Winning Vote: said:
[X]Plan Clearing Oaths to set up research.
- [X] Teach Them: [Cost: 1 action] Locked in until end of Turn 46. X1 action
- [X] [Simple] Grave Wardens: [Cost: (12 -8) =4 actions] Due end of Turn 42. Peerless Production will proc. Gain 70 Favour and 1 Standing with the Cult of Gazul. x3 actions
- [X] Odd Places 9/10: [Cost: 1 action] Can be taken multiple times. Roll for usefulness. x1 action
- [X] Waywarding: [Cost: 1 action or retainer action] Gain bonus to Waystone rolls and update on status of Waystones. Can be taken multiple times. x1 retainer action
- [X] Scouting: [Cost: 1 retainer action] Gain minor bonus to Waystone rolls. Can be taken multiple times. Roll for usefulness, additional actions apply bonus to roll. x1 retainer action
- [X] Beast Scouting: [Cost: 1 retainer action] Gain bonus to Beastmen discovery rolls. Can be taken multiple times. Roll for usefulness, additional actions apply bonus to roll. x1 retainer action.
(Roll, Peerless Production Grave Wardens: 77, 63, 85, DC 60)
━<><><>< 325 A.P. ><><><>━
Your work begins simply enough, before anything can or ought to be done, a good plan must be put into place.
So for several months you, Rudil, Ylva and Norgrim pour over the map and devise a better, more efficient patrol route for markers on the map. The task itself obviously required a good deal of prep work, as with the stones dotting the entirety of the region, a thorough patrol like you had your Retainers do earlier this year could not be done on a regular basis and not end up interfering with their other duties. The rangers serving you, Norgrim especially, prove instrumental in this. As their duties before becoming Hearthwardens left them well equipped to tackle the situation in front of you. Rather than have a single group run through an entire circuit of the stone network at once, a different, much better in their opinion, approach was put forward. While their explanation and designs are infinitely more detailed, in proper dwarf fashion it breaks down to the idea of simply cutting the problem down to size.
In more detailed terms, you and your retainers end up breaking up the entire landmass into smaller, more manageable, areas; first into three macro-regions, that were then broken down further into individual zones. The size of which was dictated by the travel time between the stones within each area; roughly equating to no more than two week's worth of walking to reach every stone in any given zone. The two eldest rangers and the most qualified Brana were then charged with overseeing operations within these larger regions and then collate the information they gathered for you. With this in place, a small group of Retainers could work through far more territory in an equal amount of time compared to one group going through a long sweep of the entire peninsula. Of course, the farther away from Kraka Drakk they got, the more dated the info would inevitably become, but that was why your Brana Retainers were assigned with serving both as couriers and scouting out the farthest region, the uncolonized tip of the Peninsula, given the area's distance and very real danger present.
After a few more rounds of revisions and dissemination to the rest of your followers, the plan is finally put into practice. Eighty Hearthwardens leave your workshop just at the height of spring in a caravan laden with supplies and disappear into the woods. Officially they were being sent to scout out and lend their aid in uncovering the mystery of the Beastmen, and indeed they were going to do just that. It was simply that they were
also performing a hopefully peninsula-wide sweep of the Far North to look for new and check up on the existing stone monoliths.
You offer them a grunt and wish them well before disappearing back into your home, the weight of your responsibilities keeping you here for the time being.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Duck, swing, counter, duck, swing, swing, block…
Karstah can barely hear the roar of battle around her through the blood pumping in her ears and the gravelly timbre of her Master's voice that her fatigue-addled mind had conjured up maybe...one to a half an hour ago? Time had grown difficult to track accurately in the melee. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of a Dwarf being thrown to the floor by a particularly terrifying specimen of a Beastman, sees the blood dribbling from his lips and staining a chestnut brown beard that only just reached his chest. Without a second thought and a yell of effort, she pulps the head of her current foe before turning her body and running at the towering mass of muscle and fur with a yell upon her lips.
Many foes we face will inevitably be taller than us, and they will think you weak for it. Pop their knees like a glass vase to disabuse them of such a notion, and then when they fall and meet you at eye level? You bash their head in with no less than two good swings, her master's voice continues even as she bodily tackles the Beastman to the ground.
Screaming all the while, she raises her hammer and slams it down onto the Gor's head, sending shards of bone and flesh flying as the Rune etched metal slams home with a thunderous squelch of flame and force.
After making sure the damned thing was actually dead, Karstah absentmindedly dispels an errant bolt of magic with a tap of her fingers before getting up and almost stumbling over to the downed warrior. Kneeling down beside him, she drops her hammer and takes up his hand, getting ready to heave the lad back up.
"Up and at them lad, don't want to b-" she begins to say before finally noticing the glassy eyes and stilled chest. A closer examination reveals blood is already pooling beneath him.
Internal bleeding, crushed torso, likely died from the swing if not before you got to him, her mind supplies clinically as she pokes at chainmail that gives and bends inward far too easily than it ought to. As if there was no chest behind it to rest against at all.
She stares at the silent, empty, eyes of the deceased for what feels like an eternity before she sighs and closes them with her free hand. That done, she picks her hammer back up again as she rises to her feet and runs back into the fray.
━<><><>< 326 A.P. ><><><>━
Thyk Strongbelly vigilantly watched the patrons of his fine establishment, eyes on the lookout for empty mugs, frowning faces and potential trouble brewing about. Bartending was no simple business, it was an art honed over decades of work and experience to do adequately. Alcohol, after all, and all things related to its sale and consumption was serious business in the eyes of any Dwarf who had a lick of common sense. A bar was not a static thing; stock, inventory, food, it all could change. There was something to be said about sticking to one's principles and what you were good at, but there was just as much common sense in meeting the demand of your available client base.
Stand your ground in a fight but not in front of an avalanche, as his uncle told him when he was but a wee lad of twenty-some years.
It was a lesson that he'd found correct more often than not in his life. Take for instance his customers, as the proprietor of the second oldest tavern in Khazid Okraz, or Khazid Zarazi depending on who you asked, he would possess a different clientele than old Thimburr's bar down the street. Oh, there were commonalities to be sure, as a town composed mostly of Elders, Hearth Guard, their families, and travelling Runesmiths, his stock had the same general breadth of beers and ales available as his competitors. Of course, as the younger establishment, Thyk would invariably attract younger customers and relative newcomers compared to the very old and more established patrons at Thimburr's. But this wasn't a sure thing either though, taste was subjective and some Elders saw the good sense to visit
his tavern because they understood it was simply the best in town. Still, it was a general trend that any good Tavern owner had to be aware of.
Like the skald's he'd hired to entertain the guests and liven up the atmosphere with their music, he had to know his audience.
And right now the number of Runesmiths he'd been hosting was on the rise and would continue to be so. Understandable of course given The Gift Giver's recent decision to share such important knowledge, but that meant he'd be stocking up on the sort of brews the Runesmiths tended to like. Of course, he stocked the best Clan Bryggeroot had to offer, but there were also imports from other holds. Azul Gutbuster, Old Grim's Redfaced Riot from Karak Varn, Yinglinsson Premium from Everpeak and Dargo's Delight straight out of Kadrin to name a few. Established, renowned brands local to the Holds many of these Runesmiths came from. It took a bit of work to find out that information, and quite the pretty penny too, but the uptick in very well-off patronage made it well worth the cost in his opinion.
A ruckus out of the corner of his eye draws him out of his idle musing, some particularly rowdy lads appeared to have gotten particularly sloshed by the looks of things and were getting heated enough to start tugging beards.
Scoffing once at the display of idiocy, Thyk hollers at his apprentice to man the bar as he pulled out a solid club of Wutroth from behind the counter.
A good smacking arm was also something any proper Bartender ought to have.
━<><><><==><><><>━
The roar of beastmen and Fimir fills the air. The stagnant air letting the scent of blood, piss and rot mix and congeal into a horrendous stink that permeates the growing fog.
A Bray Shaman, it's head now only bearing the broken stumps of what had been a set of large, swooping, horns is bodily dragged forward and up a set of stairs by a pair of even larger, reptilian, bodies. Black armoured gauntlets, each grabbing tightly enough to bruise flesh, lift the weakly struggling beastman onto the altar before tying him down with blood forged chains. Another Fimir, its singular eye gleaming with multihued light, watches the work with a sort of detached disdain for the would-be sacrifice. Dark magic envelopes him just as thickly as the robes and trinkets that adorn his living flesh, and in his hand a staff of swirling iron and bone pulses with malevolent light, while the other holds a serrated piece of iron, as large as a Dwarf's forearm, that still drips with freshly spilt blood. As he raises the knife to the sky, the Fimir starts to chant in a language that is anathema to mortal minds. As he does so, the enveloping sleeves fall away from his forearms, one can see what looks like the beginnings of avian quills jutting out in long lines from the wrist to the elbow. At the foot of the altar, like some foul parody of a religious congregation, several other Fimir crowd around, jockeying for the best position even as the sorcerer's voice takes on an inhuman echo to it and the knife in his hand starts to swirl with multifaceted light.
Then at the apex of the chant, just as the Bray Shaman begins struggling its hardest, the knife plunges down and drinks deeply and greedily on mortal blood and immortal soul.
When the shaman's screams subside and the twitching of its corpse ends, the Dirach raises the husk from the altar and throws it to the ground with a yell.
And then, with a crooked finger, he beckons for the next offering to be brought forward.
━<><><><==><><><>━
You hammer at a plate of glowing metal, the swings of
Zharrgal are fast enough that they leave streaks of embers and light in the air. At your current pace, you'll be done with the commission for the cult of Gazul in a few years' time. A bit slow for your taste, but you had other commitments to consider after all. On most occasions you'd be stuck in the hall you've excavated solely to facilitate your instruction, watching as Master Runesmiths bumbled about and slowly learned the proper way to make your Runes. The traffic your home already experienced had only grown after Rhunkalbrogg, and the number of Runesmiths who came to your home had increased by a full third. Though that number seemed small, it failed to account for the fact that the number of the Dwarfs who came to learn the Rune of Forged Limb almost always wanted to learn the Runes necessary for the Chainforger. Right now however there was a bit of a lull, a purposeful and regular gap in your teaching schedule that let you carry out your other work without fear of missing a deadline.
So much work, always so much work. Even with Snerra now taking up some of the lesser most duties, sliding the list of tasks along and alleviating the last few burdens you're willing to hand off to another Runelord, there is always more and more to do. The Hold is always growing after all, and though there will never be
that many Runesmiths in the grand scheme of things, compared to most Holds Kraka Drakk has a quickly growing population of them. Never mind the number that came, even temporarily, to learn at your feet as well. You're sure it'll slow down eventually, but that may not be for a while given you're planning to release more Runes.
The local inns and taverns would no doubt appreciate the increased business for the foreseeable future. Not to mention the merchants, given the amount of exotic material and
Gromril your home had available.
Helping fuel the economic growth of your home wasn't one of the reasons why you chose to do this of course, but it's a nice side benefit.
You lift the glowing piece of metal out of the flame and quench it, the steam from hitting the frigid water that it releases misting your face before it dissipates into the air. The Runes that cool the water and that gather then condense the local moisture begin humming just a tiny bit louder as the amount of work needed from them increases. With a smooth motion of your arm, you pull the plate of Gromril out and examine it. Close, very close, just a few more strikes with
Zharrgal to strike out some flaws and micro warping from the quench and then it would be ready for the next stage of the process.
━<><><>< 328 A.P. ><><><>━
Karstah can scarcely believe it, even as she stands with the rest of the settlement's notable figures. Lord Thuringar and his family at the front, followed by her, Tarni, and the rest of the settlement's most notable members. Quite the ensemble to have present all told, four Dwarfs in gleaming Gromril, several venerable longbeards with hair white as snow, and two, admittedly journeymen, Runesmiths all with at least two pieces of Runic equipment, was nothing to sneeze at. There was more wealth on display between them all to beggar a Clan, much of it thanks to her own hand.
But when faced with the imposing and regal majesty of Snorri Whitebeard himself, wearing silvery-white armour marked with Runes beyond her understanding, accompanied by elders, several of whom were
Runelords, who were ancient before her own home was even settled, each one wearing gear so wondrous that she could easily imagine them beggaring a middling
Hold, well it's like comparing a particularly shiny copper to a nugget of purest Oathgold.
Still, she'd not shame herself any further by gaping like a Braidling or showing any signs of embarrassment for the state of things, even with the settlement in such disarray around them. The result of an assault that was so numerous and frenzied many of the town's denizens, herself included, believed it was the end of the road for them had the Prince of Karaz a Karak not come charging out of the woods, the Axe of Grimnir in hand and a Throng straight out of legend coming out behind them. Only now, when faced with the imposing might of the Karaz Ankor in front of her, does she realize the Beastmen had become so frenzied due almost entirely to how brutally and effectively the Whitebeard had pushed them back. It was humbling, and only a tad bit depressing, to realize that Khazid Angazhar was being targeted because the Beastmen were being trounced and trying to burn the proverbial fields as they fled back to their dour and foul woodland realm.
She stows her thoughts for later though, focusing back onto the discussion lord Thuringar was holding with the Prince.
"-no word from the other settlements in days I'm afraid. I cannot say for certain whether they live however I fear the worst. Our survival was due in no small part to the Rhunki who chose to ply their trade here. Without their work, both in arming the denizens, and beating back their magic, I and doubtlessly many others would be dead and this settlement nothing more than a broken door and bloodied halls," Lord Thuringar responds, his voice stoic despite the cruel fate they so casually hypothesize.
Karstah does her best not to react to the words spoken regardless of how kind they are. The settlement lives, though not everyone in it, and though she wants to mark it as a failure of her own making, she is reminded of another lesson of her Master's. That as much as a Dwarf believes they can turn the tide or change the course of history by their lonesome, very few ever do.
A good goal to strive for, he said,
but not one to pursue to the detriment of deluding yourself.
Back then she wondered if her Master considered himself in such terms, as so many certainly had-
-She freezes when the Whitebeard's gaze turns to face her more fully. Aside from the magnificence of his namesake white, almost glowing, beard the first thing she truly notices are his eyes. Ancient orbs that carry an ageless wisdom set within a face as worn and craggy as a cliff regard her silently from beneath the gleaming power of a helmet that barely contains the wild yet regal mane of hair beneath. When faced with the full unbridled attention of Grungni's heir and the accompanying weight that settles on her bones, it is all she can do to not make too much of a fool of herself beneath the gaze of the Eldest Son of Grungni. A moment that feels like an eternity passes, and the suffocating weight of the Grungnisson's attention shifts from her to Tarni, and Karstah internally sighs with relief when he does so.
Only to tense up when Whitebeard deigns to
speak. To them. To her.
"You have travelled far, Rhunki. I did not expect to see many, if any, of my brother's striplings so far, let alone two within the same home. What draws you out here?"
Karstah looks to Tarni, sees she's frozen in place and responds for the both of them.
"We are both strollenokri my Lord. I hail from Kraka Drakk and Tarni from Kraka Ornsmotek, and we came here independently to prove ourselves worthy of our respective Master's secrets and wisdom," she answers honestly, nodding her head at Tarni.
"And who are your Masters, young ones, that would make the two of you travel so far from your homes, almost to the other side of the Realms of our people," The Prince of Karaz a Karak asks, voice like rolling thunder and brow raised curiously.
"I am the apprentice of Snorri the Gift Giver, Runelord of Kraka Drakk, taken into his Clan and under his wing upon my majority. I came south and sought to emulate him as best as I could," Karstah answers honestly.
"And I am the student of Vragni, Son of Svalti, Runelord of Kraka Ornsmotek. And I came here because I sought a challenge to prove my worthiness and ability," Tarni follows up right after, seemingly getting a hold of herself enough to speak.
Idly she realizes that behind the Whitebeard the Runelords who follow him are muttering to each other and grumbling in a tone that she clearly recognizes as judging both her and her work. Normally that kind of muttering would have gotten her attention almost instantly, the response driven into her as an apprentice having become so ingrained that they were involuntary at this point. Despite the quiet smattering of embarrassment she feels, one that only grows when she realizes her Elders have noticed that
she's finally noticed them grumbling about her, she does her best to look stoic. Not ideal, but at the very least she now knew that when faced with Snorri Whitebeard speaking to her or the grumbling of
multiple Runelords about her, she now knew what would grab her attention she supposed.
Small victories.
"A large set of boots to fill for the both of you then. May your Journeys prove fruitful young ones," the Prince eventually says before, thankfully, turning back to speak with Lord Thuringar.
The rest of the encounter goes by uneventfully thankfully, both her and Tarni fading into the background as their elders discuss amongst themselves.
Hopefully, it'll stay that way.
━<><><><==><><><>━
The emissary from the Cult of Gazul, one Emry Pale-eyes arrives on the scheduled date with little fanfare. You greet a stereotypically wizened Elder that, despite the lines on his face and length of his beard, still has streaks of bright black hair still shining through the grey, the only defining features are his grey, almost white, irises and of course the midnight black armour and the sword that hangs on his back, its handle long enough to stick up like a banner pole. Behind him a small wagon train has already begun disgorging Dwarfs who walk into the secured warehouse outside your home.
"Lord Klausson," he greets with a short but respectful bow.
"Emissary Emry," you greet back with a nod of your own.
"You raised
quite the ruckus at Everpeak," he begins casually as pairs of teamsters shuffle past the both of you.
"Aye, I did," you reply.
"Still a surprise to see Gromril chainmail be a reality in my lifetime, stuff's a legend as I'm sure you're well aware. I watched my father spend decades trying to get a proper annealing process down and have absolutely no luck, and yet here before me I see beardlings carrying it out of a warehouse."
"Your father was a smith?"
"Aye, Clan Anvilbearer of Karak Azul. Smiths and priests were our traditional profession, but instead of Smednir we took to Gazul."
"Oh? A curious choice, I imagine there's a reason for it," you say.
He nods.
"It's a surprise for many, but it's a tradition passed down from our founder having been saved by Gazul. Kin always badgered me about joining the Clergy you know? Spoke about how Clansmen with pale eyes like mine usually become priests. I called them rock heads and set my sights on becoming a smith like my pa, but here I am four centuries later proving them right. Feh."
"Your Clan's situation sounds like Clan Winterhearth, Valaya gave our founder her blessing and three gifts, and here we are generations later. A clan of Runesmiths, Blacksmiths and Valayans for the most part."
"A common story I suppose," Emry says, "the Ancestors have marked us, all of us, greatly no? S'why they ought to be respected, honoured,
remembered. We walk and build on stones they laid, use techniques they pioneered, study knowledge they left behind, and when we join them to feast in the Halls eternal our own descendants will do as we did, picking up the tools we left and carrying on our work."
You think back to your past, to the feeling of mountains and unimaginable skill and power on display.
"Aye, I suppose they do," is all you say, pulling yourself to your thoughts.
"Ha, here I am waxing poetic about the legacy of the Ancestors in front of a Runesmith, a Rune
lord no less. The Rhunki know better than anyone but Gazul and His followers why it is important we ought to pay our respects. Your very blood is a literal gift from Thungni."
You nod in affirmation, Emry takes your silence as his cue to pull out a drinking horn and take a good long swig of the contents inside. Around you, the steady stream of Dwarfs carrying boxes out to the wagons has slowed and then stopped completely when the final cart is filled.
Only for one of the younger Clergy members to come up to Emry and quietly announce that there were still more crates marked for them.
Shaking his head the emissary levels a look at you before hollering at a few dwarfs to bring up the extra carts.
"Should've expected it and brought the extra carts with me the first time honestly. They told me and I didn't listen, bah! If you'll excuse me Lord Gift Giver I have to bring out the contract as well," Emry mutters, marching off to the lead wagon after giving a small bow.
You sniff.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Gloin grunts down at the map, eyes squinted from focus and frustration roam over the parchment in search for a while longer before he sighs and leans into his chair.
"I still think they're coming from out west," Brokk grunts out, pointing a finger towards the mass of pins that mark out attacks on the eastern part of the region.
"We
can't be sure. Settlement density and the relative size of them means they can't field the level of bodies Kraka Drakk or the other more established Far Northern holds can. For all we know they could be missing several appearances through no fault of their own, they even admitted to that possibility."
"The number of bodies the Gori are fielding
fit nowhere else. There
are no settlements,
no Dwarf presence, and that makes the perfect breeding ground for them to get that many."
"But why commit to portals?!" another almost shouts, "they're using portals when they could just be marching bodies through the land to reach us?"
Before the room descends into any further argument Gloin cuts in with a proposal of his own.
"A third party," he mutters, staring at the map with a strange look in his eye.
"My King?" one of the Thane's asks surprised.
"The Beastmen cannot cast this magic without a great deal of effort on their part as we've learned. The possibility of the Beastmen discovering a way to make the effort more economical isn't
out of the question, but I don't feel it fits their agenda. The Gori
hate us, they would like nothing more than to tear down all we have built and rut and shit on the ashes, but these attacks don't match that purpose. They wait, they build up and come charging at us hoping their numbers or the monstrosities they control can overwhelm us. Ungors and younglings bumbling out of the woods to charge and die against a well fortified town doesn't match, they're not that idiotic. At the beginning, when we were unawares? Perhaps, but now? No, it makes no sense. There's being frivolous with the lives of the weak, but this does
nothing."
The discussion doesn't pick up even after Gloin goes silent, the room's occupants instead content themselves with watching the King of Kraka Drakk think and ponder over the situation.
"But it still doesn't fit," he continued to mutter, "We're
missing something. We need a party to head west, we need to figure out what in Grimnir's name is going on out there before we can know for sure Brokk. Pull back patrols, I'll call up the Huskarls to take over the duty, but I want some of our best rangers out there and learning whatever they can. Whatever's doing this has left the western tip of the peninsula relatively untouched, or it simply
appears to be, and I want to know which one is which."
━<><><>< 330 A.P. ><><><>━
Fjolla and Joll's wedding is a splendid affair.
All of Clan Hrokisson and a good chunk of Clan Dourbeard come north to see their distant Kinsdwarfs and partake in the festivities. You, Jorri's Family as well as Fjolla's fellow apprentices-turned-Masters are invited as guests of honour while Joll seems to bring no one but his own family. The ceremony itself is a loud affair that culminates with Joll's formal induction into Clan Hrokisson alongside Fjolla's bride price and his own, substantial, contribution in the form of a set of Jewelry crafted by one of Karak Brynduraz's finest Goldsmiths, a dwarf with a waiting list of clientele decades-long, that he had engraved a series of Protective Runes onto. Two of them were rather common, the Master Rune of Valaya and the Rune of Warding, but the third one was new to you, and for good reason. It seemed that Joll had been holding onto a Rune of his own creation for over a century, making this necklace the very first instance his work has ever been put to practice. It was a significant gesture in its own way, to give someone an item to bear the first Rune of its kind. Among more Conservative circles it was seen as something of a gesture of supreme trust and, depending on the relationship, friendship or romance. While less significant to those of a more radical bent, it isn't by all that much either admittedly.
As for the Rune itself, Joll was decided cryptic about what it did, only saying that it would watch out for her.
You can tell Fjolla is delighted by it, despite her best efforts to hide it from the rest of the room's occupants. You taught, and continue to actually, teach the Girl for most of her adult life, you know her tells like the hair in your beard.
The other gifts by comparison don't seem so exciting, at least to Fjolla, but they are no less well made. Dolgi and Klorah present a set of fine silver and Gromril drinking tankards made by a prominent craftsman in Karaz a Karak, inscribed with the Rune of Stacking you taught him only a few years ago to increase their holding capacity. The tankards are crafted as a pair aesthetically speaking but are designed with different images. Joll's bears the image of a Dwarf warrior, her hammer raised defiantly in the face of a slithering wyrm that sneaks about and tries to ambush her. Fjolla's mug meanwhile, depicts a ranger sneaking up above and behind the Dragon, stealthily slaying it and taking a precious gem from its hoard.
Even if Fjolla doesn't find it funny,
you certainly do.
The next gift is from Jorri who offers up an item from his personal vault. In his hands, resting on a layer of fine cloth you see a pristine Greataxe about as long as Jorri was tall, it is also an axe you recognize immediately. How could you not, considering you worked on the damn thing centuries ago. It's one of Hroki's last pieces, one you had personally inscribed one of your first Master Runes of Conduction onto after learning it from Master Yorri no less. An heirloom from her own Clan's founder was certainly quite the prize, and how it was a sizable, very personal, gift from your brother would not go ignored either. Fjolla takes it reverently, thanking your brother for entrusting her with something so precious.
After him comes your ever chipper niece. She gifts the newlywed couple several dozen casks of the finest Bryggeroot ale she has. Barrels that were centuries old and, "Strong enough to make even a most hardened Longbeard burp like a beardling," according to her. Something several of you found quite dubious before Fjolla put those doubts to rest after taking a swig of the stuff herself.
When it finally comes to you to present your own gifts, the first thing you reveal is the silverware, a fine set of Gromril knives, forks and spoons. They are not monstrously over ornamented but are not completely bereft of aesthetic stylings either. Swooping lines and curved knotwork on the handles, with finely cut gems embedded in their pommels. It's an art to make finely decorated cutlery that isn't so gaudy, ostentatious and decorated that it's unwieldy to use in everyday situations. You'll be damned if you let these things hang on some wall like common decoration, they'll be used, hopefully for the rest of their lives. After that, you offer up the gifts you personally made for them; a pair of cloaks made by your own hand. They are both dyed with the colours of both Clan Hrokisson and Clan Dourbeard, though each cloak has its owner's Clan colours dominant over the other. As you hand both over to their new owners you catch Jorri nodding in your direction, understanding evident in his eyes.
To hand over such articles of clothing was a Winterhearth tradition, one done in emulation of Valaya's blessing and gifts to Storri and Huldra so long ago. Each cloak was made by hand over a period of years and offered to the recipients as a sign of good fortune and faith in the strength of the bond between the newlyweds. It served as a good luck charm, a blessing, and a gift all in one. Your mother had done the same for you and your brothers on the days you were wed. Hroki had worn his till the day he died, though Jorri saved his cloak for his and Magna's wedding anniversaries. You had one, and then you had two, but only ever wore it the one time.
She had learned of the tradition from your mother and decided to try her hand at it, though it had taken her longer to complete than she anticipated and was made years after you were wed.
Deep red silk, bordered by purest down.
Bittersweet now, but you won't sully such a happy occasion by indulging in your grief. It would be an insult to her and those present. So here and now you choose to remember the joy over the sorrow.
Fjolla and Joll take their cloaks just as reverently as the former took your brother's axe, and then stow them away for safekeeping. Even if they never wear them another day in their lives, your message, your support, rings clear to them better than any words or actions could ever do.
And that is enough.
Which is when Joll's guest makes his presence known by smacking you across the face with the familiar touch of
Troll tongue.
━<><><><==><><><>━
After the startling revelation of your Master's sudden appearance, you both leave your former apprentices to mingle with each other and celebrate in general. From there, you are led to the ale barrels where a grim look from Yorri sends the beardlings scurrying off to get drinks from somewhere else and leaving the two of you to speak more candidly. Things go well at first, just simply catching up between teacher and student as you describe what happened during the time Yorri wasn't present. Not
all of it, events like Dum or your research you didn't think were proper to discuss during a
wedding of all things, but in general, you kept little from him in terms of what you've been doing. Of course, Yorri does as he will, prodding, poking and offering his wisdom and opinion whether you wish for it or not.
But then he asks about the journal.
"What in Valaya's name do you mean you still haven't finished visiting the places I marked out on my journal boy?" your Master says, so flabbergasted that he lowers his tankard onto the table so that he can cross his arms.
"These things take time, there's a lot of scheduling that needs to be done," you reply, trying to assuage his obvious displeasure.
"It's been four centuries! At this point, I'm wondering if perhaps you just don't want to see what I have in store for you!" Yorri grumbles, not angry, but certainly annoyed.
Around you, the wedding celebrations are still ongoing, and only seem to be escalating as more and more alcohol is drunk. Somewhere off in the distance, you can hear the beginnings of a sing-along and what suspiciously sounds like Dolgi leading them.
"I have duties to see to Master, you know full well that I just can't get up and disappear for years at a time without any notice," you answer firmly.
He gives you a flat stare.
"You live in a Hold with
five other Runelords you silly sod. Duties you
can't give up should be more accurately called duties you
don't think you've done enough."
"I-" you pause, and really consider his words for longer than a moment.
Yorri continues to stare.
" -I'm not like that am I?" you ask lamely.
There is exasperation and fondness in his resulting scoff.
"It's an admirable quality lad, that willingness to step up even when you don't need to. Sets a good example for the youngins. But ale is also quite good, and yet you see people warning you not to drink more than you can handle. I'm telling you to manage yourself. The world's not going to end if you don't do this one thing, there's other Dwarfs who can do it perfectly fine. Pick and choose Snorri, pick and choose or you'll find yourself in a bad place. And don't pull that infinite stamina malarky at me either, you plan on spending the rest of your days as a living blob of stone? Hmm? I don't think so."
"I…will take your advice into consideration," you eventually reply.
"That's the best that I can do sometimes I suppose. Ach, what's the world coming to? A Master's advice merely being taken
into consideration by his own apprentice. Bah! Can drive a Dwarf to drink!" your teacher bemoans.
You let him chug the tankard down before asking the one question that's been on your mind since he smacked you with that troll tongue earlier.
"Master, why exactly are you here and not out doing what Lord Thungnisson requested?" you broach curiously.
"For a multitude of reasons my apprentice. One, Joll invited me to his wedding and I'll not miss the chance to meet him, his wife, and drink on their dime. Secondly, I am a
Runesmith, not Alric's goat to be herded to the next pasture! Thirdly, and most importantly, I'm not the only one doing the damn task. There are a few other lads out there, marching alongside Whitebeard right now no doubt, who know what needs to be done," Yorri answers succinctly, unfolding his arms to grab his tankard and take a long swig of its contents.
You give your master a look.
"You're several centuries too young to try that on me lad, I know what I'm doing don't you fret," he says in between sips of ale.
A sigh escapes your lips.
There isn't a Runesmith alive who you think embodies the stereotypical stubborn independence
quite like your Master.
━<><><>< 333 A.P. ><><><>━
(Roll, Yorri Places: 45 -10[Incursion] +10[Seclusion] +15[Omake] =60)
Having been thoroughly guilted into at least progressing a bit more with the journal, you find yourself leaving Kraka Drakk in your wagon and a few goats to take you to the next location in Yorri's journal. One of the last he went to it seemed, given how far along it was in the journal.
Your cart stops just a bit ahead of where the grass meets the lakeshore, wheels digging slightly into the blackened gravel of the beach.
Out ahead of you a sprawling windswept expanse that cuts off the blackened sand demarcates the massive ice sheet covering the lake Yorri wrote about. Something that is in stark contrast to the otherwise picturesque Far Northern summer around you. Leaving the goats behind, their leads securely tied to a nearby tree, of course, you start cautiously walking closer to the little slice of winter that Yorri called the "Everfrost Lake." Immediately as the meters close in you feel the temperature drop, not enough to be unbearable for a Dwarf your age, but certainly colder than any summer ought to be. The growing cold only becomes more severe as you get closer and closer to the lake itself, reaching the sort of biting chill you expect on a midwinter evening by the time you set foot onto the ice itself.
You take a look at the ice grimly even as you test to see if it's structurally sound. What is ice but cold water that lies about its true nature? Cold water that can't be trusted to keep its shape in a mildly warm room even!
Maybe you ought to bring Barak Azamar, if the ice proves treacherous and you fall to the lake bottom you won't drown.
Damnable
Ice.
Grumbling both in frustration and embarrassment about your wool-gathering, you force your feet forward; liberally and thoroughly checking the sheet with a steel rod. You do not jump when the ice groans after you step on it, but you begin grumbling ever more loudly.
Damnable ICE.
━<><><><==><><><>━
(Roll, Scouting: 87, DC 90)
(Roll, Beast Scouting: 93, DC 70, 90)
Rudil swings the hatchet down with ease, the bloodstained wood parting easily beneath the Rune enhanced edge of the axe. The roar of the bonfire behind him is near deafening, but all he can think about is the stench of rot and death around him. His fellow Hearthwardens walk around him, picking up the cut logs and dropping off fresh ones for him to continue chopping, an efficient train of labour that speeds along the laborious process of burning the dead and breaking down the pile of rotten logs and scraps the wretches called a camp.
"They were getting awfully close to the stone," Sifna comments, wiping her face down with a cloth.
"Aye, they were," he agrees, eyes still on the log being chopped.
"That makes it the third Warband now? Twice is a coincidence, but now I'm not so sure," she continued.
"Hmm, I'll bring it up in my report and ask Rimesong to bring a few missives about it to the relevant parties when she comes back. Can't say for sure if it's purposeful or not, but it leaves me uneasy regardless," Rudil responds.
Even as Sifna walks off to carry on with the work, his mind still churns over the situation. As his Lord Uncle had said the Beastmen had a tendency to turn the stones to their own, more profane, purposes. So there was a
reason why they were appearing, and they saw far more warbands in the arse end of the woods nowhere near a single Stone. Three times out of dozens of encounters should do little to garner his attention, and yet-
-yet it feels as if something's wrong.
One of the three groups that
had been near the stones had come from a portal. While they hadn't actually witnessed the event, they had found their tracks appearing out of seemingly nowhere along with Rimesong's own testimony about the scent of, "rot, hate and violence," from the ambient of magic in the area.
Maybe it was nothing, maybe it
was something far more nefarious. Ultimately he'd leave the decision on whether to pursue it or not up to his Uncle.
━<><><><==><><><>━
You step off the ice with a reserved but very noticeable amount of relief.
While your excursion to the center of the lake to see if the source for its oddness lay there, you were equal parts sad and glad to report that you could find no evidence of it. Just ice, ice and more ice. Master Yorri made no further notes on the phenomena that could guide you, having discovered this place when coming back after a particularly nasty run-in with a group of Beastmen and so he had wisely chosen to leave well enough alone until he could come back at a later date. Unfortunately for you, it seems he never did return. The journal showed no signs of the tampering that would alert you to your Master making things difficult as a test for you; no torn or glued together pages, no invisible ink, nothing at all but the simple uninterrupted continuation of his notes and thoughts all the way to the journal's end.
Why he ultimately never did is a mystery even to you, especially given the excitement in his writings about the prospect.
You're used to your Master's secrecy, and though the itch to uncover it remains, as it always has, you respect the man too much to go ask him and bring up what could only be utterly traumatic memories for the sake of simple curiosity. You don't go about erasing yourself from history so completely that only Alric Thungnisson and perhaps a handful of others knew the full breadth of what could have made a Dwarf like your Master give up everything without a reason.
But that was neither here nor there, right here and now you were stuck with quite the mystery to solve.
You reckon you'll just set up camp and do more investigating on the morrow. Even when the sun was still so high in the sky your internal clock told you it was closer to the evening than it appeared. A consequence of living so far north, one you were well used to by this point of course, and by Grungni's Baldric, you'd not let a big ball of fire in the sky fumble up your sleep schedule because it was too daft to
set at the right time!
━<><><><==><><><>━
"Uncle Amdaris," Laequalys greets as he enters his chambers, tone formal but warm, "Welcome! What's drawn you out of the training yards, let alone Chrace to come to see me?"
"To see for myself how a wayward nephew is faring, at the behest of his Lordly brother of course," the wizened Elf says, though his twinkling eyes betray his otherwise stiff and haggard appearance.
"And here I thought you would want to see your favourite nephew!" the elf prince jokes, though his jovial tone putters out as his elder sighs and takes a seat in one of the free chairs in his room.
"It
is good to see you nephew, but much as I wish this was a strictly personal visit, I must sadly inform you that your father is requesting that you return home as soon as you are able. He's fought the lions off as long as he could child, but even a hero of the Great Catastrophe only has so much influence. Court is, as ever, a fickle and ever-changing thing that would gladly consume itself if given the chance."
"I'd rather be hunting a whole pride of White Lions, than go back there to be frank," Laequalys mutters.
"As would I, but duty calls, and we cannot shirk it," Amdaris responds.
"I know, I know and understand all too well. If House Wilderwood calls upon me to do my duty I take it up with no complaint," Prince Laequalys says, his face neutral but tone firm.
"You will do the House proud nephew. Still, no need for all the doom and gloom however, you'll just have to spend a few years at Court to reassert your position. It's not as if my brother is dead yet Laequalys, he still has the energy in him to rule despite how much those vultures try to sap him of it. I'm sure you'll be off adventuring again eventually. Though I admit the stories of your dashing escapades with the stout folk that some of the retainers bring back certainly did little to help you in this case. They want to hear it straight from the Horse's mouth, I'm afraid," the old elf continues, drawing a slight smile from his younger relative.
"I
do cut quite the dashing figure don't you think?"
"You'll have to work harder to earn my praise, Laequalys. Beat me in the training yard for once and maybe I'll give you a smidge of recognition," he quips back.
"Bah," the prince scoffs, rolling his eyes as he settles down into a free chair, "All things must end I suppose. It was enjoyable, truly exciting even; to visit a new strange land with strange, but sometimes good, people. It pains me to leave this place, even if only for a little while when there is so much yet I want to do. At the very least I can keep up a correspondence with Gimli if I so choose while I'm away. I'm doubtful that anyone would
truly seek to deny me even that right, they may even want to read what I write knowing them."
"On that note, I would be remiss if I didn't make you aware of my other tasks. You see, calling you back to Ulthuan
isn't all I came here to do. There was another matter, one your father had to compromise on to leave you unmolested for as long as you have,"
Laequalys frowns.
"While I am grateful that he's gone to such lengths for my sake, I don't think it wise for father to overly sacrifice anything or offer concessions for the sake of this excursion," he muttered worriedly.
"Your concern is appreciated nephew but unnecessary. Nothing significant like your hand in marriage was promised. No, it's more mercantile in nature, and frankly, it would be good for House Wilderwood regardless of whether or not it was your father's idea or not. I'll need to speak with a few Dwarfs to make it happen however, which is where you'll come in. Do you believe you're capable of helping me nephew?" his Uncle explains, levelling an appraising look at him.
The prince straightens up in his seat.
"Then what would House Wilderwood ask me to do?"
━<><><><==><><><>━
It's the stone.
The source of the cold is the very stone of the lakebed itself.
It had been a fluke, finding an outcropping as you scoured the lakeshore, the light blue, almost white, stone that you thought was a chunk of ice before realizing your mistake. After hacking away a piece of the frigidly cold material, you took it to your camp to do some preliminary tests and the results are, as ever, decidedly odd.
For one thing, the stone's cold to the touch, and submerging it in water causes freezing within a few minutes. Though what's odd there is that the freezing begins from the
topmost layer down, which only serves to confuse you. Tests with other liquids besides the ale you had on hand, which freezes just a bit more slowly, are difficult to do with your current equipment. So instead you take the time you have here to figure out how much of this stone there is, though that sounds far easier than it actually
is.
It's tricky business digging near a lake. First off, you're liable to get flooded without a pump to constantly get the water out of the shaft or pit you're digging, another problem was the waterlogged soil and sand being one of the least structurally sound materials to build a mine with. Stuff could be as consistent as a beardling's excuse for fumbling up a simple task, which is to say wildly different every damned time. So instead you pick the safest option and dig a series of probing pits, going down far enough to see if you hit any more seams of this odd stone. After weeks of excavation you've found that while the lake seems to be sitting on a layer of the material, the eastern bank is where the deposit extends longer than a few dozen meters from the shore, though you had to go deeper to reach the stone itself. Based on your very preliminary and amateur estimates, the strata of rock containing this queer stone has been uplifted at an angle, where erosion and the surrounding geography forced the local meltwater to overtop a natural hole in the rock to form the lake.
Any further excavation, however, would have to wait, as the time you hewed out of your schedule for this trip came to a close. So instead, you take some time to carve out three Dwarf-sized blocks of the stuff and load it into your wagon before making your way home. Most of it would end up being tested on, but during your work, you've discovered another odd property of the stones that can be quite useful. So long as the liquid within doesn't actually come into contact with it, the stone cannot freeze it, and you take advantage of that fact to chill all manner of more perishable goods. Now, you could do the same with a modified Rune of Cold, but this could be emminently cheaper than hiring a Runesmith for the task if one figured out a way of regulating the temperature.
Bah, you'd toss the idea at the Engineers Guild and see what they thought you supposed.
━<><><><==><><><>━
The shore is windswept and foggy, the sand of the beach is a hard obsidian gravel that could cut into bare skin with little effort. The cry of gulls, the howl of wind and the roar of the waves dominate the air while grey cloudy skies loom overhead. The scene would look utterly mundane were it not for the congregation of armoured reptiles congregating on the shore. A veritable horde of hulking monstrosities follow behind a company of heavily armoured figures, gear glowing with the power of dark magic and bound Daemons, that tower over their lessers.
Ensconced within the protective square of Dhar empowered warriors a quintet of robed figures huddle bicker among themselves. The four smallest ones bear a staff of blackened metal, a differently coloured light and voice screaming from atop each one. They wear robes that glow with the same kind of dark power as on their guard's armour, though they also wear intricate baubles and necklaces of gold, brass and iron, the occasional light flaring from crudely cut gems set within the metal.
At the very center of the formation, the largest individual in the whole group stands. Its back hunched by some unseen force yet still towering over the rest of its compatriots all by a solid foot in height. Growths and mutations can be seen poking through its voluminous robes, and magical trinkets. Clutched in its gnarled hands, a staff of dark iron thicker than an arm terminates into a cap that pulses with blackened and foul energy.
The entire congregation stands and waits just at the water's edge, chilling waves slapping against bare feet and boots.
After several minutes of stillness, shadows begin to form across the fog bank. Large, squat and spiky forms that glow with multi-hued lights and carry the smell of blood and death. The cry of gulls is replaced by bloody screams, the howl of the wind by the roar of monstrous mouths and other, more inhuman, noises, while the waves grow more and more turbulent as something
large disrupts their natural rhythm. The party on the shore is nonplussed by the growing malice in the air, by the thickening fog and the growing taint of dark magic, born from foul practices and unholy pacts, in the air.
And then the fog bank breaks, as great hulking things of iron, magic and wood, wash ashore.
━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━
Wyrren Duraz - "Cold Stone"/ Glacial Granite
Khazid Okraz - Workshop Town
Khazid Zarazi - Gifter Town
Strollenokri - "Journeying Craftsmen"/ General word for Journeyman
━<><><>< Gain ><><><>━
- Yorri Returns, for a time, to pester you and offer his wisdom (when he isn't bothering you)
-- he is imminently sulky
disappointed that you haven't visited all of his neat places of interest by now.
-- you have x4 Yorri Prods
- Odd Places Pt. 9 complete! Odd Places Pt. 10 Unlocked!
-- Research unlocked!
A lake, more a block of ice, that is winter cold in High summer and effectively lethal in colder temperatures caused by a stone that was cold to the touch, and has very odd properties.
-- +∞ Mysteriously Cold Stone/ "Wyrren Duraz"
White as frost but hard as granite. The stones are so cold that it's harmful for bare skin to touch them for long and so must be handled with insulated gloves. It Freezes water and ale it comes into contact with, but can be used to keep it chilled so long as there's something in between the rock and liquid.
- Grave Wardens complete! Just as with the Cult of Valaya, you have armed these venerable guardians of the dead with some of the finest armour and equipment you can create. While the Cult sourced the creation of their distinctive greatswords to other Runesmiths, your work is still important in the grand scheme of things.
-- +1 Standing, +70 Favours with The Cult of Gazul, new totals: Standing 6, Favours 120
Retainers:
- Beast Scouting Complete! Your Hearthwardens have broken the backs of several Beastmen warbands.
-- +15 to Beastmen Hunting Rolls.
- Scouting Complete!
-- +5 to Waystone Rolls.
- Waywarding Complete!
-- +10 to Waystone Rolls.
━<><><><==><><><>━
AN: Behold the doot, I hope you like it. I wanna say IRL stuff slowed me down, but tbh I finally got into the miniatures and have begun painting so Its almost totally my fault and no society's this time. Not much to really say except the usual really. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy it and don't forget to C&C. :^)
