Ungrim's stare remains steady and unblinking, but those close enough can see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Once more, a low murmur ripples through the ring of warriors, thanes and chroniclers alike that line the hall. Then, the king raises a hand and silence returns. The kind that pulls all sound from the air, like the stillness before a hammer meets the anvil.
"Council and recognition, you say," Ironfist rumbles, leaning back on his throne. "I'll grant you at least the first. Counsel is what keeps a realm from a foolish death. As for recognition..." he pauses, intentionally letting the word hang heavily in the air, "that’ll be earned or lost by the tale you tell." The king straightens slightly and his eyes glint beneath his heavy brow. "If what you say is true, Bründir Halfshield, then what you carry are not mere arms, but echoes of our people’s past. If what you claim bears the weight that you say it does, that the north stirs with old powers and armies march under dark banners, then the sons of Karaz Kadrin will hear it. All of it."
"Loremaster," Ungrim declares, turning his head towards Odrik Thangrimsson, who stands to one side with a dozen scribes. "Take up your quill. Let the tale of the Acharnost be set to stone."
"As the king commands," Odrik replies, bowing so deeply that his beard brushes his chest. The scholar motions to his scribes, who unfurl long rolls of vellum, their inkpots trembling in anticipation.
"Speak, then," the king continues, his attention returning to Bründir. "Tell us how Sheercleft stood and how the Acharnost kept the dark at bay. Omit nothing that the mountain should know. We’ll weigh your words, your deeds and the arms that you bear, then we'll see what counsel this hall can give you... and what recognition you've earned."
He gestures with an open hand in what is as much an invitation to begin, as it is a command.
Ungrim's stare remains steady and unblinking, but those close enough can see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Once more, a low murmur ripples through the ring of warriors, thanes and chroniclers alike that line the hall. Then, the king raises a hand and silence returns. The kind that pulls all sound from the air, like the stillness before a hammer meets the anvil.
"Council and recognition, you say," Ironfist rumbles, leaning back on his throne. "I'll grant you at least the first. Counsel is what keeps a realm from a foolish death. As for recognition..." he pauses, intentionally letting the word hang heavily in the air, "that’ll be earned or lost by the tale you tell." The king straightens slightly and his eyes glint beneath his heavy brow. "If what you say is true, Bründir Halfshield, then what you carry are not mere arms, but echoes of our people’s past. If what you claim bears the weight that you say it does, that the north stirs with old powers and armies march under dark banners, then the sons of Karaz Kadrin will hear it. All of it."
"Loremaster," Ungrim declares, turning his head towards Odrik Thangrimsson, who stands to one side with a dozen scribes. "Take up your quill. Let the tale of the Acharnost be set to stone."
"As the king commands," Odrik replies, bowing so deeply that his beard brushes his chest. The scholar motions to his scribes, who unfurl long rolls of vellum, their inkpots trembling in anticipation.
"Speak, then," the king continues, his attention returning to Bründir. "Tell us how Sheercleft stood and how the Acharnost kept the dark at bay. Omit nothing that the mountain should know. We’ll weigh your words, your deeds and the arms that you bear, then we'll see what counsel this hall can give you... and what recognition you've earned."
He gestures with an open hand in what is as much an invitation to begin, as it is a command.
The Chronicles of Arden: Sheercleft - DM for Aiden, Bründir, Jex, Thurston, Valaith and Vark
The Chronicles of Arden: Hunters - DM for Alaris, Astrid, Caio and Shiva