The Pleasurebane Comes
The Citadel looms large, traditional gates of stone etched with gold and jewels guarding its entrance in the Underway from any intruders. That is not the only defense, but it is a righteous one, each rising five-dwarfs high, and whatever it lacks in the simplicity of its materials the breadth of knowledge the shaper, the maker, the creator knows no doubt allowing it to stand head and shoulders above another work, perhaps of better material but lower in knowledge.
A steel hammer with a Master Rune of Conduction will always surpass a gromril ax with a Rune of Cleaving, after all.
The gates grind open, and out steps the very man of the hour.
Vragni Silverbrand.
He nods to you, his gromril slightly jingling, and then turns his back, gesturing for you to follow. The carts of reagents you've acquired, gained over a long, long life trundle behind you.
--
The Halls are huge and ring with the sound of hammers on gromril, the roar of furnaces and the rhythm of chants. Statues of Ancestors and Runelords, legends one and all, line the halls, made in precise, meticulous detail, representing them as they were; or are, perhaps, in some cases. Tile mosaics line the ceilings themselves, while good, solid stone polished and decorated with the mundane carvings of Runes, more than a few of which you invented (and he refined, do not let yourself forget that, do not shame the boy in that way any more than you already did).
You pause as you make eye contact with Master Yorren, before shaking your head.
He'd be so disappointed.
What has Kazrik the Magnanimous, Kazrik the Wise, Kazrik Goodfather come to?
Kazrik Pleasurebane.
But the work continues.
And it will continue, until you can feel that greasy, slimy abomination's blood flowing over your hands. All else pales to that.
Aye, the Citadel is beautiful, but more than that, you can feel it.
A place fit for Runes. A place fit to create.
One of the apprentices from Vragni's cloud of Beardlings appears and gives a slight bow at the waist, directing you to the reason you turned to Vragni, rather than putting your fullness behind the Brilliant Hall or even moreso, Khazagar.
It certainly isn't because you give a damn for Vragni's rivalry with Klausson. You have your opinions, of course, but they pale in comparison to the work he's done: if he wants to pin his legacy on wise men holding Kazaghar until the end of time, bully for him. At worst he is a fool, not a would-be tyrant.
And the world has endured worse foolishness than anything Klausson can do.
But you have no interest in Kazaghar, either. Mild curiosity, at best. And that mild curiosity pales in comparison to what you know you can do, in this place crafted by worthy hands.
Khazagar is a repository of Runelore, but Runelore does not need deposited.
It needs used.
And there is nowhere better to do that, here and now, than here.
You are interrupted in your ruminations by the apprentice opening the door to a forge.
As expected, it is beautiful, if simple. A furnace, an anvil, and a vast shelf of reagents, prepared as you asked. You look to the apprentice, and nod. "Thank you, beardling. Bring my thanks to your master. But please...leave me." The beardling bows at the waist and parts, leaving you alone with an empty room, only waiting to create.
The anvil catches your eye. Shaped to look like Smednir, Thungni, and Grungni are holding it aloft, looking at you, judging you. The motto of the institution is embossed on the purified gromril in gold.
Your mind is your obstacle.
You hold Gomrund's body in your arms, and the world is fuzzy in your sight. It's shameful, that you weep when you weren't even harmed. No, not you.
Your son. The boy you swore to protect, the boy you swore to teach, the boy your swore to care for, bloody and bruised and broken at the edge of your hammer, only his ability--Greater than you were at that age, to be sure--having kept him alive even as you, you were puppeted by Slaanesh, your own mind deceived, lied to, and turned to turning your son into a pulp.
Your son, who looks up at you with delicate eyes. His beard, red and ragged with his blood, hanging limply from his jaw. Wheezing as he breathes, choking as he tries to force air out. "Not your fault, father."
"Isn't that touching? But shouldn't you be angrier, Gomrund? Why that--"
You wing his ax at the daemon and cleave its head from its shoulders, even as you rise up. All your amulets, your rings, your clasps, burn as your mind realizes what's been done to you, as you realize you have been lied to, and turned into a weapon to harm your own son.
The next minutes are a blur. Things only really clear up when the Valayans manage to get in, and find him, bleeding.
Bleeding...but alive. Ancestors be praised, alive.
Your shame is not that great.
A part of you wishes it had been after the Slayers arose, so you did not need to live with the shame. The guilt. That you could merely have shaved your head and marched to a valiant Doom.
The other part only just continues to pour itself into the oath you could make, did make, and have followed through on--
The furnace steams, the great bowl of fire held aloft by Grimnir, Valaya and Gazul letting you know that it is finished and ready to be pulled free. Plunging the tongs in, you pull out the ingot and begin to pound it immediately, no sense in wasting time was there? An ax, always a need for an ax.
--to spite Slaanesh until you can see the abomination's heart, or until you finally join Harroka in the Underearth. Assuming your wife will let you, anyway.
Hm, Smiting, Blazes, Gazul's Flames? Ancestors know, you've got plenty of Reagents to really make it hurt.
