━<><><>< 6827 A.P. ><><><>━
Jorri sits in his chair with apprehension in his gut. The walls are richly decorated, fine tapestries and ancient shields worth more than the entire hoard of their Clan hang from the wooden rafters and walls in such numbers that he can barely see hints of the original architecture beneath them all.
The wonders he's seen are indescribable, and yet the knowledge he possesses make them
all pale in comparison.
An Ancestor lives.
Their Ancestor lives.
And now they would meet him and Clan Winterhearth of Kraka Drakk.
In stark comparison to the fidgeting messes that he and his cousins had become, Uncle Kraus appears to be the picture of perfect serenity, not even chewing on the end of his pipe.
"Enough," his uncle orders, still sitting, still staring at the room's entrance with single minded focus. "Act with some decorum boys. Whatever you feel now, bury it. Bury it with will or from the pride only the vindicated have. Whatever comes,
we were right. Remember that."
"Well said." a new voice compliments, making them all turn at once.
He is old.
From what Jorri can tell the man in front of the door is dressed rather plainly beneath the cloak he wears. Dull, aged reds and whites that have since gone grey despite obvious signs that effort has been made to keep them clean. The glint of Gromril shines through, passing in and out of sight as whatever tool it is that dangles from the strange Dawi's belt swings out from under his cloak every so often. The mysterious' Dwarf's face is downcast and hidden beneath a threadbare hood with only his silvery beard protruding from the shadow it casts, so pearlescent its almost glowing, to droop down to where it looks as if he has tucked it round his belt multiple times over.
Jorri can count the number of Dwarfs old enough to have beards that long on one hand and be left with fingers to spare.
"How did you get in here, stranger?" Uncle Kraus asks, getting off his chair and holding
Bludbaraz loosely in his hands.
"Through the door."
"Aye? Then may I have your name?" his uncle asks, stepping forward boldly.
"I think you know it already, lad." The odd Elder says, lifting his face to reveal an unnatural glow emanating from where one of his eyes ought to be underneath the shadows of his hood.
At the sight they all furrow their brows, but Uncle Kraus seems to go stock still.
"May I?" the stranger continues, nodding his head towards
Bludbaraz.
"A final test, to know if you're who you say you are," his Uncle says, voice barely above a whisper and thick with apprehension.
He pulls an amulet out from under his shirt and holds it in his hand. Jorri remembers seeing it multiple times; the vibrant silver disc that bears the emblem of the Clan, studded with and encircled by miniscule rubies and diamonds. An artefact, like
Bludbaraz, from the end of the Golden Age, also created by Karstah. Passed down from parent to eldest child just as the mythical Hammers of Storri were, and said to bless its wearers with good fortune.
"Blood." Uncle Kraus asks, "a drop."
The stranger nods, pulling a knife out from beneath his cloak and with a single motion cuts his finger so that a bead of crimson bubbles into existence. Without a word, he presses it down onto the amulet and holds it there.
Jorri is thankful that he can see the events that unfold afterward.
The amulet
shines, shines brighter than the brightest star, than the
sun, for a brief moment as Runes that have lain dormant for an epoch awaken with and burn with vibrant light. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it shifts once more, the light emanating from the amulet shimmers and coalesces into a single beam that is shot towards the floor.
To the amazement of everyone but Uncle Kraus and the mysterious Elder, the light makes a final transformation, forming into the image of an ancient matron. The image is positioned so that none of them save the stranger can see this image's face, only the cloak that adorns her back, the cloak which matches his Uncle's with startling accuracy.
He sees the image gesture, sees what appears to be Klinkarhun made of light appear in front of her, though much of it is also hidden by her body. What he does see is the stranger's hand reach out, stopping just shy of touching the image's face, before falling to his side as the amulet's creation fractures into motes of light.
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Thorgrim did not think he would come face to face with an Ancestor God.
Yet here he is, sitting across and staring face to face with a Dwarf that walked alongside
Grungni Himself. A man that lived before the creation of the Elgi Vortex, before the Golden Age, all the way from their rise and through their precipitous decline. And he looked every part the image Thorgrim held in his own mind about what a Dwarf from that bygone age would look like.
He wore glimmering silver armour that glowed with an otherworldly white aura underneath a vermillion red cloak, he wielded a hammer straight out of the oldest songs in one hand and an equally magnificent axe, an equal to the one wielded by his uncle, dangling from His belt to partner with it.
"My newly reunited kin tell me," the Gift Giver begins, voice bereft of any emotion, "you seek the mantle of the Gormrik."
"Aye," Thorgrim confirms, speaking with a calm he does not feel, "I do."
The Ancestor hums thoughtfully.
"I am in your debt," the ancient Dwarf begins, "for giving me some measure of peace."
He lifts his hammer and waves it in Thorgrim's direction, stopping him from replying.
"I already know what you would ask for in return. Even if you don't say it, I'm old enough to see the desire in your heart lad. I could craft you a weapon that could sunder armies, armour that could survive the end of the world, talismans and trinkets that do things beyond your imagination. Hell, even a Gronti-Duraz if you'd like. But I see it in your eyes, what your true wish is."
"Aye," Thorgrim says, swallowing quietly.
"It is no easy thing." the Old Dwarf rumbles, looking Thorgrim in the eye. "No easy task you would endure. Your words would alter the course of history, decide the fate of countless lives, innocent and guilty alike."
The Gift Giver's artificial eye bathes him in its light, strong enough to make him tear up, but not enough that it can overpower his will and make him blink.
"The last High King who had my complete and total support was Gotrek Starbreaker, and Snorri Whitebeard before him." the Gift Giver says, voice quiet but words louder than any avalanche.
Thorgrim does not falter in the face of such damning words.
"For your deeds, I cannot offer you my support Thorgrim of Clan Durazklad, but what I can offer you is a
chance. Prove to me that you would be a High King in the vein of Snorri Whitebeard, and I will give you my support.
Speak, and I will listen. And when you're done, I will tell you if you have my support or not."
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When Thorgrim returns to Karaz a Karak it with several Kings and notable northern Thanes in tow. They speak of his deeds, of the valorous acts done to aid them in their plight. Of the many foes slain and the battles won. He reunites a part of the empire once thought lost with their kin.
He returns with a descendant of the King of the Skies, and brings some comfort to the Dawi in the knowledge that they did not completely fail their most ancient ally during the Time of Woes.
He offers the assembled Kings treasures long since lost, now returned and, thanks to the Northern Runesmiths, reforged.
In a similar vein he returns to the southern Runesmiths not only lore long thought lost, but the greatest cause for celebration in millennia.
He brings news of an Ancestor God, of the Gift Giver,
alive, and willing to offer the opportunity to any Runesmith who would brave the trek north to prove themselves worthy of learning lore they have lost. A boon he earned from the Ancestor Himself for his deeds, a feat that likely earns him a great deal of goodwill among the Rhunki going by the fervent handshaking and ale he's received from Kragg the Grim of all people.
He speaks of his dream, of his promise to see every Grudge struck out from the Dammaz Kron.
When he puts the Dragon Crown upon his head, before the assembled nobility of the Karaz Ankor, he promises them an age of Vengeance.
By all accounts he has succeeded, beyond his wildest dreams even.
Yet-
-as he lays in his bed, drifting off to sleep his mind always returns to one moment.
The Ancestor, the
Gift Giver's small frown and quiet shake of the head.
Have you learned nothing lad? Or have you learned all the wrong things?
It does not keep Thorgrim up at night, but it does keep him company more often than he'd like.
━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━
Gormrik - "High King"/High King. (No actual canon reference I could find for this being the case tho)
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AN: Look, I have a plan that I will enjoy writing. Its a bit spicy, and may ruffle feathers? Idk. Just think about it okay? Snorri is a jaded old man who has his
own conclusions and opinions, and how Thorgrim at this time may appear to him interacts with that. Let me cook. Ples I beg. :^)
