(Roll, Peerless Production: 87, 57, 98 DC 50)
━<><><>< 343 A.P. ><><><>━
While you resent the remark some make, mostly Yorri and your fellow Brotherhood members, that you were some
hermit who rarely left your home, you will agree you tend to enjoy your, ever rarer, moments of solitude. That tended to mean you usually needed Rudil to keep you abreast of things every once in a while, but even
you have heard the talk about the elven outpost being built off the southern coast west of Ravnsvake. So when Myrion had written to you and mentioned she was working with several other Elgi to prepare the grounds so to speak for the future Colony you took the opportunity to learn a bit more.
You learned that the as-of-yet-unnamed Colony was, from what Myrion understands, a collaboration between the Chracian Noble House Wilderwood and the Dawnseeker of Cothique. To anyone in the know of Elven culture this was supposedly a very odd combination, as Chracians were generally stereotyped as being entirely content to live their lives in the relative simplicity of their wild and untamed homeland while the Elves of Cothique were wanderers and seafarers by heart. Unsurprisingly it was the latter who were the ones who had come to the former with the initial proposal, and through a series of negotiations they had eventually come to an agreement both could accept. Though from what Myrion understands the Dawnseekers had to fork over many concessions to get the ever reclusive Wilderwood to help fund the creation of the Colony itself. For instance, having to give them full stewardship rights for one thing, as well as first pick of and veto powers over any immigration to the settlement, along with a whole host of other perks that basically meant the Wilderwood would essentially have full control over the Colony's development. While these generous terms surely did their part in getting the reclusive Noble House to agree, Myrion confides her belief that the Wilderwood never would have even entertained the request had the heir of their Lord, Prince Laequalys the Woodswalker, not struck up a friendship with Prince Gimli.
The reason why the Dawnseeker had even come up with the proposal was obvious enough. Dwarf goods were already held in esteem among the Northeastern parts of Ulthuan for their durability and craftsmanship, as
expected, if not for their aesthetics.
Can't account for taste you suppose.
That value only increased by having an elven prince walk around with and praise them for their quality. Which from what little you've inferred of Elven culture, would apparently only increase their value in the eyes of many Elves.
You aren't a merchant, though you imagine even they would be confused by Myrion's terminology. Apparently the valuation of goods worked differently among Elves than it did your folk. Rather than value goods upon
just the practical details and labour they also seemed to put weight on the desire of the seller. Such that it was commonplace for an elf to feign a lack of desire over something as a way to receive a lower price on the goods in question. Duplicitous arguably, though the elves would claim it clever. To you it speaks of a lack of respect for the craftsman who created the goods in question frankly, not that you would say it out loud. How the Elves manage to trade with your people at all is a question that Jorri would be more suited to answer, but ultimately wasn't much of a concern for you given your own none too shabby levels of wealth.
Nevertheless, the Colony would certainly improve trade between your people in the long term, and with it the fortunes of House Dawnseeker and Wilderwood. Though it will take a good many years, likely decades, before the place becomes self-sufficient and does more than serve as a safe harbour for yet more Elven ships, they have smartly taken a long term view of things. Keeping the location of your people secret from the other Kingdoms was ultimately untenable and likely to draw their ire. Better then for House Dawnseeker to use their existing lead to entrench themselves in the Dwarf market and not split their attention by leaving the securing of a safe harbour in these lands to the Wilderwood. Having a friendly refueling station, one that could eventually gather resources and later trade with them, meant their ships would be able to sell yet more goods. Monetary gains, enticing as they may be, were only one part of the equation. Having elves loyal, or at least agreeable to Dawnseeker and Wilderwood interests in the area serving as the most frequent point of contact between the two peoples would hopefully make them the Dwarf's preferred trading partner over any other merchants.
They knew that they could not monopolize the market forever, and so began working on ensuring they'd keep as much of it as they could when the keg was cracked open.
Of course Myrion did not explain that to you in so few words, but you weren't an idiot. It was clever certainly, to acknowledge and work with the quirks of your folk to get ahead of the incoming competition, but you cannot help but wonder how the long term existence of an Elven polity so far removed from their homeland would shake up things. This new settlement would still ultimately owe its allegiance to House Wilderwood and through them the Kingdom of Chrace and the Phoenix Crown from what you understand, at least in theory. To your knowledge such a form of colonization wasn't ever truly practiced by your people. Dwarfs didn't like to leave home, and those who did were the independent ones who wanted to rule on their own. Certainly there were daughter Holds, Karaks born from a population who mostly hailed from another more established settlement, but such a relationship was only ever cultural. The older Hold had no true legal authority or responsibility over their younger counterpart save what the latter was willing to give. Mayhaps you misread Myrion's words and the Elgi aim to ultimately do the same but in their own confusing ways, or this was more akin to a town or mining camp within a King's demesne, maybe even a mix of both?
Regardless of the truth, there will be great change brought about by it you imagine. Much as that annoys you there's nothing to be done about it. Despite what the youngsters otherwise say, they're as susceptible to newfangled trends as a thirsty Dwarf is to ale. Why, you wouldn't be half surprised if there would be Dwarfs going out on those...boat things the Elves use in the not so distant future, mayhaps even making their own! It certainly sounds like the sort of nonsense a particularly radical engineer would get up to. For your part, you can only hope that as the amount of trade between your peoples grows you'll actually find more things worth your while. Reagents, new metals, things a Runesmith cares about. None of these Silks, spices and fancy exotic dyes, bah! Wool, salt and the primary colours can do the same thing just as well and have the proof of centuries worth of data to back it up!
As for the specifics of how Myrion fits into all this, she's apparently earned a position equivalent to a Loremaster, and researcher all in one. Scouring the local area to discover novel, useful resources of value to the Elves, while offering her magical talents and/or intellectual expertise whenever the need arises. You doubt that it's
all she'll be doing, but those tasks would at the very least be her official duties if pressed.
With the letter now read, you fold it up and stow it away for safekeeping before getting started on your response. There were a few particulars about how the Colony you wanted some clarification on that Myrion failed to mention. Most concerningly was the absolute dearth of detail she left as to how the place would be defended. No plans, stratagems, by Valaya's braids, not even an idle thought she casually written down! You rub your beard and wonder if there's some sort of Elven custom to not discuss such things of such a nature given how the letter was so bereft of details regarding the town's defensive measures. To protect against spies, or perhaps because they don't trust you with such knowledge? Both, if you had to guess. You'll just have to be tactful and make sure you don't unnecessarily offend her. After all, you can't imagine they're leaving the place
defenceless of all things. You're sure something will be in place.
There
has to be.
If there aren't walls at least a meter thick surrounding it, it's not something you care to defend.
Outside, unheard by you, the sky rumbles and flashes with streaks of multihued light.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Gimli adjusts the armour a final time, letting the Gromril plates settle onto his frame and shifting about as needed.
The all encompassing plates and scales slide smoothly over each other as he moves and stretches in it for what feels like the first time in his life. He's long been fitted and trained in it of course, nor is it the first time he's worn it into battle, and
yet he still feels clumsy wearing it. The weight of expectation he supposes. This is the armour his father wore, the armour of Kraka Drakk's heir, the armour
he wears and that, Ancestors willing, a future son will wear. Within the protective embrace of the
Drakeplate he feels almost invincible.
Idly he pulls off one of the scales on the armour, examining the miniscule Khazalid upon it with furrowed brow.
Otrek, son of Gorn, as heir of Clan Ironarm he led a band of forty warriors into the …
He sighs and puts the scale away, socketing it back into place, and moves over to where
Drake's Mantle rests.
"What's with the dallying Gimli?" Ladra calls, walking into the room and staring at him inquisitively.
"Thinking," he responds, idly wiping off the build up of frost on the buckles before he swings the cloak over his shoulders.
"About the campaign?"
"Almost all the time these past few years Ladra, but not this time. Was just reading the inscriptions on the armour. Made me… what's the word? Contemplative?" he explains, securing the last few clasps.
"Mmm, that is rare indeed. Should I send a messenger for Laequalys, to get you to stop all that awful thinking?" she teases.
"Bah, he's busy planning for that settlement of his. I won't take up his time like that. I'll be fine 'adra, by the time I'm out there marching with cousin Buradarr I'll be back to my old self," he says, forcing a smile onto his face as she steps closer.
"Are you so sure about that?" she mutters, picking up the horned helm sitting on the nearby table and handing it to him.
He sighs.
"Not truly no. Still, there's nothing to be done about it right now I reckon. Not the first case of nerves I've dealt with and it won't be the last. When I get back we can discuss things if you'd like?" Gimli offers, taking the helmet from her hands.
"If they'd let me out and march alongside you I wouldn't have to wait. I'm pregnant, not crippled," she mutters, fixing the tilt in his cloak while he secures the helm to his head.
"You could outshoot half of Brokk's eldest rangers, of that I have no doubt," he says, conviction evident in his voice.
"I can hear the 'but you're pregnant with the grand heir of Kraka Drakk and the risk of a campaign is too much regardless of the earliness of the pregnancy,' in there Gimli, no need to strike around the vein," she grouses, passing him one of his axes.
"But you're pregnant with the grand heir of Kraka Drakk and the risk of a campaign is too much regardless of the earliness of the pregnancy," he says, repeating her words with faux solemnity only to grin when he gets an annoyed tug on one of the horns of the helmet for his trouble.
"You're horrible," she says, turning away with a scoff.
As he watches her go, his mind returns to its previous musings. The sort of doubts and fears one can expect from contemplating the future, of living up to his father's legacy, maybe even his grandfather's should he be so worthy.
Maybe I should
visit Laequalys, Gimli thinks to himself,
then again I never used to brood as much before I met the pointy eared bugger.
━<><><>< 344 A.P. ><><><>━
"My boys! Master Runesmiths! Ach, can you believe it, Klorah?" Dolgi says, wrapping both Skarri and Bardin tightly in his arms.
"Father, I've been a Master Runesmith for almost a decade now," Skarri responds, voice muffled while his brother silently endures the crushing embrace.
"A blink of the eye!" he exclaims, "Our eldest children return just as the youngest leave us, no doubt to return in great success just as their brothers have. Right Klorah?"
"Yes, yes, very fortuitous. Now hurry up and finish getting dressed, you're choking the life out of the boys and at this rate we'll be late for dinner at Fjolla and Joll's because of it," she tuts, head poking out of the corner to visibly frown at his antics.
Reluctantly Dolgi loosens his grip on his children, though he doesn't release them just yet. Holding them at arm's length, he regards the both of them with a mix of pride and nostalgia. He can easily recall them as babes, waddling about with the sort of naive curiosity only a child can have. Years, decades even, of lessons and memories passing through his mind in the span of moments as he visualizes their growth. They are no longer beardlings, but grown men. Dwarfs with bright futures and, Ancestors willing, long fruitful lives ahead of them.
"There's much to do boys, much to do indeed. I'm sure you both would rather be in your own homes by now so I won't keep you much longer, but meet me outside the workshop in lets say four days time eh? Your da has a few things to show the both of you."
Skarri and Bardin glance at each other inquisitively before they turn to him and nod in affirmation.
"Good, good. I'll see you both then," he says, clapping them on the shoulder a final time before heading off to finish getting dressed.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Replacing the armour had been difficult, and you thought perhaps this would be even moreso.
But you are wrong.
You stare at the fabric in your hands, feeling the fine cloth and down lining; immersing yourself in the mix of longing, sorrow and joy that only this cloak could induce.
Despite your feelings on the matter, you carefully and reverently place the cloak back onto its rack, removing the creases that form with a few passes of your hand, and then store it away. The only solace you can find in the act is in knowing that what you are replacing the greatest gift she had the chance to give you with something truly worthy of taking its place. No expense, not a single spare
moment, was wasted on anything other than the cloak you would soon be making. An Adamant mantle, one designed so that it would slot in nicely with
Barak Azamar, would anchor the hide of a Shaggoth covered by scales of yet more Adamant. In memory of its predecessor, this cloak would also be lined with down, sourced from the finest grade the Brana will trade with the denizens of the Karak.
The resulting creation would, in theory, complement your existing equipment by augmenting your ability to deal with flying enemies and large groups in a way that didn't require cracking the ground beneath your feet open like a keg on Brodag. The Rune Lightning serves as the quick and precise complement for the earth-shattering blows and sweeping flames of
Zharrgal, the Rune of Fury to increase the frequency of not only your strikes, but that of your allies, and with the Master Rune of Grungni to help defend those around you more effectively than by simply being the priority target the enemy would want to bring down first. While you lacked an appropriate improvement for the Oathgold, you did plan to use one of the feathers of King of the Sky to vastly improve the potency of the Rune of Fury. A fitting use of the reagent if there was any, you had sworn, even if only to yourself, to spare no expense in the cloak's creation after all.
Which leads to what is frankly the most… conflicted decision you've made regarding
Skarrenbakraz's construction.
When you said that not one expense was spared you had meant it. Across from you, sitting innocently on a nearby table, the warded container holding the brain of Kholek Suneater rests alongside the Crest feather. Had you seen any other Dwarf do what you were planning to do, using an untested and half-understood reagent for something so important, you'd call it the height of irresponsibility. Not that
you doing it changes the truth of that statement, you'd simply thought you wouldn't ever be in such a position is all. Though to be fair you aren't digging blindly, common sense and almost a millennium of experience leave you with a fairly solid understanding of what most reagents tend to do in the majority of situations, but nevertheless it disquiets you to use something you haven't thoroughly vetted or examined. It was a decision you had agonized over almost right from the cloak's inception. From teaching the Master Runesmiths under your care, your regular duties, eating meals and even in the moments just before and after sleep, it was there. Quietly churning away in the back of your head like a Miner digging through the stone.
Asking Yorri hadn't gotten you an answer either, not that you really expected it. His words came to the forefront of your mind once again.
You had centuries to study it, and you chose to do other things. I don't live your life lad, maybe you had other concerns, maybe you were ignoring what I taught you and futzing about with nonsense, but at this point such considerations are irrelevant to your decision in my mind. True, you have no solid idea about what using that brain there will do, but out there above us is a brewing surge of magic so immense that it's literally visible to mundane eyes. Maybe using the brain will do something immensely powerful, maybe it will utterly change what you envisioned. I'm mining blind here too, you know, so I can't say for certain what it'll do either, but what you do
have is a fork in the road Snorri; one path where you use that brain in conjunction with everything or one where you don't. You, and no one else, have to decide if the former is an opportunity to be taken or a risk to be avoided.
In the end the choice is clear.
━<><><><==><><><>━
He and Bardin wait patiently outside their father's workshop, the warm light of the Rune lights illuminating the hallway.
"What do you reckon Da's planned to show us?" Bardin asks.
Skarri can only shrug towards his younger sibling.
"Do you reckon it has anything to do with all the Brana visiting him lately? Well, they always do, but more than usual I mean," his brother continues.
"Maybe, I have a few guesses about what it could be, but I'm not sure enough to feel comfortable sharing them, brother," Skarri admits.
He hasn't been home in a century, and the decade he's been back Da had wanted to hear and see more about Skarri's own Journey and workshop than tour him through his.
"Guess we'll have to wait for Da then," Bardin says.
"Well you don't have to wait long!" their father interrupts, his grinning head poking out of the doorway to regard the both of them fondly.
They blink at him and watch as he opens the door and disappears back into the depths of his forge.
"Hurry up now boys, we're burning Rune light standing here. Come in, come in quick and bear witness!" he hollers from within,
The two brothers stare at each other one more time before Skarri walks in first, Bardin not far behind him. After walking through a short hallway, Skarri noting the various booby traps and mechanisms that fill every available surface, they are lead to an open door, behind which a set of stairs descending below the earth could be seen. From the looks of things Da had been renovating, given that Skarri could remember a time when he was a boy accidentally catching a peek that it had once been level with the rest of the house. He and Bardin descend downwards, feet making echoing steps, and slow when stone gives way to the cavern.
Skarri blinks and Bardin almost stumble as the two of them stare at what's before them.
The floor of the workshop is a good twelve meters beneath the main floor now, while it is wide enough to fit their living room five times over. Four great pillars of stone support the vaulted ceiling where a contraption composed of chains, levers and pulleys dangles an armoury's worth of material in the air. Many of the pieces are rated to fit Brana, being far too large for even the biggest dwarf, all in varying states of completion. The stairs hug one side of the room, opposite of which the orange glow of his father's forge emanates. When he and his brother reach the bottom of the stairs Skarri notices an archway in the wall on his left and through it another hallway leading off to who knows where, before turning to face his grinning father.
He ought to have expected that his Da had the bigger forge, but knowing and seeing were two different things.
"Follow me to the forge boys, she's there waiting," Dolgi says, rumbling and familiar timbre now tinged with giddy excitement.
Skarri follows once more, Bardin not far behind, moving through the workshop to reach their father, his back turned to them as he leans over a workbench. They wait and watch as he seems to grab something, then step back when he whirls around to reveal his creation to them.
Bardin boggles.
Skarri blinks.
━<><><><==><><><>━
(Roll, Campaign: 66 -5[Numberless Hordes] -5[Awakening Monsters] +10[Empowered Runesmiths] +10[Retainers] +15[Magically Inundated] =91)
(Roll, Scouting: 56 +35[Retainers] +15[Magically Inundated] =106, DC 90)
Things are going well, Rudil thinks.
The combined Throng of Kraka Drakk, Ungor and smatterings from all the other Northern Holds marches home at the Campaigning season's end with a host of victories against both Fimir and Beastmen under its belt. True, they've yet to reach any actual settlements that belong to the former, having been screened by a, frankly astounding, number of thrall armies and their Fimir masters as they pushed their way through the increasing number of moors, peat bogs and swamps that litter the lowlands of the Western Peninsula. They would be hosted at Ornsmotek over the winter, receive resupply through the Underway and march back out once more, relying on outposts built in the wake of their initial advance, ranger camps and Brana observers to hold onto their gains and keep abreast of the situation. Already parts of the Throng murmur that this will be no quick pitched battle, but a slogging grind more akin to the Reclamation of the past.
Rudil can only thank King Otrek's sound decision, had they not culled the Beastmen and Monsters so thoroughly all those years ago he can only imagine how many more bodies the Fimir could throw at them. It isn't
easy by any means, but it would have been far bloodier for them to make any gains had they not done so. Whatever illusions their pace may give, the truth is that they have advanced so quickly in
spite of the odds. The Fimir either moved quickly or had settled in and built up for longer than they had hoped, because from their estimation all but a quarter of the West's Beastmen were under their thrall. The bands sent to them earlier were stragglers, the
weak and undesirable armed with little more than scraps. The hordes they face now are more reminiscent of the horrific experience at Karag Dum. Bands of heavily armed Beastmen in crude iron breastplates charging headlong into the grinder to soften up the foe for their Fimir Masters.
And that didn't take into account the volatility of the surrounding environment.
The Brana in the Throng had told them there was a great deluge of magic in the air, in levels lesser, but still comparable to the Great Incursion so many centuries ago and reckoned they had yet to see the worst of its effects. While not enough to make it possible for Daemons to pop out of thin air like they could back during those hellish years, it was still a right pain in the arse. The
least of this Magical Storm's consequences was that the land had come alive with hostile life. Mundane and magical beasts mutated by the sheer power in the air into more powerful or ever more monstrous forms, while older, more powerful beasts were awakened from their slumber by the amount of energy in the air. Rudil has heard the cry of more Dragons echoing through the mountains these past few months than he has in the past 100 years. Chimaeras, cockatrices and other gribblies abound as if they were common wolves, and lone Griffons try their luck against the Brana who march alongside them.
The Runesmiths are certainly appreciative of such a surge in reagents. Last he'd heard they were chomping at the bit for the chance to slay some of the creatures. Hopefully, Lord Dwalin and Lady Brynna can keep them in check.
Speaking of the Rhunki, the magic-rich environment's more pressing impact on the Throng's progress was in how it empowered the enemy wizards. The sheer amount of free magic in the air meant that a sorcerer could apparently cast their tomfoolery with a great deal more ease. Just as their warriors used an ablative shield of enslaved beastmen and their less imposing kin, the Fimir mages surrounded themselves with mixed cabals of what he could only assume were lesser casters, using Bray Shamans shackled in dark iron collars etched with daemonic runes to only further empower their rituals.
Or at least they tried to, having so many mages working in tandem seemed to make it easier for a Runesmith, well-aimed bolt or Grudge Stone to disrupt everything.
That wasn't to say the situation
entirely benefitted the Fimir. When the Runesmiths started murmuring that set many ill at ease, at least until they realized the Rhunki were muttering in
excitement. It appeared that Runecraft in this environment was more potent, something about the Runes having more energy to use and what not; flaming blades glowed hotter, wards were more powerful and the Runesmiths capable of unleashing their more powerful Runes more often and with greater effect than usual. The latter was well above his area of concern, but the improved Runecraft meant Kraka Drakk's Throng performed well above expectations.
The
Runehost was slowly becoming a commonplace term used by their fellow Throngs,
where the Rhunki are numerous and no Dwarf is bereft of an item that bears their work.
He thinks it's a bit too premature to claim such a title, and admittedly he was partial to the moniker of
Drake's Teeth more.
"Lord Rudil," one of his fellow Hearthwardens calls out, jogging over to match his pace, "Emberplume has returned with reports from Thorek and Thalben's teams for your perusal,"
"My thanks Druin, I'll look these over when we stop for the night. Return to your post and stay vigilant, Amberclaw is due to return soon should the weather be cooperative."
"Aye Hearth Lord," the ranger barks, heading back to the rest of their marching company.
Yet another ball to juggle, keeping on the lookout for more Stone Monoliths and then safeguarding the knowledge of their existence from falling into the hands of other Dwarfs or defending them from the Fimir and Beastmens' grubby paws depending on the situation. Having so many of their number be rangers was beneficial in that regard, being able to discreetly send off members to find Stones while the Throng marched behind them. Unfortunately a not insignificant number of the new Stones they
had found had been subverted for nefarious purposes; dark runes carved into the rock and then filled with blood and other viscera, sacrificial altars put at their feet, bones and skins, along with a whole host of other foul trinkets and baubles, draped over them.
Rudil had made up for his failure to protect the stones by ensuring they would never be used for darker purposes. Better an obelisk destroyed and denied to the enemy than one corrupted for their use.
He marches on, attention split between half-listening to Lord Dwalin's impromptu ballad and watching the skies for his feathered colleagues to return.
━<><><>< 345 A.P. ><><><>━
You are woken by the rumble of thunder, the sound so loud that the tent shakes and the impact so forceful that the bedroll, you included, is lifted off the ground for a few moments before falling back to the earth. Outside you can hear Master Yorri grumble and growl in annoyance. The two of you have been here for months now, waiting for the Storm to reach the Anvil and preparing everything for the event in the meantime. It had been a bother to section off the time needed for the whole debacle, finishing up the current batch of Masters and introducing the new Prosthetic Runes at the same time had not been one of your better ideas in hindsight. But it was nothing a few glares and grumbled words couldn't fix. Ach, you'll never be rid of them at the rate you're going, and after finalizing the trials for the Runes of Repair and Stacking you'd also have
Journeymen in your workshop.
You don't wonder
why you do this, you merely berate yourself for it.
As you lie there, grumbling in annoyance about your fate, Yorri pokes his head into the tent, brow raised.
"It's time lad, better stop that whining and get moving if we don't want to miss the big show," he says.
You grunt and roll out of the bedroll, body moving on autopilot as you uncap a drinking horn and take a long swig of the fine brew within.
"I'm up, I'm up," you mutter, wiping the foam off your mustache.
You and Yorri go over the last few preparations silently as you eat breakfast together. Every so often you catch your Master warily watching the sky as the mass of magical clouds gets ever closer.
After yet another instance of that behaviour he realizes that you're staring at him in concern, and in response, he simply scoffs.
"Just bad memories," he says, waving you off.
"Of the Incursion?" you ask, staring at him inquisitively.
"Of a sort," he admits, body language clearly showing he will speak no more on the subject.
You nod and let the topic drop back into the silence of before.
━<><><><==><><><>━
When Karstah is told by a young warrior that one of the Elders wished to speak with her, she is curious. When she finds out he is a Thane, she grows a tad bit surprised, and when she learns he is the Lord of a prominent Clan of Karak Ungor, she's utterly flummoxed. Still, not willing to upset someone in such a position, she finishes her meal and makes her way over to the part of the camp where the eldest and noblest members of the Throng usually congregate to speak, eat and grumble about the follies of youth.
She walks briskly and with purpose, acknowledging the questioning grunts of her Elders but marching on regardless.
It takes a few more minutes of walking but Karstah eventually reaches one tent in particular. It is richly decorated and would stand out were it among the tents of the regular Clans, but here amongst the camps of the revered and wealthy, it is rather modest. Two Longbeards stand guard outside, the massive double-bladed Great axes they hold crossed over the entrance, glowing with Runes.
"Who seeks an audience with the Lord of Clan Stonebeard?" the one on her left asks, staring at her with squinted eyes.
"Karstah Khazadsdottir, Strollenrhunki of Clan Winterhearth," she answers, voice clear and respectful.
The two share a glance with each other before the same Elder nods his head in assent, prompting his companion to duck into the tent they guard.
"You are expected child, wait a moment while Thamur announces your presence to Lord Ranulf," the Longbeard says gruffly, sparing a final glance her way before his eyes return to scanning their surroundings for any potential threats.
She does not have to wait long, after only half a minute the other Longbeard, Thamur, returns and nods towards her.
"Lord Ranulf shall speak with you now," he announces, lifting one of the flaps open while his compatriot raises his axe to give her access.
Thanking them both with a few quiet words and a nod, Karstah walks into the tent and comes face to face with the Lord of Clan Stonebeard. Though there is still a good deal of colour in his beard, Ranulf looks far older than the Longbeards who guard his tent, and is far better equipped to boot. The Thane wears a suit of fine, all-encompassing, Gromril plate, the star metal purposefully dulled and layered with plates of decorative iron to appear like literal stone, his winged helm resting on the table between him and an open seat obviously meant for her. A bearded hand axe of exquisite craftsmanship, well beyond her level of skill, rests against his chair, and like the armour, glows with the faint light of Runecraft.
"How may I help you this day, Elder?" Karstah begins, staring him right in the eye.
Respectful, but unbowed. Have pride in yourself and know your worth, Karstah. The only thing a Longbeard dislikes more than a lack of respect is a lack of spine, her Master's voice echoes in the back of her mind.
He regards her, eyes examining her with inscrutable intent, before taking a swig from a drinking horn almost as large as his head.
"Take a seat child, there is much to explain. Whether you know it or not there is a debt between you and Clan Stonebeard. One that I must rectify," Ranulf finally begins, staring at her intently.
Much as Karstah feels like wilting under the stare, as much as her mind whirls and questions what exactly the nature of this debt is, she does neither.
"Let's hear it then," she says, straightening her back and levelling a stare of her own.
━<><><><==><><><>━
The path to the anvil looks completely different this time; the fog that once carpeted the ground is thin and undulating, reminiscent of the waves in a pool of water after a stone is dropped into it, rather than the stagnant mat from before. Beneath the roiling surface, you can more easily see the flashes of colour from the various pools. The combination of steam-venting crags, brightly-coloured pools of liquid bordered by dark black stone give your surroundings the appearance of a mosaic made from stained glass.
You can start to see what Yorri meant about this place being beautiful beyond compare. On a bright day the steam would doubtlessly catch the light, and like a prism would disperse and bathe the already-colourful plains in a layer of complementary warm light.
Alas, the sky is not a bright and clear summer's day, but rather a morass of dark clouds occasionally lit up by flashes of unnatural, doubtlessly magical, lightning. Odd and monstrous creatures fly through it, from the serpentine necks of Dragons to the misshapen forms of some misbegotten beast of the forest, the shadows of their bodies outlined whenever the sky lights up with power. All around you their cries and those of whoever knows how many other beasts echo and travel far enough to reach even this otherwise deathly quiet place.
"The whole damn world's been riled up like a pot of boiling water," Yorri murmurs, turning to look at the source of some of the sounds.
Manticore your mind supplies, recognizing the multi-toned cry.
"Would have been a bounty of reagents. How do you think the Throng is fairing with this many beasts about?" you ask nonchalantly, the crackle of thunder and the flash of lightning growing more and more frequent, while a soft breeze begins to pick up.
"With how much you've coddled them? Well, they have the tools to do it, that's for sure. It's just a question of skill now. Really, equipping
every Dwarf with a Rune weapon, and then browbeating the youngsters into keeping up the practice while you were busy? Didn't you say you'd never do something on the scale of those toys again?" your Master replies.
"I browbeat them once, and that was only during the Incursion. They continue it of their own volition," you grouse.
"You keep telling yourself that, and I notice there's nothing said about the toy remark either!" Master Yorri snarks.
"Don't forget the amulets and banners," is all you can mutter in reply.
"Oh how
disingenuous of me, you're actually pushing yourself even
more. I swear you even made that armour just to help your body keep up with the insane demands your mind puts on it," Yorri continues.
"Bah!"
You walk faster.
"That may work on the Beardlings, but to me that simply means I've won," he shouts right back at your retreating form.
Around the both of you, the rumble of thunder and the cry of monsters simply fade away as your Master finds a way of poking through your sense of calm to rile you up.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Nain can scarcely believe it, especially after his poor performance beforehand, but here he stands among four other Journeymen before the imposing and critical glare of Lord Hammerspite.
"The last Rune I teach, you have proven yourselves capable of understanding its lesson. One passed to me by Thungni Himself when I was but a lad. A
gift, one given in recognition of my deeds at the Battle of Daemon-Doom Gully, fighting alongside Alric Thungnisson and Durin the Lost themselves! Less than two dozen Runesmith lineages know of this Rune, and you have been chosen because you've shown an understanding of commitment. The lessons I put you through will be the most grueling of them all, and I will brook nothing short of absolute perfection from the five of you before you even think about leaving this Karak alive," he says, staring them in the eye.
The Ancestor's grim stance and deathly serious tone were already enough to make them straighten up, but the knowledge of just what the Rune means to him and the circumstances around its existence causes a variety of reactions among the five Journeymen. Shock, determination, and anxiety are commonplace.
Nain says nothing, not trusting his voice to keep steady.
━<><><><==><><><>━
You stare impassively at the waves of fog that ripple out from the site where the Anvil lays, Yorri right beside you. The both of you have stopped a few meters from the edge of the drop, pausing to take in the situation and wait for the moment that the Anvil hopefully begins to function once more.
The thunder is likely as loud as it's going to get, drowning out the cries of the beasts and making it difficult to think with how often it rumbles and roars.
Looking up at the sky, you can see a myriad of colours fluttering through the air, the Winds of Magic so thick that they spill into natural sight. The phenomenon is as disquieting as it is breathtaking; an undulating rainbow in the sky that goes through impossible movements and dances not at the whims of natural laws but emotion, thought and the abstract.
"A whole hell of a lot of power up there," Yorri says.
"Aye," you reply with a nod.
The sky
screams.
A massive bolt of eldritch lightning strikes the center of the cavern where the Anvil lies, dispersing large swathes of fog and leaving the scent of ozone and molten metal in the air. Before you can say anything, before you can even get the ringing out of your ears, another, equally large, bolt strikes the same spot.
And then another.
Over and over the magical energy hammers the spot where the Anvil rests, growing so frequent that a pseudo-pillar of light begins to form. By this point, you likely would have gone deaf if you hadn't activated
Barak Azamar when the strikes had just started. As is, you are left standing while Yorri kneels to the ground, one hand holding an amulet while plugging his ears with a pinky each. The light is blinding now, even for you, the sound loud enough to make an unprotected eardrum bleed as the lightning continues to bombard the Anvil in an unrelenting torrent of power.
Then, just as quickly as it begins, it stops completely.
You feel no pain or disorientation from what's just happened, but that doesn't mean you haven't been rendered, albeit temporarily, deaf and blind by it. No mean feat considering what exactly you wear.
Before you can even blink the first few stars out of your eyes however the earth begins to quake and shudder. It becomes so unstable that you are forced to your knees alongside Yorri to hold steady, desperately trying to make sense of what in the name of the Ancestors is happening. Even as you shake and stumble you wonder why everything is still so bright when the lightning is no longer present, only to belatedly realize that instead of the storm, it is
Zharrgal and
Barak Azamar that glow with such ferocity. You look to your Master and realize he's had to close his eyes and look away from you, the Runes on his armour not as bright as your own, but certainly enough that it would have forced you to look away were you not a thing of living metal. Even as you wobble and struggle to stay still you manage to catch a glimpse of the Anvil chamber and the only thing you can think is that it's like staring at the result of a drake's flame on plate mail writ large. The black stone glows a bright orange, the edge of the opening curling downwards and dripping molten rock from the fury and power brought to bear.
Little of the fog remains, though the hole itself steams like a freshly cooked ham.
You notice that the rumbling of the earth has begun to fade, and breathe a sigh of relief. Yet it seems the world wishes to keep surprising you because as soon as the shaking subsides the hole erupts into what can only be described as a plume of gold and orange-red light. The energy looks like a mix of smoke and molten metal; curling and flickering, with particularly bright spots flaring and darkening at random intervals that bathes the world in its glow. As it shoots into the sky it is met by a furious assault of yet more lightning.
Well, at least Yorri was right.
Though it is a shame that the tools you left there for the occasion likely didn't survive any of that.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Gimli stares at his son dumbly.
A bundle of fine cloth surrounds a blob of pink skin with the barest wisps of hair atop his head. Much to his chagrin, he has missed the babe's,
his son's, birth, waylaid by a troll who had soon felt the ire of an irate Dwarf father who had failed to be at one of the most important moments in the life of his wife and child.
"He has been named then?" Gimli asks, lowering his head to stare at the bundle quizzically. Startling when a hand reaches up and grabs onto one side of his moustache.
"Why wouldn't I? We agreed beforehand, didn't we?" Ladra asks.
"Of course, of course. Just making sure is all," Gimli mutters distractedly, alternating between staring up at his wife and the son who holds his facial hair in a death grip.
She scoffs fondly before passing the bundle into his arms, much to the Prince's quiet terror. The babe does not squirm, doesn't even cry, his breathing calm and even as he is nestled into thickly muscled forearms and held by hands rough from centuries of battle. Quietly, gingerly, Gimli runs the back of his finger overtop his wrinkly head, gently running it through the fine silken strands.
"Hello, child. I belatedly welcome you to Clan Ironarm young Otrek," Gimli whispers reverently, staring at the babe in his arms with barely hidden joy.
The future heir of Kraka Drakk deigns to burp in response to the declaration, hand gripping his father's facial hair tighter.
"Ladra he won't let go of my moustache," Gimli whispers.
━<><><><==><><><>━
"Well, this is your last chance to turn back lad," he comments, staring up at the pillar of energy.
"There is no turning back from here Master. Besides, I lugged everything here, be a waste of our time if I fled," his silver figurine of an apprentice responds, trying to drum up some measure of bravado.
"No turning back now, apprentice."
"I suppose you're right," Yorri replies, forcing his hands steady.
Snorri shoulders the bag and nods towards him. Those monocolour eyes of his staring into him through the glare of his armour. He remembers the boy, with his coal-black beard and all the naivety of youth even though his eyes stare at the elder, beard white as snow and so long that it is bundled and braided to keep from dragging on the floor. Despite only being half a decade shy of a full millennium, his apprentice shall ever remain the same bundle of nerves and curiosity that drew his attention all those centuries ago. No matter how hard the lad tries to cover it up beneath fancy armour and grumbled nothings.
Snorri takes his first step towards the anvil, the light of his armour bravely, but futilely fighting against the glow from the pillar of energy ahead of him.
The Runes burn.
His hand crosses the threshold, parting the energy like a curtain of water.
"Something's wrong, get back now!"
His arm follows, and then his torso.
A hand falls in, the arm not far behind.
The roar of the magic is deafening.
He can only hear the keen cry of failing Runes.
His student disappears.
Yorri watches the spot Snorri walked through with laser-like focus. Waiting for him to run back through and swear off the whole endeavour, but he knows all too well the sort of stubborn fool he's helped cultivate. When his student does not come out Yorri takes a shuddering breath and reaches for his drinking horn. Come what may, he will be here when his apprentice leaves that Anvil, and he
will leave that Anvil if it means he'll have to go in there and drag him out with his bare hands.
━<><><><==><><><>━
When you pass the precipice and enter the former Anvil Chamber you take a moment to simply sit and stare at the forces acting out all around you. The walls are liquid fire; undulating coils of gold, molten orange and metallic red spiral upwards towards the heavens. Motes of light, or perhaps sparks of literal magic, fly away from parts of the wall, drifting down towards the earth where they disintegrate before ever touching the stone floor. The space you are in is hot, so hot that the bag you brought your materials in starts to smoke despite the Runes that protect it and the contents within. So hot that you would likely be dead without Barak Azamar to shield you, but the source of all this awesome heat is not from the lights that ring the Anvil and wall you in. Rather, it is the glowing hot slab of metal still standing in the center which radiates the heat of a half dozen forges with no sign of cooling down.
The Anvil looks more active than the first time, that's for sure. Markings in the metal you had felt as simple grooves beforehand now glow brightly and pulse with unknown energies to a rhythm, not unlike a heartbeat. The multiple alloys and materials that made up the Anvil's structure now flow and move like slightly agitated liquid, sometimes the different substances stay separate like oil and water, other times melding to create pleasing, new shining hues and alloys. As you stare at it you cannot help but notice how the lines on the Anvil seem to enter and meld into the stone floor. And as you look closer, you realize that the rock beneath your feet also bears odd geometric lines and shapes hidden just beneath the surface. The patterns only just become visible whenever energy runs through them, a grainy version of what actually lies below.
It does not take a particularly smart Dwarf to notice the similarities the Anvil's odd properties with the armour you wear right now.
You stow away what this could all imply into the back of your mind for a later time. After all you are here for a reason, and it's about time you actually get to doing what you came here for.
After digging out the bar of Adamant from your satchel you move towards the Anvil, gingerly sidestepping the ruins of the forge you had originally built to heat the metal, and lay it on the Anvil of the Earth. With the heat the Anvil generates you reckon that
Zharrgal should be able to make up the difference and get the otherwise impervious metal ready for forging. Though you wonder how the hammer will react so close to what is undoubtedly an immense amount of power when before it had burned bright enough to blind.
Well, you've already gone this far.
Hesitating for a final moment, you strike up the courage and pull out
Zharrgal from its holster and activate the Runes already glowing on its surface.
Energy begins running up from
Barak Azamar as you expected, but something is different this time around. The armour's pulsing, usually in time with your own heart, begins to pick up the pace and beat with ever-increasing speed. More unexpectedly still, the walls begin to send bolts of magical energy to strike the tool in your hand, charging it with even more power. The influx of energy does not make
Zharrgal burn brighter than it already does, thank the Ancestors, but the flames that were usually contained to just the Hammer's head spread down the haft, over your arm and then completely envelop you in a layer of ethereal flames.
You look at your flame-covered hand, flexing the fingers and idly noting how they, being the flames, slowly grow like a stoked furnace as more and more pulses from
Barak Azamar pass them.
This is unexpected. Could it be yet another example of
Barak Azamar's odd properties?
Zharrgal's? Maybe it's
both?
Thoughts for later.
You look down at the bar of Adamant still patiently resting on the anvil, and you note that where it and the Anvil connect the metal has already grown a slight bit more orange. You take a breath and then try an experimental swing of
Zharrgal down onto the waiting material.
And are almost blown back by the power released from the blow.
Fire, lightning and light erupt around the point of contact, sending a wave of force outward that causes the pillar to bulge and distend from the forces acting upon it. Though you can't be too sure, you believe you saw during that brief moment of visibility as the hammer hit home how the ethereal flames that cover your body shifted and moved; flowing from you, to the hammer and into the bar until contact broke between the two. Wherein a few final sparks bridge the gap before it grows too wide.
You give
Zharrgal an appraising look and then stare at the hammerhead-shaped patch of glowing metal critically.
It feels as if your equipment is
eager to get to work, almost as much as you are even.
Well then.
You raise your hammer high and send it screaming down onto the waiting metal.
━<><><>< 347 A.P. ><><><>━
"So you have procreated Gimli. Good, In truth I must admit I feared for you Ladra," Laequalys says, smiling smugly down at his friends.
"Took him long enough," she agrees.
"He spent so long around me I did begin to wonder," Laequalys continues, drawing a choking sound from Gimli's mouth.
"All he does is compliment your hair whenever we speak about it. 'silken' this, 'flowing,' that, enough to make a wife worry," she adds, nodding solemnly.
"Can we discuss something that's actually based on
truth, rather than your fancies and idle dreaming Laequalys? Like how you're faring under your new responsibilities?" Gimli cuts in, glaring at both of them.
"If you must spoil my fun. Not much to really be said really. The land is cleared, and the first homes and buildings should all be done well before the autumn storms roll in. The details of it are something I imagine only one of you cares to hear about. As for how I've been faring? Well, managing it all is something I've trained for my whole life, but learning and doing are two wholly different beasts," the prince answers.
"I don't envy you. Ancestor's willing, It'll be a long time before I'm made to do anything aside from managing a campaign's logistics," Gimli mutters.
"Not interested?"
"Not
ready," Gimli clarifies, taking another sip from his tankard.
"I see. Well, unless you'd like to hear about the recent housing debacle I've had to smooth over, how exactly is your son doing Ladra?" the Elf says, turning his gaze to face her.
"While I actually
would like to hear about how that housing debacle went down, for Gimli's sake I'll wait for another time," she begins, ignoring her husband's sounds of protest, "Otrek is only two, but he's well behaved for his age. Rarely cries, obedient, which is more than I can say for Gimli. Having Elder Moira around has been a great boon, her wisdom is much appreciated and she's always willing to answer my questions."
"A surprise," he says, brow raised.
"Helping raise several generations of her Kin to maturity has given her great insight."
"More the fact that you two get along. Undoubtedly my experiences cloud my judgement, but I can only ever recall my grandmother having rows with my mother about how she was raising me. Then again they never get along in the first place. It was a source of much stress for my father to keep the peace between them. I've learned that most mothers don't appreciate being told they're raising their children wrong," Laequalys explains dryly.
"Ah, well I can't speak for your folk but Valaya teaches harmony among a Clan's women and to not lose sight of our duty to protect and nurture our charges. Learning how to safely intervene without causing upset and infighting was one of the earliest and most important lessons I learned from my Kinswomen, second only to the lessons on child-rearing itself. There's a lot more nuance to it, topics like this always are, but the safest option usually boils down to only help when asked or if doing nothing causes the babe undue suffering. The temple has a wealth of teachings and literature on the subject and the clergy are always willing to offer advice as well for Clanless women as well. But the women within a Clan are usually the main method a Dwarf girl learns these things. It's a tricky thing to balance, trying not to go about aggravating the mother while making sure the child is cared for, but it's one of the ones the matrons make sure we truly understand. After all, the consequences of
failing are even direr. Ideally, we never get to a point where such lessons are prudent, but...."
"If only it were that easy to live up to those expectations and ideas," Laequalys mutters.
"Aye. Better to have a tool and never need it and all that. Heard enough stories from others about what living in a 'bad,' example is like. There's a reason why we venerate the ones who do things properly after all. Thankfully I've found myself on the positive side of that spectrum and not the bad. Not sure what I'd do if it was the latter," Ladra admits.
"It's no wonder why you're so good at diplomacy. Sounds like you've been doing it every day from the moment you wake up," Gimli says, staring at his wife in a newer light.
"It's a three to one gender ratio husband. if Dwarf women settled things the way you men usually do there wouldn't be Dwarfs around right now," she snarks.
━<><><><==><><><>━
The metal bends and folds beneath the unrelenting pace of your blows. Off to the side three large pieces of Adamant, the main plates that will connect your cloak to the rest of your armour, rest against the bare stone. They are marked by swirling lines and finely cut grooves meant to depict the cloud layer that the mountain inscribed on
Barak Azamar breaks through. Each segment was carved as a distinct work of art, yet united by a shared aesthetic and the empty spots on each where the Runes you chose were meant to go. For now however, they lie empty, waiting for the rest of
Skarrenbakraz's metallic components to be completed. The plates, large as they were, were the easy part given you've worked with Adamant enough that it's simply a question of patience. But the scales?
They are a wholly different story.
The greater structure would be a patterned set of Scalemail overtop the Shaggoth Hide. A sheet of thumb sized Adamant scales to form the base layer, the majority of which would be further worked with detailed engravings depicting life within Kraka Drakk. But making hundreds of small scales out of the hardest material you know of isn't enough, you also plan on laying individual gems and Gromril coverings on some of the scales. Both will help break up the beautiful, but otherwise uniform appearance of the scales, the former by serving as focal points for the eyes, and the latter to serve as borders and lines, using the darker shade of the Gromril to recreate the mountain imagery
Skarrenbakraz would have covered up on the back of your armour.
It would be more efficient, more practical, to create larger scales of the same shape and size.
But there is no challenge in such a thing, no
artistry. You demand better than what you usually expect, your Craftsman's pride demands better, her gift
deserves to be retired by something better than your mere best.
You have the finished piece shimmering at the forefront of your thoughts, a shining ideal that you swear your mortal hands will recreate with perfect accuracy.
Almost as if in response to your wishes,
Zharrgal begins to burn more fiercely as you swing, seemingly drawing in more and more energy and growing brighter and brighter until it shines like a star.
━<><><><==><><><>━
"When do you reckon my brother will be back then nephew?" Jorri asks, staring at the youngster with hands on his hips.
"By his own estimate not until the turn of the decade, and maybe a few years after that if he was being honest Granduncle," Storri replies.
"Hmph, well let him know I came by," he rumbles, only turning away when the heavily armoured Dwarf nods in assent.
As Jorri walks back down the path leading to Khazid Okraz, he stares up and frowns at the mass of odd clouds in the distance. He was no Runesmith, but he'd been raised around enough of them to know nonsense like what was happening right now out there drew them in like the promise of gold drew in miners. He had hoped to surprise his hermit of a brother with a visit, chat with him and push the business of life away for a little bit with ale and few stories. Though it seems that such plans would fail to come about. Now he had a few days with nothing to do before he'd be stuck back into the grind of figuring out how to get this Guild business over with.
A commotion to his left makes Jorri turn his head to stare at the source. He blinks when he sees a group of Master Runesmiths walking out of a bar whispering to each other. They wore cloaks, but Jorri had experience catching Rhunki when they tried to stay hidden. Ancestors knew that Master Yorri had Snorri use him for practice often enough as a lad and these lads were even worse than his brother had been back then. The thought makes him stare off into the distance, where the clouds are thickest, before grunting and returning to his walk.
He can only hope Snorri is doing well, at the very least he had his Master with him.
━<><><>< 348 A.P. ><><><>━
All of the components of
Skarrenbakraz were, structurally at least, complete. The main body of the cloak, Adamant scales and all, is currently stored away however; safely ensconced within the warded bag you had brought with you...perhaps a year ago now? You wonder how Yorri is fairing out there for a moment before shoving the thought away. You'd worry about your master later. Storm or no storm, if the man could survive for decades waiting for you in the woods, something that still makes you feel a little bit embarrassed, he could survive a few years out there.
Instead, you go about lifting the first segment of the backplate up and onto the Anvil of the Earth.
Hefting
Zharrgal once more, the Adamant head burning brightly, you begin the laborious process of carving the first Rune.
Power FLOWS.
Things are immediately different the second you start the process of forging the Rune of Fury onto the plate. As with
Zharrgal, the plume of magic that surrounds you responds, striking the Adamant with bolts of strange energy. You press on, ignoring the blinding flashes as you continue to chisel away at the material, chanting the rites you've long since grown beyond needing. A small part of you reckons that it's best to not get complacent, any bit of stability and familiarity will only be a boon when crafting a Rune in such conditions.
You return to the Volcano, long dormant and so ancient that it's imposing height had been shorn away by the rain and wind of countless ages. The sun, burning brightly overhead, begins to march backwards. Slowly at first, but picking up speed until it blurs through the sky, creating a strobing effect as years become moments, millennia become seconds and aeons mere minutes. You are forced to stare as the forest fades, the water drys up and the Volcano returns-
More is needed.
You bite back a curse, still hammering away even as your arm throbs with a flicker of twinging discomfort. Having become so used to
Barak Azamar's indomitable defence, you realize you've grown accustomed to feeling little when it's running. A grave mistake, one that, had you been a lesser smith, would have cost you. Before you can even think of anything else another blow strikes your opposite arm, an arc of magical lightning striking you and leaving a tingling feeling in your arm. You frown at the sight, wondering what on earth was going on even as you kept forging the Rune.
Barak Azamar made you all but immune to most effects, by Grungni you've been hit with worse and felt less than half of what you felt just then. So what? What was different here?
Another bolt of lightning strikes your back, and you are hit by a thought, an errant memory, of a conversation you had over a century ago.
A dwarf is a rock, you are ore. Through the seams, the unseen winds flow more easily but are directed.
Do you feel this magic because you are
allowing it purchase where it otherwise would find none? Is there something about crafting a Rune that makes you more
vulnerable than you otherwise would be
? Are you, as Blizzardwing said, acting as a conduit and is the Anvil and all this magic using it to send more energy to the Rune being made before you? Maybe it's the other way around, and the Rune is using
you-
Another blow, this one reminiscent of getting pricked in the back, draws you from your thoughts.
Well then.
Nothing worth doing is ever easy you suppose.
━<><><><==><><><>━
"You know when you told me about the elves that lived underground I thought you were pulling my leg," Ladra comments, as Laequalys tours her through the underground sections of the colony.
The pair of them make an odd sight, the ruling prince of the colony and a Dwarf noblewoman, perhaps the only one many of the other Elves around them have seen, walking through the noisy, construction-filled, halls of the settlement. The former introduces the latter to all manner of sights and sounds as if they were someone teaching a newly arrived relative about life here.
"Cothiquans build large amounts of their structures underground. First as a means to protect themselves from the storms that wrack their coast, then later to better defend themselves from the daemons, and then out of tradition. Proximity to large, sheer cliff faces was one of the conditions the Dawnseeker representatives were rather adamant on actually. I thought you'd be more at home here frankly," the Elf prince explains.
"While being under several meters of good solid stone does my heart good, I can't say these Cothic elves don't… disappoint me," Ladra admits, staring at several examples of that very architecture being hewn out of the rock around her.
"It's Cothiquan actually. And what exactly disappoints you? It's the aesthetic isn't it?" he says flatly.
"It's more sensible than most other Elf architecture I've seen to be sure, but it's still too spindly for my taste. And the lights! The lights make it feel like the sun's still shining down on me, are your folk unable to handle a bit of shade? Bah, it's disorienting. Like I'm somewhere familiar but just enough is off that it makes it
less inviting," Ladra rattles on, earning a fond shake of the head from her friend.
"While I can't say I understand your position I can at least respect it. Come, if the caverns aren't to your liking we can go see the harbour if you'd like. The most recent merchant fleet is docked outside right now, so we can see if we can't find some trinket to confuse your husband with. What do you say?" he asks.
"Can't help you this time I'm afraid, not after the perfume debacle. He swore ale didn't taste right for weeks," Ladra responds sadly.
"It's no trouble at all. Would you be willing to help me
find something at the very least?"
"Oh that I can do," she says agreeably, smiling.
"
Excellent."
━<><><><==><><><>━
You pride yourself on your general ability to keep your wits about you even as you forge Runes; keeping track of the time and your surroundings while you get lost in the hymns and chants passed down by your Ancestors.
It is not enough.
It is those same chants now that help you maintain focus in the face of the unrelenting assault upon your body by the magical energy around you. Creating the Rune of Fury had been an annoyance, arcane electricity only hitting you occasionally, but that had changed when you applied the Crest Feather. After the last bits of the ground reagent had disappeared into the Rune the arcane bolts grew both in frequency and in strength soon after, and it hadn't stopped that trend. Your armor stands firm of course, yet it nevertheless bears an ever growing number of black marks and soot stains from the countless blows that have now struck it. But for all your armour's durability and impenetrable defence, the same cannot be said about your person. Aches and pains originate from where the magical energy bypassed your armour and struck your body directly, throbbing angrily as you aggravate them with your continued forging.
Will guides it
It hasn't slowed you down nor dimmed your focus, you've dealt with far worse after all. What sort of Runesmith would you be if your own stubbornness could not overcome the demands of the body?
Magic strikes you about half as frequently as it does the Rune of Lightning now being forged upon the anvil. You carry on, carving the metal with your hammer and chisel blow by relentless blow, chanting the rites as you do. You focus on the words like a mountaineer grips a handhold on the cliff face.
"Quench the Rune in the rainwater of a thunderstruck peak…"
The Volcano is, was,
one of hundreds across the land, one of a dozen upon dozens of clusters. Together they formed a great mountain chain, a jagged and angry wound on the World's surface. The beginnings of a great rumble start, shaking loose stones the size of mammoths and creating tremors in the earth. The blackened rock cracks open and releases great plumes of formless, invisible yet oh so deadly gas. The tumult of the earth grows and grows until at last the cataclysmic energy beneath screams its freedom through the eruption of countless peaks. Magma, lifeblood of the world, flows in great rivers across the barren and desolate land. Ash, cloying Ash, chokes the sky, escaping the range of volcanoes like a tide of serpents fleeing their burrow. So great is the volume that it turns the dull and angry red glow of the sky into a grey void that blocks out the burning rays of the sun.
"Seven by sevenfold strikes, one in the name of the Ancestors of Thorbad, son of Gorm, son of Thungni, second in the name of Nakra, wife of Gunbad, daughter of Gurna…" you grimace out, carrying on with the chant even as an errant bolt of lightning strikes your face, leaving a tingling sensation across it.
Let song coax it.
You feel full, like a barrel filled to bursting. It feels as if there's a precarious balance, just enough leaves you that you can hold on to the amount of energy that comes rushing in. It feels
wr
on
g. No Dwarf should be subjected to such a thing. Yet you are here, and you are still forging the Rune despite the pain. You shut down the spasms of your muscles, you ignore the groaning of your bones and joints. Your free hand reaches for the pre-prepared Brain, pushing on despite the burning and fullness you feel.
Reach into the deepest depths, the very core of the world.
More and more lightning strikes you. You feel your arm start to go limp, yet you stubbornly hold on to a bowl of brain paste twice the size of your own head and carry on with the forging. Seeming in response to your defiance the raging torrent of magic that surrounds you seems to bulge and pulse with fury and redouble its efforts. The blows you felt before do not compare to the thunderous assault that now bombards you. Great arcs of power twice as thick as your arm leap out and pounce onto your frame, leaving the soot stained armour crackling. You can feel the arm holding the bowl slowly lose all sensation even as you hammer away, relying more and more on will and muscle memory to maintain yourself as more of your body struggles.The regeneration
Barak Azamar imparts is still winning out against the damage being inflicted, but it has to actively work to keep it that way and you can feel even its imposing capabilities faltering.
Some part of you wonders how much worse it can get before you wipe it from your mind.
The ash swirls and twists, coiling upon itself like a roiling riverbed in the sky. At first it is mere flashes, specks of light in the dark grey morass, followed by quiet booms that displace the air. Yet as the volcanoes continue to erupt more and more material fills the air. The very sky becomes so choked with ash that it is more accurate to describe it as a moving wall than mere air. The push and pull of the air, the friction of the particles reaches a point that the very sky erupts in a shower of lightning so grand that the sky grows white. The great range of volcanoes grows a halo of plasma and fire, the booming roar of the thunder the trumpetting herald of the powers that now strike the barren and ruined landscape. Bolts of energy, not the product of no cosmic being or mystic energy but the natural laws of the world taken to their extreme, the size of buildings sunder stone and slam into the earth with the fury of a god
, leaving not but molten rock and glass in their wake.
Every movement is punctuated by a growing wave of agony. Your hammer arm tingles incessantly while the other is so numb that you feel like you're carrying a rock and not your own damned limb. Your knees struggle to hold you upright and you can scarcely see through the blinding lights that fill the Anvil chamber. Only the sound of your voice, still stubbornly chanting on, and the echoing blows of your hammer can be heard over the roar of the flame and the din of energy. You force yourself to think through the pain, holding on to the image that threatens to fade from your mind with all the will you can muster.
Let mind command it.
You let go of what is unnecessary, time becomes meaningless and all but the most important thoughts and instincts fade as the pain overtakes you. Your last truly conscious thought is feeling the eruption of lightning that strikes you when the Rune is formed.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Yorri can hear nothing but the pounding of metal and the roar of flame. Can feel nothing but the crackle of the energy charging the air until he sees the pillar of light his student walk into bulge
and contort as electricity travels up its side like a herd of spooked hares. Just as he's about to run in and drag his student out, the tell-tale ringing of a hammer upon metal along with Snorri's hoarse rendition of the Rites of the Master Rune of Grungni can be heard.
Yorri stares, gaze flat and hands curling so hard that he could draw blood.
Instead of running in, he sits back down and waits, watching the column pulse in time with the ringing blow of Snorri's hammer while the malign storm clouds overhead seemingly converge above him, flashes of a realm not meant for mortal eyes appearing every so often in the clouds.
━<><><>< 348 A.P. ><><><>━
Swing, chant, endure.
The Runelord strikes the anvil, his armour blackened but glowing brightly in defiance. Lightning strikes his flame-wreathed body while the stone at his feet glows orange-hot. Power beyond reckoning and outside the mortal plane assaults his luminous form. With each hammer blow, a wave of light and arcing energy erupts from the point of contact in a physical pulse of force and power that pushes against the curtain of magic surrounding him. If one were to peer past the brilliant light they might see his molten blood leaking out from his mouth and nose, of the eyes that stare seemingly into empty space. A body without a mind; flesh that moves despite the lack of any overriding will, a mouth that speaks without knowing what it says, creates that which it cannot comprehend.
Yet this belies the terrible mental struggle being fought within his mind.
Even as his body hammers away and ancient rites are burbled through bloody lips, his Will is stubbornly refusing to yield beneath the onslaught of pain that wracks his form.
Sing the song to creation.
He tells the story of a miner, the Miner. The first, the eldest, the greatest of them all. Of his perilous march into and through the deep places of the world, of the trials and lessons learned and ultimately of his triumphant return, the gifts of the earth in his hands. It continues with the burden he shares with wife and brother; to guide, to teach, to rule, setting the examples for all who follow him. It exalts his gifts, unyielding steel, unassailable wisdom. These universal lessons, parts of the very foundation of Dwarfen life. It beseeches Grungni, Lord and Maker, Impeccable Craftsman and Smith of legend, to impart a fragment, a speck of his stalwart countenance unto the creation being wrought. An unyielding defence, a stalwart guardian that denies the foes of Dwarfkind and girds his Children forevermore. An old story, a weighty story, one that echoes through the chamber and to places beyond it. It resonates with this place, with what is here.
It digs and digs and digs into the earth; grabbing and pulling until it hits upon something that does not yield before its hunger.
Swing, chant, endure.
While his mouth intones through bloodied lips and his body is moved by his Will, the Runelord stands oblivious to the changes being wrought around him. With each toll of his star-bright hammer the curtain of
Chamon and
Aqshy shifts and distorts, fraying at the fabric of that which
is. Through flame and light a world parts, granting glimpses of burning, ash cloaked, men and their blazing spears tearing at clockwork figures. During one such occurrence, the Runelord and his chamber is noticed, and two-headed things with sunburst crowns and wide, circular golden eyes peer out from a place beyond. Watching, observing for an eternity and not, before one dares to reach out. Their finger pokes at space and time until it appears as if its symmetrical hand is stretching the very firmament of reality. At last, it rips and tears apart. The first Watcher steps through using its hand and foot to widen the tear into reality as if it were a drawstring bag until it can step through in a single, inhumanly perfect, motion. The first half through is obviously male, or at least harkens to it, with chiselled features and rippling with muscle. But as the rest of it passes through, with its soft curves and evident breast, it becomes clear that this creature is an amalgamation of both masculine and feminine. Stitches of silver connect its seemingly disparate parts in a way that ought to be grotesque, yet isn't.
Incomprehensible sentences composed of harmonious anagrams and deliberate ratios of letters fill the chamber as another otherworldly watcher languidly steps through. They are terrible and awesome to behold. Behind perfectly sculpted, inhumanly human, sunburst facemasks bright eyes stare out and analyze the world. Two wings, one shaped like the sun and the other the moon, made of blades, gears and symbols that click and clack to the heartbeat of the world, flutter with robotic symmetry. These beings of Chamon shift and change like molten metal; changing species, shrinking and growing from the height of a Bloodthirster to the most diminutive Halflings, even switching which side is man and woman, all to the tune of some incomprehensible pattern. Clockwork watchers, Golden Observers, the True Rebis, Incarnates of Chamon, a multitude of names for these living embodiments of the Golden Wind. Soon after the first fully manifests, a second Watcher does the same before the hole from which they emerged seemingly disappears as the scene shifts to some different time and place.
It heeds, called by the tune.
They walk and stalk around the Runelord, curious and unassuming. Four heads tilting and contorting at impossible angles to watch him and his work. One looks where it not ought to have and is blinded by the Glittering One's work for its trouble. It wordlessly screeches in pain, golden tears leaking from its 42 eyes and a forest of blades rising from its form like a hedgehog, as it tumbles and turns away to fall to its knees as perfectly as it walked. The other is too engrossed by the influx of novel sensations and information to care for the first's plight. Neither notice as the walls around them shift once more and release a Charred One that silently stalks out from its very own tear in reality, charging forward as silently as smoke as it runs its spear through the downed Watcher's back and lifts its dying form into the air. The other Watcher, finally drawn away by the dying screams of its companion, finally sees the enemy that has slain one of its own. With a wordless scream its body erupts into a tornado of blades, gushing molten metal it leaps in a perfect arc onto the
Aqshy Elemental. A mirror to the metaphysical clash they represent.
A fragment of eternity.
Scything blades and golden blood intermixing with ash and searing heat in a conflagration of forces that begins disturbing the already fragile nature of the energy pouring out from the Anvil. The Watcher fights with perfectly angled cuts and rhythmic blows, a chorus of ringing metal and robotic efficiency, while its foe alternates between wild, gleeful, swings and thrusts of its spear and gouts of flame so bright that they almost compete with the shining star of the Runelord's hammer. Each Elemental tears into the other without a spare thought for their own safety or survival, ripping chunks out and mortally wounding their opponent even as the same happens to them. The fury and conflict fades as both beings fall by the other's hand. The golden blood of the two Watchers intermingling with the ash of the Charred One. Normally the corpses would dissipate into nothingness, the magic that sustained their existence being drawn back into the Realm of Chaos or burning up like wood in a fire.
Swing, chant, endure.
Yet here it is not so.
Even as their forms begin to disintegrate, a sizable chunk of the power that they were made from is siphoned up and away. Through the air, into silverine armour, up an arm and into a hammer that sends it arcing downwards to feed the creation taking shape then and there. Metal and flame, logic and passion, broken down and put to use. The Anvil and the armour continue to beat and pulse. Slowly synchronizing with each other.
The Gift Giver forges on, his labour not yet complete.
Something, a part, a fragment of an existence that has always been, slowly begins to crawl up from the depths.
━<><><><==><><><>━
"BRING IT DOWN!" Gimli roars, axe pointed towards the shambling horror bounding towards them.
Seconds after his order the twang of Rune-enhanced Bolt Hurlers and Throwers heralds a volley of spikes that fly through the air. Many are destroyed by fel magic, some cast by the Balefiends in the back, others by the bound daemons within the numerous chains and collars that cover the slobbering monstrosity. But such is the number of projectiles that some do get through, golden spears flying through the air against a crackling dark grey sky that gore the Chaos Spawn and send it tumbling backwards and into the ranks of the Fimm phalanx charging in behind it. The beast's fallen form hasn't even begun to disintegrate before the enemy line has reformed, worse for wear but not unbroken by the loss. Gimli curses and begins walking, even from this far away he can spy his target. The guttural yells of their titanic leader and the blood soaked blade of his tail rallying the rest of the group back into formation; briskly marching forward with their great weapons levelled high enough that their blades will behead an unsuspecting Dwarf. It is a mass of black iron, foul magic and destruction that promises only ruin and death in its wake and should it hit the left flank the battle would become far too difficult for Gimli's liking.
Examining the situation, only sparing a fading glance at the roaring inferno in the center of the Shieldwall that was his father, the Heir of Kraka Drakk makes his decision.
"Huskarls, to me! We break their charge like a cliff does the tidef!" Gimli roars, hefting his axe and turning his brisk walk into a speedy jog to meet the oncoming foe.
Behind him he can hear the roar of confirmation bellow out from the mouths of five dozen grizzled veterans followed swiftly after by the thumping of Gromril clad boots against the cold hard ground. As they pick up the pace
Drake's Mantle awakens in response to his will, forming a swirling barrier of snow and hail that batters aside the oncoming projectiles fired by the Beastmen auxiliaries.
These Fimir have proven a most vexing foe, almost so much that Gimli would almost prefer going back to slaughtering their way through hordes of Beastmen.
Almost.
Fur and hide transitioned to scales and dark iron, the crude magic of the bray shamans being replaced more and more by disorienting mists, eldritch bolts of mutating energy and congregations of bound daemons. Were it not for the presence of the Runelords and the equipment forged by the numerous Runesmiths who call Kraka Drakk home they would have had the advance stalled years ago. As is, the push has only slowed, even with the might of Karak Ungor and a growing number of Far Northern Holds.
He pushes the thought aside when he moves past the ten meter mark, focusing on the rapidly growing form of his enemies. The Runes on
Rik Hunken and the rest of his panoply glowing brighter and more angrily as he gets nearer and nearer, close enough that he can see the yellow of their cyclopean gazes widen in shock and fear when they make it past the blizzard and see him and sixty odd Dwarfs fall upon them with a bloody vengeance.
Gimli roars as he ducks under the oncoming polearm, maneuvering to send his axe on an upward swing that cleaves half the lead Fimm's face from his head in a shower of ichor and bone.
━<><><>< 351 A.P. ><><><>━
Swing, chant, endure.
The Smith does not know why he keeps hammering, only that he must continue. The beat, the rhythm guides him, the words a vague memory and impression that cannot break through the haze of agony he suffers. His name, his being, he knows are in some part of his mind, but they are too far gone for what remains of his consciousness to reach. It is harder to think, to remember anything aside from the rhythm and the pain. He does not know if his eyes are open, vision was discarded-was discarded at some point. He cannot remember anymore. All he knows is the pain and that he must keep hammering, must hold true to the words and the rhythm. He has forgotten why, but he knows that he must not stop, not until-.
-He does not know.
Eyes form and see that which calls it.
He keeps hammering, he does not know why, only that he must not stop.
Swing, chant, endure.
━<><><><==><><><>━
The Runelord's armour holds, as does his hammer, but little else of him does. His beard flies freely, flowing upwards like a kite caught in the breeze of the arcane winds being generated from the work being wrought on the Anvil. His luminous form shows streaks of orange light maring the otherwise pristine glow. If one peeled away his armour they would see great cracks and fissures in his metallic form, the worst of which are clustered around the arm and hand, more strips of metal at this point, that hold his hammer. Whenever a golden bolt of
Chamon or roaring blast of
Aqshy strike him, ignoring the armour to leave craters and holes in his body, arcing serpents of energy travel from the point of impact and towards his arm. Each time it occurs the cracks grow imperceptibly wider, looking like a series of streams that form into a river as they head downstream. Looking at his feet one is face to face with cracking fault lines of energy that snake up his legs, converging at the stomach before joining the other trickling streams of eldritch might that flow to his arm. Every moment is spent feeling your body tear itself apart, to feel your soul be ripped and frayed at the edges as it is subjected to powers even it cannot safely channel.
Brought onto mortal plane.
His armour beats with unheard of levels of power as it goes about churning up roiling streams of energy from the storm above and the earth below, to fuel the creation of the Rune. Never has
Barak Azamar been more potent than it has been now, but even with the power to withstand the blows of the mightiest of Greater Daemons, and regenerate entire sets of limbs in mere moments, simply keeping the Runelord in his current state is all it can do to keep its maker from succumbing to the energies being conducted through his body. So great is the storm of magic that surrounds him, so enormous is the power being hauled from below that most others would have simply turned to stone from the effort, but the Armour buoys away some of that awesome burden, the Hammer channels just enough out of his body that even though he is quite literally tearing apart at the seams, he still
lives.
A numbed arm reaches for a bowl, the ceramic glowing from the heat and the Oathgold within rendered molten.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Swing, chant, endure.
He thinks about stopping, and is surprised to find that another emotion bubbles up. One that is not pain. It is a hot thing, roi-roi-bubbling and bursts like molten metal. Hot and pointy.
Anger.
Yes. Yes, Anger. Anger and
shame, that is what this feeling is. He cannot stop, if he stops he will feel angry and ashamed. Angry and ashamed of who? He doesn't know. He only knows that he does not want them. The Smith holds on to that nugget of thought, adds it to what he refuses to forget. He must not stop hammering, must keep with the Rhythm, he must continue or he will feel anger and shame.
He must keep going.
Swing, chant, remember, endure.
The rhythm tells him to move, to grab something, to raise it to the proper position, and to pour.
Hands of rock reach upwards, grasping.
The Smith almost recoils, whatever has happened has only intensified the agony. His body suffers pain the Smith never thought possible, every finger, every speck on skin feels as if it's being plunged into lava, his swinging arm, already more a mass of suffering than a limb, feels as if it is unravelling, curling, apart like a length cordage being unwound. Yet even this pales in comparison to the bone deep pain he feels at some place he cannot describe, like a piece of parchment being put to torch, the Smith feels parts of himself burn, tear and shrivel up from an intense
not-heat that nips and bites off larger and larger chunks. Had he vocal chords capable of it he would be screaming, had he a curse to encapsulate his suffering he would bellow it for all to hear. He wants to stop, to let the pain end and let this ragged nugget of
Will that stubbornly holds on fade to emptiness.
Legend and myth
But he does not, much as he wishes he did.
━<><><><==><><><>━
He has been pushed back more and more these past few years, the heat emanating from the forge becoming so intense that the closest his armour and the multitude of amulets draped over it can take him is the top of the steps leading to the chamber. The closest pools of water having long since evaporated into steam, leaving the solid detritus behind to blacken and then melt. The bedrock fares little better, sagging and even melting from the intensity. He can barely breathe, the air so hot it burns his lungs. Yet he continues to stand there, like a statue, surrounded by piles of ash that were once monsters who were drawn by the power in the air. Only forced back when the heat grows too intense for even his stone body. Stuck helplessly listening to his student's chants become unintelligible screams that grow dimmer as he is forced further and further away. Only the ringing of the hammer assures him of Snorri's continued survival, the clarion call of the head striking metal reaching his ears through the roar of the flames, and later the visible glow that can be seen bobbing up and down through the orange curtain of slowly destabilizing energy.
Yorri stares at the pillar unflinchingly, ignoring how the clouds of magic coalesce and swirl down above him. Watching and listening for any change in the steady rise and fall of
Zharrgal's shining head, or some minute change in the ringing of the metal.
He will not bury his student, he would kill himself trying to save the boy before it came to that.
Not that he would succeed. Both of them would likely be rendered to nothing but ash or flecks of gore. A coward's way out. As expected.
Stone hands grip the haft of his hammer so tightly that the wood cracks.
━<><><><==><><><>━
S-s-wing, c-hant, re-remember, endure.
Pouring the Oath Gold sets off a rapid chain reaction, events cascading into one another in the span of moments. Power and Light erupts from the Rune on the Anvil, the armour glows brighter than the sun and the Rune absorbs so much magic that the tempest above visibly sags as parts of it are drawn earthwards. A circle of fire combusts around the foot of the Anvil, growing and shrinking in tune with the rapid pulses of energy that are dredged up from below. The floor and walls of the Anvil chamber slowly morphs, showing flashes as first but then longer and longer vignettes of a glittering world; a cavern so large and grand that it stretches beyond the horizon, its ceiling so high as to be obscured by clouds of metallic mist, megalithic spires and columns of gemstones glow with energy, lighting up the dark to reveal seams of ore and jewels larger than buildings, rivers of gold and other precious metals flow in channels wide enough to engulf entire holds, particles of gems, gold and silver glint and float through the air like motes of dust in such numbers that it appears as if the air sparkles. So great is the concentration of energy that the veil between reality and the Realm of thought is more a sheer curtain of silk.
C-ch-chant, remember, endure.
The Runelord can see none of the splendour, cannot hear the melodious tunes that echo from around and below him, nor feel the heat around him. His body is literally cracking and breaking apart, a failing dam at last buckling beneath the awesome weight of water it held back. Aetheric gales emanating from the Master Rune buffet at him with a flurry of blows strong enough to tear down buildings, torrents of energy flood and assault his already fraying form, inundating it with foreign magic, his body flashing between metal, stone and flesh, as his very essence is brought under threat. The hand holding the hammer is little more than a mass of lava and metal strips beneath the gauntlet, desperately trying to maintain form while parts of him literally melt and drip away, sizzling as they hit the stone floor. An eye bursts in a shower of molten metal from the energy that courses from the rest of the body toward the disintegrating arm.
Barak Azamar's Adamantine plates begin to groan under the assault, the Protective Runes whining as they are pushed to their very limits despite being empowered beyond anyone's wildest imagination.
Will falters as soul and body are sundered beyond repair, arms slow and rhythm is lost.
The journey ends.
R-remember, endure.
A five pointed tendril of magma and metal grasps the hammer, haft sizzling and smoking from the heat of the appendage and its blazing head, and swings it downward. Again and again it rises and falls, all that remains rallying for one last desperate push to completion. Five blows, four blows, three blows. The hammer's haft begins burning, protections failing, wood charring, metal running and gems bursting from the power flowing through them.
Endure.
Knees finally buckle. Two blows. The hammer's haft disintegrates, the last vestiges of wood turning into blackened ash.
ENDURE.
Zharrgal is raised skyward a final time, now held aloft by the tendril of molten flesh, it's head blazing with a teal light so intense that it shines bright enough to overpower the torrent of energy still rushing around it.
It falls, metal screaming as it travels through the air like a falling comet.
The work of the Smith.
Rest.
━<><><><==><><><>━
The ground quakes.
A pillar of light fluctuates, wobbling and bending before it ultimately erupts into a shower of radiant energy that explodes outwards before some unseen force pulls it downwards in a spiraling stream of energy, dragging a noticeable portion of the unnatural storm with it.
━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━
Brodag - Annual brewing festival of Grungni
Karugromthi - Living Ancestor
Skarrenbakraz - Furious Sky/ "Berserk Sky"/" Bright Blue Nutter"
Strollenrhunki - Journeyman Runesmith/ "Journeying Runesmith"
━<><><>< Gain ><><><>━
- x1 [Ingredient] T4 Elder Greedy Troll Heart Ordered,
received Turn 46
-- -15 Kraka Drakk Favour, new totals: Favours 535
- x1 [Ingredient] T2 White Lion Corpse Ordered,
received Turn 45
-- Options unlocked!
- +1 [Ingredient] White Lion Corpse!
- New Rune Combo Unlocked!
Combo, Storm Mantle: [Master Rune of Grungni, Rune of Lightning, Rune of Fury] The bearer is surrounded by a whirling storm of gale force winds and dark thunderclouds. Errant bolts of lightning randomly strike out from the mass of clouds, vaporizing incoming projectiles or striking nearby foes and empowering the user's blows with electricity. A weaker version of the effect can be extended over a formation.
- New Set Combo Unlocked!
Set Combo, The World That Was: [Makerstrike, Mountainsouled, Storm Mantle] The user is reminiscent of a volcanic eruption; cutting winds filled with ash and volcanic glass stir up a pillar of dark storm clouds around them as lightning and magma spew out to strike enemies or destroy incoming projectiles. If they strike the earth they can create fissures that spew magma or shards of obsidian, If they strike the air they can send out targeted bolts of lightning or those same cutting, ash-laden, winds.
A walking reminder of the world in the ancient past, of the unbridled power that churns beneath the very ground one walks upon.
- Conduit of the Earth Traits Revealed!
-- Arcane Fulcrums in range of
Barak Azamar last longer and are more potent than they otherwise would be. Being better able to draw upon the wealth of energy below the earth as well as above for both good and ill.
- Barak Azamar Trait Upgraded!
-- Conduit of the Earth: The user can create an earthen shadow of themselves, seams of magma fill the multitude of crevices and cracks that cover its surface while a pair of Ruby eyes glow with magical light. The construct is capable of following orders and is inert unless commanded. The only times it moves of its own accord are when it is in battle, shielding the wearer from blows, covering its blindspot and essentially acting as an, admittedly slow and unwieldy, extension of their will. The construct, if given enough energy and time, is capable of altering its size or regenerating from the surrounding earth and rock should it be destroyed.
-
Zharrgal Trait Upgraded!
-- Touched by the Earth: When the wielder strikes the earth with the hammer they can now choose to mold and shape the ground and rock in a radius around themselves.
Zharrgal is the tool of a maker, uncaring of what it works, molding the earth as readily as it shapes metal upon on the anvil.
-
Mythic Creation of Note, Skarrenbakraz: A hooded cloak formed out of a Shaggoth's hide, attached to your armour by a large piece of Adamant. The plate is made of three distinct segments, stylistic clouds frame the individual Runes carved onto each of them, the Runes of Fury and Lightning border the Master Rune of Grungni glowing brightly in the center. The outside of the leather cloak is dyed crimson, edged with the finest Brana Down. A scale mail sheet made up of thumb sized Adamant Scales is layered overtop the leather, intricate depictions of Dawi, and Branakroki going about their lives is carved with painstaking detail onto each and every stone. Creating a mosaic of images that some swear move and act as if they were alive; Gemstone eyes flashing as if blinking, clouds moving like they were real, figures walking from one scale to the next. Nonsense really.
--
Combo, Storm Mantle +/Tempestuous Domain: [Master Rune of Grungni (Oathgold), Rune of Lightning (The Suneater's Brain), Rune of Fury (The Sky King's Crest Feather)] The user is surrounded by a mass of hurricane-force winds and blackened thunderheads. Lightning bolts frequently shoot out from the formation to destroy projectiles and strike at nearby foes. The user is able to control all aspects of the mantle with their mind. Being capable of molding the roiling storm around them like a Master Potter does clay, creating ephemeral fog or clouds so thick that they are practically solid. Their mastery of Lightning is just as precise, having such fine control that they can control the output and form of the lightning striking their foes should they choose to.
--
Chaosbane
-- Trollbane
-- Soul of the Earth
-- Touched by the Earth: When wielded in conjunction with Barak Azamar the banner's abilities are greatly empowered and can be cast even more frequently. Barak Azamar's earthen construct is similarly affected, becoming an amalgamation of black, rumbling thunderheads, rock and metal with molten metal eyes and weapons seemingly crafted from lightning and fire. The upgraded construct is capable of a whole host of abilities and can better follow the user's orders. When not being commanded, it will follow the user, acting as a second shadow that mimics their every move. This shadow shares all the benefits of the user's current equipment.
-- Fulcrum Forged, Storm Born: ??? Created at a confluence of the First Storm of Magic, upon an Arcane Fulcrum, and while wielding Barak Azamar, the item positively thrums with an incalculable level of power. That there are consequences to this is almost certainly undeniable, but what they fully
are remains to be seen.
3/3
-
Set Combo, The World That Was +/The Primeval Past: [Makerstrike +, Mountainsouled +, Storm Mantle +] The user is reminiscent of a volcanic eruption; lacerating winds filled with ash and volcanic glass stir up a pillar of dark storm clouds around them that can combust into flesh searing flames. Lightning bolts randomly and frequently strike out from the tempest that can be large and powerful enough to down a minotaur in a single blow while fissures erupt and spew jets of molten iron beneath the enemy's feet. The user can control the strength, direction and timing of both the lightning and magma as well as shape and manipulate the clouds at will. When their blows hit the earth they create either volcanic eruptions in miniature, churning up mounds that spew molten rock and creating miniature storms around the site of impact, or kick up waves of ash, magma and chokingly toxic gases. Striking the sky can now send out lightning and fire as a wave or in concentrated bolts of plasma.
More terrifying than an erupting volcano, it is the manifest fury of that same cataclysmic power controlled by a will that utterly loathes your existence.
- Legendary Deed, Millennial: Reach 1000 Years of age.
The eldest of the elderly, the most stubborn of the stubborn. Few, so very few, reach this momentous milestone of life. Where some niggling doubt may have existed about your longevity before, almost all are now assured that your will has proven more stubborn than even the passage of father time. You have lived through the ancient history the youth are taught, you are a living relic of a bygone age, a link to the time of the Dwarf's ancestors.
--
Specialty: Productivity (Mastered+) > Productivity (Savant)
---
Peerless Production Upgraded!
--
Specialty: Odd and Esoteric Runes (Exceptional) > Odd and Esoteric Runes (Mastered)
---
Journeyman of the Odd Upgraded!
- New options discovered!
-- The Movement of Things Pt. 5b. You believe there is more than one way to make a Gronti...or perhaps something very similar to it.
-- Understanding the Armour. Something has
changed Barak Azamar, and you must find out.
- Epiphany! gains delayed until research unlocked.
Traits Upgraded:
- Unyielding Really Old Grumbler > Karugromthi: +15 to [
Living Ancestor] modifier, new Totals: 35
- Subjected to the Storm: You survived being the conduit of the cataclysmic powers of both a Storm of Magic
and an Arcane Fulcrum.
-
Peerless Production: Every 2 request actions add 1 free action's worth of progress. If 3 request actions,
instead add 3 free actions. Every input request action
has a 50% chance to proc another action, does not proc on free actions.
- Journeyman of the Odd > Master of the Odd: Every 2 research actions used for Talismanic, Engineering runes or weird/odd concepts in general, add 1 free action's worth of progress. If 3 research actions, instead add 2 free actions. Research gains from studying odd materials improved.
Retainers:
- Scouting Complete!
-- More Waystones discovered, better knowledge of Western Waystones.
--- Region Status, West: Under Threat. 1/5 of Stones destroyed, 3/10 of Stones corrupted, 2/5 damaged, remainder pristine.
-- +10 to Waystone Rolls
- Waywarding Complete!
-- +10 to Waystone Rolls
- The Throng is Mustered Complete!
-- +10 to Campaign Rolls.
AN: God this took so long, maybe way too long, but I wanted to do it justice. There's a lot here, but most of the changes and details for
Skarrenbakraz and your other equipment pieces are there for your sake, Snorri isn't in a position to know about them. I'm pretty sure I entered a fugue state and questioned my life choices writing it, but I'm still happy its done. I hope you guys enjoy what I got here, there's definitely stuff I missed so please don't forget to C&C. :^) Also happy belated birthday Neroj.
