nor the encompassing confidence in their creation of the Steelplate and Gildedeyes.
But as Thurna has learnt from her time learning the Master Rune of Wandering from Lady Lorna, one should never underestimate a runelord no matter what. While the Lorekeeper is Lady Lorna's preferred epithet she is also known by the hold as the Dragonsmiter which she earned by smiting a Drak that was a danger to her hold. When Thurna went to ask the runelord questions after her teaching session she was humbled by the experience. While Lady Lorna might not be as visible in her activity she is truly a talented teacher and runesmith.
It also helps that she has good taste in literature even if it was intimidating to be invited to a bookclub that has two runelords in it.
Kron-Thindrongol
Ottri hums to himself as he carries one of the newest addition to be added to Kron-Thindrongol once the appropriate copies are made from the original of course. He believes that The Gift Giver will be pleased to hear that the latest purchases have arrived and are ready to be added to the Library. Looking down at the title of the book that clearly reads Dreng's Almanac, a book that is an encyclopedia of all the currently know beasts that the dawi in the east have been facing over there.
Not the most relevant subject but a welcome addition, well Ottri shouldn't assume what information could be helpful to a runesmith. At least the option existing will allow it to be helpful and it is a nice break for him to copy a book instead of wrangling runesmiths that occupy Kron-Thindrongol these days. well. Well, Ottri thought to himself, there were some moments of levity that could be found in these trying days, It was always amusing to encounter a runemsmith reading a book penned by Lord Snorri for the first time.
There were two main types of dawi that read books written by Lord Snorri, the first type are the knowledge seeking and ambitious who practically jump at the chance to read something written by a member of the Burudin and the second type are those who slowly approach the book of their choice with a mix of dread and resignation. The only difference between the two is that the latter dawi has already read something written by the Gift Giver before.
If Ottri was asked describe the Gift Giver's books he would politely say they are thorough or extensive and if he were to be less polite about his description he would say they are exhaustively painstakingly detailed. It is a common sight to see a reader bored out of their mind try to skip a few pages only to be confused by terms and details explained in the previous pages. It is not to say those books were not full of pertinent information but it does require a level of will to read those books. That is why there is the second type, they know each book is a bursting vault of information even if they have to mine through a mountain of limestone to reach it.
The Runelord's Workshop
Deep in the depths of Khazagar is the workshop of the legendary Runelord Snorri 'Gift Giver' Klausson who is currently involved in research that will change Karaz Ankor as it is known.
For too many years your project has had to wait in the sideline and now finally after dealing with all the disturbances you have found the time to complete it. Your masterpiece, a part of you never expected to be the one to do it but you have.
Looking down at the troll jerky he has created in the silence of his workshop The Gift Giver nods to himself in satisfaction. He has improved his troll jerky recipe.
AN: Thanks to @BungieONI for proof reading and @soulcake for taking the time to give this a look over for me.
Rushes into the room present in hand. Sees the clock.
HANUKKAH SAMEACH!
Winning Vote: said:
[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 [T4 Radiant Pegasus Blood + T2 Dragon Essence], Rune of Lightspite [T4 Radiant Pegasus Blood], Rune of Echoblow [T4 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: 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] ✓ They pulled me back in.
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: T4 Cockatrice's Eye [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order: Slave Wyrm Corpse #1 [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order: Slave Wyrm Corpse #2 [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order: 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: T4 Lightning Oriented upgrade to Stonehorn Horns [-15 Kraka Grom Favor]
-[X] Royal Authority Order: 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 Elder 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] ✓
Thungni's Brilliance, DC 80: 34, 13, 21
Peerless Production, DC 40: 82, 42, 67
━<><><>< 487 A.P. ><><><>━
"High King," Karstah greets, kneeling in deference the second she steps fully into his tent, "what would you command of me?"
He acknowledges her with a gruff nod, "Stand up Snorrisdottir, there's business to discuss and you'll do little good staring at the rug."
Obeying, Karstah watches the High King's steely gaze drift down to the map on his table.
"This has been a protracted war. Longer than I or the boy thought it would take to see done." He begins, eyes not moving from the unrolled parchment.
"Don't go mincing my words though. My Father as my witness, defeating the Fimir is not a question of if, but when."
The High King's brow somehow furrows further, a sign of his annoyance.
"Unfortunately for us, the when is the sticking point. The Elgi mages tell me that the Fimir's ritual hinges upon their control of the waystones their Hag Queens have built their citadels around. Of which, the rangers say at most seven still remain. Despite our efforts and continued success there is no guarantee that we can see these stones toppled before the ritual comes to fruition. The monster you and yours stalled was proof enough that the Fimir are not a spent enemy. Not just yet anyway."
He looks away from the map back to her, gaze hard and mouth set into a grim line as he hands her a metal cylinder, covered in protective Runes.
"I'll go over the finer points when I call a general assembly later tonight, but suffice it to say that this plan is already in motion, and that I require something from your father."
She nods, taking the tube from the High King respectfully before stowing it away in a pouch on her belt.
"This will not leave my hands or sight until I reach Master Snorri, my King, I swear on it."
He sniffs critically.
"I'll hold you to that girl. This whole scheme has a few too many moving parts than I care for, but the boy made as sound an argument as one his age could. Now, with the business seen to let's get to the other reason for my summons."
Karstah watches High King Whitebeard turn his head slightly and nod to the two retainers that had, until now, stood silently in the shadows behind him. Taking their cue, the two Living Ancestors bend down to lift and carry forward a large chest towards her.
"Let it not be said that the High King of the Karaz Ankor does not recognize the great deeds of his subjects, nor fail to reward them."
━<><><><==><><><>━
Karstah and Grimgal return in triumph.
Tales of their deeds on that campaign precede them of course. The great battle against the largest Slave Wyrm yet seen passed along the supply trains to the Karak proper, their own contribution becoming a notable part of the grander narrative that was the War against the Fimir. It gets everyone in a tizzy, and makes Izgrom begin pestering you about their return and Zharrok puffing his chest out like a preening rockdove everytime he overhears anyone talk about Grimgal's equipment. Tension, the positive kind this time, builds with each day, and you see how Aqshy waxes in the wake of so much bottled emotion.
On the date of their appointed return, when the Aqshy is so thick it overpowers the Chamon that has historically been the dominant Wind of the trio that are so strangely drawn to your institution, you had the way for them made clear. The few Hearth Guard that remained with you in Khazagar keeping everything in order with the help of Winterhearth Clansdwarfs seconded for the occasion to hold back the crowds that ring either side of the path.
Even if the total is far less than the literal swarm of folk who came to welcome the main body of Throng back in the Hold proper, the fact that there are this many people here specifically still gives you a measure of satisfaction.
Though you aren't there to see it, you know exactly the path they are meant to take. Walking out of the Hold, Karstah and the others will follow the surface road, under, or over in the case of the Brana, three of Kraka Drakk's seven walls. They will follow the gentle bend that takes them east towards the slightly smaller, but still imposing walls of Khazid Okraz. They will pass through the settlement's main gatehouse then up the main thoroughfare towards the outer gates of Khazagar and the final few doors of their journey.
A pair of Hearthwardens will usher Karstah and company into the outer portion of the complex, where another pair will do the same through the outer doors of Grozurbaz, before they reach the final set of doors and guards that separate the market hall and outside world from the Karaz-Irkul. Were you, Zharrok, Izgrom and hundreds of Dawi and Brana are currently waiting for them.
Pomp and ceremony.
But a victory such as this deserves no less.
The recognition and faint praise of the High King deserves no less.
Your heir and your loyal retainers deserve no less.
So you stand there, your back to the circular hole in the Grand Gallery, eyes trained on the doors and ears patiently listening for their return.
It begins suddenly and quietly.
A dull, rolling roar of cheers so strong that it can bypass the sound dampening Runes to filter through the still closed doors. The Winds in the environment begin moving in response, not to the noise of course, but the growing excitement of those who were lucky enough to stand and wait here rather than be stuck watching along the path, the morass of Chamon shifting as Aqshy flows over the crowd and bouncing helplessly against the doors. The sound continues to build until it grows loud enough, and your heir and her company close enough, for your ears to pick up the rhythmic march of boots and claws amidst the jumbled hoops and hollers of celebrating Dawi and Brana. The noise grows to the point that even the doors, masterfully wrought pieces of Dwarfen craftsmanship that they were, begin to shake.
Then the thumping stops and the dull roar dies down.
Before it returns full force as the doorway that connects the Gallery to the Grozurbaz swings open. Your eyes squint from the sudden wall of sound and magic that the door's Runes had largely kept outside rush inwards.
Karstah is the first thing your eyes notice, leading the procession of Grimgal and the Hearth Guard as the crowd that have been waiting alongside you begins cheering in earnest. Ylva carries Azrilzhufgotten, raising it high and earning a roar of approval. The environmental magic moving erratically and chaotically from the sheer emotion that fills the air. The otherwise cacophonous symphony only slightly quieting when people see the one litter that is held in the center of the Hearth Guard's marching column, Thrimbold's armour sitting on a shroud that bears the sigil of Clan Bryggeroot.
The column moves to stand before you, waiting for your leave.
You don't bother with a speech, simply stepping forward to clap Karstah on the shoulder before nodding at them all.
"Welcome home."
━<><><><==><><><>━
Later that day representative Clan Bryggeroot receives Thrimbold's effects from you in the quiet privacy of your personal rooms, away from the festivities taking place. They are the perfect picture of stoic dignity one expects from such old Dawi, the lead Longbeard nodding in thanks to you as four of his slightly younger kinsmen take up Thrimbold's litter from your retainers.
You nod along to his words and speak little. Both because you are sure this lad doesn't want to be here any longer than he has to, and because you cannot trust yourself to say much more right now. Most of your focus is spent trying to ignore the disquieting differences between the faces of these Dwarfs' souls and their corporeal bodies. How these two contrasting views create a disquieting whole; with traces of the open and ragged sorrow of their aethyric selves poking out over their flesh's stoic placidity. The slight lag between body and soul means that even the slightest twitch makes the contrast all the more noticeable, heightening the wrongness and unnatural nature of what you see.
When they leave you let out a sigh of relief and exhaustion before turning to Karstah.
"The letter?" you ask expectantly.
Nodding, your heir unhooks the tube from her belt and passes it to you, patiently waiting as you unfurl and read through it.
Karstah had informed you of Whitebeard's request the moment she was able to, though true to her oath she could not offer much more than what Whitebeard himself told her and the assembled leadership of the Drangthrong.
As you read the letter you blink in surprise, then furrow your brow in thought.
What Karstah and the assembled leadership of the Drangthrong knew was that Prince Malekith and the High King were going to drive their combined forces towards the centermost of the Fimir's coastal cities in the coming year, to see it toppled and the Fimir's holdings sundered in twain while the fleets of both moved to do the same at sea.
The part they dont tell any save a scant handful of key parties is that this push is also part of a greater plan that the Elven prince concocted.
Years ago, when the war began to drag on and casualties mounted, Prince Malekith and his closest advisors had apparently consulted with the mages of both Saphery and Nagarythe to see if some other means of preventing the ritual could be devised. That alone had apparently been several years worth of work by the greatest surviving mages the elves had at their disposal, and the cost they gave the Prince to enact it, the specifics of which the Prince had kept close to his chest, was both ruinously expensive and scarce, but incredibly dangerous to gather.
Most notably, the heads of not only a specific Meargh, but the hearts and eyes of three other Hag Queens too.
Nevertheless, Malekith had not balked at the price, and had begun laying the groundwork for it almost immediately.
The next year's push was, in truth, securing the Waystone to be the site of the ritual, given that it was the only one that met the stringent criteria of Malekith's ritual.
It was, as the High King understands it, a massive counterspell centered around using one of the central Waystones the Fimir had corrupted as as a conduit to send a truly titanic amount of Qhaysh through their section of the network into the other controlled nexi to disrupt the ritual in a cataclysmic chain explosion. Ignoring the expense of the ritual itself, it would also destroy the Waystones and likely devastate the coast. A terrible cost, but compared to another portal to the Realm of Chaos, it was deemed the lesser of two evils.
It had taken years, decades, but now Malekith finally had all he needed.
Whitebeard was not asking you to aid in the war, or even defend the ritual site when the Fimir doubtlessly attacked it.
No.
He asked that you serve as a distraction.
Agents from both Malekith and his own forces had informed the High King that it seems the Fimir pay special attention to you and your movements. Not only because you had played a part in dealing the single greatest strategic loss in the war the Fimir had suffered, but because your presence demanded a very specific response from them compared to something like a dragon and the like. It meant that the Fimir kept their most durable forces in reserve at the beginning of a campaign, only committing them after their mages confirmed your location through whatever means they had available to them. The Slave Wyrms, the Netherborn, the armoured monster riders, and other terrible things that they had been creating were, in fact, partly devised as a response to you and your storm.
The High King and prince want to use that to their advantage, by having you threaten a different citadel to force the Fimir to split off these particular forces or risk losing another citadel.
In any other circumstance, you would not even consider refusing.
But something about this feels.
Hmph.
A strange feeling in your beard.
You will need to think regardless, better to give it time to age in your mind.
"You'll be marching out again next year I take it?" you murmur, looking up from the letter to stare at Karstah.
"Aye, if you'll allow it. Grimgal most certainly is." She confirms.
You nod.
━<><><><==><><><>━
The second party arrives two days later and unlike Karstah and Grimgal, sets a grim tone from the get go. A train of fifty wounded Hearth Guard returns home through the underground connection between the Hold and Khazagar, taking side and service tunnels that were away from prying and judging eyes to reach the Warrior's Halls where you and Karstah awaited them.
A stonefaced Rudil kneels before you, the wounded having limped or been helped by their fellows deeper into the hall or Temple of Valaya, while ten empty litters lay behind him as testaments to what happened.
The shame and anger radiating off of him is almost palpable. While a heavy cloud of Shyish clings to his and the others souls like burrs to cloth, it nevertheless cannot fully smother the ruby glow of Aqshy bubbling beneath.
Fury at both his foe and at himself most likely.
"It is her." He reports, voice flat. "The Meargh whose horde attacked Grom a few decades ago."
You nod, grimly glancing at the empty boards behind him. Mind already moving schedules around to account for this development.
"I see. We'll need to prepare for an excursio—" you begin to say, but stop to stare at Rudil.
Not because he has interrupted you, he would never allow himself to lose control in such a way.
But he doesn't need to.
Even without your new eye showing the tumultuous blaze of Winds over his soul—the gloom of the Shyish over him folding beneath the ruby light of Aqshy—you don't need it to tell what he's thinking, what he's no doubt feeling.
"You disagree," you finish, looking at your grandnephew expectantly.
Imperceptibly, grindingly slow, he nods once.
"I swear upon my Ancestors, and my Honour that I shall serve faithfully and defend the person and Honour of my Lord. Even at the cost of my own life. For—" Rudil recites haltingly, eyes looking up to stare at you in expectation.
"—my Honour is my Lord's Honour, their Shame is my Shame, and their Grudges are my Grudges. I shall not dishonour my Lord, lest I dishonour my Ancestors, and myself," you finish solemnly, a damning sense of understanding filling your gut..
It is one of the oaths that he swore when he first entered your service. An understanding and affirmation that in serving you as a retainer, that he is not only your emissary, but an extension of you in the eyes of society at large. His failure is your failure by proxy. And as he reminded you, his shame is your shame.
But just as his shame was your shame, the reverse was also the same. It was, generally at least, a reminder to the liege of the burden and responsibility they held.
Though in this case it is your grandnephew's way of telling you what he wants.
Rudil wishes, perhaps needs, to see this task done by his own hand.
In most circumstances, you would deny him this. Excercising your right as his Elder and granduncle to stop him from committing to foolish acts in this moment of grief and shame. More personally, because it would gall you to leave a kinsman to such a task alone.
But not now. Not anymore.
Because you know two things.
If you allow him to do this, there was a high chance that Rudil may well die in his quest.
But If you refuse him—
Valiant Grimnir, bereft of armour, his hair molded to a crimson crest. Marching northward to Doom for the sake of His people's Salvation.
Grednir Grunsson, once-King Consort of Kraka Grom. Who it was quietly said, left his arms and armour to his wife and daughter before marching off into the untamed Deeps, stopping only to stare at the commemorative statue of his son.
—you are more certain that you will all but guarantee his death.
So much as you would like not to, much as you want to walk alongside him as he faces this enemy.
You cannot.
Instead, you look back at Rudil and utter your choice.
"You will have the following year to prepare and to heal. After that, I will grant you leave to pursue this path. The others will hold her at bay until then. Ask no more of me lad."
Rudil nods again, shoulders sagging in relief, and you dismiss him soon after.
Both you and Karstah watch him go, back straightened in the face of this path forward.
For good and ill, Rudil's fate now rests solely in his hands.
━<><><><==><><><>━
That night Karstah asks for your leave to complete the helmet she's been working on, something you don't need to even think about before you nod and see her off.
You try and work, but your mind refuses to focus. So you get up and walk through your home, then when your feet remain stubbornly restless you don your red cloak and continue through Khazagar, walking until you exit the doors and stroll through the Khazid Okraz. Walking, walking and walking endlessly until you find yourself in a tavern, staring down at your reflection in a mug of ale.
You are a Living Ancestor. A survivor of the Great Catastrophe. A Dwarf who has seen what looked to be the end of the world and overcome it.
You are a Runelord, the one who has done what so many of your colleagues have failed to do and conquered Durin's Consternation.
These, and so many more deeds you conjure up in your mind.
And they, in the end, are meaningless to you at that moment.
All this power, all this experience, and you can do little to help your family lest they break from the shame of it. The pride and guilt of one Dawi doing what the Greedy One, two Greater Daemons, the prophet of a dark god, and so many other more terrible enemies have all failed to do...
Stop you.
You let yourself stew in the bitterness for a while, before at last you let out a long, tired sigh and gulp the tankard's contents down in two long swigs.
Wiping the froth from your beard, you get up and begin walking home.
That will be all the stewing and brooding over uselessness that you allow yourself.
A hand falls limp.
No more.
That's a path you've walked, you don't need or want to ever take it again.
━<><><>< 488 A.P. ><><><>━
Grunting, Rudil raises the axe and bats aside Dreng's weapon before rushing forward.
With a simple exhale the older Dwarf steps to the side and punches Rudil's head as he rushes forward, staggering him long enough that he can sweep his feet out from under his legs.
Dreng steps back and stares dispassionately as Rudil scrambles up to his feet, raising a hand to signal a timeout.
"Go have a break lad. Have a yell, dunk your head in some cool water, get a drink and some food in your belly, whatever you need to calm down. You haven't shaved your head and got down to your breeches, so stop fighting like you already have. She'll not be as kind as I am about correcting you."
You see Rudil's arms flex, the visible skin red from both the flush of exhaustion and the touch of Aqshy and Ghur on him, before he wills himself to nod and stiffly walk off.
"He needs to reassert control." Dreng says to you, watching your grandnephew. "Fury is only helpful when it's directed."
You nod in agreement.
"What of Karstah?"
A smidge of Aqshy, a twinge of Ghyran.
"She's on her way. Tries her best to be secretive about her plans, but I can guess what she's building half the time just from the way she fights." he answers honestly.
You hum in interest.
"Aye? Any recent examples?"
He snorts.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" he shakes his head in amusement. "Nai. I'll keep her secrets, even if I don't have to."
You nod.
Rare as it is for the two of you to talk, Dreng is one of the few who has both the age and frankness to speak to you on a more casual level, doing away with even the subtle signs of respect that other Dawi afford.
"Trained many like them then?" you probe.
Ulgu, hidden in the corners, twitches.
"Cousins, siblings, their sprogs and then the grandsprogs after that," he admits, the Quicksilver Wind hanging off his moustache like leftover ale.
"An old hat at it, then. Purposeful?"
"Just something that I ended up doing. Can't trust anyone else to do it right, you understand," he answers.
Hiding, no, obfuscation.
"Aye, It's not uncommon. A life lived for another, then for what they leave behind."
The other Dwarf nods sagely. Shyish, mixed with Aqshy, and Azyr, Reminiscing.
"There're worse things to do with what you're given."
You hum at that, noting the slight tinge of melancholy in his voice.
"Dreng," you say suddenly, the change in your tone making your fellow Living Ancestor turn to give you his undivided attention.
For all that you want to ask, for all you wish to poke at the hints and bombard him with the guesses and theories in your head as to why—
You instead choose to keep your mouth shut and your eyes forward. He does not see ghosts, nor does he have any ill intent and even without your eye you know that he takes his oath to keep Karstah safe. So the least he deserves is the privacy of his own thoughts. This eye has, more than anything, reminded you of the value of that privacy, of the sort of things an honest and right thinking being is entitled to.
"You have my thanks." you tell him sincerely, not needing to explain beyond that.
He grunts.
━<><><><==><><><>━
The strange feeling you had about Prince Malekith's scheme, it turns out, has some basis in truth.
You had already guessed that there was more behind his reasoning than just the war. Elven nobility, as Menlinwen had once told you, were fond of such multifaceted schemes and the like, and not even Malekith would be immune to such a thing.
In the running correspondence you kept with Myrion, the Archmage had unintentionally, or perhaps very intentionally, mentioned to you that there were now those among Tor Vernath and its ruling houses that had appeared at Bel Shanaar's court. Why, she could not say, but you've gotten the hang of reading Elgi double speak and intent you think, and can at least connect the threads she leaves behind into something resembling a picture.
A great deal of politicking cut short, there were those who had gotten tired and upset with Malekith's pace, and the cost of this campaign. Thus, they sought out the only other elf with influence whom their pride could stomach seeking aid from.
The Phoenix king.
Such an opportunity, you reckon, would not be left to moulder. Even if Bel Shanaar truly had no ill intent against Malekith as Myrion seems to insist upon to you, he was nevertheless a canny enough operator to check the lad's rise and steal some of his thunder if the opportunity arose.
At least that's what your read of the man tells you is the case, separated as it is by distance and medium.
Hard to pick out the truth from the litany of praise for the fellow that is so common in Myrion's letters, though checking in occasionally with Menlinwen does help in that regard.
From what you already knew, Bel Shanaar's election was either compromise, honest belief in the need for a king with his skillset, a means of curbing the idea of a hereditary line of Phoenix Kings, and effort to elect a more pliable king by the other princes or some combination of any and/or all of those points. Though that last group found, to their surprise perhaps, that the sailor from Tiranoc was not some lackwit they could ignore. He took advantage of every connection he had to shore up his position beyond the support of Tiranoc and Avelorn by allying or defanging the other Kingdoms depending on the circumstance.
From what Myrion's writings show, the lad has a talent in making friends of his enemies, or otherwise disarming them so fully that he could afford to ignore them. Everyone was to be made a friend or defanged and left to irrelevance. Over and over, as the Archmage constantly seemed so keen to say, Bel Shanaar had cemented his authority and removed every possible contender and rival of his position from contention.
All save one.
A single rival that could not be curbed or made to look weak. One that was, while polite and publicly deferential, unwilling to become his friend. One that had by all appearances seemed to snatch Cothique and Chrace and put them under his influence.
One that, at this moment, was now waging war alongside the High King. One that had been seen speaking to eclectic and unpopular mages from Saphery that Bel Shanaar had otherwise left out to dry for disregarding him or were beaten out by his allies. One that was speaking with and courting a foreign power and no doubt cementing allies among them and wealth for his own allies.
Bah.
This entire thought exercise was already getting into the very realm of politicking you do your best to stay away from, and until now had been all too happy to avoid after it first reared its ugly head when you and Myrion were writing to each other about Malekith.
But now your folk were involved in a way that was liable to get them stuck in a spat between power hungry dunderheads.
You ought to tell someone.
You ought to tell the High King.
You don't even know if it's true.
Bah.
Sometimes you hate your gut feelings.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Rudil rarely calls her, "aunt," for a variety of entirely understandable reasons.
The few times he did it was almost always said with an air of humour. The unusual conflict between their respective ages and positions on the family tree made the word something of a running joke between the two of them.
He hasn't said it at all this year, nor even shown an ounce of humour and good cheer that hasn't quickly been smothered by the air of grim, fatalistic certainty that has smothered his personality. His mind and focus has been near-totally pointed towards his self-appointed duty.
Single-handedly killing the Meargh.
Master Snorri reckons, and she agrees, that if Rudil did not attempt it he'd almost assuredly walk into the Temple of Grimnir and take up the Slayer's Oath alongside the many he has sworn as a Hearth Guard.
He must do this alone.
But Karstah refuses to let him go unhelped.
"Here," she says, pushing the chest in her hands forward towards him.
Rudil looks at her curiously, but nevertheless opens the box and takes a look inside.
After a moment of intense staring he pulls the helmet out of its case, revealing it to the world.
A more ornate version of the already unique red helmet that Rudil wears to denote his position. The vast majority of its structure, from the cheekplates to the dragon shaped ridge running along the top was made entirely of red-dyed Adamant. The only pieces that weren't were the horns on either side of the head and the ruby inset in the center of its brow ridge. The former were a pair of long, curling things that were taken from the largest member of the silver goat herd and polished until they gleamed under the light. The latter was a thumb-sized rhombus sourced from mines nearest to the old Winterhearth Hold, gleaming and golden and bearing the only Rune she had inscribed on it.
Glimmering gently on the jewel's center, its appearance in stark contrast to the terrible power contained within, was the Master Rune of Zon-Dum.
Or a variant of it technically speaking, using Brightstone and the gas sac of an Elder Frost Wyrm to alter the nature of the energy it would release. Another nod to the thoughts and feelings that were part of its inception.
It was meant for the Hearth Guard; a piece of equipment that would serve as part of the panoply for the Hearth Lord.
In her mind, it would not be right for anyone but the founding holder of that title to wear it first.
"Its name is Zonbak." Drawing Rudil's attention away from her creation back to her. "To activate the Rune, you need only yell 'Nar' and aim your head at whatever your target may be."
Actually saying the word out loud makes her feel some measure of embarrassment for making such a simple and uninspired play on words, but nothing else fits in her mind.
Daybreak begins with sunrise after all.
━<><><><==><><><>━
The day after Rudil's departure for Ornsmotek, you walk through Khazagar's feast halls as part of the long road to properly acclimating to the eye. But to your surprise you find Nain of all people seated at one of the tables, surrounded by a small crowd of his younger contemporaries.
Partly because curiosity overcomes you and partly because Chamon hangs especially thick over that table, you decide to investigate. With a flick of your hands you flip up your hood and move to somewhere more inconspicuous to watch and listen in on your once-apprentice and this cartful of Dwarfs he has gathered around himself.
"—Rune of Load Bearing isn't necessary. The Lifts are replica's of Morgrim's work, and while they won't match up on their own, the safety tolerances aren't one of the metrics I worry about. Speed, smoothness and wear and tear are the real culprits. Especially for the cordage. Better for that variant of the Rune of No Entry on the bearing surfaces."
Hmmph.
Talking shop so openly would normally be frowned upon, or at least worthy of critique. But here? Runesmiths need not be quite so reticent.
Though you suspect, eyes narrowing when you spot the various red pieces of fabric being worn by the Runesmiths with Nain, that these ones may not care quite as much if others overhear them.
You want to have very stern words with whoever it was among them that started this trend of aping the color of your cloak.
Reigning in your anger, you focus back on Nain's discussion, listening to them devolve into an argument and thought exercise about how to best direct foot traffic and how Runes can be incorporated into the solution. Thankfully for Nain, your opinion of him rises a notch as he correctly supports the efficiency and simplicity of a spoke and axle path. As things descend into the sort of inane chitter chatter of young Runesmiths nattering on about things they don't understand, as opposed to the inane nattering of Elders who know what they're talking about ya see, you find your attention drifting away from them and to the way the environmental Chamon drawn by their discussion harmlessly pushes against the invisible barrier of the nearly Wind-less volume of space around them.
That was the thing about a Runesmith's "Stilling Field", as you've begun to call it; they were unique to an individual Dwarf. The combination of the field's range, how effectively it repulsed the Winds, and the strength of its deadeninng effect on the few traces managed to pass through all differed from one Runesmith to another. It wasn't completely random of course, as the field's overall strength tended to have a positive correlation with a Dawi's age, but there was enough internal variance within similar age brackets that there was definitely something more at play. You just didn't know what it/they could be.
That in itself wasn't a worldshaking revelation though, a very similar idea was long theorized to be the case among many in the Guild given the mountain of evidence available. No, the actual surprise was their relationship with other Dawi and other fields.
Multiple Stilling Fields did not in fact interact with each other as you would have expected. Rather than coming together into a larger whole or something like that, they seemed to almost ignore eachother. Having no notable interaction beyond the stronger of the two taking precedence in the space where they intersected. Instead the fields seemed to most readily react to the souls of other Dawi, with the former imparting some measure of its repelling properties onto any Dwarf souls that were in its range while increasing numbers of the latter improved both the efficacy of the field itself.
Any further musing on the topic is waylaid when the other Dawi stand up from the table and begin shuffling off, offering farewells to those who remain until only Nain remains.
"I didn't seek them out if that's what you're wondering Master," your apprentice says, just loud enough for you to hear.
You incline your head and stand up from your hidey spot, walking over to sit down across from a placid looking Nain.
"Figured as much. I've bemoaned them enough that you ought to know better," you grumble goodnaturedly, "from the sounds of it things have been going well lad."
Nain nods in affirmation.
"Yes, they have. Though I have to say it doesn't seem like Elder Snerra's gotten that message."
You scoff, though not in disagreement.
"She's drinking from a different keg than the rest of us tis true, but that should only serve as a reminder that not even a Runelord is immune to foolishness."
"Aye Master, of course Master."
Bah.
"Hmmph. How did Tholinn's first commission go?"
Nain's beard twitches, not thrown off by your sudden segue at all, if anything he relishes the chance to boast about his student.
"The work? More than acceptable for his age. The interaction? Well…better than he was before. So about as stiff as a board still, but he didn't insult someone by accident. Dolgi's family and the dinners are doing good work helping him socially. Keeping him busy enough to get away from his Clan at the least."
You nod in agreement.
Met those folk once and—
Hmph.
—well you can see why Nain hopes to instill some sense of wanderlust and independence in his student before he becomes a Journeyman and he can no longer stand between Tholinn and the overbearing weight of his Clan.
"Good to hear lad, that's good to hear. You're doing good work with him. Better than my time with Jargrim, that's for certain."
Nain doesnt say anything, but the slight turn of his head and the little flash of Chamon on his soul, highlighting the slightly off-color gold that you see in every Runesmith, tells you that he is curious. Good sense and experience are all that stop him and all your other students from asking about their predecessors.
That small pang of loss, the one that always comes when you think of Jargrim and others, rears its ugly head. And you think about saying more, saying anything at all…
…perhaps in the future. Perhaps when you are a stronger man you can speak of them more freely.
When you say nothing more, Nain takes the dismissal in good order and he steers the conversation towards his plans for the Lift.
You are thankful for it.
━<><><>< 489 A.P. ><><><>━
She slew cousins and allies, his friends, and his kinsmen.
But she did not slay him, red-plated Donnarsson.
Forced him to retreat from the tunnels, back to the Hold that he lived in.
Who nursed within his breast a vengeful soul.
Rudil Red Plate returned a year later.
Knowing only one thing as he returned to the Eagle Deeps.
Entering alone, accompanied only by his hatred.
By the end either he or his quarry would know eternal sleep.
━<><><><==><><><>━
It is time.
You'd have preferred that a momentous a moment as this was happening under more happy and relaxed circumstances; with your heir at home and not on campaign, with your retainers not 11 members lesser, the foreign relations of your people and the elves not in the middle of a dispute between the latter's elite, and your grandnephew not embarked on a quest that ends in either his victory or death.
But the world has a way of ignoring your wishes.
You cannot delay any more than you already have though. Two years is the most you can afford, but any more and you're liable to fall behind or not give something its due attention.
Still, it wasn't all terrible.
After all, you've also spent these two years further acclimating to your new eye. Gaining a good enough grasp that you're confident to at last, try using it for its intended purpose.
Observing the creation of Runes.
Assuming that everything goes to plan and the eye does show you something—
Which you cannot guarantee without trying
—the truth of the matter is that observing just one forging is nowhere near enough data. No. Any Runesmith worthy of the name would require a certainty that only the observation of a sufficiently large, read staggeringly large, amount of forgings to accept.
Nevertheless, you have to start somewhere.
And start you shall.
With the first Rune Thungni taught, the first Rune that every Runesmith is taught.
The Rune of Stone.
Even if one of the driving forces behind the choice involved a healthy dose of narrative best fit there it is equally balanced by the practical considerations as well. After all, it is one of, if not the most inscribed Runes in existence. So much so that even several of its variants are well known to your Guild. There isn't one facet of this Rune that the Guild and its members do not know at least in passing, no change or alteration that a reasonably well learned Master cannot explain or intuit said reason behind.
Simply put, it's about as close to "understood" as a Rune can get without having Windsight.
So by using it as the basis for your experimentation into Windsight, it should be the easiest Rune to begin breaking down the mechanics of forging with.
In theory anyway.
You seal yourself in your sanctum, instructing your retainers to prevent anything short of an immediate and extreme threat to the Hold or news of equally significant personal or objective worth from interrupting you.
There is work to be done.
━<><><><==><><><>━
He came donning a helm made by the Runesmiths.
With a Rune that banished the darkness inscribed upon the crest.
Adamant form with an inset ruby, a work from out of myth.
Rudil did find his quarry, did find the hag queen's nest.
There they did meet in battle, and thus the Fimir felt fear.
But canny was the Matron, the shadows were her domain.
For though grim Rudil's helmet, her death was surely here—
—at the hour of his victory, she escaped and was not yet slain.
━<><><><==><><><>━
You have made the Rune of Stone countless times over your life. Why, If you were rendered blind, deaf and unable to feel at this very moment you're sure that you still had a fair shot of forging it properly.
Compared to the complexities of the Runes you now made and dealt with nowadays, it was— as Runes went —as simple as quarrying stone.
But now, as you let your body go through the motions of preparing the forge to begin inscribing the Rune of Stone, it feels both completely different and refreshingly familiar.
A different Dawi than the one you were stands before the forge. Wiser, older and with far greater experience behind him. A lord of Runes, a master of your craft, now able to see the very workings of your art that have until these past few years been denied to you.
Yet at the same time, you also step before the anvil with a hammer as plain as the very first your father gave you. The same chant in your mind as when you first learned it waits on your lips. You are, as you were then, as unaware of what's to come.
You raise the hammer, as you have done so many countless times before, and with the first syllable of the chant swing it down onto the waiting metal.
No peel of thunder greets you, no earth shattering light or vengeful magic strikes you.
Instead you forge the Rune, and bear witness as the magic both within and without reacts.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Thrice did she manage to evade him.
Within shadow and mist did she flee.
Unfaltering, Rudil marched ever deeper into the dark and into the dim.
With fury in his heart and the Rune on his brow a-gleam.
Again and again he followed, uncaring and unafraid.
The Matriarch sent monsters to best him, over and over again.
But vengeance would not be denied him, and Rudil was never long waylaid.
Every beast the Hag Queen sent against him, again and again were slain.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Your arm swings the hammer, repeating an action that you have done so often it's almost instinct. You chant the rite, so often repeaeted that you had long ago learned to not need it. You recreate a Rune so basic, so fundamental, that the wonder and sanctity of it has, understandably, dulled just that smidge more.
But here and now you feel that wonder return in full force, as strongly as the very first time you inscribed the very first Rune at all.
Because you see it.
You see it all.
When you first completed the Rune of Windsight you mused that whatever it showed could never match whatever expectation you built in your head. And, though it surprised you in some ways, that had largely held true.
This was not like that.
There can be no disappointment, because you are witness to impossibility. There could be no expectation, because there is no theory to work from. Suspicions and guesswork, at best. You enter blind, and are given vision for the first time.
There was an honest possibility in your mind that the moment you began forging the Rune the Winds would flood towards the Rune, or that some flash of aethyric power would erupt and render you blind and force you to put that claim about forging the Rune with half your senses gone to the test. But that, thankfully, does not come to pass. The Winds of Magic in your workshop do not react to the forging initially, or at least no more than they would to any other mundane smithing. Chamon twitches and moves towards you yes, bouncing off the repelling aura of the Stilling Field as expected.
But though you can only glimpse it for moments, you see that your soul and the magic within is alight with activity.
The veins of gold glow, multifaceted and multihued light rushing through them rhythmically like the energy that pulses from Barak Azamar.
Chamon gold, Ghyran emerald and Hyshian Diamond light pulsed to the beat of some unknown rhythm.
It is wondrous to behold.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Yet the souls of the fallen haunted him, the loss of his beloved kin.
Their ends and their graves did linger, the memory filling him with shame.
Thus the Haq Queen did seek to turn them against him, trap his mind in his own skin.
To shatter his will with memories of the hallowed dead, to turn them into Red-helm's bane.
But the Fimir did not know of honour, not know the sanctity of kin.
Did not know it only fueled Rudil's anger, only inflamed that burning rage.
And with a yell of purest fury, and strength borne from Will from within.
Rudil broke through the magic, axe swinging as he broke through her sorcerous cage.
Thus they met for a final battle, Gromril clashed 'gainst the living shadow.
The Witch Queen was certainly mighty, and the darkness was her domain.
She brought down the Dawi warrior, ready to deal mortal blow.
But Rudil screamed for sunrise, and in a realm that never knew it, Daybreak finally came.
━<><><><==><><><>━
As you continue the forging, transfixed upon what you see in your soul, you notice something else happening. The energy from your hands travels from you to the Rune. Along your hammer, through your hands, even the open air, as if the Rune is drawing from you. The mutlihued light, composed of all eight Winds though with Chamon, Ghyran and Hysh in the greatest quantity, enters the Rune and seemingly disappears from sight.
Dimly, as if you were recalling what you ate for dinner last night rather than making a connection that hinted to something more fundamental to your Craft, you realize that the chant and mindset you were taught to take when forging does indeed resonate with those Winds.
As the forging progresses, things finally begin changing around you as more and more of the Winds finally begin to move and react. Regardless of source or connection, and from farther and farther away, they are drawn towards your position. They jostle and push against eachother like you and your brothers jostled and fought to be first in line for your mother's stew—
the bitter herb she used always sank to the bottom if it got left alone ya see, and if you took a bowl from the topmost layers you wouldn't taste it as strongly. The idea of telling mother that had never crossed your minds, and if it did you'd no doubt be fighting over who had the unenviable task of criticizing her cooking.
—but the Stilling Field holds back the tide. forcing the Winds into neat and orderly trails that crawl their way towards you, or more accurately towards the Rune.
The energy crawls into you through your feet and you lose sight of the Winds at that point. But while you can't see the path they take, you know where it all ends up as the trails of energy that connect you to the Rune swell and grow in size.
The final and most drastic change happens near the end of the rite, at the point when the Rune comes to completion.
The Stilling Field that you project outwards, the barrier that held back the Winds that now swirl around you in an increasingly stronger and faster vortex begins to shrink and weaken. Milimeter by milimeter, until its barely thirty centimeters out and so weak that roughly half of the volume of magic gets through.
Then as you swing the hammer down the final time and the Rune glow as it activates for the first time you see the Rune draw in and absorb all of the Winds around you; leaving a volume of space utterly devoid of magic before nature takes its course and the vacuum is filled.
━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━
Riluzkuldrakk - Lit. "Brilliantly shining skull Dragon/Monster"/ The Bright Death
Zhufokri - Lit. "Current/Torrent Craftsman"/Mage/Wizard
━<><><><Gain ><><><>━
Snorri
- Extra-Sensory Pt.1 complete! Extra-Sensory Pt. 2 unlocked!
-- The ability to see the Winds of Magic is no longer outside the grasp of your people. Everything is different now. (Information hidden by Windsight will be revealed when appropriate/asked, otherwise I'd be stuck updating information for days)
— The Winds of Magic appear as a layer of multi-colored trails and bands superimposed over reality. Snorri has begun to note and observe the general trends and start making accurate enough "calculations" to know how the Winds move and react even if he does not have his eye.
— Souls appear as translucent versions of the mortal's body with a few minor visual differences that likely reflect their self-perception.
---- Dwarf souls behave similarly to stone, in that they naturally resist passive connection to ambient Sevir. However, they are not fully immune, and some Winds do get through. Lastly, this passive barrier can be overcome with enough exposure or deliberate action.
---- Runesmith souls have golden channels running through them. They project a Stilling Field around them that repels most Winds, and deadens the movement of what small amounts of the Winds gets through. The shape, strength and efficacy of a Field is unique to each Runesmith, and while they do not react to each other, they are strengthened by and in turn strengthen nearby Dwarf souls. Dwarf Souls gain cumulative benefits from being under multiple Stilling Fields.
— Runes begin by drawing magic from the Runesmith, as the forging progresses the Runesmith's natural anti-magic aura shrinks and allows more magic through and into them before entering the Rune. At the moment a Rune is created, it sucks up all the nearby magic to fill its internal reservoir.
Karstah
- +1 [Tier ???] Whitebeard's Reward. (revealed pt. 4)
Retainers
- +15 Former Valkyrie Guard recruited, new totals: x25
- +8 Masons of Grungni recruited, new totals: x13
- Grungaldrin complete!
-- The Shadow Hag reveals itself after decades in hiding. Slaying 40 Ornsmotek warriors and 10 Hearth Guard by 487 A.P. She is slain singlehandedly two years later by Hearth Lord, Rudil Donnarsson who returns to Kraka Drakk with her head in tow.
-- Grudge against the Hag Queen avenged on behalf of Snorri Klausson by Rudil Donnarsson
-- +1 [Tier 4] Fimir Hag Queen's Eye
--10 Former Huskarls, new totals: x28
- Expedition, The Throng is Mustered complete!
-- The Drangthrong of the High King and Prince Malekith encountered a massive example of a Slave Wyrm, one unlike any seen before. A cyclopean monstrosity that could paralyze with its gaze and melted flesh with its breath. The Hearth Guard would have been badly depleted holding it back if Grimgal had not been there.
-- High King Snorri Whitebeard has a message for you. At some point in the future he will request that you march out and serve as a distraction while Malekith's mages enact a ritual to counter the Fimir's. When this happens is entirely dependent on Malekith completing his objectives. But it's likely to be soon.
-- +2 [Tier 4] Elder Wyrm's Blood, new totals: x12
-- -1 Hearthwarden Rangers, new totals: x47
169 +23 -11 =181/240 +1 retainer action
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.
- [Mid 488] The Lift Expansion, a work that has increasingly become associated with Nain, touches Khazagar. Your student had somehow wrangled the aid of a few extra Runesmiths to aid him. Not speeding up the timeline, but used to increase the scope.
- [Tier 4] Ancient Greedy Troll corpse x1 yields
-- +1 [Tier 4] Ancient Troll's Heart, new totals: x5
-- +2 [Tier 4] Ancient 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]
- Windsight:
-- +2 to the total Specialty Modifier when researching Runes,
-- -2 total cost to all [Difficult] Research options, and
-- -1 total cost to all [Simple] Research options
- Mythical Deed, The Consternation Soothed:
-- Durin is lost but his soul, wherever it may be, shall rest easy knowing that one of the two great struggles that defined his life has been conquered.
Grimgal
- Title, Riluzkuldrakk (The Bright Death)
Rudil
- Legendary Deed, Shadow's Bane. -- I am the servant of Snorri Klausson. Bearer of the Rune helm Daybreak. The darkness will not avail you, Queen of the Fimir! Go back to the shadows!" - Rudil Rubybrow.
Alternately
-- Then one foggy Keg End's eve, the Gift Giver did say. "Rudil with your helm so bright, won't you strike out this Grudge tonight..."
-- Title, Rubybrow
━<><><><==><><><>━
AN: I think there's something sorta poignant and cosmically funny that the Dwarf Quest update happens during Hanukkah and not on Christmas given the discourse about the supposedly unintended parallels between Dwarves and Jewish stereotypes in Lord of the Ri—Uh, would you believe me if I told you I wanted to actually get all the crafting options revealed in this update? Yeah well blame magic. I hate magic, its nonsense. Anyway I hope it was worth the wait. Don't forget to C&C. Sorry everyone. :^(
Anyway have art, updated Snorri art to be precise.
I can do better than the Queen's Oathplate and Shield of Unyielding Stone at this point, of course. I could probably match the Shining Standard for that matter, though turn it to different end, and Grong a Grom too if I really wanted to, but I find myself most of all annoyed by how often my hammers keep failing.
Breaking apart as they slam into Fimir steel, shattering like so much fragile glass.
And not killing, either.
So I'll make a better hammer. One worthy of a Runelord of the Karaz Ankor, one worthy of Snorri Klausson's apprentice, one worthy of Jorri Klausson's daughter. A thing fit to kill and create in equal measure. Not that I particularly enjoy that first part either--but done righteously it's merely a duty, one like so many others I've taken on over the centuries.
Not half as rewarding as teaching apprentices, though.
It would have been convenient if Uncle had compressed Makerstrike and shared it with us yet; but I don't need that to make a weapon of worth. Certainly it's better for my creativity, that I can't simply go out and take one of his Runes for myself.
The combination I have planned is simple, and its simplicity is its strength. The Master Rune of Smiting, given suitably aged Stonehorn Horns. The Rune of Grungni, given Barazgal, not particularly special all told, simply favors called in from when I was a journeywoman and my plaits were still bristly little things. And the Rune of Thungni, given Adamant from my own Smelter.
Simple, straightforward to the extreme even. But for all Runesmiths ought to be capable of adapting to change, with minds both quick enough and broad enough to adapt to the world around us and willing to experiment, sometimes you just want a damn wall.
Or, in my case, a hammer. A very, very nice hammer. Energy, kinetic force, would surround it and each blow would destroy unworthy works, channeling the fury of Grungni and Thungni as lords of Runecraft, yoked around the force of the Master Rune of Smiting until every blow could either be so powerful that it could break a gate like so much glass or so precise as to carve the Runes in the minute detail so often required (or both as the case might be: more than a few Runes seem to draw in the force of the blow itself, for that matter). A tool, created so perfect as to kill as it was to create, a balanced thing much like a Runesmith, really. Whether called upon to arm kings and thanes, to craft legends for the Dawi to come after I enter the Underearth. Or called to combat, called to defy the darkest of magic and the worst of evils and the bleakest of curses, the hammer would make me more able, repudiation of the darkness that lurks in the musty, dank and hidden corners of the world we live in now to fear.
Physically, the hammer would be relatively simple in geometry, a relatively simple sledgehammer made ornate and sized such that I could bear both my shield and my hammer when it was done.
And with that all set, I put myself to the forge.
--
I carved Pure Gromril through the hot Adamant even as the many talismans of heat resistance burned gold and teal in the face of the furnace, defiant in the face of the overwhelming dragonfire heat needed to work the purified Gromril at any practical level..
Making the hammerhead's rough shape was easy enough and so now, I was chiseling in the decorations: at the top, and at the two flat horizontal sides, all beryls the teal blue of Rune lighting set in the hard metal I had blackened (for the aesthetic, you understand). On the slopes, carved in intricate details, stories of the discoveries of many Runes: First and foremost, of course, Thungni returning from the Ankor Bryn, but too Grungni carving Azamar into the Throne of Power, Thungni forging Kradskonti as a gift for His Mother, Grungni creating Foefeller, the legends of my craft and, therefore, the most worthy legends of them all. Eventually the carving was to be filigreed with bronze wire, the better to shine in the light of the Runes and to offset the darkness of the Adamant itself.
After I had done the haft, at least.
A length of Troll Bone, ancient and durable, waited for me. Already roughly the right length, about half-again the length of my arm, but before I could use it I would need to see it stained, a dark cherry red of my own concoction that would help protect the bone from age or damage. So I grasped my iron tongs and slowly but carefully dipped it into the stain, a simple, straightforward process, even as the furnace still crackled keeping the Adamant head proper pliable.
And after thirty heartbeats it was ready.
I was ready.
I pulled it out and saw the wood was good and wasting no time I started to carve into the pliant material, humming a jaunty little tune as I went, preparing the structure with chisel and clove. There would a be a grip of Ancient Troll's Hide, worked pliable and yet enduring, and to set it off from the wood bands of yellow shining gold with raised forms of the shape of the Rune of Grungni, the Rune of Thungni, the Master Rune of Grungni, the Master Rune of Thungni and so on around rubies a dark, vibrant and fiery red, five each above and below. The counterweight at the end of the haft would be the fang of ancient Spawn set in a twinkling socket of brightest, purest gold, a trophy of my own echoing battle to my Ancestors, my own emulation of Thungni and Grungni alike who had slain monsters when my father's father's father's father was not yet more than happy news to his Grandfather.
A simple construction, yes, but a worthy one.
--
It was done, physically. The Adamant head still burned bright, and the haft still sizzled and smoked as it conformed to the hole in the metal.
All I needed to do now was carve the Runes.
I took the Pure Gromril chisel, the heavy hammer, and started to strike and chant, chant and strike.
And Thungni found a cavern, and within it a great, glittering realm
The Master Rune of Smiting. A thing fit to slay the worst of monsters, a thing fit to kill the headiest of beasts, a thing for hunters, a thing for slayers. Force, unrelenting force, fit to kill any and everything it strikes no matter how powerful. And yet, and yet in peace it would allow me to strike the mightiest of Runes on the greatest of gates, carve the tallest of temples to our Ancestors, make the best of shafts in the mines.
The Rune itself seemed to understand in any case, vibrating like some eager, goodhearted youth waiting to make their Ancestors proud, only just waiting the cue, my command. Slowly but surely it began to glow teal--I liked visiting my uncle to be sure, but better not to get too used to working at Khazagar for any number of reasons--and so I lifted the Ancient Stonehorn Horns, ground to a power and held in a bowl, and lifted them up. Forty-seven heartbeats, forty-eight, forty-nine, seven beats for each of the Ancestors. The instant I counted that I began to pour the powder out into the waiting, glimmering thing, felt it take in the power slowly but surely, saw the glimmering climb and climb and climb and climb in potency--until all at once, it was over, the shimmering Master Rune complete.
And plucked from it gleaming seeds of power, that he might give to the dwarves.
And so onto the Rune of Thungni. It was quick work in comparison, to strike the simple Rune, but I couldn't help but compare the strokes and strikes in it as I worked: how one was similar to the Rune of Spelleating, another to Spellturning, a third to Siphoning. It was, perhaps, only appropriate that the Rune of Thungni should, indeed, be so connected to the many Runes of Mysticism that seemed to fill the libraries of lore and the repertoire of Runesmiths young and old alike to spite Wizards of ill intent and to control the magic, make it reliable. The structure began to gleam, patiently asking for a reagent like an honorable Elder and to that honorable Elder I gave the bubbling thing of Adamant, the metal so entrenched and so connected to Thungni. A part of me still thought there was something to using Troll Stomach for it, but this was not an experimental hammer really.
This gift we carry, as servants of our Lord.
Last but not least, the Rune of Grungni. Force, lightning, the storm, aye, and I desired as much; but all bound in that also craftsmanship, creation, the work of a builder, the work of a maker. The work of one who loves beautiful things. A work shared. And even if it should end up only the storm, I would survive with a hammer perfect for slaying to be sure.
But to load the dice, I poured out the molten Barazgal as the surly old Rune started to flicker and demand, and gave it sustenance, nourishment, for itself. A metal all bound up with Grungni as a miner, yes, but not the storm-caller, the thunder spitter, the destroyer. Something channeling Grungni as craftsman proper would be even better, of course, but I doubted those supposed shavings from the Throne of Power from street vendors would count, and if they did that would probably be worse.
And like that, it was done. No angelic choir, no great shifting in the world. Undoubtedly, if I had locked myself away for a decade instead of the handful of years I actually had kept myself bound up for I could have done better. Be harder to improve on the reagent front, at least, unless somebody somewhere, had a massive stockpile of primordial Dragon Ogres or Troll Progenitors to take a hammer to for bits and pieces.
But give me another round with those Fimir, and I'd show you it was more than enough. The air above wavered from heat, yes, but not only from heat: there was real power there, trapped and just waiting to be unleashed in the hammer.
In Okrin Makaz.
I smelled the scent of hot Stonebread and cool ale as my apprentices knocked on my door appreciably punctually, neither too early nor too late, and hummed.
