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━<><><>< 6827 A.P. ><><><>━
In Jorri's mind the greatest reasonable success he expected was to find relics of the Norse Dwarfs, weapons and armour left untouched in the haunting ruins of abandoned Holds forgotten to time. At the very least he knew Uncle Kraus was determined to recover some of the remains of the many,
many expeditions who went to their dooms in the Far North for some sign that their kin had yet lived.
Never had he expected his wildest dreams to come true, to find actual
living Norse Dwarfs, and even then he expected perhaps a small hold or few, tiny hold outs at most.
He, nai,
none of them expected to be escorted to Kraka Drakk.
Kraka Drakk the Silver; where Runes from the time of the Ancestor Gods were yet known, where the forges of Khazagar burned and her inhabitants birthed wonders fit for the Golden Age, where the Brana originated from and where some vestige of their ancient glory remained, and in the case of Clan Winterhearth specifically, where their kin yet lived and practiced Thungni's Gift.
Twas a reason why so many called it the Northern Zorn, or Zorn the Southern Kraka Drakk.
A place of myth, legend.
A Fable.
No longer.
It takes the better part of two weeks, but they are led by the eager Norse Dawi to the base of a mighty mountain, one of the many that make up the Grontklug. Yet just as one of his cousins is about to open his mouth and ask what they're meant to look at, the leader of the Northern party walks
through the virgin stone and disappears from their sight. After a bit of cursing and grumbling at the little joke played at their expense, they allow themselves to be convinced to go through.
It is beyond Jorri's wildest reckoning.
They first come face to face with a massive dwarf-made wall twenty meters high by his best estimate. Situated between the closest point of two mountains the wall is as much a work of art as it is a barrier; the surface is covered in pictographs and richly decorated carvings and sculptures that tell a story of historic and continued defiance against the Dark Pantheon. Scenes that ranged from the Great Incursion during the time of the Ancestors to the myriad of wars likely waged over the millennia of the Golden Age, with the structure of the watchtowers serving as the dividers between each "scene." At the center of the wall is the massive gatehouse, imposing statues of Grimnir and Grungni stand on either side of the opened gate.
He is only able to look at the majesty in front of him for a few moments before he is ushered through.
The walk through the gatehouse is, somehow, equally as impressive. Yet more statues line the walls on either sides, lifelike depictions of ancient heroes, Lords and Kings, their names and a summary of their deeds written on plaques at each monument's feet.
Jorri is so busy marvelling that he almost fails to notice just how
long, their walk has been. While he's not the cleverest Dwarf in Clan Winterhearth, he can do math well enough and by his reckoning there should not be this many statues lining the wall without spilling out into the open. After triple checking his calculations and digesting the knowledge that he isn't insane, Jorri turns to look back at the way they came.
Barely half a meter in, his mind tells him,
yet my eyes see dozens of statues between here and the entrance.
Noticing his state of bewilderment, one of the northerners escorting their group stops and taps to get his attention.
"Runes," he says simply when Jorri turns to look at him.
His immediate reaction is to say that such an explanation doesn't really help him, nor is it anything like the Runes he's seen and heard tell of. Then he remembers he is part of a troupe of Dawi who somehow made their way to the Mythical Hold of Kraka Drakk, reconsiders, then shrugs in numb acceptance.
It is surprisingly not the oddest thing he's heard these past few weeks.
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In a sanctum, deep in the heart of Khazagar, the thunderous clomping of hurried boots interrupts the normal thrum of the countless Runes carved into the walls.
Ancient ears pick up the disturbance, even as the mind they connect to remains utterly focused on the work before it.
Muscular, yet wrinkled arms slow their tireless pace as the sound grows near, worn yet powerful hands, so ancient that their skin has been replaced by calluses which themselves have been worn smooth through the passage of time gently lowering the tools held in their iron grip.
Eyes, the natural one a milky white and the artificial bearing the glint of Gromril and gemstone, turn away from their most recent project to the door where those footsteps will most certainly head towards.
So few dare interrupt Him now.
Yet the walls do not rumble as one would expect from a siege, dust does not fall from the walls as magics that could sunder armies crash against the defenses, the sound of the sort of situation that could rouse the beardlings to call upon Him does not accompany these rushing feet.
Curiosity, so long since it was last roused as to become novel, overtakes caution.
The body, having spent centuries bent over the anvil, turns with smooth yet deliberate precision to face the entrance to His Workshop.
Doors meant to withstand the blows of Greater Daemons grind open, the keys held by the two Living Ancestors that guard it used in tandem to activate the Runes that keep its protections active.
Stone, grinding stone He has not heard in the centuries since the last time His descendants felt forced to call upon Him greets His ears.
The Ancestor stares at the panting Dwarf who stumbles through.
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"Its warm," Jorri says dumbly, drawing nods from several of his cousins who are too busy gazing around to say the same thing.
"Runes, and Brana" the same Norsedwarf explains, a wry grin on his face.
"Right, of course."
They walked through Norsca yet in the grip of winter, not a hint of Spring to be seen amidst the gales and blizzards that accompanied their march to the roof of the world, and yet the sun, so often hidden by cloud and fog, shines down on fields of deep emerald and pale gold as far as the eye can see with several dark specks passing through them alone or in groups.
"Crops," Jorri mutters, realizing dawning as they follow their Norse guides, "
Wheat. Bloody Wheat and Vegetables."
"Orchards also," the Norse Dwarf adds.
"Course you'd be wowed by the wheat, what about the Hold?" his cousin Bogrin asks, staring at him as if he'd lost his beard.
"Its Kraka Drakk," Jorri defends, "It's a Wonder aye, but no one expected it to be anything less did they? This? I've never heard of people growing summer wheat in the tail end of Winter, of an entire Valley, in
Norsca, growing green year round! Sort of thing you expect from the Elgi, or those manling wizards they got nowadays."
Bogrin hums consideringly before he grunts in that way that says he sees your point but is too stubborn to say it out loud.
His kin mollified, Jorri returns to staring at the fields, mind boggling.
The peace lasts for only a few moments more before the sudden and close bellow of a horn rips Jorri's attention back to his companions. Its the Elder Norse Dwarf, blowing into an ornately carved piece of ivory banded with Rune-inscribed gold to create a deep yet beautifully haunting note that travels through the valley, causing flocks of birds to erupt from the fields and orchards ahead of them.
Two minutes pass before the reply is heard, confirming that they have been heard.
The Elder smiles, an alien thing on his craggy face, then turns back to them.
"They kno-" he begins, before another sound erupts from the valley.
The sound is indescribable, long, low, and guttural yet indescribably radiates a sense of age to it. It is a sound that reminds him of the mountains, older than old and higher than the clouds, yet tinged with the innumerable marks of aeons passed.
It is a sound that sends the Norse Dwarfs among them into a state of wide-eyed confusion.
Jorri begins to tense before he takes a closer look at the faces of their northern relatives. Theirs was not the face of terror or ill news, no it seemed quite the opposite.
They were confused, but excited? No, that wasn't it.
Excitement was there yes, but also apprehension.
"What's going on?' Jorri braves to ask the Norse Dwarf.
He turns to look at Jorri, or more accurately the symbols of Clan Winterhearth across his clothing, and swallows.
"He knows," the Norse Dwarf says, elation and terror lacing his still largely incomprehensible Khazalid, "He knows, here you are."
"He who?" Uncle Kraus cuts in, walking over with Prince Thorgrim.
"Ancestor, Last Ancestor." The Elder Norse Dwarf answers, looking at Jorri and his relatives meaningfully.
"Karugromthi Anzarut"
━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━
Karugromthi Anzarut - "Ancestor who gives us gifts"/ Ancestor of Gift Giving/ The Old Gift Giver
Grontklug - Giantshome/ Name of for part of the Norscan Mountain Range
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AN: Its not much, but take this to tide you over for a little bit. Done did it over a few days between study sessions. :^)
