The Real Adventures of Norgrim Grimsson, Exasperated Recluse (Warhammer Fantasy SI)

[soulcake]

━<><><>< 2204 I.C. ><><><>━​

Being a Dwarf sucks.

Controversial opinion? Maybe.

Why have I come to that conclusion? It's simple really. Being forty-five years old and still only being considered barely an adult sucked. Being able to subconsciously recreate the exact emotional response I felt on a particular day decades after the fact when I am so easily susceptible to embarrassment in both of my lives? Makes it easy to understand why some of my people go stark raving mad, shave their heads and try to find a way to die that's acceptable in the eyes of society. The stifling and oftentimes rigid social hierarchy that came with living in the relative safety of a Karak? By my Ancestors, because you try not assimilating after being born into and living for four plus decades in and among a new culture, it's a pain in my arse. Having my life and standing greatly determined by the actions of people I never personally knew, whose legacy is a near unchangeable railroad upon my own future, denying or at the very least stifling any personal agency I had unless I managed to outstubborn people famous for their stubbornness?

Sucks. It really, really really sucks.

Are there good parts? Sure, I guess. I like my cousins, I like some of my more wacky Elders, and my siblings aren't terrible to me. A rare perk of living in a place that values blood ties so highly by almost everyone involved instead of the semi hypocritical version I experienced in my first life I suppose. I'm not sure how badly I'd have fared if I didn't grow up in a collectivist, group oriented culture in my last life but it made things, if not bearable, then familiar enough to cope. Still didn't solve the issue that I didn't really find my father nor my mother's professions, warrior and warrior-turned-housewife, all that appealing though. To me, if ever I got close enough to a goblin or Orc that I was in fist swinging range, that meant things had gone very, very, wrong.

You'd think I became an Engineer with that mindset, but alas, my lacking skills in math beyond a high school level and abysmal understanding of applied physics once again screwed me over.

Nope. To the dismay of kith and kin, I, like my uncle, was a Ranger.

Hold on a moment, you think, doesn't that fly in the face of the whole "minimize instances of Gobbo in the face," criteria I just mentioned? Is being a Ranger not a thankless, socially stigmatized and dangerous job where I am constantly outside the safe confines of the Karak and under a treacherous open sky?

Yes, but you misunderstand something oh fictitious being I speak to from across the void of reality.

Mining is dusty and caves without gold filigree, frowning Dwarf statues and the familiar scent of beard oil are terror filled abysses from which any manner of monster can come crawling out to eat you, torture you, kill you and/or any combination of torture, kill or eat you can befall your person. Smithing didn't remove the possibility of being drafted as a warrior, it just meant I would spend most of my life in uncomfortably hot rooms and getting burned because my clumsy ass misjudged the temperature of a freshly forged tool or something. Like I said, I'm not smart or attentive enough to be an Engineer and I definitely don't have the blood prerequisite to be a Runesmith, just a whole lot of alcohol and race-wide depression, so you gotta make do. So because I totally believe its the smartest option available to me and not because I've rationalized my depression in my head, I chose to be a Ranger.

Rangers, after all, are the closest you'll get to a reasonable Dwarf.

How so? Because Rangers are quirky by Dwarf standards, and a quirky Dwarf is a Dwarf that doesn't care about Grudges, Honour and Glory as tightly, or in the same way as regular Dwarfs do. They are the ones who do not balk at trapping, poisoning, and generally killing your enemies in what is considered ignoble and underhanded ways that, if things don't go belly up, keep them unnoticed and out of harm's way most of the time. Course there are downsides; living out in the open, hostile environment of the Worlds Edge Mountains with danger around every corner and proximity to Gobbos and all that, but like I said, I'm not smart or well connected enough to do the safe options I preferred.

That's what I tell myself at least.

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I take a seat near the corner of the hall, nursing a mug of alcohol between my hands and generally being an antisocial gloomy Gus in a room full of uncharacteristically quiet Dwarfs of Clan Growlsh.

Normally I do my best to keep clear of my family.

Which makes me being here, in a Clan Hall full to bursting with Dwarfs attentively listening to our Patriarch, Thane Grimbrew, and the assembled Elder Council step up and begin speaking, all the more confusing.

Now don't get it twisted, my distance isn't because I hate them, well mostly, but because it saves me and them a lot of hassle.

I haven't read an actual Xianxia or Wuxia novel, but I imagine that the social etiquette is comparable. Now we aren't going around using titles and flowery language, I don't want you to think that Dwarfs aren't as straightforward and blunt as depicted. However there is an unspoken code of conduct everywhere one goes in a Karak. The people you associate with reflect back on you, the social strata between two parties determines the kind of way you can be blunt and direct with them, deference and saving face are paramount for the lesser and higher respectively. Dwarf's aren't as kill happy, I think, but if you aren't smart then a simple insult can spiral into something much uglier. Now I'm not going around running my mouth and getting up to mischief, but being a Ranger generally makes strangers stare distrustfully at anyone who associates with me that isn't also a Ranger, a group that coincidentally is predominantly composed of my family. Those looks only grow more confused when they notice the emblem of Clan Growlsh on my cloak as their heads try to conceive of the idea of a son of the reputable, bold and legendary Clan Growlsh, who many say are the Dwarfiest Dwarfs to ever walk the Karaz Ankor (mostly Clan Growlsh), being a Ranger.

Now, my family wouldn't throw me to the curb or disown me because of that, no really, I do mean that! They will and have gone to bat for me multiple times because in a refreshing turn of events, the usually toxic and one-sided familial loyalty I derided in my previous life actually went both ways when it came to Dwarfs, or at least to Clan Growlsh.

So as recompense, and let me tell you, feeling like you owe someone is a very real and visceral thing as a Dwarf, cultural imprinting notwithstanding, so I chose to do my best to not create situations that may mean kinsmen had to put their money where their mouths were and start throwing punches when people start saying their weird cousin is a disreputable sort. So I was a bit of a black sheep by choice and because I still did get a few confused grumbles and occasional offers for warrior training from my relatives, but that suited me fine. Am I traumatized, coping, biologically inclined and further culturally reinforced towards such behaviour, or maybe my standards for a functional family unit are simply that low?

Right, back to the point, why my reclusive behind was here and not out in the mountains or some quiet corner like usual.

Well, the simple fact is that the Clan Elders lit the proverbial bonfires and called everyone, and I do mean everyone, to a meeting over a very pressing and important topic about the Clan's future.

Nobility, with the capital letter and kitchen sink too.

For the unaware, Dwarf Clans are part of an paradoxically direct but intricate and convoluted mess of hierarchies as the individuals who make them up, and like that hierarchy; their place is determined by a mix of age, reputation, honour, wealth and merit. The very bottom were the outcasts, the Clans that had shamed themselves and were banished. Above them are the Wanderer Clans, refugees and migrants from overrun Holds who could either be eeking out a living outside or had found a new Hold to take them in, and then you have the mass of settled Clans who have been in their Hold from the very beginning or were founded there. There's a lot of wiggle room and jockeying going on in that one. But the truth is that no matter your achievements there is one true glass ceiling in this hierarchy, and that's nobility.

A lot like Humans really, except with more meticulous record keeping.

Point was, unless you could directly trace lineage from one of the Ancestor Gods your Clan wasn't Noble, and the nobles didn't tend to marry down unless the other party was either incredibly rich, incredibly valorous and/or incredibly skilled.

How did that matter now? Well according to our Clan Elders we were being considered for a potential marital contract with the Noble Clans of Karaz-a-Karak through a marriage with one of High King Alrik's distant nieces. However, we weren't the only Clan in contention for such a "reward," and while High King Alrik held us in high esteem, there were yet some naysayers among his Thanes, commonly citing our reputation for drunkenness in battle, celebration, mourning, diplomacy... and life in general really. High King Alrik, they told us, found a way to allay their concerns and prove our worthiness to them; we were to be given the grand and honourable duty of escorting his youngest daughter, Alrika Kemmasdottir, from her task as a diplomatic envoy to Zhufbar back home to Everpeak to celebrate the High King's 500th birthday.

The announcement was met with near total universal cheering, and drinking of course, by almost everyone assembled.

For those in the know, you may have caught on and guessed that I was one of, if not the only, Dwarf not getting shitfaced in celebration.

And this time it's not because I'm a sourpuss as my younger relatives so love to whisper behind my back.

Because I knew how this story went. How in the canonical timeline Clan Growlsh, for whatever reason, fails this task, and because of that failure we are banished and rendered persona non-grata by the rest of Imperial Dwarf society; going from the cusp of entering nobility to disreputable pariahs whose story becomes a moral lesson about the dangers of excessive drinking, in a society that greatly values alcohol and has a literal (Ancestor) Goddess dedicated to brewing.

You know I always enjoyed when writers post these little interesting narrative snippets, no more than two or three sentences long, of some event as part of their world building. A little hint, a tease about a wider world full of stories never explored and an impetus and resource for entrepreneuring GMs or hobbyists to develop their own tales and headcanons.

Now that I'm one of the people being referenced in that snippet, completely unaware of the how but agonizingly prescient about the consequences of the what, I'm not feeling so hot about it.

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"Exciting news eh cousin?" Gemlin, my favourite cousin, asks as he sits down next to me.

"Right, very exciting," I reply, my mind still reeling over the announcement and trying to sort through my feelings.

"To think, Nobility! Wonder who among our rowdy lot the Kvinn will choose to wed eh?"

"You know how things go, probably a well-to-do warrior, long flowing beard with the muscles of an auroch," I answer with a light casualness I don't really feel.

"Aye, with a face full of wrinkles and breath that smells of pipe smoke and ale," Gemlin agrees with a smirk.

Valaya bless Gemlin.

"Wonder if I can be part of the guard detail," I wonder aloud, causing my cousin to stare at me in open, and definitely faux, wonderment.

"Fraternizing with your family? Standing in spitting distance of Nobility? Duties beyond patrolling the mountains like a crazed lunatic? Being near cousin Okri for an extended period of time? Tell me who are you and what's befallen my cousin Norgrim?"

I glare at him.

I wasn't that bad.

Okay, I mostly wasn't that bad! The Okri part was true but that's because Okri was a wazzok of the highest ord-and that's not the point.

"This is important Gemlin, got a feeling about it. I wanna do my part, even if it means enduring the fraternizing, the Nobility…and Okri too" I say, emphasizing that last part in particular.

"Job's got you in a real tizzy then eh? Hrmm, well you figure you could ask your father? No doubt that Thane Grimbrew will assign him, and they're thick as thieves to boot, so if he asks you're a shoe-in."

I consider his advice, grimacing at the realization that I'd be poking my father for help.

I didn't hate him, my Dwarf father that is, Grim Thugorsson was an alright Dwarf all told, but I didn't want to pester him over this. After spending so many decades in almost open defiance of his wishes, I still knew he'd help me if I asked and that was a nice hit of familial guilt I wasn't in the mood for.

"That's a last resort," I finally decide, "Thane Grimbrew may not want a Ranger near the princess, nor do I want to either mind you, but I don't think he'd say no to having another pair of eyes acting as a scout for the convoy. Master Malakai'll tear my ear off for going over him like this, but Its nothing I can't handle."

"If you say so," Gemlin concedes, now looking at me with honest worry in his eyes.

This was fine, everything would be fine, Thane Grimbrew would see reason and I wouldn't have to go to my old man for help.

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Getting Thane Grimbrew to agree to my request to join the scouts was surprisingly easy to achieve.

Sadly not because he found my idea sound, which he did it just wasn't why he agreed, or my skills particularly impressive, but because he saw an opportunity to help my father out by giving "Grim's boy," the opportunity to put some honour onto his name and connect with the Clan like the Old Man's been hoping I would start doing for a few decades now.

Apparently I am a favourite topic of discussion (read grumbling) between the two of them when they kick back a few dozen pints at the end of every month together with a few other friends of theirs.

I chose to ignore the implications behind that for now and put my focus on preparing for the trip.

As one of the forward scouts tasked with scoping out the passes the Clan would be taking to get to Zhufbar and back, my part began early and ended later than the rest of the Clan. Weeks, as the human's call them because Dwarfs don't do that particular segment of time apparently, before the expedition, several other Rangers and I left the safety of Karaz-a-Karak early in the morning with as little gear on us as was practical.

If you're interested to know what I carried there isn't much to tell. While Clan Growlsh is wealthy, I am less so. Not poor mind you, but quality gear still costs a lot and aside from the first set of tools we receive upon reaching thirty a Dwarf is expected to pay their way for pretty much everything else. Of course parents contributed to their children's starting funds, and it's expected that those kinsmen able to chip in if they're asked, but like I said, pride and guilt mean it's usually a last resort. Most of the money my parents gave me upon reaching thirty was funneled into, what I hoped, were worthwhile investments and what remained was spent on supplementing the free set of equipment I got upon reaching my majority in the form of extra ropes, better bags, and other such boring supplies. So in summary, nice gear and well stocked, for a forty-five year old Dwarf which was like a starving college student minus the starving part, and little else.

Anyway cue several more weeks of meticulously pathing trails, scouting terrain and prepping safe drops and campsites for the rest of our less sneaky kin when they eventually arrived. Another one of the tasks we were given was in the dispatching of sneaky and perfidious Gobbos, beasties and other nonsense skulking about the mountains, but given my youth the elder Rangers saw it fit for me to focus on the less dangerous parts rather than joining them in actively hunting down potential threats.

That suited me just fine and I did my work without an ounce of complaint, something I've been told is a fine trait for a beardling to have by a few drunken uncles, but I'm pretty sure they just wanted to participate in the ancient, culture and species spanning tradition of foisting off the boring and tedious parts of the job onto the new guy.

To my great surprise, the journey to Zhufbar passed by without incident. It was a hard but pleasant few weeks of tedium in the day and evenings spent sitting by the campfire listening to my Elders boast about all manner of things: from the number of Gobbos and/or other enemies they fought, the number of drinks they could chug, the difficulty of life when they were young and the softness of us youths.

You know, typical Dwarf stuff.

We didn't stay in Zhufbar for long, merely coming in and restocking our supplies, getting a few souvenirs, then disappearing back into the wilderness to prepare for the return leg, well ahead of the boisterous column of Dawi coming up behind us. Didn't even get to actually see the Princess either!

Minor but possibly relevant aside, Astrology here is real and its a bitch. How do I know? I was born under what the humans call Vobist the Faint, or as we Dwarf's call it, Zaki-a-Dum, the Madman in the Dark. Why's that relevant? Well aside from being used as an explanation for my supposedly erratic and uncertain behaviour according to my Elders, I also blame it for all the ill luck I've had in life. From the Clan I was born to, the misshap of '73, why Im banned from two Engineers Workshops, the current trajectory of my life, and why I organize my thoughts as if I'm speaking to another person. Sounds loopy, idiotic, and downright illogical? Well consider this; magic is real, daemons exist and there are both flying and non-flying varieties of bird lion in this world. The stars foretelling my future and aspects of my character and life are not high on the unbelievable list these days.

So I'm not at all surprised when the other shoe drops and a Signal Flare is shot high into the sky from the south, the green coloration meaning one thing and one thing only.

Greenskins.

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AN: Hey its me. The Dwarf guy, posting a Dwarf story. Its a Self-Insert, and may be dumb, but I enjoy writing updates for it it every so often. Foolish? Maybe. This was originally posted on my plotbunnies thread, but it grew to the point that I figured I may as well make a thread. If you're interested the biggest and most noticeable change between the OG post and this is the year this is set in. There are other changes, a few clarifications and revisions but nothing more significant than that earlier part. Consider joining my Patreon and Discord. Hope you enjoy, and please C&C :^)

 

[soulcake]

━<><><>< 2204 I.C. ><><><>━​

Here's the thing about Orcs.

Like being a Dwarf, they suck.

Hurr durr the funny English football hooligans, you may think, but you don't have to face the reality that behind the funny voice, crude logic and dumb jokes is at minimum, six feet and several hundred pounds of angry fella with a desire to kill you and then desecrate your body to steal stuff off your corpse or have a laugh. Now on moral grounds both are pretty heinous, but I used to think that the latter part really only upsets the people who live to tell the tale. Then I considered that my soul was a real thing that could get eaten, destroyed and/or hopefully sent to the Halls of the Ancestors, but with the caveat being that my preferred afterlife required a priest of Gazul enact the ancient rites of his order to safely get me there and that dying to Orcs made that difficult.

Well the point is I am now upset by both notions. Dying sucks, dying again would therefore suck twice as much even without worrying about my immortal soul ending up in the wrong damn place!

So the moment I see that brilliant green glow in the sky, my legs are booking it towards the nearest elder for a variety of reasons. First, it's simple ingrained instinct to go running for any Dwarf with grey in his beard when shit hits the fan, second, because it was what a young Ranger is expected to do when he sees the big expensive green Signal Flare being used rather than a whistle or the traditional horn call, and thirdly, because I'd rather risk fighting Greenskins in a group with my fellow Dwarfs than alone on the slopes of the World's Edge fucking Mountains.

The cost to get an Engineer to make a Signal Flare, not that Dwarfs call it that but I stuck to the old life term in my head, in both materials and time made their use prohibitive so the resulting flare was even more expensive. Still well worth the cost though, the first and most obvious benefit is that they can be seen by other people from pretty far away and are pretty hard to miss or get interrupted compared to the sound of a horn. The second thing was that light from a flare obviously travels faster than sound, and even if that's a savings only measured in seconds that could make all the difference in plenty of situations. And lastly, when you were operating up this high up a mountain we also had to worry about triggering avalanches and no one wants to die buried under tons of snow. So yeah, flare expensive but useful, not that anyone with a working brain really need to lay that out so meticulously but I'm panicking and this is how I cope, so they get handed out to the elder Rangers and are used only for when the message is vitally important enough that others learn about it as quickly as possible.

And if you couldn't guess, in this world there's really only a few real reasons for that and they all begin with "Enemy" and end with "Army."

Heck, we even gave each unique variant of terrible its own special colour.

Red for Raki, Green for Grobi, and InDigo for Dumi. Get it? They made it a mnemonic for us beardlings!

Valaya preserve me.

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I jogged for another half minute before I heard a bird call, Everpeak Brush Sage if you wanted to know, somewhere distantly to my right. It was a signal used by Rangers and not an actual Brush Sage based on the altered trill at the end, which made me adjust my course and turn towards it as I ran.

Grimly, I realize this is probably the event that gets my Clan shamed and rendered outcasts. The Caravan is attacked, the Princess is slain or captured then slain by the Greenskins and the survivors are rendered outcasts, many likely becoming Slayers while others are forced to live on proverbial scraps. Flares are saved for big armies recall, and going by the direction it came from, it likely meant the ones who fired it were the Rangers closest to the main column. And in this territory, between Grom Peak and Gunbad? Only one Greenskin tribe capable of getting a Longbeard to straighten up and quit grumbling really came to mind.

The Bloody Spearz.

They were one of the larger groups of Night Goblins, the worst sort of Goblin, that operate in the area. Infamous among us Dwarfs because they operated on both sides of the Silver Road, preying on the weakened caravans that got through the White Face Orcs, but the truth was that their "territory" expanded far beyond that. They lurked at the edges of Karaz-a-Karak and her tributary settlements, from their fortress at Gunbad, once Karak Brynduraz, all the way south to Mad Dog Pass. A feat they managed through a mix of sheer numbers, dominating/vassalizing smaller tribes, and by using the shattered ruins of the Underway plus whatever else they built in the intervening millennia to get around. As a warrior Clan, Clan Growlsh fought them regularly enough that our elders made sure we were taught way more about them than the other tribes.

So yeah. This was probably it huh? I'm calmer than I thought I would be, probably the shock? I'd probably have to move to the Empire. Get my family on side, find a career we could do. That would be an uphill battle, but the low morale after exile may very well be enough to at least convince my parents and brothers.

Having absentmindedly followed the sound all the way to a line of bushes at the edge of a clearing, I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost forgot basic Ranger training. I was only a few footsteps shy of breaking through the brush when I realized I was liable to get myself shot at if I didn't reply, and I quickly let out the appropriate whistle to signal that I was a friend. And after a moment of waiting I breathe a sigh of relief when I get the confirming call back, and I walk through the bushes to see a party of seven other Dwarfs who were either looking at me in exasperation or already resuming their jog towards the flare.

Logan Bramblebeard, a distant granduncle and the eldest among every Dwarf present, huffs as he unloads a quarrel from his crossbow.

"Worst Mountain Warbler call I've heard in five decades, what has Malakai been teaching you lad? What to do when you get shot at by your allies?" he grumbles.

"Master Malakai taught me all he could, not his fault my head's not big enough to remember it all," I answered back, earning a snort from my elder.

"Hmph. Well come along now beardling, there are Grobi to hew and Grudges to be struck."

Now relatively safe amongst my peers I silently fall in line behind Bramblebeard and resign myself to a good deal more walking, quietly praying and dreading what we'll reach when we get there.

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Thing about jogging for minutes on end in silence, if you haven't realized, is that it gives you time to think.

And I'm an imaginative fella. Not the useful kind of imaginative, where I can think of a novel ways to solve my problems, but the kind that lets you imagine either the horrible and various ways you'll die both right now and in the nebulous future such as either at the hands of the Bloody Spearz, or if Im unlucky enough to live for multiple centuries then maybe during the absolute fucking madness that is Asavar Kul and Great War. The other thing I end up imagining isn't that much better either; mostly being the carnage I'll have to face when we reach the Clan's last position before the flare was fired.

It's something that's a blessing and a curse. A curse because I have now spent minutes thinking about the possible fates of my closest family members in excruciating detail, and a blessing, I think, because I definitely managed to pass the panic and fear stage and run headfirst straight into the calm zen of shock.

This is probably why drinking became a cultural touchstone for us.

Similar thoughts swirl around in my head even as the number of goblin tracks increases and the dull roar of an ongoing battle increases with each step.

Thankfully my morbid musing is interrupted by Bramblebeard raising a wrinkled fist in the air signalling for us all to stop.

I could make out a few pieces of the chaotic symphony ahead of us now; the ringing of steel, the delighted laughter of Greenskins clashing with the enraged roar of Dwarfen throats thick in the air. I idly note that the cacophony was perfect cover for a band of rangers to sneakily make our way over to a flanking position and fill gobbos with quarrels.

When we finally get our first glimpse of the battle itself, I quietly grimace at what we find.

The fighting proper was about what I expected to see, with the Growlsh warriors having formed a proper shieldwall around the Princess's litter, themselves surrounded on all sides by Night Goblins, squigs and all manner of gribblies. The ground around them was littered so heavily with dead Goblins, Trolls and Squigs that you couldn't see the dirt and bloodstained snow beneath, occasionally the carpet of dead greenskins was broken up by the body of a Clan member. It told that story of a prolonged fight, like all fights that involved Dwarfs tended to be really. One where my family were making the Bloody Spearz pay in blood by the gallon for every centimeter of ground, but it was a cost the enemy could pay easily and we could not. I spy the horns of Thane Grimbeard's helm and the battle standard of our Clan waving defiantly right in the thick of things.

Not my first fight, but with this many combatants? Definitely.

I take a breath, then grimace harder as the scent of blood and offal slams into my nose.

A mistake, should've breathed through my mouth.

Elder Bramblebeard, still keeping quiet, lifts and aims his crossbow with the rest of us following suit.

Without a word, the Longbeard fires his weapon into the back of an unlucky Night Goblin's head, the nasty bugger falling over dead when the bolt strikes true. Taking the cue from our Elder, the rest of us quickly follow suit, beginning to fire our weapons at the backs of the horde. Several more fall before they even realize we've been shooting them, but it takes only one alerted Night Goblin surviving long enough to let out a squawk of surprise before a portion of the group, maybe two dozen Night Goblins and a third of that number in Squigs, break off from attacking our fellow Clansmen to turn and charge at us.

"Closest first beardlings!" Bramblebeard shouts, "steel your nerves!"

A half dozen goblins and two Sguigs fall as they charge, several more from the main mob of greenskins begin turning to see what the ruckus is about and to join the ones coming for us.

Bramblebeard shouts something else, but I find myself falling into the rhythm of loading a bolt, aiming and then firing. Not really registering anything beyond the order, "keep firing."

More Greenskins die, tripping over the bodies of their dead as they double back to try and reach us.

I keep shooting.

My bolt lands squarely between the eyes on an oncoming Greenskin, brainmatter sprays out behind him like a halo as he falls face first to the ground, adding onto the mat of bodies.

I keep shooting.

Bolt flies, Goblin falls, more bodies on the ground.

I keep shooting.

Just keep shooting.

I keep shooting. I keep shooting. I keepshooting.Ikeepshooting.IkeepshootingIkeepshootingIkeepshootingIkeepshooti—

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Alright.

Turns out ramming headlong into a shock induced zen state doesn't actually preclude experiencing panic and fear.

Good news is that apparently it made me a better shot, so much so that Elder Bramblebeard decided to reward my fine marksmanship with a ten minute breather with a few other stand out exemplars among us while the rest of the Clan went about the grim work of recovering our dead and piling up Grobi for the pyre. Which is how I find myself sitting on a log that I reappropriated from the pyre with my quiver in one hand and my bolts over my lap as I decompress and agonize over what's just happened.

The first thought in my head is wondering if my Clan's canonical fate had been averted, or if the event that damns us is still to come. Realizing I wouldn't know until we either get back to Karaz-a-Karak or die screaming, I shove the doubt deep inside the corners of my mind with an ease borne from being both a Dwarf in this life and my previous life's worth of experience burying my traumas like every other kid from an immigrant family. So in the spirit of that poor coping mechanism I also move on from thinking about how many of my relatives have died, and I instead focus on trying to reassert the veneer of calm before my reprieve ends.

A mug is shoved my way and I absentmindedly grab the handle and begin drinking.

"Fine showing there cousin!" Gemlin congratulates, patting me on the shoulder, "Okri tells me you were shooting Grobi down like some Engineer's contraption there!"

I hum in acknowledgement, busy chugging down the beer in great heaving gulps.

"Thank you Gemlin," I tell him sincerely, "you know who we lost?"

The upturn of my cousin's mouth twists downward for a moment before settling on something approaching satisfaction.

"Twelve of us for the lot of them, and the wretches injured maybe twice that number. Most of the latter isn't anything a little ale and fresh air can't fix, but maybe four more are more touch and go."

I grimace.

"Is the princess?"

"Safe and sound," Gemlin tells me, "Clan Growlsh shall hold to our oaths."

"Aye," I rasp out despite having just drunk maybe a litre and a half of alcohol, "we do."

With a grunt, I sit up from my spot on the ground and dust myself off with my free hand and head off to find somewhere to put this mug before rejoining my fellow Rangers.

"Son," a familiar voice hollers.

I freeze up, and turn to stare at the approaching form of my father, Grim Thugorsson blankly before offering a respectful nod at him.

"Dad."

"Plenty of dead gobbos by your hand according to Logan, acceptable shots for someone your age too," he says frankly, looking at me critically, "at least you're committing to this Ranger business."

"Strive for excellence," I reply, falling back on the tried and true tactic of ignoring the implications, "What you taught me, after all."

Can't quite tell what to make of the face he makes. Somewhere between pride and indigestion from what I can tell.

"Good to know one of my lessons stuck," he mutters before patting me on the shoulder hard enough that I had to brace my knees from buckling, "no injuries."

"No sir," I answered with a shake of my head, "Right as rain."

"Good, " he says, patting my shoulder again, "Good. Your ma will be happy to hear that."

I nod unsurely, "That she will."

My father looks at me for a moment, pausing, before he sighs and pats me on the shoulder a third time, "Just be careful Norgrim? And remember what I said."

"I know," I reply, hoping to pre-empt this particular song and dance, "I know."

"Your ma wants you over for dinner after we get home."

"I'll be there," I promise.

He nods at me once before walking off in the direction of the crowd forming around Thane Grimbrew and the princess, both busy congratulating my family for holding off the Bloody Spearz so thoroughly.

I wait until he's out earshot before I let out a sigh and rub the shoulder he'd been inadvertently tenderizing. That hadn't been one of the worst exchanges we've had, probably buoyed along by my actions today salving the disappointment of a son choosing to be a Ranger in my father's eyes I reckoned. Being the black sheep in a family that prided themselves on being cast from the proverbial master sheep mould would always mean I'd be looked at with some measure of chagrin. The only son out of four to not become a warrior, the only son out of four not to adhere to my father's wishes with as much gusto and enjoyment as his brothers, the only son of Grim Thugorsson to carry an axe and shield rather than a hammer and shield or prefer a pale ale to a cold lager, and to get it down in three gulps rather than two. Minor things that stood out all the more as I diverged further and further from what was expected.

I was used to that too really.

"Back to work me," I mutter, deciding to forgo finding the mug storage and just stuff the thing in my bag until a better opportunity presents itself.

I begin walking towards the other Rangers, hoping that hauling bodies to the pyre will let me put that exchange and everything it brought up behind me.

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It's the middle of the night when it happens.

Clan Growlsh were celebrating the great victory against the Bloody Spearz in our traditional way, with copious amounts of drinking. For my part I'm still stone-cold sober, one of the "unlucky" Dawi tasked with watch duty, something I purposefully chose to take up instead of speaking with my family mind you, and keep an eye out while everyone else drank and made merry. We hear a terrible roar slam into us, echoing off the mountain walls for what feels like an eternity..

Cupping my hands over my ears, I turn in the direction that sound originally came from and vaguely spot a dark shape fly away from one of the peaks of the valley lining us, its silhouette blocking out the stars as it passes overhead.

I feel myself pale as I see through the darkness and notice the telltale signs of moving snow running down the sides of the mountain. I don't spare time for thought as I begin running towards the biggest fucking tree I can find. I almost stumble when the rumbling grows loud enough to make the earth shake, no doubt making the nearby peaks trigger avalanches of their own.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a disturbing lack of movement coming from the camp, and though I'm just a meter away from the tree I was aiming for, I stop short and stand there like an idiot. After a moment to pause, and with a great deal of regret mind you, I make a dead sprint for the camp.

Something is wrong.

"Of course we'd get fucking exiled over losing to a fucking avalanche," I mutter under my breathe.

The camp is dead fucking silent, Dawi lay safely sound asleep where they lay, unaware of the rumbling earth.

I rush past them all, screaming about an avalanche and hoping they rouse themselves, still running to my destination despite every inch of me screaming to help my family, and stumble through the flap of the main tent to see the sleeping form of her Highness Princess Alrika Kemmasdottir, dozing away peacefully with her arms under her head to the right of Thane Grimbrew. The rest of Clan Growlsh present within all equally asleep.

"What in Valaya's fucking braids is going on," I mutter, staring around in shock.

"Wake up!" I scream, snapping myself out of it, "There's a Grungni damned Avalanche coming you Wazzoks!"

The rumbling gets louder.

I spot Logan Bramblebeard, a man who woke up from the sound of me breathing differently during a joint training exercise with my teacher, and find him dead to the world, snoring away peacefully.

"Oh Valaya," I groan, starting and stopping by every Clansman to try and fruitlessly shake them awake even as the rumbling becomes so bad that I'm having trouble staying upright without leaning on something.

"Damn it, damn it, damnit," I mutter, feeling tears well up in the corner of my eyes even as I'm taking a length of rope off my belt and cursing myself for leaving most of my supplies in my tent. I secure the princess around the main tentpole before doing the same to myself, holding her between me and the pole.

The last thing I see before my tear stained vision is consumed by the white of the avalanche, are the sleeping forms of my friends and family.

I'm sorry.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

AN: Next chapter. Changes aren't as significant. Mostly clean up and changing some lines, but largely the same. Hope you enjoy, and C&C. :^)

 

[soulcake]

━<><><>< 2204 I.C. ><><><>━​

Everything hurts, everything is cold, and everything feels squished together.

I wake up with a groan and blink at the head of golden blonde hair in my face and the feeling of breathing hitting me.

Right.

Fuck.

I look around and see nothing but snow around the princess and I, entombing us in a coffin of whiteness.

I try to move my arm and let out a sigh of relief to see that I do actually have some wiggle room and wasn't pinned in place. Knowing that if I don't get out of here I'm fated to die a slow and cold death I begin to twist my arm to extricate itself from its current position. Once that was done, I began reaching for my belt and the axe that I had holstered there all while quietly praying that the Avalanche hadn't shaken it loose.

I don't need to tell you that it would be an incredibly shit way to go; stuck here as her and I slowly suffocate after basically damning everyone I loved to die for her sake.

By the grace of my many times great-grandparents, when I reach down to grab at it I feel the handle of my axe, still there despite having been thrown around by an metric fuck ton of snow.

It takes another two minutes but I manage to wiggle something approaching a proper grip and then pull my weapon free with a jerking motion. Afterwards I awkwardly begin hacking away with a level of desperation only possible with imminent death hanging over your head, a feeling mind you, that I hate knowing with any degree of familiarity.

Two near death experiences within sixteen hours of each other was two times too many!

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Snow sucks.

But I don't have the time or inclination to talk about it.

I looked over at my companion, bundled in as many furs as I could haul out from the wreckage of the camp, and sigh. It had been a lot of work to dig with her impeding my movement, and dragging her out of her impromptu tomb wasn't much easier, but I had managed it somehow. Thankfully I didn't find any serious injuries when I did a pat down afterwards, I didn't have the supplies or knowledge to confidently treat anything worse than a small cut or bruise after all. From what anyone who didn't know any better could see she was simply asleep in a bundle of furs, her cheeks and the tip of her nose slowly returning to a healthy flush from the pale white they had originally been when I woke up.

I sigh and look out the shelter's entrance, watching the flurries of snow slowly bury whatever still stuck out of the snow in the crash site.

The avalanche dragged us a fair way from the site of the camp, slamming up against the opposite side of the valley with the force of an angry god. It was a minor miracle that the worst either of us suffered after being thrown around like that were some nasty bruises and soreness, and an even bigger miracle that I had managed to dig the two of us out of the snow and set up something approaching a shelter before we died of exposure.

My work wouldn't win any awards, and probably shamed my Ancestors, but it sufficed.

I decided to just use the hole I had crawled out of with the Princess; I had widened the entire space until I could walk and keep a fire inside comfortably. Think of a shoddy mix of snow cave, tent and igloo, expanding the area by digging out blocks of hard, frozen snow that I had carved out with my axe then used to anchor an angled tarp overhead. Inside, me and Princess Alrika were huddled around a fire I had made from the broken shards of the main tent pole I had lashed us to, and on either side were two pieces of a broken feasting table I had wedged into the walls of the shelter for us to sleep and sit on while staying off the snow and cold air and ground.

I realized that I would probably have to carry her, or fashion a sled once we got moving.

Staying put would be a death sentence for the both of us; no food that wasn't buried under tons of snow, and any game likely spooked off by the literal fucking avalanche, the only other survivor was afflicted by what I could only hope was just a long lasting sleep tonic in her drink and nothing more insidious, and, I must emphasize, it was the World's Edge Mountains. The region where half the predators were smart enough to pick over avalanche sites for easy meals because they had gotten used to Rangers weaponizing them against invading armies.

So we, read I, had to get moving, hopefully find a friendly ranger patrol to get us back to Karaz-a-Karak, all while avoiding whatever was out there that may want to turn us into a snack all while doing my best to protect an unconscious royal.

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I let out a huff as the logs fell off my shoulders and onto the floor of the shelter, stretching for a minute or two before kneeling and beginning to process them into more manageable pieces.

Much as I want to just get moving, the truth is that neither me or the princess will last long without a plan or any supplies; we needed food, a way for me to carry the still unconscious Royal around, and some form of shelter.

While the avalanche site was a wash in terms of food, because I wasn't going to go around eating anything from here for what I figure were perfectly understandable reasons, I thankfully knew of a Ranger cache a few days' march from here we could make use of to tide us over. It would be hard going for it, and we may end up chewing bark and drinking snow but it would be doable. But there was something my immediate surroundings were flush with, and that was a bunch of salvage I could use to put together a sled to carry my unconscious companion with. Trouble was that most of it was buried under too much snow to get out in a timely fashion, but not all of it.

So that meant scouring my surroundings for anything of immediate use. Half broken timbers, shredded tents, broken logs, proper Umgak material as my people would say, but I couldn't spend time finding the perfect old Growth log to use for a toboggan now could I?

To no one's surprise, even digging through the relatively small amounts of semi-compact snow that now served as the unceremonious tomb for my friends and family was a physically and mentally taxing job that didn't leave a lot of time or energy for me to think all too hard.

By the time I had finished for the day I was just happy I didn't come across any identifiable bodies.

Just bloodstains, or bits of hair, and skin that had been unearthed by the howling wind.

Can't bemoan a lack of Therapists if you've never been to one.

Rustling from the other side of the shelter makes me pause, and I immediately turn my head to see and make sure I'm not mistaken.

I blink owlishly, watching Princess Alrika wipe her eyes clean of the gunk accumulated from days worth of sleep as if nothing had happened.

Silently, I move to my crudely made chair and sit down across from her, watching as she goes through the process of waking up, growing confused at her surroundings, before finally noticing me and blurting out the obvious question.

"What in my father's name am I doing here?" she asks, her voice an understandable mix of confusion and suspicion.

This feels familiar, I think to myself as the image of a blonde human comes to mind, and I spend more time than I'd like to admit trying to remember why, before sighing as I realize my little pause has caused the princess to narrow her eyes at me.

Right.

"Avalanche happened," I state bluntly, before hastily adding, "-er your Highness."

My Dwarf parents didn't raise a rude boy, just a dumb one.

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"—then you woke up, your Highness." I finish, smacking my lips before taking a swig of water.

Too much talking for my liking, but when a princess tells you to talk, you start talking.

"I see." she says, trailing off into silence.

I consider breaking that silence, but decide I should just let it be after taking a look at her face.

Her brow is creased, chewing on her cheek and eyes darting around at her surroundings, desperately looking for something at all. The princess, I assume, is probably mentally digesting what I've just told her from how her face was scrunched up in thought. Not really sure what to do, I settle in and watch her go through everything I've spent the better part of a day and change trying to process myself. I had more important things to worry about than judging her outfit when I was patting her down, but from what I could spy poking out from the furs she was still covered in, her dress seemed to be in alright condition considering the circumstances. I wouldn't even be surprised if they were perfectly fine all considering; if anyone could afford that level of durability for a dress it would be the High King's family after all.

The same couldn't really be said for her hair. She wore it in a single thick braid that reached just below her knees, though her prolonged slumber, the scuffle of the avalanche and my manhandling had left it scandalously dishevelled. Her hands had absentmindedly pulled it over her shoulder and began going through the worst of the damage and fixing what she could while the rest of her attention, I assume, was elsewhere.

I don't know why, but another thing I noticed was that her posture was impeccable; like she was in a Clan council meeting, or whatever the royal equivalent was, and not sitting on the broken half of a table in a hole I made in the snow.

"There were no other survivors?" Alrika asks quietly, staring into the fire.

"Not that I could find," I mutter, just as subdued.

I had looked, of course I had, but I crawled out into a blizzard that left visibility near zero and was covering everything in feet of white powder every minute. Still I had tried, digging blindly in the snow around any dark shape sticking up out of the snowpack in the vain hope that the two of us hadn't been the only ones.

But I hadn't found anyone alive.

Only the dead, or parts of them.

Just my luck wasn't it?

Something in my tone makes Alrika look up I think. She gives me a sympathetic look and drops the subject, letting silence settle between us for a moment.

"What's the plan then Ranger?" she finally says, looking at me expectantly.

I blink.

Right. Plan.

"It's not a complex one your Highness, but it's not easy either. There's a Ranger cache 'bout two days east we can take advantage of." I begin, earning a nod to continue, "It's a bit off the beaten trail and we may have to chew on bark if we get hungry, but it's better than nothing. Terrain'll be tough, especially after the avalanche, but we should be there no more than a day more than usual. After that? We stock up and do our best to get you home, your Highness. With everyone…gone, the only other Dawi operating out here would be Clan Frostbeard. So hopefully we run into them, but we should prepare for the possibility that we'll be going it alone."

Alrika gave me an inscrutable look for a moment.

"It's as good a plan as any." she acquiesces, "When do we leave?"

I grunt and run some quick math in my head and run it against a few points of interest from the crash site that I put off salvaging for later.

"Well since you're awake the timetable's moved up. Give me three hours to do a few things, and we can get moving," I hesitantly put forward.

Alrika stares at me for a moment longer before nodding.

"What can I help with?"

I was startled by her offer, and that only made her snort in what I assume is annoyance.

"I'm no manling waif who needs someone to braid my hair for me Ranger. Just hand me an axe and tell me what to do. Two sets of hands will get more done than one." she insists, staring at me.

"Right," I reply faintly, "Right. Well I don't have a spare axe on me. C'mon then. Hopefully we find one in all this wreckage."

That isn't attached to its previous owner I add mentally.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

We find her an axe half buried in the snow, thankfully without having to pry it out of the frozen hands of one of my relatives, before combing the wreckage for a few necessary supplies. Mostly in the form of tarps, furs and afterwards we spent an hour dividing and packing everything up as best as we could before heading for the cache. Alrika walked in front, while I stayed a few steps behind and did my best to make it hard for any would-be attackers or predators to track our path from the avalanche site. We largely spent our time in silence, which suited me fine, but eventually curiosity beat out the princess's stoicism.

"Have you thought about who was responsible?" Alrika asks about two hours into our walk.

I spend a moment trying to think of a way to say 'no, I've been trying not to die,' that is socially acceptable to a traditional Dwarf.

Fuck it.

"Not particularly," I admit slowly.

That response gets her to turn back and silently stare at me for several, very awkward, seconds.

"Why not?" she eventually asks, tone cautious.

I notice a nice looking stick along our path, and I grab it without a second thought as I reply.

"It could be the Grobi, who used the earlier attack as a way to lull our senses. It could be some third party like the Raki or the Dumi, using the Gobbos as a proxy to do the same thing even. It could be that strange beast that I saw fly off that night as well. At this point any of them could be the culprit, and I didn't have the time, resources or experience to figure it out." I explain, fiddling with the stick absentmindedly.

What else do you want or expect me to say, try and pull off a mohawk right then and leave you to freeze, I grumble in my head.

"So you chose to save me?" she presses.

How do I say 'duh?' in a way that won't get me in hot water?

Right.

"We swore an oath to the High King, that we would get you home to him no matter the cost it may incur. So I choose to fulfill the oath sworn by my family before I follow through with my vengeance, your Highness. And, if I may be frank, saving you means what little family I have left won't have to worry about being thrown out in the cold by a grieving High King," I tell her plainly, looking down at my stick.

Hopefully that mollifies her.

Alrika doesn't respond immediately, but even I, socially inept as I am, can notice the sincerity in her voice.

"That is honorable of you, I—" she pauses, questioning herself probably, before pushing on by saying, "—I owe you a debt."

That does make me stumble, dropping the stick as I do so. You don't throw those around lightly in Dwarf society, admissions of debt I mean. A Dwarf's word had supreme weight in Karak society, and so you don't make promises you, or your family for that matter, may not be able to keep. Not when you're a princess, especially when you're a princess really, and not to a Ranger with color still in his beard either. By all rights she could successfully argue that I'm simply fulfilling the terms of the original oath and I wouldn't really have a leg to stand on. Not as a Ranger, not as one so young too.

And she knows that.

"I beg your pardon, your Highness, but the Wind's howling something fierce. Did you say something?" I ask, finally looking up to stare at her warily.

I'm giving you an out, for all that's good, take it and make my life simple!

I've seen the High King once in my life, it was a decade ago during Keg End when he and his retinue walked down the Karak's main thoroughfare with every Clan in the Hold not part of the procession lining the sides to cheer him on. It wasn't a long look since I almost immediately bowed my head as low as it could go along with everyone else when he passed, but It was long enough that I could pick out a few details of his face. Wrinkled skin, a nose that looked like a cauliflower that had been dropped in transit a few too many times, steely grey eyes that stared out from beneath a craggy, scrunched brow, and of course, a beard so long, white and shiny it was almost like he had draped a length of clean silk down his face and around his belly.

Alrika didn't share many physical similarities with the High King save eye colour. With her button nose, softer features, smooth skin and lack of beard she's the epitome of a young Dwarf maiden, but with her brows scrunched, eyes flint hard and conviction evident on her face though…

…In that moment I can see the resemblance she shares with her father.

"Forestalling your vengeance, saving me instead of your own kin as well. Perhaps it is foolish of me, but I would shame my Ancestors, nor sleep easily, by not acknowledging the lengths you have undergone to fulfill your family's oath. I owe you a debt Ranger." she repeats loudly, as if—

—ah who am I kidding? She was definitely daring me to try that again and see where it got me.

Welp.

In the name of not getting into a fight and because I knew I couldn't outstubborn her, I just incline my head in acknowledgement while holding back a sigh.

"I won't abuse your kindness, your Highness," I reply sincerely.

Alrika nods firmly and turns back around. With nothing left to say, we both go quiet and let the howl of the wind and the crunch of snow beneath our feet fill the void. Me, worrying about the mess I've gotten into and Alrika's mind on whatever princesses think about.

Hey many times Great-Grandparents eternally feasting in Gazul's Hall below? Could you get the Frostbeard's Ancestors to hurry their kids along and find us as quickly as they can?

Thanks.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

AN: Big change here is in the position Norgrim finds himself in, and the dialogue too. A bit of clarification about some other things and hopefully improvements to the flow of everything. Enjoy and C&C. :^)

 

[soulcake]

━<><><>< 2204 I.C. ><><><>━​

Rough terrain sucks.

Every step was a small puzzle, even surfaces were a luxury and you had to be keenly aware of your weight and gait to make sure you don't fall over and eat shit were just a few considerations. Pairing that with the realities of my job and time tables that were punishing on a good day made me appreciate the beauty of a flat stretch of road better than anything else.

As a Dwarf Ranger it's a facet of life I'd long since gotten used to out of necessity, and though my seniors would deny it till the day I died, I could generally manage my way around all but the worst the World's Edge could throw at me.

The same can't exactly be said for a Princess who's spent most of her life inside the safety of a Karak and its paved stone roads, with the added handicap of wearing a dress.

Alrika did her best, but the fact was that we were travelling through an untamed mountainous forest in inclement weather and she wasn't exactly dressed for a good hike. So it was slow going, still not as slow as it could have been if she was still asleep obviously, but slow all the same.

Did I care that we weren't keeping the pace? Sort of. If there was some sort of hostile force combing over the avalanche site then we weren't putting the sort of distance between us and them that I would prefer, but on the other hand I can't really confirm whether that's just paranoia speaking though. The best I could do was cover our tracks and pray they couldn't catch up with us. The only benefit of getting to the cache faster was reducing the time before we hopefully meet up with the Frostbeards or get back to Karaz-a-Karak.

So I tried to make the most out of the situation.

Mostly by sightseeing.

Because the alternatives were either reflecting on what's happened, (no), or engaging in polite conversation with Alrika, (suuuper no.)

So yeah, sightseeing.

For all their mortal peril, I gotta say the World's Edge Mountains were pretty to look at. I could tell you that they were these, just monolithic, spires of stone that reached above the clouds like the canopy of a forest. They were so tall and so dangerous to climb that the highest peaks of my old life were more comparable to the smaller summits of this literal world-spanning mountain range. Admittedly that was a pretty succinct description, but that really didn't put them into perspective, didn't really make you understand what you were looking at.

Have you ever stood right next to a tall building and looked up? You notice how your skewed perspective had it so that it filled your field of vision with just that one structure? The base stretched wide and squat while the roof was squished in and up? It was sorta like that, but amplified. You looked up and it wasn't the sky, it was mountains; stretched and skewed as if you were standing right at their base but in reality you were miles away from them. And on really cloudy days, when the sky and the sun are hidden behind a blanket of white? Then it feels like you're back underground.

The only light you have are errant rays that peak through the clouds, maybe a lightning bolt if the clouds are from a storm, or more often whatever light you have on hand. When that happens the valleys look more like the walls of a cave, distant forests along the slopes like patches of moss or lichens, lone summits more like a stalagmite instead of the peak you knew it was. You felt small, staring up at things so huge that despite being dozens, even hundreds of miles away that their shadows could still easily cover you.

Now, as someone who was admittedly perfectly content to stay home in their past life, and grew up in an underground culture of homebodies in this one, let me tell you something.

It felt safe.

Like wrapping myself up in blankets during a cold winter's night, all the warmth while I hear the wind howling outside and see frost on the window.

I suppose being a Ranger was like sticking that one foot out as temperature regulation.

Could really do with feeling that safe again.

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After a day spent trudging through snow and against the wind we eventually found a small clearing that seemed safe enough for us to settle down for the night. Which actually meant another half hour of clearing ground, gathering wood and setting up shelters the way I was taught to best to conceal our presence. When everything is set up we're left with two lean-tos made out of evergreen branches, deadwood and the scavenged cloth and furs from the wreckage around a buried fire pit. Largely safe from the elements and made to minimize the chance of being spotted by accident. Or in other words it was dark, only a few degrees warmer than usual and any food we cooked would be a bit dirty because our only source of fire for heat and cooking was in a ventilated hole in the ground so that sucked. The only bright spot in this otherwise gloomy situation was that I had managed to scrounge up something to eat at all, finding and shooting a hare and some birds while we were travelling over the course of the day.

I for one am perfectly fine with the silence while the hare and birds slowly cook away, a trait that was equal parts natural inclination and behaviour reinforced from Ranger training, but it seems Alrika doesn't have any such compunctions.

"...Ranger," she begins, seeming to have settled on referring to me by title, "There's been something niggling at the back of my mind now, a few questions. If you would be so inclined, would you care to answer them?"

Honestly? No, I really didn't want to, but since I don't want to make things awkward I might as well humour her at least.

"It depends on the question your Highness," I begin frankly, "but I'll take no offense from being asked regardless."

"A fair enough proposition," she nods. "You spoke of pursuing vengeance after escorting me home. How do you see that all playing out if I may ask?"

A cynical part of me wonders why exactly she would care, but the rest of me reminds myself that going down that line of thought was a toxic and pointless exercise. She declared that she owed me a debt and maybe this was a way of trying to find a way to help me most likely. More simply she could just be trying to build a rapport with me, someone she was stuck with for the foreseeable future and was to her knowledge the only friendly face for miles around.

I should probably answer her.

"After I get you home," I begin slowly, putting the pieces together as I went, "I'd probably go and petition the Elder Council to spend what little the Clan can spare to muster an expedition to recover what we can from the avalanche and bury our -our dead," I pause as my imagination conjures up the image without prompting.

Rows on rows of cold, cold bodies pulled out of the ice, looking like they were simply asleep. My friends and family, all together in death as they were in life.

And me, fulfilling my designated position of black sheep by not dying. Classic.

Not now Norgrim's brain, later. You can break down later.

I take a deep breathe.

"After that…I suppose I'll begin investigating the culprit's identity. From there I reckon things get straightforward enough. Say goodbye to my mother, get my affairs in order, and go off." I finish quietly.

I held no illusions about my chance of survival against someone who could kill an entire Clan of Dwarfs, even through trickery. That spoke of someone if not more deadly, then a great deal smarter than I was.

But the Dwarf part of me didn't care.

I finally muster the courage to brave a glance at the Princess, and when I do I realize she's giving me an odd look.

What? I'm telling you the series of events that will probably lead to my death lady, what do you expect? Then I banish that thought, reminding myself that sort of acidity wasn't helpful right now.

"That's…a sensible plan," Alrika decides to say, holding my stare for several more seconds before the awkwardness prompts her to look down at the food.

I nod, happy to let the topic drop in lieu of making sure the rabbit doesn't burn up. No matter how hard I tried it always seemed like I either under or over-cooked anything more complex than porridge. It was something my Uncle and Master always gives me shit about, 'considering my age.'

'Gave' now I suppose.

Oh look, the rabbit's ready.

"Food's done," I say hoarsely before moving to hand a skewer over to Alrika.

She doesn't say anything, thankfully, but she does hesitate for a moment before eventually taking the skewer I'm offering.

The only thought on my mind as I took a bite is that the meat was too salty.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

The bitter cold of the morning air isn't so bad when you have a wall between you and the wind. That may not sound all that great to someone used to the comforts of an advanced society, but when part of your Ranger training involves surviving a night out with nothing on you but a wool blanket it's the veritable lap of luxury.

So yeah, its definitely not one of the worst nights I've had.

Then I remember last night, and this morning drops a few places.

With a depressing level of ease I bury those negative thoughts deep for future me to deal with and begin cleaning up camp. I decide that the Princess needs more sleep, and definitely not because I don't want to talk to her while I clean up, I let Alrika sleep in for a while longer. It gives me maybe five minutes of solitude, but the noise I'm making is eventually enough to rouse her from slumber, and the other mound of furs begins to move as Alrika wakes up.

If she has anything to say about my decision she doesn't voice it, instead she thankfully moves to help me clean up the campsite in silence.

I've done this enough times that I let my body go on autopilot, letting my mind focus on the next leg of our journey.

We're still a day or so from the cache, and worst case the weather slows us enough that we go hungry for one night before getting some filling, if bland, food in our bellies.

I'm still holding out hope the Frostbeards reach us, but if not I'm probably gonna have to carry enough supplies to get us to Karaz-a-Karak without too much risk of death. Once we get past the shadow of Gunbad things'll get much safer thankfully. Course I'd prefer not having to pass anywhere near Gobbo territory with just one other person to watch my back, but there's something to be said about not attracting attention I suppose.

With two people on the job the campsite was cleared soon enough, and after a bit of effort on my part and some of the fur plucked from the pelts we carried, it looked like nothing more than a group of deer slept here last night.

Another lesson from Ranger training; if you aren't good enough or capable of hiding a camp properly, the next best thing is to make it look like something else slept there instead of you.

That done, we're on our way to the cache.

We get about halfway through the journey before Alrika says anything.

"Ranger," Alrika says, grabbing my attention, "I realize we'll be coming upon it soon enough but what exactly goes into these caches?"

I don't answer right away, instead I walk ahead of her quickly and move a branch out of our path in a way that doesn't disturb the snow on it, gesturing to her to come through with a nod before I eventually answer.

"Depends on the type." falling in step behind her again. "The one we're heading to isn't anything more than a hidden cellar full of supplies, but some caches are more eh -substantial."

I recall, going over the lessons drilled into my head to make sure I didn't forget anything.

"Aye?" she prompts, looking back at me curiously.

I nod.

"Smoke rooms, workshops, quarrel-making and the like, even small distilleries, circumstances permitting, or so I'm told. Things that a band can't carry with them easily. Not worth the effort this close to Karaz-a-Karak, but they're a sight for sore eyes on longer ranges. Haven't been to one yet."

I was supposed to go visit a place like that with my uncles and cousins at some point, no later than fifty, but maybe earlier if I proved capable of surviving that sort of long term journey. Not that—

—Right, step away from that downward spiral me, focus on the present life threatening circumstances.

Alrika moves on to other topics about being a Ranger, unaware of what she's said, and I do my best to answer without stepping on the many, many, mental landmines in my head.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

—"and that's partly why it's better to sleep on Fir instead of pine," I finish, earning a sound and nod of understanding for my efforts.

To my surprise explaining the ins and outs of Ranger training, that aren't kept secret, is a good way to occupy my mind. Most of its just useful survival tips that would probably work in my old life, except the parts about dodging Griffons and Beastmen and other fantastic beasts that didn't exist in the other world. I think it helped that Alrika was a good listener, and even if she wasn't actually interested her training as a diplomat probably taught her how to fake it well enough to fool me. Honestly she could have said nothing at all this entire time and I probably would have kept talking.

Gemlin had always joked that I was the most talkative Ranger he had met.

I'm about to start getting into the nitty-gritty of the best way to roast a deer flank from a prone position before I pause and slow down when I notice a comforting sight up ahead.

"Look there," I murmur, poking her shoulder before pointing to something that looks like bare undisturbed ground, "we'll be reaching the cache soon."

"I don't see anything Ranger," Alrika says eventually, the confusion and maybe annoyance in her voice thick and obvious.

I blink before realizing my mistake and offer her an apologetic look. I have to remind myself that she wasn't a Ranger, and that she wasn't trained to look for the signs we used.

"Ah. Right. There are bootprints there, they've been covered up like I've been doing with ours. Obviously better done as well. With luck it's the Frostbeards, but at the very least they'll be friendly."

"Could they be other survivors?" the Princess hazards, looking at me curiously, earlier annoyance discarded.

Huh.

Why didn't I think of that?

"Maybe," I concede, not sure why I don't feel as happy as I imagined I would be, "Either way let's not keep them waiting."

We start walking again, and let myself begin relaxing with help so close at hand. Whoever they were, they were definitely far better Rangers than me from the looks of it. The trail barely looked touched, and I hadn't even noticed their tracks on our way here either. So that meant they had come from a different direction than us, so Frostbeards on their way from Everpeark or, as Alrika reminded me, other survivors who had left the Avalanche site earlier than the two of us and taken a different path here.

I noticed the first bootprint about half an hour into our walk, and felt a bit of confusion and dread settle in my gut as I wondered why they had decided to stop covering their tracks.

Grabbing the princess by the shoulder to stop her, she turns to look at me questioningly. I point out the boot print, and she frowns lightly but says nothing. Even without Ranger training something on my face when I pointed out the footprint must have tipped her off that this wasn't normal

I take a deep breath and give the princess a nod before I move past her, taking the lead before we push forwards.

The two of us continue walking for another minute when the scent finally hits my nose.

Blood.

My sudden stop makes Alrika look at me in confusion before she notices the smell too, the frown on her face growing deeper.

Saying nothing, I un-sling the crossbow from my back and load a quarrel before we proceed. Idly I realize that given Alrika has a melee weapon it would make more sense for her to be in front before I remind myself that she's the VIP in this situation and that I was supposed to keep her alive.

Strange what I decide to focus on at times like these huh?

The next five minutes of walking are an excruciating build up of tension as the smell of blood grows stronger and the bootprints, made so that it looked like it was just a single Dwarf walking, gave up on the practice and fanned out properly.

Doesn't take a genius to realize something is fucked up here.

My finger never strays far from the trigger of my crossbow until the moment we hit the cache site.

Neither of us say anything for a moment, but eventually Alrika slams her axe into the trunk of a nearby tree, a long series of the foulest Khazalid curses I've ever heard pouring out of her mouth.

I keep quiet, taking in the carnage before me while I try to keep myself from vomiting up an empty stomach.

Alrika had mentioned the possibility of other survivors, something I still wondered why I never thought of myself, but I guess the point was moot now.

A dozen Dwarfs lay scattered across the ground, not all of them in one piece. Their bodies lie where they died, bloodstains and all. Going by the smell they had been here for at least a day. My eyes roam over several unrecognizable masses quietly before I feel my stomach give out under me completely.

There, on one of the rags that was once a cloak was the symbol of Clan Growlsh.

I don't want to look anymore.

But I owe it to them.

Mechanically, I walk over to the nearest and, going by the hints of grey hair not matted in dried blood, the oldest body in the clearing. I note numbly that he'd been smashed against the tree, the blood dribbling down his mouth, staining his beard, and shards of bone jutting out of his chest telling me all I needed to know about how he had died. I kneel down to get a better look, bile rising in my throat as I quietly begin to notice all the other, painfully familiar, details on this corpse. The torn tunic, usually kept so clean despite decades of hard living in the mountain slopes, the well cared for leather gloves that had been a gift from his mother, the crossbow lying discarded, tossed even, off to the side that was usually so protectively and obsessively cared for

I finally muster up the courage to stare the dead Dwarf in the face.

The face is bloody, with a broken nose and a purple welt covering his left eye, alongside a host of angry red lacerations that stand out against his pallid, dead, flesh, but it's still recognizable.

The empty, glassy eyed, stare of my uncle and teacher, Malakai Thugorsson, looked back at me, and despite the fact that I knew better, they still felt like they were staring daggers at me.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

AN: I added a bit more characterization and interaction between Alrika and Norgrim, plus edited some of the scene details here and there. Hope you enjoy, also C&C. :^)

 

[soulcake]

━<><><>< 2204 I.C. ><><><>━​

You know a part of me is thankful that I was already kneeling when I piece together that this was Uncle Malakai.

The rest of me is wondering why there was suddenly this low, droning keening and where it was coming from.

I don't want to tell you how long it took for me to realize that it was me.

I'm not sure how long I knelt there, just staring at my uncle's corpse, but I don't think it mattered.

He was dead.

Some dark part of me wished he had died in the avalanche, asleep and unaware instead of-of this.

"Ranger," a voice from behind me says, "Did you know this Elder personally?"

"He-he-I," I stutter dumbly, my mouth unable to form the words.

I try and force myself to speak, to move, to do anything but kneel there like a moron.

But I can't.

I can only think of my uncle, the man who took me under his wing and taught me everything I knew, and how he was dead right in front of me. He hadn't been in camp when the avalanche struck I knew that, one of the older Rangers out there you see, but his patrol had him on the slope between the camp and the avalanche. If the avalanche had carried him closer to the cache than it had Alrika and I, especially if he ran for the woods instead of back to camp like I had then that might be how he got here earlier. Rangers could cover a lot of ground when they travelled light too, you hear plenty of stories around the campfire of Dwarfs running multiple marathons worth of distance with minimal rest and food through grit and stubbornness alone. By some miracle my uncle had survived the avalanche, found twelve other survivors, and gotten them here to the cache an entire day and change before me.

"Ranger."

Only to die, slammed against a tree so hard that his entire fucking chest became concave.

What was going through his head? He must've thought we were dead, did he try looking for others before the blizzard that followed forced him to seek shelter? Did he feel guilt about not looking longer? Shame? Worry? Was he thinking about what to tell my ma? I don't know.

I'll never know.

"Ranger!"

All I know is that my uncle was alive, that if I was better, faster, I could've seen him again, and now he was dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.dead.deaddeaddead-

I felt a pair of hands grab me by my shoulders and roughly turn me away from uncle Malakai. I'm about to push them off and away but a blurry pair of steel grey eyes stop me.

"Norgrim." The person—Alrika —insisted, staring at me with open concern, "Pull yourself back. Please. I won't ask you to forget, or to move past what happened here, but I need you to pull yourself back. Can you do that for me Norgrim?"

I-

-I bury the grief down, down until I can remember where I am and what I'm meant to be doing, and let out a shuddering sigh.

"Norgrim?" she asks again, quieter.

"A moment your highness," I whisper hoarsely, hating the sound of my own voice. "J-just a moment."

"Of course Norgrim."

I blink away the tears, ignore the princess's earlier words and finish the job of shoving the memory of my uncle down into the darkest depths of my mind. I'd be perfectly fine with just kneeling there, breathing, crying, grieving, but time isn't on my side.

"O-okay. Okay I'm o-I...I pulled myself back," I promise, correcting myself at the end.

Alrika is still staring at me, eyes searching for some deception on my part no doubt, but eventually she nods before our stare-off gets too awkward.

"Alright. I believe you." she says, finally removing her hands from my shoulders and moving away to let me stand up.

Neither of us say anything as I get up and wipe the dirt off my pants, but I feel her watching me the entire time. It makes me want to curl up and die from embarrassment, and a part of me wants to tell her to stop, but the rest reminds me that she has every right to worry that her only guide can't keep himself together long enough to get her home.

"R-right. Come on, we should check on the cache. See if anything's salvageable." I mutter, forcing my voice to sound casual as I turn around and head towards an edge of the clearing.

I reach the spot where the cache's entrance is hidden, between two trees at the clearing's edge, and move kneel down while grabbing my shovel from my pack. I reach blindly for a few seconds, and when I finally touch the handle it takes me longer than usual to get a good grip as I force my fingers to move properly. Every second I spend fumbling while the princess is watching like a hot knife of shame in my back.

Shock sucks.

When I finally grab the damn thing and yank it out I immediately begin carving a square about the size of a Dwarf's torso into the gound, and when I'm done I pull the chunk of sod up by one of the edges and lay it down off to the side to reveal a patch of what looks like normal looking earth. Taking a moment to find the right position, I then dig my fingers into two spots in the ground, wiggling them around until I find the handles. I hear Alrika move closer and notice her shadow loom over my kneeling form but I pay it no further mind, busy digging around for my prize. I spend a good ten seconds looking like an idiot with his fingers buried up to the knuckle in the cold, hard dirt before I feel the tell-tale texture of cloth pass over one of my finger tips.

"There," I grunt out, moving my fingers until I get the handles in my grip. "Step back Your Highness."

I see her shadow move back, and with a grunt of effort I pull the cords out of the earth, then after a few more tugs, the trap door it's connected to swings upward with the sound of tearing to reveal a ladder that led to the cache proper.

Turning around, I see the princess staring at the torn paper around the edge curiously.

"Security seal." I explain, "We reapply fresh strips on both sides of the door every time we finish using a cache. So we know if someone's tampered with it."

Its a pain in the arse to do, but seeing those freshly torn edges made me feel a wave of relief and grief. The former because I could be reasonably sure that no one's touched the cache and messed with the supplies, and the latter because...

...because it meant my family never got to open it before whatever got to them first.

Nope. Bury that thought Norgrim I think to myself, trying to put on an air of calm.

I look at the Princess and gesture for her to head down.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

There isn't enough room for two people to comfortably stand between the ladder and the door to the cache, so I hang from the rungs and wait for the sound of the door and the glow of the lanterns just beyond it before grabbing one the dangling handles and flipping the trap door shut before I descend myself. I turn away from the ladder and see Alrika standing just past the doorway, her head swiveling around as she takes in the sights.

"Food's in the far left corner and weapons are to the right." I say, continuing to watch the princess for a moment longer before shaking my head.

We didn't have time for a tour.

"This is a smaller cache?" she mutters. "I confess I expected something more utilitarian."

"We're still Dawi, odd as we may be." I shrug, walking past her to reach the lantern hanging from the ceiling. "This one doesn't have any permanent beds, but it does have a few cots for the wounded and the like. The medical supplies will be useful at least."

Grabbing the chain, I yank down and let out a breath as the lantern turns on, bathing more of the room in a nice warm glow then turn back to Alrika.

"We probably have to re-evaluate the original plan." I say frankly, grabbing her attention with my tone.

"You don't think it's safe to stay here, do you?" she asks, putting two and two together fairly quickly.

"No. The bodies above us is all the proof I need to believe something's chasing down the survivors from the avalanche." I mutter, "If we had been here earlier we'd be just like un—"

I swallow and shake my head when I hear the hitch in my voice.

"—just like everyone else up there. We shouldn't stay here longer than we need to."

"I agree on that part at least. What do you suggest then?" the Princess asks, now looking at me expectantly.

As if I'm an expert at anything beyond leaving family members to die.

Unproductive thoughts me, save them for later.

"We might as well make for Karaz-a-Karak," I conclude, "The journey'll be more dangerous than we expected but it's better to be in friendlier lands than under the shadow of Karak Brynduraz," just barely remembering not to call it Gunbad.

The princess doesn't say anything for a moment, but to my dismay she eventually shakes her head.

"Or, we find the Frostbeards just as you suggested, but more proactively." Alrika begins, "It's as you said. There's a strong chance that the journey to Karaz-a-Karak will be more fraught than usual. There's safety in numbers."

"There's something to be said for the speed of a smaller group though, and the longer we stay out the more we risk running into something less friendly than the Frostbeards," I counter.

"I won't, in good conscience, leave my fellow Dawi to head into actively hostile territory blind. They need to know, they need to be prepared." Alrika insists.

Are you kidding me?

I think of the oath of my Clan, of the fate they will suffer if something happens to the Princess. I try and I try to remind myself as a way to close off my emotions and not let the small surge of annoyance surface.

Then I remember my uncle's face, staring blankly up at the sky. How my how my mother is a widow, how my elders have lost their children and grand children.

How so many of my nieces and nephews are orphans.

"They know what they're risking. We're Rangers, and you're the daughter of the High King. I swore to return you alive." I force out.

My Clan need me, the ones that are left anyway, to not end up outcasts.

"They are my people as well Ranger. I have a responsibility to them as well." she says, staring resolutely at me.

My eye twitches.

"You can't fulfill that responsibility if you're dead," I counter, grimly realizing that the lid on my feelings is slowly coming undone.

"You think I'm incapable?" she questions, her brows furrowing in anger now as well.

"I think you're the daughter of the High King, and a great but young diplomat who's been kept out of battle for most of her life. I think I'm a Ranger who's barely finished the basics of his training and can no more guarantee your safety than he can his own. And I know that whoever could be chasing us was clever enough to knock out a Clan of Dawi and send an avalanche down atop their heads, and is skilled, and/or powerful enough to go around wiping out the survivors. One of whom, might I add, was a Longbeard who'd lived over two centuries despite spending most of those years out in the wilderness!" I finish the rant in a heated hiss.

If anything that incensed the Princess further.

"So? You tell me we are outmatched by this foe in number and in skill, but that doesn't mean I can shirk my duties and responsibilities. Our people march out of our Holds to face enemies they know outnumber them, they go and fight foes even our venerable Elders may and have failed against too."

I force myself not to step back as she walks up to me, not to blink first as I stare back at the increasingly impassioned gaze boring holes into me.

"And I tell you that despite all that our people still stand, still fight, because what other alternative is there? None, at least none we can stomach. No second path we can take, no other group we can hope will distract them while we flee like cowards into the night because all we have is each other." She almost shouts back at me, before her tone shifts away from the building passion to a more resolute timber.

"We have to fight the enemy at our door, we have to work together to survive, we have to do more than run and hide if ever we are to overcome them. I will not return to Karaz-a-Karak, to my father, to my people, without warning the Frostbeards. You can come with me or watch me die in the attempt, but you. Cannot. Stop. Me." she finishes having walked close enough to start poking me in the chest with her finger with each word.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

As a general rule Rangers caches have a few spare changes of clothes alongside enough fabric to do any necessary field repairs. Those spares aren't custom fit, but they're well made and designed to fit most body types with only a little bit of modification. Given the plan the Princess and I agreed to, despite my very strong reservations to the contrary, would need us taking paths purpose made so that only a properly equipped Ranger could realistically travel them, she had to get changed. Thankfully Alrika wasn't too bothered by that, though it meant I had to leave the cache and stand in the middle of my kinsmen's corpses for the sake of propriety.

Funny that isn't it. It's more acceptable to stand in a field of dead Dwarfs than just turn around when someone's getting changed. Maybe it says something about how used to death we are as a culture.

Or how beaten down we've become.

Much as I wanted to move them into more respectful positions, I kept them where they were. It was a small likelihood, but on the off chance their killer returned to this place, I wanted to hide the fact that there were other survivors for as long as possible.

So that meant that the bodies couldn't be moved, that they had to stay there in the positions they had died in.

It meant leaving my uncle where he was, meant having to carefully navigate around his fucking corpse to remove any trace of my existence. All the while telling myself that they would understand my choice to leave them for the buzzards and carrion because the alternative was something I knew wasn't a good idea to process right now.

Thankfully the sound of the hatch opening stops me from thinking about it further, and I all-too-happily jog away from the bodies to offer Alrika a hand up as she climbs out of the cache.

There must have been more spare equipment down there than I thought, because I would have had trouble recognizing Alrika in her hand-me-downs. Then again Ranger equipment wasn't gendered, and I could count the number of female Rangers I knew on one hand with fingers to spare, but that wasn't the point. Alrika had replaced her casual, but admittedly well-made boots for a pair of steel-capped, fur lined climbers, and her dress for a pair of solid pants and a long padded gambeson underneath a maille shirt and leather armour. She also now wore a traditional Dwarf nasal helm, though she'd kept the iconic Ranger hood lowered, with her braid draped over her left shoulder. If it wasn't for the way she held herself, I wouldn't have batted an eye seeing her next to me if we were out on a random patrol.

"How's everything fitting your Highness?" I ask.

"There's a pinch here or there, but it's nothing I can't handle," she answers easily.

I frown.

"If there's any time to complain it would be now your Highness. Even a small bit of chaffing can end up rubbing away half the skin around your heel and calf if you hike for long enough." I caution, looking at her seriously.

The two of us stare at each other for a few seconds before the Princess thankfully heeds my words..

"Give me a moment then," she mutters, moving her hands and fidgeting with several pieces of her gear.

I watch her quietly, ready to move in and help if needed but not intervening any more than necessary. I'd told her how it should feel and how to adjust things, but getting it right was largely up to the person wearing the gear.

Roughing it out in the Worlds Edge is already tough enough, playing the stoic and risking serious injury because you didn't want to be seen as soft was something that was beaten out of us early on. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that the first six months of my training were mostly spent learning how to put on my clothes and store my gear quickly and efficiently spiced up by a few camping trips and light sparring.

It was like my uncle said.

The Dwarf that can stand the longest is the one who's leaning on the tree.

I push the grief down.

"Right," Alrika says, looking away from her gear and back at me expectantly, "I'm ready."

I give her a final once over and nod, but pause halfway through.

"Just a moment," I mutter, turning around to quickly walk over to where uncle Malakai was.

Ignoring the glassy eyed stares of the dead and the cautious look of the living, I look around the nearby bushes for two items in particular. I hadn't seen either near him, which meant that it had probably been separated from him when he-

-it doesn't matter I think to myself, redoubling my effort.

"What are you looking for Ranger?" Alrika calls, confused.

"My uncle's axe and crossbow." I call back from the bushes.

Hearing my reply, Alrika moves over to help and the two of us spend the next five minutes looking through the bushes for my uncle's last few personal effects.

We find them eventually.

I can't pay you any respects uncle, I think sadly as I pick up and holster his weapons, but I can make sure your tools aren't wasted.

"Right then," I say, a second axe and crossbow hanging from my pack. "Let's get a move on."

The more distance we put between us and this place the better.

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AN: This is late, but we're gonna start seeing bigger changes from the other chapters from this point now. If you read the original snippet thread, I basically rewrote Norgrim's breakdown from the ground up, and edited a few details for Malakai to make more sense contextually I had another scene added but it was too big so that's probably going to be part of the revised chapter 6 unless I become unhappy with it. Anyhoo, happy late 4th of July and don't forget to C&C. :^)

 

[soulcake]

━<><><>< 2204 I.C. ><><><>━​

Thing about mountains is that they're big.

Okay, listen.

I know that seems self-evident, and repetitive, but I'm trying to convey exactly what it means to scour an entire mountain range for a group of Dwarfs who do not want to be found. Needles in haystacks does not adequately encapsulate just what the princess dragged us into. Course I had mentioned earlier that Rangers made trails all across said mountains to quickly get where they needed to go, and one would understandably think that would narrow down the number of places they would be.

But you'd be wrong.

"You travel these trails regularly?" the princess hisses the grip she has on my shoulder sending a constant wave of agony.

I bury the small surge of petty satisfaction back down and stop myself from reminding her that this was what she wanted us to do. Thankfully It's easy to do when you're stuck going back and forth between reminding yourself to keep your eyes forward and ignoring the pain from someone's crushing grip on your shoulder blade.

"Not all the time, no. We have different trails for different purposes," I answer over the howl of the wind, "There's different considerations between hauling supplies versus getting somewhere quickly and quietly for instance."

Smiths and Engineers had five different tools to do the same job, and Rangers like me memorized five different ways to get from one place to another.

Not to mention the numerous alternative routes that I knew existed but had never actually been shown before…

…well, all of this.

So yeah, looking for needles in haystacks would be preferable to looking for Rangers on a mountain range.

"And you believe the Frostbeards would be taking these specific paths instead of those other trails you mentioned?" she not-accuses with an accompanying definitely-not-accusatory squeeze of her hand.

Ow.

I don't need much to imagine the squinted, suspicion laced glare she's got aimed at my back, and I definitely don't need to think about the bruises on my shoulders I'll find in the morning after we make camp.

So rather than acknowledge that like a healthy adult, I choose to be a healthy Dwarf and ignore it with a grunt.

"They have a reputation for preferring speed and scouting over anything else, and of the paths I know about this is the fastest, your Highness."

A cousin had called them glory obsessed trophy hunters once, but then again he had just been taken to the cleaners by a Frostbeard in the Gold Game. Still, there's a kernel of truth there. The Frostbeards specialized in tracking, scouting and hunting the larger monsters that made the northern slopes of Everpeak and her subsidiary summits their home. Not to say they weren't good at anything else, but in the—

"They do?" she asks.

"Pardon?" I reply, pulling myself out of my musing to focus back on Alrika.

"Preferring speed," she explains, ignoring or not realizing I had accidentally tuned her out, "I'd have thought that stealth would be more important for your vocation."

"Well stealth is a given, you aren't a Ranger if you don't know how to stay hidden. Even so, bands have their own quirks and preferences. Clan Growlsh are predominantly a Warrior Clan and the few of us mad enough who took to this career still reflect that heritage in our mentality. Frostbeards though? They're a whole Clan of Rangers, so they've got different traditions, different preferences."

Alrika hums in probably feigned interest, loosening her grip as she starts drumming her fingers on my shoulder.

"I see. I knew, intellectually that there were differences but-" she pauses, trying to find the right words no doubt, "well…"

Why would the daughter of the High King care to know the specific differences among Rangers?

"It's understandable," I cut in gently and saved her the effort of being tactful, "Not like we go sharing that sort of thing unprompted."

Not that there are many Dwarfs who would care to ask a Ranger anything that didn't involve a report about what gribble skulked about on our mountains, I think sardonically.

"Tell me about them," she replies before coughing a little, "better to have a chat to drown out the howling of this wind some than not."

As if to emphasize the point, a particularly strong gust slightly rustles the tarp that's hiding this path from the outside world and I feel her grip on my shoulder tighten.

I blink, both in pain and surprise.

Why the heck not I guess?

"Well if you really want to know, then I suppose I can share a few things. My unc—"

Now to my credit, I recovered from the hitching quickly this time..

"—I suppose sharing what I know about Clan Frostbeard is as good a place to start as any," I say, feeling Alrika's hand minutely loosen its death grip as I get lost in my impromptu lecture to get away from the memories.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

After another long day of hiking we had set up camp for the night. This time with tents, blankets, and other camping things you take for granted.

Still stuck with a fire in a dirt hole on account of the need for stealth, but it definitely felt warmer than before, and that definitely wasn't placebo.

It's incredible how a normal ass tent feels like the lap of luxury when you spend days sleeping atop bundles of soft branches and/or in holes in the ground. I absentmindedly rub my throbbing shoulder as I watch the stew bubble away inside the pot.

Pots, that's another thing you take for granted until it's missing. Love the damn things, like a pan but better the old pot. Can cook the same things as a pan, but with those high walls you can make stews. The shitty cook's go-to cheat for basic edibility. Exactly like what I had cooking over our sad little dirthole fire.

The meal itself wasn't anything special; just pieces of rabbit and bird in a broth made from water and a block of stew stock we plucked from the Cache, and thickened with crushed hardbread. Which wasn't to be confused with the ever-infamous stonebread and the literal gravel used to create it, that was for when things were bad. No, just gamey meat, tough, dehydrated dough and indeterminantly old pre-prepared broth for the princess and I tonight.

Never did like stonebread, for fairly self-evident reasons I would think, but it was a meal every Dwarf had eaten once. Even now, it was eaten as a reminder of the lean times we faced after our empire was quite literally broken up and divided during the Time of Woes.

And to show the youngin's how soft these modern times were.

"Ranger," Alrika says, drawing my attention away from the odd paths my mind had taken me.

"Yes, your Highness?" I say, shoving the thought aside to look at her.

She doesn't immediately reply, but I can tell she's got something on her mind so I wait and watch. The princess is hunched over. Her gaze is focused on the firepit instead of me, and flame casts a dull orange glow and stark shadows across her face that make the pensive look currently plastered over it look all the more contemplative to me.

"My behaviour these past few days has been…unbecoming of my position," she says tentatively.

I stop short and blink at her admission.

What's going on? Ancestors?

Hello?

If you're wondering why this is making me react the way I am, well actually that's understandable. If you were a Dwarf you would know why, but I guess you aren't since you're some nebulous voice in my head. Dwarfs don't do things like admitting fault, at least not lightly, and that became more unlikely the higher up the totem pole they got. If we could say "my bad," the War of Vengeance wouldn't be a thing now would it?

Alrika's looking at me now. Am I supposed to reply? Shit. Uh…

Right, focus, don't spiral, don't tangent, stay in the present and reply. Remember what Ma taught me, be honest, be tactful, and never disregard the other person's opinion. I can do that.

"You pushed for the decision you believed in, according to the information available to you," I reply diplomatically.

That sounded good, right? Not too articulate to sound rehearsed? Even if a part of me agreed with that assessment now wasn't the time to address it. The right time would preferably be never if I could manage it.

"Don't insult me with that Ranger. We both know that's not true," she insists, voice turning harsh and self loathing.

Damn it.

"Your Highness," I begin haltingly, "our disagreemen—"

"Speak like you normally do Ranger, please." Alrika interjects, finally looking up from the fire to stare at me.

I sigh.

"I don't know why you want to beat yourself up over this," I admit to her after a moment, "What changed? This was the path you wanted."

"I spent the day walking with nothing but you and my thoughts to accompany me. Alternating between thinking about anything at all to ignore the fact that I was one slip away from death, and hearing you talk about your family and what being a Ranger is like, how this trail is one of potentially dozens that the Frostbeards could have taken. If they've even gone out on patrol yet at all! I've endangered our lives on a fool's hope. Risked you, your Clan, and myself, and for what? To assuage my conscience." She all but spits out.

I stare at the princess, hunched over with her braid twisted and half undone in her hands and her face twisted with emotion.

"Do you regret it?" I blurt out, "Sending us down this path?"

She shakes her head.

"No. No. Even if I spoke like some freshly risen Thane grandstanding to a crowd of onlookers in the cache, I believed every word of it. Because if it means I don't have to go home knowing another group of Dawi have died to keep me alive… that I could have helped, however faint that hope may be, and didn't? I'll take it. I'd rather die trying to help them than live and risk being haunted by the alternative. Even when every ounce of training and wisdom I have screams otherwise. My only regret is having you forced to follow me. Better my idiocy takes only one of us."

I don't know what to say to that. I didn't really expect the princess to just blurt out stuff like this to me, a veritable stranger.

But If we're sharing our deepest secrets and darkest inner thoughts, I guess I'll try.

"I-I'm terrified of going home," I begin quietly, stirring the stew to keep my hands occupied "Of what my family will do when they hear what happened. Will they blame me? Praise me? A part of me wants to never find out. But another part wants to see them again, even if it means I'll come back to glares and tears. I can't tell you if I'm happy with this plan, signs point to no but I'm at least partially conflicted. A part of me wants to believe you, wants you to be right. Even if you aren't, then I can die knowing I did everything I could, that I didn't abandon my decency, my morality to do this, and hope that it's enough for the Ancestors when I stand before them."

"We're a pair of hopeful fools then," Alrika mutters self-deprecatingly.

I nod.
I remember another life, one that, however short, felt too full of missed chances and decisions made out of a mix of gun-shy cowardice and fear of the unknown. Maybe this existence wouldn't be that much longer, but I would make the last decision be the kind the version of me I could admire would make.

"It's brave to hope. It means baring your neck out to the world and daring it to swing," I tell Alrika.

"Don't let the elders hear you say that," she mutters, some joviality coming back to her.

"What else can they do to me? I'm already a Ranger, it'll be rain down the mountainslope," I counter.

The scent of the stew hits my nose, and I remember to pull it out of the fire before it burns. Quietly, I take half and put it into a bowl that I offer out to Alrika. She takes it from me quietly and the both of us eat in silence, content to listen to the quiet howling of the wind and the dulled crackle of the fire until it's time for Alrika to sleep and for me to take the first watch.

As I get up from my seat and get ready for my watch, the princess stops at the threshold of her tent to catch my eye and say something before going to bed.

"Thank you Norgrim."

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The morning after felt lighter, even if, true to my predictions, my shoulder was killing me. Neither Alrika nor I felt like talking, so we made camp in silence and got on our way a bit faster than usual.

We were about four hours into our hike when the stench of blood and stink hit my nose.

"Where's that coming from?"

"Up ahead. Strange that I can't hear anything though," I answer.

"We're heading towards it though aren't we?"

I lower my head and hold back a sigh.

"We have no choice in the matter."

"Then what should we expect to see Ranger?" Alrika whispers, hand falling on my shoulder.

"Don't know. Hopefully it's the Frostbeards. Worst case? Whatever killed my kin," I mutter.

"I see, so what's the plan?" the Princess mutters.

"Well we're downwind of whatever's making that smell for one thing, and I want to keep us that way. Wind's due to change soon if my memory's right, so just before that happens we'll change directions so that we approach from a wide angle to keep us that way. Then we see what it is that's making this stench, and work it out from there," I reply honestly.

"As good an idea as any," Alrika says, nodding in agreement.

We lapse back into silence, continuing to walk along the trail for a bit before I make good on the plan and direct us towards a detour to the left as the smell continues to grow stronger and familiar, green adjacent hints mix in with it.

"Grobi," I tell Alrika grimly, loading a round in anticipation even as memories of a flare flash through my mind.

The sounds slowly grow louder and clearer as we continue heading towards it until I can finally just make out the clang of metal and the sound of angry voices over everything.

Then I hear the familiar sound of a War Horn.

A Dwarf War Horn.

"That's the Frostbeards most likely, they're still alive but calling for reinforcements," I whisper, feeling hope swell in my chest as I begin to move from my brisk walk to an outright jog in the direction of the sound of what could only be a battle.

"Then we've arrived just in time!" Alrika almost shouts, following after me.

"Be cautious. We don't know how many Grobi they're fighting," I caution in between puffs of air, pulling out my crossbow.

Alrika doesn't quite growl, but she makes her displeasure known with a few grumbles and angrily frowning at nothing in particular.

I don't pay it any mind.

She needs to get to the Frostbeards, no matter what happens.

No matter what happens.

In the distance I can begin discerning the familiar sound of Khazalid cursing amid the cacophony of the skirmish.

I force feeling back into my hands, gripping my crossbow tighter.

"Do you know how to shoot?" I ask, formulating a plan as the sounds of battle continue to grow closer and closer.

"Not well!" she admits, frown disappearing as she looks at me questioningly.

Right.

I slow down and toss my crossbow to her, not watching her grab it but hearing her puff in surprise as it thuds against her chest while I pull my uncle's from my pack.

"Right! That war horn will be calling in every Ranger and Grobi for a good few kilometers." I pause as I hear yet more horns in the distance, Rangers propagating the message. "So here's the plan! From what I can tell when we reach the battle we'll be right behind the Goblins, so we'll be circling around to get to the Frostbeards. While we're doing that, we'll shoot any stragglers or other targets of opportunity we see, but secrecy is what's important here. Save the battlecries for when we aren't risking being surrounded by greenskins. I don't have time to run you through a firing drill so listen close." I say, turning to look at her again.

"When you shoot, aim for their torso, a bigger target is one you'll hit. When you shoot, only fire on the exhale! I'll stay behind them and shoot any stragglers, I want you to slowly circle your way around and get to the Frostbeards!" I say as clearly as I can manage over the din ahead.

Alrika nods.

I take a breath and try to force my body to relax.

Just like your lessons taught you.

We're almost on them, close enough to tell that there are about four dozen goblins between us and the Dwarfs they're fighting. Dozens of Goblins emerging from the nearby woods and charging at the embattled Dawi.

"Ancestors preserve us," I pray, feeling a strong sense of Deja vu.

Alrika and I raise our crossbows and let fly.

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The Goblins don't immediately react to us, I had made sure we stuck to shooting stragglers and any other Goblins that ran into us on their way to the fight as we slowly crept our way to the side of the battle that had more Dwarfs on it.

But our luck doesn't hold out.

Alrika fired a bolt, aiming at a Goblin that had been rushing at the exposed back of a Ranger. The shot hits the Greenskin in the leg and sends him stumbling into the snow with a screech. The unexpected direction of the shot draws several looks our way, and I know we've been made.

"Move," I ordered, watching as a handful began to sneer and point their allies in our direction "move!"

Alrika wordlessly begins jogging while I continue to provide covering fire for her, sending quarrels downrange with each thud of my uncle's crossbow.

Load, aim, fire I chant to myself, feeling my heart beginning to thunder just like before.

We just had to get to the Frostbeards.

Five Grobi break off from their original destination, turning towards me and Alrika instead.

I kill one and draw their attention away from the Princess towards the Dwarf still shooting them.

Two more fall to uncle Malakai's crossbow before I'm forced to pull out my axe and get ready to enter melee with the survivors. I idly note that one carries a shield and rusty dagger as long as his arm while the other's got two vaguely blade-shaped pieces of scrap metal in his hands.

Closest first beardling! Steel your nerves! The voice of Elder Bramblebeard echoes in my head.

With a roar I counter charge the oncoming greenskins, startling them long enough for me to make a downward chop at the nearest Goblin, the blade digging deep into its scrawny neck and sending a spray of arterial blood everywhere. Not willing to let the other Goblin recover, I ignore the ache in my shoulder and find the strength to carry through with the swing, tossing the dead Goblin's body with my axe and slamming it into his ally's shield and staggering him.

While he quails in surprise, I twist my now freed axe around and use the counterswing to get its beard hooked behind the shield, trying to yank it away from its wielder all while my shoulder's screaming from the effort.

I don't manage to disarm him, but going by the pop and squeal of pain I hear, I've at least dislocated the arm it's stuck on.

"I'll kill y—" the Goblin begins to screech before I punch him in the nose with my other hand.

He staggers, and I don't let up.

I punch him again and feel the cartilage of his nose break beneath my fists. The sound of the battle around us growing faint as I tunnel vision on the enemy in front of me.

He stumbles backwards and I feel my shoulder throb.

He'll kill me If he gets the chance.

I punch again and I can't tell if the howl of pain is from me, him or some other idiot in the distance.

I have things to do.

He falls to the ground.

There's still that dinner to go to.

I free my axe and swing it down onto his head, only to curse when the Goblin rolls out of the way while somehow kicking me on the side of the head as he does so.

I promised dad that I would be there.

Feeling lightheaded, I nevertheless swing again, this time my axe finds its mark and yet more blood splatters my face. I make sure I've actually killed the bastard and then take a deep lungful of air before I begin jogging again. Looking to the side as I holster my axe I see more goblins rushing my way and pick up the pace, slowly catching up with Alrika.

I try to reload uncle Malakai's crossbow, cursing at my shaking fingers, while four more Goblins chase after me.

"Get 'im!" one shouts angrily, "Get 'im!"

Up ahead I see Alrika stop her jog to turn around to aim her Crossbow behind me.

"Move Ranger!" I think she says.

I duck instinctively as she fires, the bolt finding its mark and striking that shouting Goblin in the heart.

She keeps firing, shooting the Goblins behind me until I pass her.

We're only a few meters away from the Dwarfs these Goblins are fighting, but even that feels like an impossible distance. Still, the ruckus we cause is loud enough that a few of our fellow Dawi finally take notice of the two idiots running their way from the opposite side of the battlefield and the Goblins chasing after them.

I duck again when a bolt zips by my head, landing right between the eyes of a Goblin that had been catching up to us.

In the distance I see a Ranger shout at us, though I can't make out the words coming out of his mouth. Must be the battle. Still, I can tell he's urging us to get over to him and his compatriots, and I don't need any encouragement to comply.

My arm's screaming in pain, my legs ache, my lungs are on fire, and my ears are ringing, but I'm grinning from ear to ear as the promise of safety crystalizes in front of me.

Then I see one of the Dwarfs shout in alarm.

"Varf! Varf! Form up lads!" he roars, sounding distant despite being no more than ten meters in front of me.

Turning my head, I see that Alrika has fallen behind me by a few meters at some point, and more worryingly I see a trio of Wolf Riders loping towards us.

She won't make it in time.

I slow to a stop, and after sharing a glance at the Ranger who shouted that, I turn around and run in the direction I came from. Crossbow raised.

"Go!" I yell at her, shooting a bolt past her.

One wolf falls, a quarrel embedded in its neck.

Alrika passes me and towards the safety of what I hope is a shieldwall forming behind me.

I shoot again, beginning to step my way backwards.

The next wolf gets a bolt in the haunch, sending it sprawling and its rider thrown bodily off his mount.

The last rider is shouting something, his nasally accent grating on my ears, and I fire.

I miss.

My hand barely reaches my axe before his wolf grabs me in its jaws.

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AN: Entered a fey mood and stuff ballooned out. So here's the first significant change! An entire scene has been added. I wanted to show more interaction between Alrika and Norgrim. Yeah it feels sudden, and from Norgirm's POV it is, but there's a few reasons! Also, did hint at some stuff about Alrika, hope it comes through. Please let me know what you think, and don't forget to C&C! :^)

 

[soulcake]

TW: An animal is hurt and dies.

━<><><>< 2204 I.C. ><><><>━​

The Wolf's charge knocks me into the air and my uncle's crossbow from my hands. Waves of pain that slam into me from the force of the blow and the jaws chomping down on my shoulder. Despite the chaos and agony, strangely enough I can only think of one thing.

Goblins suck.

But now isn't the time for that, so I push those thoughts aside and focus on the fact that I'm about to get mauled and how to prevent that. I immediately use my free hand and reach for the wolf's face, poking out its eye with a vicious jab of my thumb and making the animal yelp in pain. Going by the Wolf's cry of agony and the way its grip weakens as it jerks to a stop to try and get my fingers out of its face it seems to do the trick.

I dig my thumb in deeper, and the wolf finally lets go of me as it whines and screeches, moving its head away from my hand in a desperate attempt to make the pain stop. Not letting up, I push the already tilting animal over by kicking its front feet out from under it to send both mount and rider tumbling to the ground, letting me fall flat to the ground on my back with a thud.

Everything hurts like a bitch, but I push through the pain and begin getting up. Rolling over to stand on unsteady legs before awkwardly unholstering my axe my uninjured arm and walking towards the squawking Goblin and Wolf. The sight of me makes the Greenskin scramble around faster in its attempt to get out from under its mount, but the Wolf's in too much agony from the fall and its injured eye to notice my approach.

When I get close enough I quickly end the animal's suffering with a chop of my uncle's axe. But before I can move onto the Goblin I'm knocked back to the ground by a kick to the chest, the force of the blow making me lose my weapon as I fall. Before I can react any further the rider's already on top of me, dagger in one hand while the other holds my uninjured limb down.

I instinctively use the free limb I have, grabbing the Goblin's arm with my injured arm before he can stab it downwards. I don't bother biting back the scream that follows as the move sends a fresh jolt of agony up my arm. A pain that only grows worse when I have to struggle to keep the Greenskin from overpowering me.

My arm hurts, my everything hurts honestly, and I'm pretty sure we're both screaming at this point. We struggle for a few more seconds, each trying to overpower the other, before the Goblin apperantly gets sick of the struggle. I watch this dumb green fucker change course by baring his teeth before he lunges forward, mouth open and aimed for my throat.

I don't know how I manage it, but I move my head up and turn it to the side, angling my helmet to take the brunt of the blow, just as he surges down to bite me. I hear the thud of flesh on steel, followed by a screech of pain and the grip on my uninjured hand loosening.

Not wasting the opportunity, I immediately punch the reeling Grobi with my now freed hand, sending the nasty little fucker and that stupid dagger flying off me in different directions and onto the cold hard snow. I push myself up on my elbows, sparing a glance towards where he landed and find him too busy howling in agony, clutching his bleeding mouth, to pay me any attention.

Leaving him to his agonized rolling, I roll over and see that uncle Malakai's axe landed just a few feet away. I half scramble half-belly crawl towards it like a baby, making it about halfway there before the little bastard from earlier jumps onto my back. I curse in surprise and pain as he tries to dig his grubby little fingers into my eyes just like I did to his Wolf.

With a yell of effort I roll over, using my weight in a half-hearted attempt to flatten him or at least to knock the wind out of his lungs. The Goblin doesn't take that lying down of course, still screaming and scrabbling against me even as my body weight pins him to the ground.

I elbow his head a few times in quick succession, pause and see if he's still moving, then continue when I feel even a hint of movement. I think I end up doing it a few more times, each time I pull back the red stain on my elbow having grown larger, only getting off of him when I feel his struggling stop for more than ten seconds.

Did I mention that everything hurts?

But despite the pain in my arm and the aches all over my everywhere I manage to reach the axe somehow.

Picking it up feels like a herculean effort, but I manage it and shuffle over to the unconscious Goblin. And just like with his wolf, screaming as I do so, I swing my uncle's weapon down across his neck. I'm in so much pain that I barely register the hot spray of arterial blood that splashes across my face.

"Fuck," I pant out, feeling the fatigue really hit me now that the adrenaline pump's been cut off.

Out of muscle memory more than anything, because my mind's not really functioning right now I think, I turn around and begin walking towards the general direction of the Dwarf lines. Going by the amount of dead and fleeing Goblins, it looks like things are wrapping up now. I know I should feel thankful or at least relieved when I spot two Rangers rushing over towards me, but strangely enough, or actually maybe not that strange at all, I can't muster any emotions and only feel weirdly indifferent about it.

My vision suddenly jerks downwards, and I dumbly note that I've somehow gotten on my knees.

Huh, legs must've given out.

Everything fades after that.

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I'm pleasantly surprised to actually open my eyes.

I'm even more surprised to see the roof of a tent and to see Dwarf's head pop out of the corner of my vision to greet me. The first thing I notice is the eyepatch over his left eye, I mean where else would it be, and the mixed grey and black of his facial hair.

"You're finally awake," he notes casually.

You were trying to cross the border right?, some part of my mind giggles deliriously.

"What?" the old Ranger asks, confused.

Uh oh. I said that aloud.

Their brows scrunch in confusion before he shakes his head and sighs.

"Go back to sleep, lad. Things are well in hand here."

I try to nod, but I honestly can't feel anything right now so I don't know how successful I am, and just settle for closing my eyes.

I think I hear him mumble something to someone, but I'm drifting off and can't find it in me to care.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

When I wake up again I'm a bit more lucid than last time.

It's a different Ranger who greets me this time, her hair thick and colorful compared to the salt and pepper locks of that other guy.

"Ho there Dawi, how're you holding up?"

"If you'll permit me the chance to bellyache, pretty Grungni-damned terrible," I answer back, my voice hoarse.

She nods.

"Getting dragged off by a Varf will do that to you. Thankfully it's nothing that a bit of rest and Valayan ale can't fix. Sit tight and I'll be back with a drink and some company. A few folks have been waiting for you to wake up."

"Wait," I murmur, making the other Dwarf pause, "Where are we now exactly? And your name, it was rude of me not to ask."

They huff goodnaturedly.

"Balen Drumboot, and as for where we are. About a day and half's trek from where we fought off those Grobi. That's us carrying wounded and escorting a civilian mind you."

My mind does the math subconsciously as I nod in understanding; we were still a decent ways away from Everpeak, but hopefully that would change.

"Where are the other wounded?" I continue, looking around despite the little pangs of pain moving causes.

"In their own tent. Man of the hour gets special accommodations," Balen explains, making me blink.

"What?" I stutter, feeling my cheeks grow warm as I try to force myself up, "I-"

I yelp when a pair of rough hands gently, but forcefully push me down.

"Stop agitating that shoulder you wazzok. You're in your own tent because the Princess insisted," Balun says, eyes narrowing, "And since the Old Man plans to grill you for what's in your head it didn't seem like such a bad idea. Don't you worry, you've not kicked anyone out of their lodgings or anything like that."

I nod at her assurances, leaning back into the bed again..

"Thank you."

"Mhm. You just sit there, relax and look pretty, you'll be wishing you were still unconscious soon enough."

Well isn't that peachy?

True to her word, immediately after Balen hands me a keg she turns and disappears beyond the tent flap, no doubt to inform whoever wanted to talk to me that I was now among the waking and lucid.

I only wait for about three minutes, taking small frequent sips of my drink so as not to upset my stomach, before Balen returns with another person in tow.

At first I thought it was another Ranger, but when they turn towards me I realize that, to my surprise, it's actually Princess Alrika, still dressed in the clothes from the cache.

"Here he is Rinnri," Balen announces, something odd in her voice, "awake and drinking, happy as a clam."

"So it would seem," she says, glancing at Balen before turning back to me. Alrika doesn't say anything immediately, taking her time to look me over in concern. I notice her mouth thin out when she looks at my shoulder before she takes a deep breath, blinks and then regards me a bit more formally.

"Ranger Norgrim. It's good to see you're finally awake. How are your injuries?"

I'm momentarily confused by the formality she's addressing me with before the working part of my brain reminds me that Alrika would obviously interact with me differently among other Dawi than when it was just the two of us.

"As well as I could be your Highness." I reply, following her lead, "According to Ranger Balen it's nothing that some rest and Valayan ale cannot fix."

"I see. That's excellent news. I just wanted to give you my thanks once more. That's twice now that you've saved my life, I pray you won't need to attempt it a third time." Alrika tells me, her voice just a bit tight.

Maybe she's embarrassed? Should I diffuse the situation?

Wait, no that sounds like a terrible idea. I'm horrible at that.

Despite myself I inadvertently chuckle, or at least try to, it sort of just comes out as a semi-hacking cough that makes Alrika's eye widen in alarm and Balen takes a step forward before I wave them off.

"As do I, your Highness. I don't want to put my shoulder through that sort of thing again."

Alrika's eyes quickly glance over at Balen, before she nods.

"We'll speak again Ranger, of that I have no doubt," she says with finality, nodding at me.

"By your will your Highness." I nod back.

Balen and I watch her leave the tent, hands held together in front of her, before I realize something and turn back to the other Ranger.

"I forgot to ask, but would you know what happened to the crossbow and axe I was carrying?" I inquire, trying not to look too panicked.

Balen gives me a knowing look.

"Safe and sound, don't you worry. We'll hand them over to you when you can walk, but you better not go around carrying them on that shoulder do you understand?"

I nod.

"My thanks."

Balen huffs.

"There's no debt to repay, you've had a rough enough time as is, Norgrim was it?"

"Aye," I confirm, "Norgrim Grimsson of Clan Growlsh."

Balen nods before something outside draws her attention.

"That'll be the Old Man. Well Norgrim Grimsson of Clan Growlsh, I wish you good fortune. If we meet again, it'll hopefully be under better circumstances." she offers, giving me another quick nod.

"And you, Ranger Drumfoot."

As Balen leaves, another Dwarf enters. It takes me a moment to remember, but I realize I've seen that same eye-patch and the salt and pepper beard before.

"You were there the first time…" I mutter, trailing off.

He grunts.

"Good. Seems you have your wits about you this time then. Name's Baraz White-eye, and I'm the poor sod in charge of this particular patrol of fools calling themselves Frostbeards. Now, I've already asked the Princess for the general idea of what in Grungni's name is going on, but she's a Kvinn of high standing and lacks the sort of training you'd expect from Zaki like us. So If you're feeling up to it, I want you to at least fill in the blanks for me, and more if you're up for it."

I nod without hesitation.

"I don't think I'm much better, but I'll tell you what I know Elder," I reply firmly.

Baraz eyes me critically.

"We'll see lad. We'll see." He turns towards the entrance and hollers. "Balen! Get the kegs!"

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I spend maybe three hours speaking with Baraz, telling him what I know and answering the slew of questions he bombards me until my voice gives out. Deciding not to grill me any further that day, Baraz ends up telling me what happened after I had passed out. True to what I remember, enough reinforcements had arrived that they had managed to rout the Goblins by the time I was done with my fight, and got out of dodge post haste. They didn't even bother to ask Alrika what was going on until Baraz had led them to one of our most secure cache sites; an area that was apparently protected by old Runes from the Golden Age against "enemy magic." To his credit the old Dwarf didn't waste time after that, immediately sending off a half dozen runners on ahead to inform Everpeak of what happened once Alrika had given him the gist of things.

"This is troubling," Elder Baraz mutters, finally speaking after having been silent for the past few minutes of walking, "Everything you've described tells me it's the Grobi. Avalanche, night attack, subterfuge and a diversion to lull us into a false sense of security. And don't think I don't see the parallels to what happened with us and your folk lad, it makes me all the more happy I brought us here, dark as that sounds. Typical Blood Spearz tactics if I've ever seen them, but there's no Grobi magic I know that can put an entire Clan's worth of Dawi to sleep that deep. "

"Or kill a group of Rangers so brutally and somehow leave without making any tracks." I mutter quietly, trying not to agitate my throat.

"Wyvern'll do it. Some of 'em are more than nasty enough and the Bloody Spearz have the wealth and lack of brains to do it," Baraz dismisses with a wave, still deep in thought.

"That sound I heard that night was no Wyvern, and the marks left at the cache didn't match their track pattern. Two legs, three toes, but the spacing was wrong and there weren't any wing marks. I may be a beardling, but my master taught me that much. It wasn't a Wyvern, I'm sure of it." I insist, voice cracking.

Baraz regards me with his one eye, squinting suspiciously, before he sighs.

"Fine. May not be a Wyvern." he concedes before returning to silently scratching his chin in thought.

That makes me blink in surprise.

Elder Baraz silently sits there thinking for another five minutes before he lets out a sigh and calls it a night, leaving my tent after telling me he'll keep thinking it over and for me not to worry.

Honestly I just nodded along with what he said, still busy reeling from being listened to by an Elder. I was prepared to make my case, get dismissed, then continue to make it until the older Dwarf finally acted like he had come to the same conclusion, so the quick and frank deferral to me, was in a word-

-shocking.

Still, I won't look that gift pony in the mouth and just keep my mouth shut.

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I was cleared to walk under my own power the morning after my discussion with Baraz, and joined the marching column as we made our way back to Everpeak. As Balen promised, both my personal weapons and my uncle's gear were returned to me under the condition that I not carry any of it on my injured shoulder. We spend a day quietly marching before making camp for the night, which gives me the time to think about my current situation.

Alright, so that gift pony? Shat on my flowers. Trampled 'em even. Horrible equine, a toothless bastard of the highest order. A black mark on all ponies.

I think I've run this metaphor into the ground.

So the reason Baraz was willing to listen to me back then was because he, very unrightfully, assumed I wasn't just some lucky barely-adult beardling who had no idea what he was doing. On account of that whole "save the princess," business. Nonsense I tell you! I let my whole Clan get killed!

Now, knowing that's important, because that same sort of logic was getting me a lot of stares from the other Rangers. By my guesstimate it was an even mix of pity and respect everytime I managed to lock eyes with one of them. They alternated between treating me with kid gloves and the sort of gruff responsibility they offloaded on the more competent, read older, Dawi.

It was maddening, more specifically the back and forth was maddening.

Just pick damnit! Either I'm a beardling dangerously threading the needle between madness and sanity or I was a veteran, none of this ambiguity.

Hated ambiguity, far as I was concerned, the only thing that should be ambiguous is my silhouette when I'm wearing camo! Fastidious certainty was the name of my proverbial game dammit, in this life and the one before it.

Where am I going with this?

Right.

A cough from a nearby Ranger pulls me out of my head (ass) enough for me to look down and realize that, in my frustration, I've fucked up the hardbread. I glance around and see more than a few looks of well-deserved pity from my fellow Rangers. The thing about Dwarfen hardbread, at least the stuff from Karaz-a-Karak, is that we "pride" ourselves on using traditional Dwarfen grain in its making as much as is practically feasible. I personally think it's a mix of some chauvinistic belief in the quality of our goods mixed with the practicality of human grown food being more expensive to import than places like Barak Varr, Zhufbar or the Holds in the Grey Mountains and Vaults.

Anyway, I'm not sure on the specifics, because that's a Guild Secret even though the Farmers Guild is a desiccated corpse stubbornly kept on life support, but you have to be careful about mixing our hardbread with water. It's bland, but filling, and in large enough chunks it does its job as a stew thickener, but if you mash it fine enough, like I just did, the stuff effectively makes a mix of mud and dough. No, not a runny batter, I can only wish it was like that because I could make a poor Dwarf's pancake in that case. No, it was mud and dough and don't ask me to explain it better than that voice in my head.

Anyway, when that happens you're stuck with two options: cook the mass over the fire and get a dense, terrible pseudo-bread that I can never make right, or—

—you power through.

Without an ounce of fanfare and tragic, hard-won experience, I lift the small pot to my lips and tip it back. Normally I'd ladle it and suffer through the ordeal a bit more politely, but I'm operating on one arm and critical fucks deficit. So over the course of a few minutes I take large mouthfuls of the stuff and, after the minimum amount of chewing, swallow it down and take another bite without complaint.

The thing I've learned after years of eating only technically-edible foods is that the longer it stays on your tastebuds the worse it gets. I'm not sure when I started doing the whole swallow down like some madman bit, but it was definitely after the fifth time I screwed up the stew recipe my uncle taught me as part of my training.

It wasn't even that bad, didn't even crack my top ten worst meals, but maybe that wasn't a good thing.

Well whatever, I finish off the last of the stew-paste and release a quiet burp as I put down the pot and stare at it, wondering what the fuck my life is.

Looking up from my "meal," I realize a few of the Frostbeards are staring at me with varying degrees of disgust and understanding.

There's no winning when you fuck up your hardbread, just a choice on how you wanna take your poison.

I spend a few more minutes just sitting by the fire, letting the food settle in my stomach, before I call it a night and offer everyone a parting nod.

When I reach my tent I lift the flap and take a step inside, but take a moment to stop and look around.

The camp is small, but well organized. Several rangers quietly sit around the fire, resting, cleaning up their cutlery, or getting ready for their watch. A few feet away I see Alrika's personal tent, next to mine and the medical tent, all protectively encircled by all the others. My mind idly reminds me that we still haven't had that talk she promised, but I ignore it with some of that same, hard-won experience.

A part of me is amazed we managed to get to this point. After everything we've been through.

After everything I've lost.

But it's almost over. Soon we'll be safely behind the walls of Everpeak, I'll get Alrika home, grovel before the High King for a tax break for my Clan or something, deal with my surviving family, then spend my time figuring out who exactly is responsible for killing the rest so that I can do the expected thing and relentlessly chase them until either they or I die.

Huh.

By Valaya, I'm tired.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

AN: You what would be really funny? Making this lull a fake out. :^)

 

[soulcake]

━<><><>< 2204 I.C. ><><><>━​

I hear rumbling in the distance. My body begins to shake as the sound of rolling thunder is joined by increasingly noticeable tremors. My mind is telling me what's happening, screaming it even; another avalanche and I can't do anything to stop it. I try to force myself awake, to make my limbs move, but my body does not respond.

I'm trapped in my own mind.

The rumbling grows louder, and the desperation to move my body grows with it. I feel like I'm beating my hands against the walls of a cell door, aware that something wrong is happening but unable to escape it. Is this what my family felt? Painfully, dreadfully aware of what was happening before the end? Alrika said she didn't know, but maybe she was lying to spare me the truth? I don't want this to happen. I don't want to be stuck here. I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't wanttodieIdontwanttodieI—

—I wake up with a strangled gasp, shoulder throbbing angrily and sweat dripping from my face.

My eyes scan the tent around frantically, and I instinctively move my arms and legs to prove that I'm awake, even the broken one. I spend a minute simply sitting there, flexing my fingers while I take long, measured breaths and try to ignore the feeling of my heart beating a mile a minute.

Nightmares suck.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

To no one's surprise, I didn't manage to fall back to sleep.

Instead I spent the hours until we broke camp jumping between stubbornly doing maintenance on my equipment with one arm and trying to ignore/stave off some strange feeling coming from the bottom of my gut. By the time morning came and we were on the move again, I had bags under my eyes and a hazy fog seemed to cling to my every thought, but damn if my gear wasn't as pristine as an obsessive Dwarf could get it.

Stifling a yawn, I failed to notice a rock in the path of my boot, making me slip forward at the sudden stop. I moved my free hand forward to catch myself before I hit the ground, but I found myself suspended halfway through my fall thanks to a hand holding me up by the hem of my hood.

"Rough night there Grimsson?" a familiar voice asks from behind me.

Another hand appears out of the corner of my eye, and I take it while I adjust my footing and steady myself.

Once I'm sure I won't fall, I turn my head to see Balen giving me a slightly worried look while the Ranger who caught me nods once before walking off.

It took a slightly concerning amount of time to remember her name.

"Drumboot," I greeted back with a slow nod. "That's definitely one way to describe it."

"Nothing a good drink can't fix," she assures me automatically.

Asleep, but aware, a prisoner in my own body. The rumbling, growing louder.

From the way her expression falls, I think I may have subconsciously reacted to the idea of drinking in a way that was, politely put, not very positive.

"I don't think I'll be drinking much until we get back to the Karak," I admit, "too many—"

Endless fields of snow, broken wood and scattered cloth. No bodies, no one alive. Alone, alone, ALONE.

—I feel a small rush of embarrassment when my voice hitches, and try as I might, I can't finish the sentence.

Thankfully I don't need to finish it for her to understand.

"Right," Balen says, tone approaching apologetic, "that was unthoughtful of me Grimsson."

"It is what it is," I reply, "Worry about squaring it up when we're behind the Gates."

My fellow Ranger nods.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

The day's march was an uneventful one; just hours of walking through the mountain trails until Baraz called for camp to be made and for us to settle in for the night.

I'm not expected to take up any work, on account of my arm, and am put in front of the fire with the expectation that I rest and recuperate. Warm, surrounded by the safety of allies, and with no expectations of work for the foreseeable future. Short of having some good food and drink, it was the dream really.

But the feeling in my gut was only getting worse.

I wasn't sure why but whatever it was hadn't let me relax since I woke up. Trying to distract myself with what few tasks I was cleared to do didn't work, and eating food only left me feeling full but just as anxious as before. The only thing that seemed remotely effective was either whittling with my knife—not really easy with one hand but I could manage—or resting my working hand on the top of the axe hanging from my belt and scanning the horizon.

Okay so that made it sound like that I maybe knew why my gut was doing its best impression of a rock tumbler.

But like any good Dwarf I ignored the obvious answer and continued to act confused because it better fit my world view.

We were safe. I had to believe that.

A whistle in the wind almost makes me jump up and start reaching for my crossbow before I realize that it's a Ranger's call and not the sound of arrows in flight.

The band watches as a troupe of a dozen Frostbeards emerge from the brush at the northern edge of camp. Baraz, having appeared out of somewhere, is already walking up to receive the lead Ranger's report while the others disperse into camp and integrate with our group.

It's okay.

It's fine.

I repeat it to myself, ignoring how it's failing to make me relax even as the other Rangers around me glance away and return to whatever they were doing.

"Grimsson," Balen announces calmly, walking towards me, "How're you holding up?"

Balen's been given the unceremonious task of being my minder I have come to realize. It took more time than I care to admit, but she's not exactly very creative in the way she checks in on me. Same question, and I give the same general response. A bit of chit chat after the fact, and then back to business.

"I'll hold till we reach Karaz-a-Karak," I answer, pausing for a moment before adding, "after that is anyone's guess."

A frown appears on the other Ranger's face.

"Aye? You mind giving me your best guess anyway there Grimsson?" Balen prods, voice changing subtly.

"It's as I explained to Her Highness, Drumboot," I mutter offhandedly, attention slightly wavering when I notice a nearby bush rustle, "Report to the High King, do my best to earn my Clan some peace of mind, then go off and seek my vengeance."

No one's noticing that rustle, maybe I should say something? I feel my hand rest on the handle of the axe when the rustling reaches a crescendo and—

"I see," my fellow Ranger mutters.

—I feel myself deflate at the small brown blur that emerges from the bush.

Oh.

That's why no one's reacting.

Just a squirrel.

I run the event through my head again, and I numbly begin to pick out the details that would have told me I had nothing to be worried about. Nagging and biting commentary that sound way too close to the voices of my dead family running in my head.

"—Grimsson?" a voice, Balen I remind myself, cuts through the voices, "you listening Grimsson?"

I force myself to look her in the eye, and Balen pulls a face.

"I beg your pardon Drumboot," I say apologetically, "I was—"

Freaked out by squirrels

"—distracted by something. What did you say?"

She sighs and passes a poultice. Towards me

"Nevermind. Here, boil some water and put this in for no more than four minutes. Afterwards, chug or sip it down. Should help you sleep."

"...thank you Drumfoot," I say, taking the bag absentmindedly, "I'll be sure to do that."

"I'm holding you to that Grimsson. I've been given the duty of overseeing yours and every other injured Dwarf's recovery until we get to Everpeak and the Valayan's can get a look at you. And I won't get harangued because you decided to be a poor patient," she says, eyes inscrutable.

"Of course," I say, nodding in understanding.

Balen returns the gesture and heads off to check on the other wounded who can't move under their own power.

I watch her go for a moment before I turn my head and go back to watching the fire, focusing on the crackle of the flame and the heat on my skin.

Inside my tent I follow Balen's instructions, putting the baggie in a tankard of boiling water and letting the not!tea steep for no more than four minutes. Then, with as much fanfare as when I ate the hardbread, I chug the whole thing down in less than half a minute.

True to Balen's words, I feel my fatigue increase and the room go blurry.

I don't know how long I'm out for.

But despite waking up feeling slightly more well rested, I wake up almost the exact same way.

To the roar of an avalanche, but this time accompanied by the shriek of arrows.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

We've been marching for several days now, two weeks if we go by human timekeeping, and are making steady progress to Everpeak with its safe walls, warm halls and shiny bau—bals?

It was worth a shot.

While the tea hadn't given me a full night's rest, it was better than going without. So I had gone to Balen for more, but my request for the recipe was rebuffed by her pulling the ol' "Clan Secrets," card, instead she had made a point of passing me a bag of the not!tea at least once per day, usually around the times she came to check on how my arm was healing.

Other than that, several of the other Rangers had begun reaching out to me as well. Usually making idle conversation, or some other idle bit of chit chat for the ones around my age, and grumbling bits of contradictory wisdom, lecturing, or recounting stories from the older ones.

I appreciated it.

It was their best attempt at keeping me company and providing some modicum of comfort, a difficult thing for people in a career that self-selected for lonely and otherwise introverted nutcases, and, which took me an embarrassingly long time to realize, because they were reasonably worried that leaving me to my own thoughts was liable to end up with me taking off my shirt and shaving my head.

Suffice it to say that there was a very very low chance that I would ever become a Slayer.

If I was going to die, It would be all at once.

Not the slow agonized one that Slayers took, where their bodies took a bit longer to catch up to their mind and sense of self-worth.

More personally, my mother had lost two husbands, and three of her four sons. Me going Slayer would, in both her eyes and the eyes of Dwarf society, mean she had lost all of her children.

Because that's part of being a Slayer. You are so without honour that only death can give you redemption. All bonds of kinship sundered in this life to redeem the one that comes after. Forcing those you love, in a way, grieve for you and bear the shame of being related to you.

I would probably die trying to fulfill the Grudge that was undoubtedly going to be aimed at whoever it was that killed most of the able-bodied men in my Clan, but that was different from guaranteeing I would die by choosing to be a Slayer.

Speaking of.

I was now reasonably sure that Alrika may have also been under the impression that I was also liable to become a Slayer.

Not that I could confirm it, given she hadn't spoken to me at all these past few days.

I barely even saw the Princess to be honest, and the few times I did see her she was always escorted by a quartet of Longbeard Rangers that had been assigned to guard her. Not because she was avoiding me, she only ever was in one of three places after all; her's, the medical, or Baraz's command tents. It seemed she wasn't happy sitting idle, because she was always doing something. Helping the healers, speaking to the wounded, or with Baraz to receive reports from the other troupes that were joining up with us.

Right.

Forgot to mention it, but groups of Rangers have continuously been linking up with ours as we've been marching back. They ranged, ha, in size between squads of five to three dozen individuals at most, and were made up from several Clans. At first it was just more Frostbeards, but eventually groups from other Clans joined as we moved past Frostbeard stomping grounds into their traditional stretches of the World's Edge.

And they brought grim news.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

When one of Baraz's aides asked me to come to his command tent, I didn't think it would be anything more than a debrief.

Instead I walk in to see several sets of eyes turn to me. Baraz White-eye, his gaze pensive, a very tired looking Alrika looking like she'd seen a ghost, and three old Rangers that were part of the group that joined up with us a few minutes earlier.

"Your Highness, Elders." I greet, nodding at each of them in turn.

"Grimsson. These are Longbeards Thorri Longbrow, Snorri Gorltongue and Jarri Skinwalker, of Clan Thunder Cliff," Elder Baraz introduces, nodding at each of the other Rangers in order from right to left. "When we heard their report, Her Highness insisted you would have something of value to offer."

Baraz gestures his eye at Alrika meaningfully as he does so.

What he means is 'try not to make the Princess look like a fool by being a moron, please.'

The "please," was my addition.

"I understand Elder White-eyes." I reply, bowing respectfully.

"Well you three, show him." He barks at the other Dawi.

They look at each other, and the one in the center moves to unroll a map, marked to high heaven with symbols and notes.

"Our band split off into three parts a half-month prior to begin conducting patrols when we got White-eye's message. Following tradition, we sent runners to the other two prongs and began moving to regroup at one of our Clan's personal caches before heading here," Snorri begins, tracing out the path they had taken and the planned route of the two prongs.

"By our estimation, we would be the last to arrive given we were in charge of the largest single contingent, and had ranged the farthest from our rendezvous point.

"We arrived expecting to see our kin, and instead we found their corpses." he finishes grimly.

"Forty-four Dawi slain," Jarri thunders angrily, "Half were Rangers with over a century of experience each and they were killed as easily as the beardlings were. All done with no sign of struggle, not a quarrel stuck in a tree or the snow, not an az unholstered, no blood or bodies on the ground save theirs. Nothing. Nothing save these."

He all but tosses a second sheet of parchment onto the table and my eyes hone in on it.

It's a set of tracks, meticulously recreated on parchment by the hands of a very talented artist, complete with notes describing width, depth, and calculated weight.

But all I cared about was the pattern.

Three toes, no sign of wing-tracks.

"The creature from the cache," I mutter, looking up at a nodding Baraz.

"Your own sketch was piss-poor but aye we came to the same conclusion." he confirms, "Which is partly why the Princess asked for you."

I nod, confused but willing to play along.

"I will offer what little I know."

They grill me for information I know that Baraz already possesses, asking for dates, tracks, anything at all that lets them calculate the creature's path. I answer and watch them work, while occasionally glancing at Alrika who seems engrossed in what's being said.

"Too fast for a Wyvern, and even if the boy was too blind to see its tracks, your own path would have crossed the smallest possible land route between them. So either it flew, or it went through the Underground." Snorri says firmly.

Jarri shakes his head, "No opening with the right dimensions is close enough for the timeline to fit. Opening for something that big isn't one you can hide either. We know these peaks, but even a cityborn manling would be able to notice something like that. Not impossible, but it would have to be newly made."

"No beast under the rock or in the skies that combination of shape and size, or at least that fits and has its range reach this far either. Most likely an 'export' or a wizard's nonsense."

"Uzkular or Thaggoraki then. Grobi don't have the capability or inclination to do this sort of work."

Baraz shakes his head.

"It doesn't fit those two either though. The Uzkular were broken by the High King and the Manlings aye, but even the least of them can and would rather raise an army of bones than play the Grobi as patsy. The Thaggoraki would, but you don't use Grobi when your numbers are more than sufficient."

I perk up a little.

"The rats would do it just to be cackle at pulling wool over our eyes, don't give them wisdom they do not deserve." Jarri counters angrily.

"I give them nothing, but I'm not so arrogant as to dismiss them for fools. More than one Dawi has died believing himself safe from the very same Raki Blade plunged into his back." Baraz rebukes.

Fair enough, but the rats are in the middle of a Civil War right now. Not that anyone else in the room knows that.

Are we the target though? I ask myself, looking over the map to stare at the image of Gunbad.

The four elders continue to squabble, and I decide to take the time they spend ignoring me and the Princess to entertain my idea.

I don't want Everpeak, or Zhufbar. Rich targets, yes, but inhabited and manned by Dwarfs. Even weakened, they could and had beaten worse odds. A tough fight. Whoever I am, I would want a comparatively softer target, but one with perhaps equivalent value.

So I would want Gunbad. The richest mine in the World's Edge.

Problem. Night Goblins live in Gunbad. Too many to count.

Solution. Weaken Night Goblins by throwing Dwarfs at them. Give the latter a reason to believe the former killed their Princess, let natural enmity take hold.

Now the question was who could and had reason to do it? The Red Face tribe were the Bloody Spearz rivals, and attacked them for Gunbad in the past, but there was no word or sign from them in centuries. The Skaven were in a civil war, but a Clan fleeing the conflict to conserve its strength would also fit. A Greenskin within the Bloody Spearz was possible, but why risk weakening the tribe you were trying to take over. Vampire was also a valid answer. Even a Frurndar.

But unlike the other theories we had a possible way of finding out.

Who, at this time, would want Gunbad?

"What was that lad?" Baraz asks, looking at me quizzically.

Fuck.

I think about saying that it was a foolish idea not worth considering, but when subjected to the stony faced glares of four Elders and the curious gaze of a Princess I buckle like wet paper.

So I tell them about my theory.

They listen quietly, and when I finish, they all look at me consideringly.

"Still doesn't answer who, but such a motive is at least one we can pursue," Snorri finally admits, rubbing his beard in thought.

"If the boy's theory is right." Jarri entertains, emphasizing the first word, "Then the records would perhaps reveal something. Inter-tribal conflict among the Greenskins, Raki movements. Build a picture of what's happening on the macro scale."

"If the boy's theory is right." Thorri repeats.

They all nod in unison.

"At the very least, we must ensure its a theory we can dismiss definitively." Snorri adds, "Such an insult cannot go unpunished after all, and a Grudge levied against the architect who has the gall to use the blood of Grungni's heirs as grease for their machinations."

A round of even firmer nods.

"There's much to think about, and we're bleeding a stone trying to get any more insights from the information we have. I'll have my lads ask around, schedule a meeting with the other band leaders. See if we can find any commonality in the specific tribes beyond being Bloody Spearz vassals." Baraz concludes.

More nods.

"Then with Her Highness'es leave, I say we table this business for the moment."

We all look at Alrika, who has remained silent this entire time.

"Let this discussion be adjourned." she announces, voice just a bit croaky from disuse.

The three Thunder Cliff Longbeards bow and file out of the tent, but when I move to follow Baraz bids me stay.

"Stay here boy, I did say that having you share what you knew was partly why you were called after all." Baraz says, eyeing me critically before turning to Alrika. "With your leave your Highness?"

Alrika nods, and White-eye bows before leaving the tent. Though not without giving me one final look just before he passes under the flap, leaving the princess and I alone.

Great.

I turn away from Baraz to stare at Alrika.

"I did say we would talk again, didn't I Ranger?" she says.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

AN: AWAKEN THREAD, ARISE! YAAAAAARGH. Hope you enjoy, and sorry for the hiatus! Don't forget to C&C. :^)

 

[soulcake]

━<><><>< 2204 I.C. ><><><>━​

Alrika's words linger in the air for a quiet moment, neither of us are saying anything.

Is she going to continue or—?

"You mentioned it in passing once—"

Oh good I didn't just fail my social roll

"—that you were thinking of a way to earn your kin reprieve, were you not?"

"That I was your Highness," I nod grimly, "A Warrior Clan that can't contribute warriors isn't much of a Warrior Clan. We'd be sending our Elders, mothers and children if the High King called a muster."

Gonna try to not dwell on that. No sir. Focus on Alrika, look at her hair, the bags under her steely grey eyes, yup, yup. Don't think about the dead, don't you fucking do it me! Don't think about the cold stiff hands, the empty eyes, the red snow,the redsnow,thebloodsnow.theirbloodsno—

"—Norgrim," Alrika commands quietly, pulling me back to see her knowing gaze and concerned frown.

Grungni damnit.

I take a breath.

"I'm fine. I'm here, I'm here." I tell her, not sure who I'm actually trying to convince.

"Very well. As I was saying, you must know that even if you won your Clan the right to refuse a muster, would they? Others have suffered worse still and answered the call, the honour of Clan Growlsh would be called into question."

"That's…true," I answered faintly, realizing I had failed to take my Clan's feelings into consideration.

The cultural pressure for us Dwarfs to 'commit to the bit,' is a double bladed axe; the same willingness we have to die for a cause and our word that makes every lonely nerd swoon like a maiden is the same fucking thing slowly bleeding us dryer than a mummy in Nehekara. Clan Growlsh would answer when the High King called a muster, our their collective pride would allow nothing less. Like Alrika said, even if the High King told my family, subtly or bluntly, that we were exempt from conscription, that would probably just make my family even more determined to do the exact opposite.

"But!" Alrika presses on, pulling me out of my downward spiraling thoughts, "But, If there was something that your Clan could do even in its current state, something of equivalent worth in the eyes of all involved so that Honour is satisfied…"

"...then there's hope," I finish, looking at Alrika consideringly, "what do you have in mind though your Highness? There aren't many positions that satisfy that criteria."

"No, there aren't," Alrika agrees quietly, letting silence fall between us for a moment.

I watch as she squares her shoulders, crossing her arms and chews the inside of her cheek; getting lost in thought as she considers her next words, a flicker of something crosses her face. Even if I don't know why, its clear she's conflicted about something.

Then she suddenly looks back at me, features stern and eyes resolute like she's made up her mind.

"Which is why I will petition my father to have Clan Growlsh 'rewarded' with the duty of protecting me."

What.

"And you will convince your Clan to make you their Champi—"

"What."

Alrika pauses again to look at me archly and I flush just a little. Said that one out loud, shit.

"Apologies," I mutter sincerely.

She huffs, "It's understandable, just save your incredulities and questions for when I'm done, Norgrim."

Right. Smart, yup. Shut up and listen to the trained diplomat and politician you idiot, message received your Highness.

"As I was saying," Alrika continues, glancing at me pointedly, "you will convince Clan Growlsh to make you their Champion, and act in their stead. Honour is satisfied, Clan Growlsh is given reprieve, and no more Dawi need die. What do you think?"

It's a good plan, better than what I had in my head at least. But there's one, glaring point that I feel the need to address.

"I have one question," I begin hesitantly, "why am I asking my Clan to be the Champion?"

I'm not just saying that because I don't want to be a Champion.

Mostly.

Ignoring the awesome and frankly horrible responsibilities of taking on the collective Honour of my family and acting with the knowledge that everything I do will reflect back on them even more directly than it already does, which is a pretty big ask, being a Champion isn't exactly the sort of thing you ask a Ranger, especially one as young as me, to be. Champions are martial heroes, the guys you send to do duels and try nonsense like breaking the morale of armies with. They are examples of physical and/or magical might and inspiration. Put simply, a martial or magical beat stick with high Charisma, and I've dumped all my stats into everything but that. Rangers…Rangers don't do that. We're the sneaky sneaks who tilt the odds in our favour as much as we can. We set ambushes and do junk like night attacks, booby traps, and go outside of our own volition. Stuff that my people consider the realm of Grobi and unscrupulous blackguards.

"Honour," Alrika says simply, as if that answers everything (which it does a lot of the time in Dwarf society frankly.) "It won't do to have a member of Clan Growlsh who wasn't involved in this endeavor be the one to protect me. And well Norgrim, you—"

A concave chest, bloody lips, glassy eyes, staring, staring, blaming—

"—I'm the only one alive who meets that criteria," I finish tiredly.

Alrika gives me an inscrutable look, but hesitantly nods.

"Skill can be learned, talent honed, and equipment gifted, but it has to be you. If you're willing to go through with this plan, I can at least say you're unlikely to face anything too dangerous, current circumstances notwithstanding. You will have time to train, to prepare. Protecting a diplomat, let alone the daughter of the High King... There's a target on my back aye, but my family knows that as well. I'm not deliberately put in harm's way, and I doubt my father will want me to go beyond the walls of Karaz-a-Karak for a year or five at least either," she offers, trying to sound encouraging.

I sigh, looking down at my hands. Is she trying to pay me back? This is a terrible gift your Highness, not that I'd say that aloud. Not only would that be rude, which my mother didn't raise me to be I must remind you, but also because it's a great fucking deal. If, you know, you're a Dwarf who's been raised to be all too happy to die if it means keeping your family's honour intact, let alone improved. The thing was I didn't want this. Not at all. But from what Alrika's intuition is telling her it's either gonna be me acting as my Clan's Champion, or my family extinguishes itself trying to live up to its own Grungni damned hype.

Steal my beer and shave my beard.

"And the Grudge?" I ask hollowly, the last few dregs of disagreement and defiance mustering up a feeble final effort in the face of what feels like inevitability crashing down on me.

"My stake may not be as personal as yours Norgrim, but striking out the Grudge against the one who tried to kill me would fall under the remit of my protector," she points out.

Yeah…

…yeah I fucking figured, glumly closing my eyes and nodding.

"You've thought of everything then," I mutter tiredly.

Alrika coughs into her hand.

"I've had little else to do these past few days, Ranger. Elder White-eye wants me to rest, but how can I? Even if working in defiance of his wishes is already treading dangerously close to disrespecting his wisdom, I must, you understand?" she asks, staring at me again.

"I do," I answer with surprising honesty.

"Alright then your Highness, I'll go along with this plan of yours," I continue, speaking it with a surety I don't feel and resolve I am sorely lacking in.

Valaya, I just want to lie down and cry.

"Then it's settled," the princess says with a tone that's rife with the satisfaction of a Dwarf repaying a debt, "I'll inform elder White-eye of your agreement, and you can get a head start."

I raise a finger, opening my mouth to ask how and why Baraz would do that, but a look from Alrika tells me to drop it.

Being a Champion sucks.

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My crash course in..Championing(?) started the following morning.

If Baraz had any thoughts about me accepting Alrika's plan, he didn't show it. Instead the old Dwarf had just grunted at me and got to work. For shoulder-related reasons, he couldn't train me physically, so instead he gave me mental exercises.

Not just the theory and knowledge of small scale tactics and the sort of lateral thinking that was, I was told, instinctive to an older Ranger, but also for working in tandem or among more traditional Dwarfs too. My days would now start with Baraz dictating a series of around five or so scenarios to me; giving me details about the immediate terrain, enemies, allies, a list of objectives to fulfill, and other bits of miscellaneous information that may or may not be pertinent. Then at the end of the day I was expected to give him a plan on how to fulfill all, or most, of the objectives for each scenario, complete with a thorough analysis and explanation for not only my actions, but the rationale for which objectives I prioritized. No paper, no notes, were allowed, I had to rely on whatever I could remember in my head.

Don't exactly know if it's a good teaching method mind you, but it was the one he used and that I had to work under.

I was no prodigy, and he was no miracle worker, so it was slow going, but we had nothing better to do besides march and make then unmake camp while I healed.

Once, I had asked him about why we weren't talking about logistics.

Baraz had given me the flattest stare he could manage and said the following,

"Boy, if we ever find ourselves in a position where you of all people is the one worrying about the logistics of a Throng, we're all buggered beyond belief already. Do everything in your power to make sure that never has to happen."

So yeah.

That wasn't all I did though. Mental exercises aside, Baraz had me serve as one of his many gophers. Usually it involved going this way and that way at his order with expectations that I get whatever job he told me to get done…got done. Whether it was leading a newly joined band through the camp, carrying messages or even checking in on the injured alongside Balen and or Alrika when Baraz wasn't able to do it himself. Of course he expected me to report back to him, and we had no paper to waste on notes either of course, so that was yet more things I had to stuff away into my head.

Other times, he had me sit in with him and the older Rangers as they grumbled and planned incomprehensibly in the meaning laden and context dependent grunting that every old Dwarf seemed to know by heart. During those occasions, he'd tell me to repeat my theory to whichever new Elder Ranger joined the growing band.

Apparently the theory I offered wouldn't leave their heads. I'd been retelling the same damn story almost every night, answering some variation of the same damn question over and over.

Still not as bad as being an Apprentice. Somehow.

I couldn't wait to get back to Everpeak, if only to get away from this slave driver of an old man.

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That's a Runebearer.

One bearing (heh), the sigil of the High King.

The small throng of Rangers all looked at the young man with varying levels of scrutiny as he scampered towards us.

"Baraz Thingolsson," he calls, voice clear and resonant, "I seek Baraz Thingolsson, otherwise known as Baraz White-eye!"

"Aye that's me beardling," the Elder grunts out, walking towards him, "What orders from the Gormrikki?"

He straightens up even more rigidly somehow, trying to look as official as he can. It was sort of funny actually.

I blink.

Oh Valaya is this how other people saw me? Questions for never.

"By the order of High King Alrik Kendraksson, you are to continue your journey, but shall instead make way to the ruins of Valazkadrin, five days north of the Pillars of Grungni! Make whatever deviations you believe necessary to ensure his daughter, her Highness Princess Alrika Kemmasdottir remain in good health and sound mind and, if not at the expense of the former, to extend such desires to those with you. The High King shall send forth the might of the Durazklad and Ullek there, and there they shall hold, waiting to receive you. Let your path be clear, your axe sharp and your ale un-watered!

A round of grumbling, nods and flickers of hope disguised as scoffs runs through the assembled mass of Dwarfs at the proclamation.

"Further!" the Runebearer continued after the murmuring had died down, "High King Alrik Kendraksson has given me a letter, to be delivered to and read by his child, her Highness Princess Alrika Kemmasdottir."

He walks over and hands a sealed leather tube to a stoic Alrika, who just holds onto it for later.

"Lastly!" he says, "A message for Norgrim Grimsson, clansdwarf of the Noble Clan Growlsh!"

I blink, and suddenly feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on me. Goody.

Holding back a gulp, I step forward, grabbing the Runebearer's attention.

"Here," I greet lamely— 'here'? Kill me now, it'd only be worse if I raised my hand—earning a nod from the younger Dwarf.

"Let it be known that High King Alrik Kendraksson shall expect your return, and that a reward for your deeds and sacrifice shall await you. So says the bearer of Grungni's legacy. Thus ends the message."

Alright, cool, don't freak out. I don't know what else to do but nod. "I understand."

Before the assembled crowd can start chatting amongst themselves, Baraz steps forward.

"Alright you lot! We're not keeping the Gormrikki waiting, back to marching! Off you go! Bunch of wazzoks, the lot of you!"

Baraz gives everyone a pointed glare, eye squinted threateningly as he makes sure his orders are followed. I instinctively start moving too, trained over decades across two lives to listen when old people start yelling, but am stopped by Baraz's hand on my shoulder.

"Not you. Don't think you can get away from your training that easy boy."

That wasn't what I was planning, but now I wish I was.

"Balen!" Baraz calls, turning away from me to holler at his younger relative, "You too lass. C'mere! Earn that damn name you preen about!"

"Bah, I'm coming you old goat," she shouts back, picking up the pace as she half jogs to us.

Then White-eye turns to the Runebearer, as if remembering he was there, and eyes him up and down critically.

"How many copies of my message did Everpeak get boy?" he grunts out.

"Four, Elder," the young Dwarf replies promptly.

Baraz grunts, while Balen and I instinctively wince, sharing a grim look after we notice the other's actions.

White-eye had sent a total of sixteen Rangers out ahead, six when he first found us and then another ten over the intervening few days.

"How many did the High King send back?" Baraz asks, an edge of weariness finding purchase in his otherwise dour and stoic visage.

"Five Runebearers were sent out Elder, I am the last…" he responds, voice trailing off and features falling slightly as he puts two and two together.

As a rule you send out multiple Runebearers, staggering them out and making them take different routes to their intended destination, only when you think something bad is happening. A precaution for when you think one won't make it, or if the message is important enough that you don't care if they get multiple copies.

And he was the first one we saw.

"What's your name son?" Baraz finally asks.

"Gorek Bryndsson, Elder," he answers quietly.

The old ranger nods, committing it to memory.

"Well Gorek, how about you grab a tankard and get ready to march eh? It'll be tough going, but a Runebearer worth his beard will persevere." Baraz suggests, not mentioning, nor really needing to, the possible fates of the other four Runebearers.

"Yes Elder, thank you Elder," he replies, bowing at all three of us each before walking off.

"Balen," Baraz murmurs after Gorek gets out of earshot, "I want you to spread the word to the Medical tent, the wounded and the folk I assigned to healing duty, all of them stay in the center of the column right next to her Highness. Understand?"

"Aye I'll let them know," she says with a nod, turning around and beginning to walk towards the medical area.

"ALL of them, Balen," White-eye says pointedly, making her stop in her tracks and turn her head to look at him.

I can't see Baraz's face from where I stand, but there must be something particularly grave about his appearance because Balen had turned back with her mouth open, ready to argue, only to close it and sigh. Her eyes are squinted, angry and sad plus whatever else I don't have the social intelligence or physical proximity to decipher.

"Yes father," Drumboot says, giving him a final nod before walking off grimly.

Ah.

"Good Ranger," he says after her fondly, and unintentionally making me feel like an intruder, before he finally turns back to look at me.

His good eye seems to bore into mine.

"I don't need to say anything I should hope?" Baraz grumbles, eyebrow raised.

There's a fight coming.

"Nai Elder," I reply.

"Right. You're still injured, so go follow that fool girl and try not to die eh?"

You aren't fighting.

"Aye Elder."

"Lets hope you don't have to use that training so soon either lad."

We glance at each other, both of us tired, and seemingly all too aware of just how futile that hope is.

"Aye, I knew the second it left my lips," Baraz chuckles darkly.

Sometimes being genre savvy is a pain in the ass. Just because you lived in a world that was once a narrative, doesn't mean everything in it is. Not every random moment is a chekov's gun, not every mysterious turn of phrase is foreshadowing. Sometimes that piece of bread that fell on the floor is just an idiot with poor hand-eye coordination, sometimes that strange phrase is just a Dwarf getting tongue tied for some reason. Sometimes life just is. Random, chaotic and utterly unpredictable.

I dearly wish Baraz is just being melodramatic.

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AN: Another chapter! Sidestory as voted on in the Patreon will be next, then Chapter 10. *pops party popper* I wanted to get to the action this chapter but this felt more right? IDK. I just sorta wanted Norgrim to suffer I guess. Does that say something about me? Meh. Anyway, hope you like it, and don't forget to C&C! :^)