Winning Vote:
[X] Social: Lord Gemlin Steeleyes
[X] Social: A Priest of Gazul
[X] Social: Prince Gimli of Kraka Drakk,
[X] [Market] Write-in: Stocking up
-[X] Pegasus Heart
-[X] 3x Mammoth Tusk
-[X] 2x Oathgold
━<><><>< 213 A.P. ><><><>━
You find yourself in the presence of the young Prince of Kraka Drakk. The both of you standing at two adjacent kegs while the rest of the feast abounds around you. The boy is still in his armour, axes hanging from his hips and on his back.
"Lord Elder," he says with a slight bow.
"Beardling," you reply with a respectful sniff. Eyeing the way he returns to staring at his drink in contemplation, while you give the occasional glance at his axes.
Karstah's work has been holding up well enough, not that the Prince has been lax in caring for the weapons that dangle from his frame. Their blades shine, having been dimmed purposefully so that they don't become a hindrance, the edges are sharp enough to cut a mote of dust and the bindings freshly applied. Their pristine condition in sharp contrast to the quiet youth that wields them. The Prince, normally a rather rowdy and loud youngster, is acting rather out of character given what you know of him.
Much as you feel it isn't
your business to pry into
his business you ultimately decide that, for his Clan's sake, you ought to give it a shot.
You grunt once, just enough to catch his attention so that he sees you raise your brow questioningly.
The boy, to his credit, catches on quick enough, taking a moment to think before turning back to look at you.
"What is a king?" he asks eventually.
You raise a brow.
"I'm not a thinker, I fight well, can lead a battle, and I like to think I can make folk take a liking to me well enough, but is that all a King is? My father is patient, wise, methodical, my Grandfather is the Adamant Wyrm, the Uniter, a diplomat, a warrior and ruler without peer… but is that what makes them King? I know that I don't know the answer, but it's only hit me now when I saw my uncle talk two thanes from duking it out in the middle of the feast. You chose him, so I reckon I might as well go straight to the dwarf everyone in my Clan, save Grandmother Moira I suppose, thinks so highly of, for good reason obviously."
You stare at him.
[ ]
Character Moment: Write-in. What is a King? What you say here will likely greatly impact Gimli's growth and beliefs about what a King ought to be. Reminder, make a list of points and arguments you want to get across.
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Having done your part to dispense elderly wisdom to the next generation of Clan Ironarm you grab your mug and walk off to let Gimli stew on what you told him.
You do not get far before being called over by old Lord Gemlin, the ancient dwarf giving you an appraising eye and rumbling like a rolling avalanche.
"Lord Gemlin," you say politely.
"Hmmph, finally gone and made yourself armour worth the name eh? Same material as the one you made for your king, too. Must be quite the suit to make you put away your last one," the Runelord says.
You blink.
"Don't look at me like that, I can tell personal attachment from a good dozen kilometres away. I'm not called the Steeleye for nothing I'll have you know! Mmm but that isn't why I had you come over here. That hammer lad, what'd you end up naming her?" he rumbles, pointing a finger.
"Zharrgal," you reply, patting your hammer so that a tongue of ethereal orange flame erupts before the hammer falls silent again.
Gremlin closes his eyes, running the name through his mind before grunting.
"A good enough name," he admits, "It's been a damn long time since I've seen that particular batch of Runes together too, not since I first became a Master I reckon. Not many of the youngsters do give proper respect for their Ancestors sometimes, and by the time they become Elders, they don't even bother to see what those Runes can
do when used properly. Now, don't look at me like that, these eyes have seen those three Runes more times than there are hairs on a Beardling's chin, even if you've clearly done something different to 'em. I don't take you as the type to bungle that sort of thing. We're in Vlag after all. Smednir's got his place here, nothing like Azul I admit, but when all you've got is Iron it's practical to pay homage to one of the Dwarfs with metalwork in their purview eh?"
"You honour me," you reply humbly.
"Mmm, you've taken it in a different direction from where most who make that combination go, theirs never glowed
teal after all, but I don't reckon you went
backwards in terms of functionality. I can't imagine you went about altering the reagent without proper vetting and testing, you don't take me for a fool after all. Despite who your master was, a Runelord before your third century is proof enough of that. Maddening as that outcome was, the House voted and the result can't be denied."
Right.
"I will admit I'm not too sure where I'll go from here," you say conversationally, looking not at all guilty of doing just what he just said, "At least in terms of what I'll do for my own personal gear. Besides replacing the axe obviously."
(Roll, Further Advice?: 2, DC 70)
"Bah, don't look at me for help there lad, I already gave you plenty. Besides, you made that hammer I'm sure you can figure out the rest," he grumbles back, brow raised.
Worth a shot.
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Fjolla watches impassively as the beardlings are brought out and lined up before their elders.
Of them, she reckons that maybe two or three are worth her time, not that she thinks she'll take any more than the one. She watches the beardlings be given the hammer, she stares at the glow of the Runes, and she leaves as silent as she came.
Over the next few weeks, she visits two separate houses, interviews two different sets of parents and observes two different youths going about their days.
Both are talented enough, she reckons, but the question remains…
Which one?
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"Straight north then? Hmph, I'd have gone through Uzkulak, if only to see who among the easterners would join. Well, I suppose she's prepared enough as is, Ancestors know how it would eat at me to not know the fate of my home. Still, a few weeks to gain more aid may be worth it given how effective some of their ilk can be," Gemlin says before taking a long swig of his tankard.
"Are they that skilled?" You ask, thoroughly surprised by his admission.
"Some of them aye. The Order of the Watchers, they're called. Warriors Like the Valkyrie Guard, save they're a bit more proactive in their work in some respects. Didn't even know they existed until a few decades ago actually, seeking commission for a blade of all things," he explains.
Swords, odd things, but as Gazul wielded a giant greatsword it only made sense that his adherents do the same. You had made a few of them over your life, almost entirely for the priesthood of Gazul and a few particularly devout dwarfs. Ancestors, you made two of them for the priests of Gazul who were part of your retinue.
"What convinced you to take such a job if you don't mind me asking," you broach cautiously.
"Blade was meant for the head of their order," Gemlin explains, chest puffing out with pride, "Who was incidentally the King of Karak Zharrazul, Baggroth Ironhand. If anyone's worthy of my work he'd most certainly be among them but more than that, the commission came from the Dwarf in charge if you catch my meaning."
You raise your brow questioningly before your eyes widen in understanding.
"You mean?" you ask, voice almost like an awestruck beardling.
"Aye," Gemlin says with a fierce nod, "Part of the reason I haven't been crowing about it from the mountaintop was that the commission demanded I be sworn to secrecy until I received a missive from Him saying otherwise. I have both of those letters secured in the hardest to reach place I know of," he says almost giddily.
A commission from Gazul
Himself. While certainly not of the likes of Thungni or Grungni, He was an Ancestor all the same. To have your work be considered acceptable enough that an Ancestor commission you. By the Ancestors, it was a dream and nightmare come true for any dwarf.
"Must've been a hell of a time forging that," you reply.
"Ha! I damn near scoured every tome and spoke to every priest of Gazul I could find to make sure I made a proper sword. Damn things don't make a lick of sense to me, but when He asked me to make one, well.."
"...it'd be a shame to not make anything short of a true masterpiece," you finish, drawing a nod of agreement from him.
"But back to my point," Gemlin mutters, "Those folk know what they're doing with the things, saw one in action once during a joint campaign with Zharrazul. They don't talk much about what they do besides the monster slaying, those Watchers, but every Guild's entitled to their secrets. They hang about Uzkulak about as much as they do Zharrazul and the Entrance to the Underearth ya see, and Young Igna could do with having a few with her when she reaches Dum. Fine fighters, who go about slaying Daemons and monsters are never a bad thing to have after all, and should worse come to worst...well they're ordained Priests of Gazul."
You don't have much to say about that.
"What about the other Easterners you've met?" you say, trying to change the topic to something less grim.
"Mmm, secretive folk. Order of the Watchers are the same aye, but as I said, Guild Secrets. But an entire region? Doesn't sit right with me. Aye, aye they aren't being deceitful or anything, but if you ask 'em the wrong thing they clam up faster than a Thane's vault when the Reckoner's come a calling. Still, they're a humble folk. Not prone to pride or boasting, and they keep to the Ancestors fiercer than anyone short of a priest. Odd favour for Gazul too, but I suppose the geography and state of the region may have something to do with it. I'm not too sure if the tales of giant walking bones or monsters more wretched than Daemons are true, but they certainly send a fair share of unique reagents our way. If you want more nuance I'd go straight to the source I'm afraid," Gemlin rattles off while stroking his beard.
You nod, even in Kraka Drakk the stories of the Uzkulril Ankor are known. A place of desolate windswept plains, cold thin air, stupendous mineral wealth, and, if you believed the rumour mongers and Zaki, a land of monsters, and foul things that ought not to be.
Made sense that it would drive folk to the Ancestors you reckon, a source of good sense and comfort in an otherwise maddening realm.
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You leave Gemlin in good spirits, the elder proving a font of useful information and grumbling in equal measure.
The feast is nearing its end, you catch several beardlings beginning to doze off with their bellies full of ale and good food. The bards and musicians play at a more sedate pace, the songs are not the jovial and epic tales of great deeds but things of a more domestic tune. Tales of riches found, of good craftsmanship sung by deep bass voices in a rhythmic lull that brings a sense of contentment to many in the room.
You hold your tankard, having refilled it for the eighteenth time that night, and stare at the feast from a corner in the hall. Lessons with Yorri and your own experience deftly and quietly sneaking toys about letting you slip away from the notice of most.
Save one individual.
"Rhunrikki, I see you're taking a small reprieve from the festivities," the hooded form of a priest of Gazul says as he approaches.
You nod, taking stock of the dwarf before you as he moseys on over. Enveloped as he is in the feature concealing robes of his order, you can make out some details. A black beard only beginning to be flecked with grey, but long enough to put him well beyond the age of a simple fullbeard. On his back, the hilt of a massive blade jutted out, the grip made of black leather, capped with a humble yet finely made gold pommel.
"I apologize for the intrusion, but there aren't many places to slink away you see," he says, pointing to a few choice spots in the room.
One had a gaggle of beardlings with their arms linked, all quietly singing a very poorly coordinated miner's song. In another, a dwarf had fallen asleep, helmet falling over his head, and his cloak being used as a blanket. In the third spot, a rather inappropriate display of public affection between a couple of Fullbeards who ought to know better.
"I suppose that's true. Still, if we're going to be sharing this little spot, might I have a name?" you accede, sliding your stool over so that the priest can put his down.
"Ah of course, I go by Kartul, son of Snorri and ordained member of the Priesthood of Gazul," he says, extending a hand towards you.
"Snorri, son of Klaus and Runelord of Kraka Drakk," you reply, taking the proffered limb and shaking it.
The priest plops down onto his stool and stares out across the room. His massive sword resting against the wall. You take the opportunity to examine the weapon. A long thing, maybe a third again longer than its wielder, the blade about half as thick as your hand going by the scabbard, and undoubtedly well made given the subdued but fine decoration on the scabbard itself.
"How often have you made swords Rhunrikki? If you don't mind me asking of course," the priest says, having caught you staring.
"Hmmm, on the whole, a few dozen times, twice very recently, but in the grand scheme of things? Not that often," you reply.
"Not a conventional dwarf weapon aye, there's a tale about it if you're willing to indulge my wool-gathering. It's an old one that not many know outside of the clergy. Not a secret really, but simply because few bother asking, " he offers.
Well, you were never one to ignore the stories and lessons of your elders, and so you nod in affirmation.
"Well then…"
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The tale begins in the earliest days of our people. Before the Ancestors began their great trek north along the World's Edge even. Here Gazul was known as a hunter and wanderer, for the tradition of rangers had not yet solidified. Plying the mountain slopes for creatures to slay and bring home for kin who, save for his sister Valaya, He has since cut ties with and whose identity remains a mystery even to us.
It was on these hunts that Gazul, Crossbow in hand with His tools in His pack, came upon a monster never seen by Dwarfs before. A thing of endless mouths, terrible claws, and thick armour.
The dwarf and the monster duelled for days, and while Gazul did not tire his work was slow going. His bolts did not pierce deep enough, His axe could not hack through the tough hide fast enough before the abomination regenerated.
Through guile, skill and wisdom the creature was laid low, but not before a great patch of the forest was cleared in the tumult of their conflict. When at last the fel thing crashed to the earth with a great crash Gazul went to ensure it remained so. With His axe worn down to uselessness and His quiver long spent, Gazul searched His pack for a tool to use. Inside the thoroughly ruined pack he found that only a saw, a chisel and a hammer had survived the destruction. With no other options, the Ancestor got to work. With hammer and chisel, He carved away at the armour until He revealed the foul flesh beneath. Then with saw in hand, He went about the grizzly work of severing the massive head from the rest of the body.
Satisfied that it was truly dead Gazul returned home, tired and injured, but very much alive. There His sister healed Him and her husbands remade His tools and taught Him to better fight His foes at her request.
Time passed, Gazul healed, and again went out to hunt. For days He acted just as He always did before, until one day He found troubling signs upon the peaks. His beard twitching fiercely, He caught wind of his prey and felt dread settle in His gut.
There on the slopes, He found yet another one of the creatures. Larger, angrier and more terrible than previous. The Ancestor found it consuming a band of dwarfs, their corpses littered around it like a butcher's shop. Anger grew in him at the desecration, and with a yell of rage He met the foe in battle. Another seven days of combat, another part of the forest torn asunder, until at last Gazul killed this monster, cutting off its head and taking the honoured dead back with Him.
This time, as Valaya healed her brother's wounds, Gazul called out to Grimnir and Grungni.
"The az will not do, the hammer will not do. I need something to pierce the toughest hide, to cleave the thickest limb, and sunder the greatest foe. The tool of death, whose purpose is devoted solely to killing, a slayer of monsters."
Hearing their good brother's request, the brothers worked together to create a tool that suited his request. Something with an edge, something that could pierce deeper than any axe, slice through flesh, a tool and weapon of one unified purpose.
With mighty Runes, and some of the finest metal they could create, the brothers forged Zharrvengrynn, and when Gazul had healed, presented it to Him. Taking up the blade, longer than He was tall, and burning with the furor of the vengeful dead, Gazul set out once more into the mountains.
For countless ages He braved the slopes, finding more and more Monsters, each more terrible as the last, and slew them with ease. His skill with the weapon in His hands growing with each battle until Gazul dealt death as surely as He knew it. Of all the Ancestors, only Grimnir and Valaya truly understood the duty Gazul had taken when He forsook all but one tie to His people and chose to safeguard the dead.
Armed with a tool whose purpose was death and His bonds severed, Gazul would serve forever as Lord of the Underearth, Protector of the Dead, and the Slayer of Monsters.
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The priest finishes his tale with a quiet sip from his drink before he gets up and dusts off his knees.
"Quite the tale isn't it?" he asks.
You nod, still digesting the story and trying to understand what it means. If the priest has any issue with your silence he does not voice it, seemingly content with the contemplative silence between the two of you.
"I followed Prince Bhardukk at his request, for the Royal Family of Zharrazul has come to lean strongly on the Cult in these past decades," he says eventually, breaking you out of your thoughts.
"My condolences to the Royal Family, may their kin feast in the Halls of the Ancestors," you rumble sympathetically, the feeling of a hand squeezing your own passing like the breeze.
"Mmm, there has been much death in the east aye. Far too much for my liking, but more than that, there have been plenty of monsters as well. The kind an axe cannot kill you see," he responds cryptically before reaching into his robes.
You watch as the priest pulls out a tome and leafs through the pages before settling on one about halfway through the book.
"Lady Igna, she marches to Dum? To reclaim her home?" he asks.
At your nod, he grumbles something incomprehensible before moving closer to whisper something to you.
"Beware the monsters for they lurk about the Zorn Uzkul, and the Order hunts them as we speak. The Lady Metalheart has already been told, but I ask, for both our sakes, do not intrude on their business. Take this," he says, pulling out a page from his robes and showing it to you.
You stare at the symbol, a double-headed axe, the face of a bull atop. It exudes wrongness in a way you cannot comprehend let alone articulate. Staring back up at the priest you see his face is grim and mouth set into a firm line.
"Beware this symbol, the monster's touch could be hiding in every corner," is all he says before walking off. Robes billowing out behind him, leaving the page with you.
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The day after the feast is one of hopeful farewell, the Throng marching out to the sounds of cheering as they leave the confines of Vlag and into the icy plains of the Zorn Uzkul. Up from the Underway terminal, through the halls and galleries of the hold before you exit through the surface gates of the Karak, a massive construction similar to the one below, though depictions of dwarfs battling dragons adorn it rather than the ancestors. A retelling of the Karak's founding, similar to that of Kraka Drakk's actually. Though rather than killing a single Elder Wyrm and claiming its titanic mountain lair for their own, the settlers of Vlag slew a larger amount of lesser wyrms, each claiming one of the many peaks that now comprise the hold itself.
You catch Gimli staring at the gates as the Throng marches through them, eyes always wandering back to look at them.
Just as the last of the throng passes through the gate, a cry is heard on the wind. Many look up and are surprised to see the shadow of Brana passing overhead. Many more so by the massive shadow of the storm that follows in their wake. The buffeting winds of the plateau abate then begin blowing in a completely different direction as the massive Cloudbank encroaches on the Throng. The rumble of thunder and the crack of lightning can be heard and seen in the massive nimbuses overhead, while snow and ice fall in massive sheets around you. The entire army stands still, watching the titanic weather front settle around them, leaving all of you sitting under the clam clouds of its eye.
The sight at the edges must be quite disconcerting for any dwarf not of Kraka Drakk, being faced with the face of a massive storm that abruptly terminates naught three meters away from you.
You however stand among your Hearthwardens near the center of the throng and amidst the greatest concentration of Runesmiths. To your far left, standing on the shoulders of a massive Gronti, Valma stares out into the swirling winds of the storm that now shields you all from any enemy encroachment.
"DAWI!" Lady Igna calls, Runes propagating her voice far longer than is normally possible, "Fear not, for the Brana have come as bargained. Hold firm in your resolve! We march for Dum! KHAZUK KHAZUK KHAZUK-HA"
"HAAAA!" the Throng roars back, their confidence slowly returning.
"MARCH!" the Runelord rumbles.
Like a great beast rising to wakefulness, the Throng begins to move once again. Now shielded under the aegis of a massive storm, the shadows and cries of Brana dancing in and darting about the clouds.
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(Roll, ???: 27 -30[Storm and Song] = -3)
(Roll, ???: 11 +30[Storm and Song] = 41, DC ???)
The Throng marches for a month unimpeded, still under the cover of the massive storm, towards Karag Dum. Ranger patrols dart in and out of the storm, the weather clearing around them as they walk through, leaving for another foray or returning from their scouting. As for the main body of the Throng, the blizzard has lightened enough that you can manage to see through the gale force winds and cutting snow to see the outside world. Not that there's much to see in the first place, the flat earth, littered in the bones of the dead of countless ages, continues for kilometers with nary a hill or bump of note.
The lack of foes is….terrifying in its own way.
Many expect daemons and monsters because simple dwarf logic and the reports from Vlag speak of daemons and monsters, but there is simply….nothing. Not hide nor hair of a single daemon, troll or beast. Even counting the terrifying presence of the storm scaring away any enemy from coming close, the Rangers scout well away from the Throng and even they find nothing. Many are on edge, especially the rangers of Vlag who know firsthand that the Zorn Uzkul is never this quiet.
On the eve of the month's end, just as the Throng is settling down to make camp, the rangers return with news.
Approaching from the south, a group of some hundred Dwarf rangers from Uzkulak. At their head a member of the Order of Watchers.
Many watch as the group passes through the storm and into camp. Their leader marches off towards the tent Lady Igna resides, while his followers are pointed towards a place to pitch their tents, near the other rangers and quarreller companies.
You personally are preoccupied, busy trying to decipher the words of the priest you met. Staring at the image he left leaves you feeling both wrong and confused in equal measure. Clearly an emblem of some sort, but for who or what?
What monster lurks about out there in the cold wastes?
You put the paper away in a sealed container and leave your tent with a mug in your hands. Rudil and Vikken nod at you as you exit, both keeping guard while Storri Longnose and Storri Blackbrows follow you.
There is a meeting a few hours from now, one where the most prominent members of the expedition will meet and discuss the current situation. Something Igna called given...everything about this situation. Good sense that, a plan was meant to be followed aye, but as the dwarfs in charge of making the plan, you all had to do your due diligence in making sure it remained the best course of action.
You reckon you have time to meet and talk with a few folks before you go meet with Igna and the other expedition notables.
Pick as many as you want, Top 3 will be chosen.
Options below
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Karstah stares down at the hammers in her hands. A few of these Runes she now recognizes, Fire and a dormant Grudge Rune on one, Cold and Striking on the other, the third and final Runes are the one only ones she doesn't recognize.
She stares at the heirlooms, the last and only thing she has connecting her to her birth parents, for a few minutes longer before putting them back into the safe Master Snorri made for her.
One day, she thinks, she'll find out.
But not if she doesn't become an actual Runesmith first.
Collated Votes:
[ ]
Character Moment: Write-in. What is a King? What you say here will likely greatly impact Gimli's growth and beliefs about what a King ought to be. Reminder, make a list of points and arguments you want to get across.
Pick as many as you want, Top 3 will be chosen.
[ ]
Social: Lord Dwalin Thunderlung
The Battle Poet is currently serenading a group of dwarfs sitting around a campfire. His voice carrying all through the camp. He's reciting some saga he made himself, a recollection of his time spent during the Great Reclamation.
[ ]
Social: Prince Gimli of Kraka Drakk,
The lad is currently sparring with five of his Huskarls at once. Even accounting for age and skill he is surviving far longer than one would expect before his elders bring him down. Apparently, he appreciated the challenge.
[ ]
Social: Lady Valma Stoneshaper
Valma is quietly inspecting her Gronti, grumbling about something or another while the other Runesmiths give her a respectfully wide berth. She's currently standing atop the hand of one Gronti, using it as a platform to examine its shoulder from.
[ ]
Social: Logazor Bonestrider, Head Ranger of Karak Vlag
Lorgazor sits on a log and frowns into his mug, it's obvious to many that the current circumstances have him concerned. Maps and charts lie on the table in front of him while his eyes scan them for
something.
[ ]
Social: A Ranger from Uzkulak
He calls himself Dorri Grimscowl, and sits some distance away from his fellows. His hood covers his face so that only his grey flecked beard is all that pokes through. A massive Crossbow and Axe rest against him.
[ ]
Social: She who Calls the Furious Cold/ Blizzardwing
You don't know much about her save that she's the one who manages both the storm and the other Brana. An average-sized member of her species, her defining features are the braids and charms that dangle from her torque, as well as the layer of frost that coats several of her feathers, giving the appearance of a spiked plume that flares out from the back of her head.
Khazalid Trivia:
Uzkulak - Place of the Skull
Uzkulril Ankor - The Realm of Dead Riches, refers to the canonical Darklands
Zorn Uzkul - Plain of Skulls, the Northern Plateau at Uzkulak is on and whose Edge Zharrazul rests on.
Zaki - Crazy person.
Gain:
- Market Haul:
-- +1 [Ingredient] Pegasus Heart
-- +3 [Ingredient] Mammoth Tusk
-- +2 [Ingredientl] Oathgold
- New contact, Gemlin Steeleyes, Old Lord of the Desolate Peak: +5 standing, new totals: Standing 0, Favours 0
- Something foul lurks in the Zorn Uzkul
There will be a two-hour moratorium for discussion.
AN: Heres the doot, not much to say here really. To sound like a broken record, thanks for reading, hope you enjoy and don't forget to C&C. :^)
(Or with Ancestral Aegis on the Silverwyrm Banner. Or maybe even our Daemonward cloak.) And then Zharrgal was forged and no such combo popped up.
