On Thread Etiquette:
I'm not going to weigh in on the logic of either side's arguments, but I will ask that everyone read over what they write and really consider if the words they used are polite and won't be inflammatory intentionally or not. You cant account for people's tolerances perfectly but at least try to say your piece without saying things that can be easily construed as overly dismissive of the other side of the argument, thank you.
Close enough, yeah, though less "Doom" Divers and more just Divers, since the assumption's they'd get back up and start killing things once they landed.
The quiet on the slopes west of Kraka Drakk is broken by the angry cry of a Greedy Troll and dwarf in battle.
Fjolla swings her axe, edge burning, and severs an arm before raising her shield to block a fireball thrown in her direction. The monster standing before her is half-mad with pain, regenerating its mangled ruin of a chest and head, its remaining two arms flaring with balls of flame.
"Gift Giver…" the thing mutters, voice delirious and slurred by pain, "I smell you Gift Giver…"
"Not my master, you ignorant oaf," she mutters from behind her shield.
The Troll only roars in anger, mind succumbing to the pain and letting primal instinct take over. Its legs carrying it forward in a crazed charge. She raises her shield to meet it, only to lower it in surprise when the creature's head disappears in a haze of red mist, the body falling soon afterwards.
She walks over to the fallen body, and with a few quick strikes cleanly separates the heart from the chest cavity.
"My thanks," she says, turning to the source of the projectile to see a hooded dwarf toting a crossbow about as large as his chest.
"S'no problem," they say, lifting their hood to reveal grey eyes, a head of salt and pepper hair and a grey beard of respectable length.
Fjolla wracks her brain for a name to apply to the face before her, standing there in concentration before it clicks.
"Todriksson right?" she asks, kneeling down to put the heart in a container.
"Aye," he replies as he walks over, eyes still searching for any more enemies.
"What brings you out here then?" she says, uncapping a Runed container and plopping the heart inside.
"Looking for inspiration, you?" he asks softly, bending down to help her butcher the carcass.
Couldn't waste a good troll after all.
"Ah, teaching my apprentices and doing some groceries actually. Can't find any good troll meat at the market these days, too old or too stringy for a good roast," she replies, eyeing the joint before cutting it cleanly off with a single swipe.
"The beardlings?" he asks.
"Down the slopes, picking stonefruit," she replies.
He simply hums in understanding, seemingly content to let the silence remain between them.
"Not gonna ask?" she questions, well used to the questions about her teaching methods. Odd they may be, but Master Snorri was no fool.
He looks at her, steel-grey eyes holding no judgement, "My master taught yours. I understand the lesson... I think?"
She snorts.
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"I'm going to the ritual site," you say, voice brooking no argument.
(Roll, Mind over Heart: 47 -40[Too Many Injustices, Too Much Suffering] +10[Practicality] +10[Elder Already Going Below] =27, DC 50)
"As will I. Lord Dwalin, Lady Valma, I divest overall command of the defence to you while we're gone." Igna rumbles out as well.
For her to have held her emotions in check for so long was admirable, but here? With the opportunity to slake her vengeance on the Frurndar who masterminded the defilement of her home literally thrown before her?
Ultimately none voice any objection and that says enough.
"Who else will go with you?" Valka asks, staring at you both.
"My Gromriltrommi will march beside us," Igna replies.
"The Hearth Guard will aid in the evacuation," you add.
"Our tunnels to the First Deep are few and far between. Lady Valma and Lord Dwalin will have to hold their attention while the Ungkarak evacuates," Valka says, staring the two Dawi in question.
"FRET NOT, THEY SHALL BREAK UPON US LIKE THE TIDE UPON THE CLIFF FACE!" Dwalin rumbles, thumping his hand on the table, "EVERY LAST INNOCENT SOUL BELOW WILL SEE THEMSELVES UNMOLESTED BY THE FOE SO LONG AS WE GUARD THE WAY!"
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You, Igna and your respective retainers march out behind Valka and her party of Dawi. Leaving the confines of the camp and the hastily assembling Throng to their own devices, trusting that Dwalin and Valma will have things well in hand.
Valka and her Dawi lead you down a labyrinthine maze of tunnels, forks and hallways. The Queen notes that they've carved the maze of tunnels to a size so immense and confusing that a Dawi of Dum has to spend a good amount of their early years learning the paths through them and the proper way to navigate them so that any would be followers are lost. Something you can appreciate and see the good sense of, watching as the Queen and her followers walk through the tunnels, ignoring false paths and dead ends easily as they lead you to the Ungkarak proper. Apparently they were actually forgoing their usual trailing and scrying countermeasures for the sake of expediency, but even then the path they take is still a long and winding one.
"I've had my second inform the rest of the populace to be ready for a potential evacuation. Something we've prepared for since we started digging through the rock and caverns all those centuries ago. Truth is the Frurndar were already mounting their assault these last few years, so we've been drilling more earnestly than before," Valka whispers, more out of habit than any actual need to maintain silence.
You glance at Igna, her face hidden behind the all-encompassing faceplate of her war helm, and cannot help but wonder what exactly goes through her head as she hears this.
"Had we not been here…" Igna says, voice reverberating, "Where would you have gone?"
"We had bug out stations settled and prepared all over the Karak. We'd be forced to live as cells independently from one another for a time until a new Ungkarak site could be discovered. It'd have been difficult, but we'd have survived. Rinse and repeat until the Frurndar were dead, we ran out of spots, or we no longer had the numbers to contest them, but I must admit the latter two would likely have coincided with the other," Valka replies after a time, eyes staring at Igna in concern.
Your fellow Runelord says nothing, only trusting herself to nod and do nothing else.
The walk through the tunnels is noticeably quieter after that.
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"HAHA, COME, COME DIE AND KNOW THAT IT WAS DWALIN THUNDERLUNG WHO SENT YOU TO YOUR MISBEGOTTEN GODS!" he roars, cleaving a corrupted Cloven One in twain with but a single swing. The burning edge of his axe cutting through the thick plate like a knife through a stonefruit pie.
The sound of warcries, the pumping of blood in his veins, it was invigorating in a way he cannot articulate properly. This was battle, a war waged for a righteous cause and grim purpose! His weapon sweeps out, cleaving another Beastman in two from the waist down, the glorious Runelight on his axe flaring with power and righteous anger.
"COME AND FACE ME MY FOE, COME SO THAT YOU MAY MEET MY AZ'S EDGE AND TASTE VENGEANCE! KHAZUKAN KAZAKIT-HA!" the Battlepoet yells, voice carrying across the front.
The Throng roars back in response, making up for their enemy's silence twofold with the bellicose shouts released upon their lips and the thumping of weapons upon stone or shield.
"HAHAHA! THAT'S THE SPIRIT!" he yells before shoulder charging a nearby Gor, sending it flying into its fellows.
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Eventually, after a solid half-hour of walking, your party finally reaches the entrance to the Ungkarak.
There you are greeted to a massive set of stone gates etched with a mundane Rune of Valaya, standing proudly. It lacks any true ornamentation, almost all of its material used solely to reinforce its structure. Creating a massive utilitarian construct of stone and metal dedicated purely to its singular purpose with only the barest bits of gold and aesthetic decoration. A part of you wishes to grumble about the workmanship, the rest decides that just this once, it isn't the time. Not that there was anything wrong with it, given the circumstances it was perhaps the best the survivors of Dum could do.
Especially when so many of their elders and masters had fallen. In both senses of the word, a dark part of you mutters.
The wrongs and grievances simply continue to pile upon themselves it seems.
"She isn't a pretty one, but we have more pressing concerns than impressing any guests we receive," Valka grunts out, tapping the door with the butt of her weapon in a series of rapid thumps.
It takes another second before Valka taps out another series of thumps, a secondary pattern meant to confirm their identity she tells you. Only then do the gates swing open, silently and smoothly parting to reveal a party of armed dwarfs formed up in a shield wall. Only at the sight of their queen, and the imposing visage that both you and Igna present do they lower their guard.
Valka nods at her warriors, the formation further breaking up and revealing the Ungkarak to you and your fellow visitors fully.
At a glance, it does not appear all that dissimilar from any other Dwarf settlement. The typical aesthetic of your people is evident everywhere, though with a great emphasis on depicting the Ancestors especially. But upon closer inspection, the differences between the Unkarak and a regular hold become more obvious. For one thing, all of these structures are far more utilitarian than your kind usually goes for, mimicking the gate in terms of lack of ornamentation and focus on function. The dearth of gold and gemstones is offset by the care and work done to the solid steel and hard rock these homes were made of. Levels upon levels of cavern homes built so that any in the upper floors could shoot down at those below. Staircases built into the far back and deepest corners and alleys possible, to better provide for definitive choke points. The telltale sign of collapsible pillars and triggerable rockfalls. This entire settlement was meant to be a deathtrap for any foe coming from a myriad of directions. Yet what catches your eye are the torch sconces, or at least their equivalents. Simple bowls carved from stone with a hole small enough for the ash to fall through and into receptacles below. Neat piles of coal quietly burned in each bowl, providing what little light was present.
The sight of it finally makes you realize something offhandedly, especially when you stare at the gear of Valka's forces.
There is a noticeable lack of wood. In many cases, the hafts and structures of their weapons are instead composed of metal. While your folk weren't overly fond of using wood in most cases, preferring the surety and durability of good solid rock, you most certainly did use it for certain things; doors, chairs, parts of weapons, the creation of charcoal, some ornamentation and the like, things that were more useful light and easily moveable. But here? Here, there is little to no wood to be seen, the only notable examples you can find are among some the weapons of Valka's warriors, the oldest and most decorated of them. Things that were of a level of quality noticeably above the majority of the other weapons and items they carried. It doesn't take a clever fellow to realize these are Heirlooms, relics from before they were forced to subsist off of an existence without any fresh source of timber. An odd thing to focus on, but the mind acts queerly when in a state of shock you suppose.
Then of course there are the people themselves. What draws your attention is not their overall thinner frames, the almost extreme prevalence of relatively short beards and the eyes full of wariness. Instead, you hone in on the sheer sense of tiredness these Dawi exude. A bone-deep burden that they carry and work through by sheer force of will. The few children you can see are younglings who look far too thin for your liking, and yet the adults look even more undernourished. Not to the point of death, but when you stare at these Dawi, civilians not as heavily covered in layers of protective metal and heavily worked Beastmen leather, the truth of their situation is ever more evident. Thin faces, perpetual frowns and grey hairs likely caused more from stress than any true age stare at you and whisper warily to each other.
It is a heartening and depressing sight in equal measure. To see that your folk have proven hardy enough to survive even in these deplorable conditions, and saddening to see them forced into such a state to begin with. There is of course the burning white flare of rage that courses through you, but much like the buzz after a few dozen barrels of ale, it is a simmering thing in the back of your mind so ever-present that calling back to it amounts to nothing.
But just as you've been staring at these dawi, so too have they at you and yours. The gasps and blinks at the sight of Gromril armour and the glow of Runelight, perhaps even at the sheer level of ostentation you possess in comparison to these humble Dawi. You personally catch the whispers of the word "Azrilgromthi," on the lips of many of the adults, while the few children present stare at you and your beard in wide-eyed wonder. Yet many more look at Igna, the emblem of Clan Metalheart marked proudly upon her armour, and it's clear your fellow Runelord is doing her best not to run through the place and look for any of her surviving kin or descendants among the populace.
"DAWI!" Valka says, stopping the growing commotion and drawing the gazes of those present, "DOUBTLESSLY, MANY OF YOU HAVE QUESTIONS, DOUBTS, BUT WE MUST CAST THEM ASIDE! FOR TIME IS SHORT MY KIN, THE UNGKARAK HAS BEEN LOCATED BY OUR FOES! BEGIN EVACUATION PROCEDURES, FOLLOW GAMMUR TO THE SECOND DEEP. OUR SALVATION IS AT HAND!"
At her declaration the Dawi of Dum do not balk or grumble, walking off and beginning to do as they are instructed with well-practiced efficiency.
Turning from the growing commotion of the evacuation, Valka turns to you both.
"Lord Klausson, Gammur can show your retainers where their aid is most needed. Much as I'd like to lend my aid personally, time is of the essence." Valka says, jutting her chin towards a Dwarf holding a ledger and yelling the occasional order at passing Dwarfs.
You nod at her and gestured towards the lad, the motion sending your retainers into action.
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Dwalin squints in the distance, arm absentmindedly swinging his axe to chop off the leg of an oncoming Beastman off of its body.
The horde before them is parting, lines on lines of marching Cloven ones making way for something in their midst.
"HO LADY STONESHAPER! WHAT DO YOUR EYES SEE THERE?" he shouts up at young Valma, arm pointed towards the oddness he saw.
The stone giant's eyes pulse, and with a single motion its titanic weapon sweeps out to sunder an oncoming group of plate-clad centigors, sending their pulped bodies flying every which way.
The Battlepoet watches as his fellow Runelord is bodily picked up off of her Gronti and put down gently next to him.
"Frurndar," she hisses, "Ten companies of the Unbaraki are making their way here, each led by one of their sorcerers. More than we've ever seen at once, and from what I saw, even more are coming. They aren't in range to start throwing their magic about, but that'll change soon enough. They're bringing out their oldest barrels from the looks of it."
He frowns, the fel knowledge of what's to come brings him no joy. Then he remembers the sight of faces too thin for his liking, of groups of tired but hopeful Dawi marching out of unseen tunnels to see them standing guard.
The Battlepoet swings his axe with a roar of anger, the song of its edge slicing through air interrupted by the chunk and crack of failing armour and the wet exhale of a newly dead foe.
"We must hold," Dwalin huffs out, "The folk of Karag Dum, our elders, our honour demands it!"
"Of that Lord Dwalin," she says, "We are agreed."
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"Move aside beardlings," Rudil says to the two flagging Dawi as he grabs a hold of the cart they were pushing, "From the looks of things, you ought to focus on getting your walking straight before you start fumbling about with this."
"Aye elder," the two evacuees respond, "Apologies elder."
Rudil only grumbles, watching as they begin catching up with the rest of the party. Hearing a grunt behind him he moves aside to let Vikken help him push, but not before his cousin puts a few wide-eyed Garazi onto the cart.
They stare at the children who look at them, only beginning to converse after they'd found their way to the front of the wagon and out of earshot.
"How far?"
"A quarter-hour more, we'll have gotten about a quarter of the Hold's populace after this group cousin," he whispers.
He grunts back in thanks.
Not as fast as he'd like, especially with how pressed the front seemed to be getting, but there was no way to go faster without literally carrying Dawi on their backs.
They both hear their compatriot long before they turn to see him. The clink of his toolbelt, the scent of oil and the crackle of the lantern in his hands. Skalgrim Mordinsson makes for an imposing figure of a Master Engineer, armed to the teeth with all manner of gadgets, his massive coghammer and miniature bolt thrower that he calls a crossbow slung over the pack on his back.
"Bah!" he grumbles, walking over with a sack that he places overtop with the rest, "Damn near unacceptable to call this a wagon! Maybe if you were in an unlit tunnel and had the sense of a beardling! Look at how it sags, those are weight tolerances I expect from me smoking pipe, not a wagon! I swear I could have improved this rickety old thing fivefold with just me tools and fifteen minutes o' time. Why, cousin Okri could've done it in five if he put his mind to it!"
Both Vikken and he move over to let the Master Engineer help them push the rickety cart along, letting him grumble away his frustrations over the workmanship of the, admittedly shoddy, wagon they push. Around them, their fellow Hearthwardens carry out their tasks with the poise and skill expected of a dwarf their age. The grumbling and rumbling of so many true elders bringing a sense of ease and calm to the Dawi they were escorting.
Their lord had entrusted them with keeping these Dawi safe from all harm, and by Grungni they would not fail.
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The stench of blood has steadily been growing stronger as your party descends through the deeps.
Your hand claps Zharrgal tighter with every step forward, its head flaring every so often, casting your shadows on the walls with startling sharpness before the near darkness consumes you once more. If any of your travelling companions have anything to say, they keep it to themselves.
They all understand what is to come.
"We're close now, just a few more steps before we reach the ritual site," Valka whispers.
"How do you propose we reveal ourselves?" you ask.
"The guards will be numerous, so making our way undetected will be a trial. One that may take too long to do depending on how the ritual is going," she responds.
"Then there's nothing for it. We either fight our way to the chamber as one unit or announce our arrival loudly and proudly, draw the guards towards us while a smaller force makes for the ritual chamber," Igna says, finally willing to speak.
You turn towards her and open your mouth, only to close it when the tunnel rumbles hard enough that you can feel it in your bones.
"We ought to hurry it," Valka comments, "Damn ritual looks to be tearing the whole sodding mountain apart."
A fine proposal you think, at home in the tunnels or no, getting killed by a random cave-in is certainly an ignoble way to go!
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"UNBARAKI," the Dawi yells, "DEATH COMES FOR YOU!"
Gimli barely dodges out of the way, mind struggling to understand what is happening. Instinctively his axe blurs forward, some part of him registering the opening in his enemy's guard before the rest of his mind. He hears the crumpling of armour, the exhale of breath, the gurgle of blood dribbling from the lips of his enemy…
He stands there, staring at the fallen form of his foe. Watches as the light fades from his eyes, hears the last few hateful words that burble past his blood-soaked lips.
"Unbaraki," the dying Dawi whispers hatefully.
"MY PRINCE!" a Huskarl shouts, bodily shoving him out of the way of a Bestigor's bone-crushing blow, shielding him with his body.
Gimli blinks, scrambling up from his position to see the massive Beastmen standing over the fallen form of the wounded Huskarl.
An enemy, his mind roars, dreng! Dreng!
His body moves before he realizes, dashing forward and cleaving both hands from their respective arms before reversing the direction of the swing and burying the axe in the creature's chest with a meaty squelch. He takes great bellowing breaths, offering his hand to the wounded Huskarl before his gaze inevitably returns to the dead Dawi he had slain earlier.
"I...I don't understand," he eventually mutters out.
"My prince, we must fall back...the line is faltering, we can't risk getting cut off," the wounded Huskarl pants out, his comrades busy keeping any more enemies from reaching their charge.
"I would be disquieted if they weren't! Not when we're fighting other Dawi, of all things. Dawi that are...allied with Beastmen, Dawi that are throwing about magic like a Wazzock whose had one drink too many throws ale out of his mug!"
A bellowing roar of anger echoes from ahead of him. He looks up to see a fireball roaring overhead, aimed straight for him. He tackles his Huskarls, pushing all of them away from the explosion that engulfed their earlier position. Blearily, he gets up off of his groaning retainers and stares at the source.
"BROTHER!" a voice tinged with grief and rage in equal measure roars.
Another Dawi, his form covered in a mix of thick, dark plates of metal and billowing black robes that glowed with a dark red light. Twisted symbols and runes stamped and embroidered all over his form. In one hand an iron staff capped with the smoke-belching head of a bull and another fireball in the other. His face the image of all-consuming anguish and fury, his beard flecked with froth from his shouting, tears pricking the edge of his eyes.
"YOU WILL DIE! LIKE THE REST OF YOUR MISBEGOTTEN ILK!" He screams at Gimli, pointing his staff towards him, "DIE, DIE BY MY HAND AND KNOW THAT MALAKAI DORRISON SLEW YOU!"
He can barely even begin to think of a response before he dodges out of the way of another fireball. Around him, his Huskarls are engaged by the heavily armed forms of the sorcerer's bodyguard, each one roaring with hatred.
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The entrance to the King's hall appears to be nothing more than a simple dead-end, however, Valka's rangers show that with a careful shove and a few well-placed blows, the wall parts to reveal the chamber beyond. Whatever grandeur here has long since passed, the black walls are inundated with iron and gold decoration, walls lined with massive stone braziers or effigies to the Frurndar's bull god. One of which, you note as you walk out, acted as the cover to the tunnel entrance.
The stench of blood is almost overpowering, thick enough that you wouldn't be surprised the stuff was condensing on your beard in the darkness. More concerningly however, the scent has only gotten fresher, now mixed with the haze of smoke and accented by screams of agony.
"The desecration," you mutter, staring at...everything.
"We're in between the Temple District and the King's Hall geographically, though the chamber itself only has one actual entrance from the King's Hall itself, it was being excavated as another 'vault' before the Betrayal and subsequent decades revealed its true purpose. A temple to Hashut, a sacrificial altar, nai an entire complex dedicated to the spilling of blood for their foul god and their creations. Our intelligence and prior actions have confirmed that every other ritual site is either untouched or was destroyed during our raid earlier."
"Why not subsume the temple district itself?" you find yourself asking.
"Where else to hold the captured Dwarfs of Clan Metalheart before their bodies and souls are used as reagents for some foul artifice than at the foot of a broken statue of Thungni? Where else to destroy the heirlooms of our ancestors than within the ruins of the temple of Grungni? Where else to execute those they've captured than before the feet of Valaya? Where else to hold all the captives before they get sacrificed than among the ruined temples of the Ancestors, to desecrate all we hold dear? Nai, they've done away with practicality and chosen to use this place as a monument to malice and spite," Valka mutters darkly.
Before either of you can reply one of the rangers makes a sign with their hands.
"Patrol," Valka whispers, sending most of you scattering into position.
(Roll, Will vs Heart: No, no no NO. No more! NO MORE!!)
All save Igna.
Igna who stands unmoving, unnaturally still, in the middle of the hallway for any would-be guard to see. Uncaring, or perhaps purposefully showing herself.
"Lord Snorri," she whispers, voice hoarse, "please deal with the ritual, I have business to see through here. I'll buy you the time you need."
Valka shoots a look at you, and you simply shake your head.
"This is a centuries-old pain for you Grimvala, one that you've suffered and grown used to witnessing, but she has only just learned of all this. Imagine having raised a Throng, spent a century biding her time to find out the fate of her home and to come to this. It's an Ancestors' damned miracle she hasn't gone mad with rage until now. Seems like you've stirred up a Drakk's nest by telling her that the Frurndar have been using her kinsmen as literal reagents."
"And you?" she broaches.
"Oh I'm absolutely apoplectic, the edges of my vision are tinted red and it's taking every ounce of will for me to keep my composure. Why If Igna wasn't doing it, I would be. Only reason I'm keeping it together is to make sure we aren't blindsided by some foul spell. A great shame if we didn't actually get to wring the life out of the architect of all this madness after all," you respond.
The leader of the frurndar patrol appears from around the corner.
He has a moment to turn before he is pasted against the opposing wall, Igna's Rune empowered shoulder charge carrying enough force to crumple armour and pulp flesh.
"KHAZUK KHAZUK KHAZUK-HA! VENGEANCE, VENGEANCE FOR CLAN METALHEART!" she screams, voice a mix of grief, rage and all manner of emotions.
Around you Igna's Gromriltrommi are roused by their patron's ire, bulky forms moving forward to join her in combat with far more speed than the enemy expects.
You, Valka and her rangers stare as the carnage unfolds.
"Where to now lass?" you say, turning to stare at Queen Valka, still busy watching a Runelord at work.
"If we're lucky there'll be prisoners in the middle of being transported to the ritual site. We could break it open and stop any more bodies from being fed to the ritual itself, or we go for the head and barrel on towards Hogrimm and hope Lady Igna meets up with us whenever she's less… indisposed."
Credit where it was due, she seemed to take things well in stride.
Already you can hear the movement of bodies, shouts for aid and alarm at the pained cries of their fellow Frurndar. Igna had things well in hand from the looks of things, and there was still the ritual to deal with.
Where do you go?
The halls begin rumbling, stone groaning and creaking, the mountain itself seems to roil in fury.
[ ] Direction: The Prisons then the Ritual
[ ] Direction: The Ritual first
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(Roll, The Moment: 6 +20 =26,75 +20 =95, DC 95)
Ancient eyes stare down at the guards, watching as they run out of the room and into the corridor. Ancient ears pick up the barest traces of noise, of conflict, far away from his cell. An ancient soul feels the cloying and choking darkness of the enemy's power abate and shift, focused on a locus of stillness that he has been monitoring for the past hour now.
Muscles bulge, straining and testing the chains.
He ignores the wails of pain, the echoes within suffer whether he wishes it or not, and focuses on the other power within it. The darkness, the source by which the not-stone ensnared him.
And he finds it weakened, the sorcerous will that empowered it now preoccupied.
With a titanic flex of muscle, fur and power, the great chains that bound him are torn, anchors included, from the walls. A shower of dust and rock obscures his titanic form completely before a single bellowing breath disperses it. Foe crushing legs that have stood immobile for near a century move with quickly fading stiffness, and a back weighed down with the weight of a mountain finds itself freed of its cumbersome burden. A trunk strong enough to crack boulders like a nut and squeeze an armoured minotaur to mush with nary a thought is put to the task of removing the last vestiges of his captivity.
With a single motion, his trunk rips off the shackles still attached to his form. Only when the last piece of heavy, blood forged steel is tossed aside, the last chain fallen to the cold stone does he begin to walk.
His footsteps crack the earth. His back carries the mountains. His mind is old, and his wisdom vast.
The Father of Mammoths takes a thunderous step, and then another, his limbs begin moving with greater and greater speed. His great bulk moving faster and faster until he bursts through the gate of his cell in a shower of steel and trumpeting anger, trampling or goring anything in his way towards the confluence of magic. (Roll, ???: 93 +40[These Embers Still Burn Brightly] =133)
(Roll, ??? x2: 85 +40[These Embers Still Burn Brightly] =125)
Khazalid Trivia:
Garazi - Young Ones, children.
Grimvala - Unyielding Queen/ Unbowed Queen.
Vala - Formal term for Queen, an Old Queen, and/or the Queen Mother.
Ungkarak - Underhold
Unbaraki - Oathbreaker
Wazzock - a foolish, gullible Dawi. A general insult.
Current Situation:
- Igna is currently indisposed, caught in the middle of a fury so all-encompassing that she cannot be truly reasoned with. At the very least she and her Gromriltrommi will buy you time.
- The ritual is still being enacted, of that you are sure.
- There are prisons that hold potential sacrifices nearby, the question is if they've already been moved.
There will be a two-hour moratorium for discussion.
AN: We're getting real close! Thank you for your patience, after this whole Karag Dum business I can finally show off the revamped Standing and Favour system, hopeful ya'll like it/find it comprehensible cuz it'd suck if it wasn't the case! I've had people look over it so I think we're in the clear on that front but who ever really knows, ya know? Anywho, thanks for reading, hope you enjoy and don't forget to C&C. :^)
Sorta feel like a YouTuber every time I type that out. >_>
(Roll, Mind over Heart: 47 -40[Too Many Injustices, Too Much Suffering] +10[Practicality] +10[Elder Already Going Below] =27, DC 50)
Runelord Magic Rolls suffer -5 penalty for Valma and Dwalin
And the Throng suffers -10 penalty from lack of Igna and Snorri
there are 4/4 total pop, every combat round I roll a d50 it must pass a DC for the counter to go down. In the meantime, the Throng must hold out. If the Throng loses 3 rounds before the evac is complete that much of the Pop is stuck down there until they can get back. If the Throng loses 3 rounds of combat they get pushed back, and must win 2 rounds to retake the lost ground. During which I roll to see if the pop survive being surrounded by Beastmen.
Magic Rounds decide if an enemy win is negated.
Snorri, Igna and the party will take 2 rounds to reach the ritual site, at which point the enemy loses some of the Bonuses they have as Hogrimm focuses on the interlopers.
Round 1
82| vs 48| (Valma) L
66| vs 71| (Dwalin) W
72| vs 80| Crit W x2
69| vs 63| L
Magic Round 1, DC 60
82,45,47,76
Evac Round 1, DC 35
52
0/3 losses, 3/4 pop remain, Snorri and Igna 1/2 to ritual site
Round 2
61| vs 60| (Valma) L
57| vs 37| (Dwalin) L
62| vs 55| L
74| vs 37| L
Magic Round 1, DC 60
65,70,40,53
Evac Round 2, DC 35
14
1/3 losses, 3/4 pop remain, Snorri and Igna 2/2 to ritual site.
-5 to evac DC next round, enemy now suffers -15 penalty.
(Roll, The Moment: 6 +20 =26,75 +20 =95, DC 95)
Counter 10/10! (Roll, ???: 93 +50[These Embers Still Burn Brightly] =143)
(Roll, ??? x2: 85 +50[These Embers Still Burn Brightly] =135)
Tarok grew anxious to cement his rule. Whatever he believed of his power, the truth of the matter was that his entire existence was as a pawn the Dark Gods had used to cement their hold upon the Kurgan race. The Zar begged his masters for the knowledge to turn his people to the true path. The Dark Gods answered by telling Tarok he would have to prove the weakness of the Khazag's own gods before their baleful might. Tarok knew at last what he was to do. One bloody night, he sacrificed a multitude of his kinsmen to the gods that they would grant him aid for the battle to come, and he did take his trusted band of followers north to the Chaos Waste to find Angkor and bring him back in fetters. For a year and a day it is said Tarok was abroad hunting He Who Carries the World On His Back, and it is said that the battle to finally bring the creature to heel lasted fully three days, where most of Tarok's sworn band was slain. At last, Tarok broke the Father of Mammoths, binding him to the service of Chaos and riding him back to the lands of the Khazag, thereby demonstrating amply the supremacy of the Dark Gods.
I don't like the monster that's escaped I don't like it at all. Now I say we go to the prisons and stop the flow of bodies for the ritual and maybe even save some MetalHeart ClansDwarfs but I'm also down for just going to the Ritual and ending it here and now.
And I can not understate how excited I am for when this is all over and how big our reputation boost will be with everyone really. Also where will the dwarfs of Karak Dum live now if there leaving this cursed place can we invite them to our hold?
Burlokk turns to stare down at the panting youngster, a boy no older than seventy for Grungni's sake, before sniffing loud enough that the boy stands upright once more. Taking a moment to make sure the beardling won't keel over without his supervision, he grumbles out an order to have someone take over his watch and walks off towards where the lad informed him the rangers waited.
(Roll, ???: 76 +60[Finder of the Forgotten, Keeper of the Lost] =136)
(Roll, ???: 8 +60[Finder of the Forgotten, Keeper of the Lost] =68)
(Re-Roll, ???: 32 +60[Finder of the Forgotten, Keeper of the Lost] -10[Burning Fuel] =82)
He blinks when he comes up to the recently returned rangers, and stares at the dwarfs they came back with.
As much as I hate to say it, rescuing the prisoners might allow the ritual to go off. Meaning we should focus on the ritual first before anything else.
Also, one would think that Ankgor was in the Prison Area. Which means that the guards and gribblies there have something occupying all their attention and then some. It took a Champion of Chaos a year of constant combat to chain the Father of Mammoths. I don't think the Frundar realize what's coming for them.
This wasn't his intended doom. It might still end up being defeated by Chaos if nothing changes. So, let's make nice with the mountain of fluff and give him good gear.
I don't like the monster that's escaped I don't like it at all. Now I say we go to the prisons and stop the flow of bodies for the ritual and maybe even save some MetalHeart ClansDwarfs but I'm also down for just going to the Ritual and ending it here and now.
And I can not understate how excited I am for when this is all over and how big our reputation boost will be with everyone really. Also where will the dwarfs of Karak Dum live now if there leaving this cursed place can we invite them to our hold?
Also, one would think that Ankgor was in the Prison Area. Which means that the guards and gribblies there have something occupying all their attention and then some. It took a Champion of Chaos a year of constant combat to chain the Father of Mammoths. I don't think the Frundar realize what's coming for them.
