Quote from stormchaser6>>

Valaith's question carries more weight than her words alone and the dwarf’s blue eyes narrow slightly. He meets the barbarian's stare, stroking one calloused thumb across the edge of his beard clasp.

"Aye," he rumbles in a matter-of-fact tone. "The name's Thorek Ironbinder. Runesmith, like my father and his father before him. If ye've come t'me door askin' that, then ye've not wandered here by accident."

His eyes flick up and down Valaith's massive frame, taking in the frost-bitten set of her features and the great hammer hanging across her back. There’s a faint twitch in the corner of his mouth, almost a smile, but not quite.

"That’s no common hammer ye carry. Even from here, I can feel it breathin' quiet, waitin' to be given voice. Hnh. So, tell me, giantkin, what is it ye're after? A rune etched for strength? For blood?"

"I am Valaith, daughter of Kanathi, named Wildeye, of Clan Kalukavi and the Acharnost. Named Rimehand, bearer of the hammer Rook. I give you my name and with it my strength." Val watches Thorek for several minutes, gauging him before answering his question. "Truly? I am not sure. My brother could make runes, give them power and life. I want to learn to do the things he could do. As for this," she grabs Rook and holds it out between them. "This is Rook, it was my brother's and our father's before his, and his father's before." She looks at the hammer before turning back to Thorek. "It does indeed live, or something inside it does. Will you teach me?"

Thorek listens in stony silence as Valaith speaks, arms folded across his chest and eyes sharp as whetted steel. The cadence of her words, the weight of her heritage and the name that she gives, earn a faint incline of the dwarf's head.

When the giantess holds out Rook, the runesmith does not immediately take it. Instead, he leans forward just slightly, eyes narrowing as though the great hammer is a living thing that might stir if touched unbidden. His breath leaves him in a low grunt.

"Aye," Thorek murmurs quietly. "It lives, but not in the way ye think. That hammer’s been drinkin’ from the hands of yer blood for generations. Steel remembers, lass. Stone does too. Every strike, every oath, every death… it clings t’the marrow of a weapon like this."

The words hang in the air for a long moment and then the dwarf straightens, his unflinching, flinty gaze meeting Valaith's.

"Runes ain’t tricks of chisel an’ hammer. They’re bargains. Names carved into the bones o’ the world. Yer brother… he had the gift then. Mayhap ye’ve the echo of it too." The runesmith taps a thick finger first to his temple and then to his heart. "If ye wish me t’teach ye, ye’d best know that it’s no easy thing. No craft for dabblers. It’ll demand discipline fiercer than battle and patience harder than steel. Once ye carve a rune, it’s carved in you as well."

Thorek lets his arms fall to his sides, before finally extending one scarred hand up towards the giantess. He reaches for her forearm with the grip of one warrior sealing terms with another.

"If ye’ll swear t’walk that path, then I’ll take ye as a student. Not as giantkin, hammer-bearer, or Rimehand, but as one who listens to stone."

Behind Valaith's shoulder, Larkin’s faint outline shifts, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. He gives her the same nod that he once gave when showing her how to steady a chisel.

A long few moments pass as Bründir's face twists and considers. He wanted to start the work on his gear quickly, but wouldn't it be best to present himself with it all before the king first? What if secrets came out tonight and could be shared at the meeting? What if there were new faces of influence at the council who question the validity of his claims without the surety of ancient steel?

"Eager as I am, I think it's best we wait 'till our king hears th' tale with'em present. Soon as our it's done, though, I'll hand'em t'ye right there 'fore his eyes as a show o' good will. If yer scribes 'n scholars can start lookin' at histories an' clans tonight, though, might be somethin'll come up by then?"

Odrik listens without a flicker of impatience, his heavy brows knitting as he weighs Bründir’s choice. When his response comes, it is as a single, firm nod that carries the air of an agreement carved in stone.

"Wise. A blade unsheathed too soon is often mistaken for a threat. Before the king, with witnesses, there’ll be no question of your intent and, if you hand Dumdrengi into my care before his eyes, then any who’d doubt your honour will have nothing left to say."

The loremaster leans forwards, templing his fingers in consideration.

"As for the scribes, yes, I'll set them to work this very night. Your mother's name, your tales of Sheercleft and the marks upon Karakadrin and Karakalad. These are stones that we can turn without your possessions in hand. I'll have them comb the records of clan-kin, strays and oath-breakers alike. By council tomorrow, perhaps we'll already have a thread of lineage to tug upon."

Odrik's eyes hold Bründir's for a moment longer.

"Bründir, son of Brynja, you've come with more questions than answers. That makes you honest. Better to bring gaps in your tale than to mortar them with lies. Let the king hear it all as it is and let us fill the empty places together. That way, no councillor, no rival, or wandering tale-spinner will be able to twist it against you."

Bründir smile wide, as though he were a prized student under a prestigious mentor. "I'm happy t'hear yer approval. T'be fair, I wasn't plannin' on our whole tale comin' out t'night. I'll have a better tellin' fer th' king. Hopefully the others'll fill in my gaps, too."

Quote from stormchaser6 >>

Thorek listens in stony silence as Valaith speaks, arms folded across his chest and eyes sharp as whetted steel. The cadence of her words, the weight of her heritage and the name that she gives, earn a faint incline of the dwarf's head.

When the giantess holds out Rook, the runesmith does not immediately take it. Instead, he leans forward just slightly, eyes narrowing as though the great hammer is a living thing that might stir if touched unbidden. His breath leaves him in a low grunt.

"Aye," Thorek murmurs quietly. "It lives, but not in the way ye think. That hammer’s been drinkin’ from the hands of yer blood for generations. Steel remembers, lass. Stone does too. Every strike, every oath, every death… it clings t’the marrow of a weapon like this."

The words hang in the air for a long moment and then the dwarf straightens, his unflinching, flinty gaze meeting Valaith's.

"Runes ain’t tricks of chisel an’ hammer. They’re bargains. Names carved into the bones o’ the world. Yer brother… he had the gift then. Mayhap ye’ve the echo of it too." The runesmith taps a thick finger first to his temple and then to his heart. "If ye wish me t’teach ye, ye’d best know that it’s no easy thing. No craft for dabblers. It’ll demand discipline fiercer than battle and patience harder than steel. Once ye carve a rune, it’s carved in you as well."

Thorek lets his arms fall to his sides, before finally extending one scarred hand up towards the giantess. He reaches for her forearm with the grip of one warrior sealing terms with another.

"If ye’ll swear t’walk that path, then I’ll take ye as a student. Not as giantkin, hammer-bearer, or Rimehand, but as one who listens to stone."

Behind Valaith's shoulder, Larkin’s faint outline shifts, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. He gives her the same nod that he once gave when showing her how to steady a chisel.

Valaith stares at Rook as she listens to the words of Thorek when he speaks about the weapon, her appreciation of his knowledge climbs higher. Perhaps he could also teach her about her family's hammer. She holds the weight of his words in her hands as if feeling them like she would the stones of a land bridge before crossing or a hand hold on the face of cliff she wanted to climb. And this choice... it was that cliff, she felt it. She had a choice and it would forever change her. Climb to the heights that her brother could have achieved or... turn and remain Valaith. She feels Larkin there more than saw him, felt his nod within her very soul. No, this was no choice. She was destined for this. Every obstacle she had ever faced she had overcome. She had lived danger since the moment of her conception. And this was dangerous, the gravity of Thorek's words made that very clear to her. In her mind she grabs the first handhold on that cliff face as she extends out her massive hand to Thorek. "I swear this, by my gods, by my family, by me." 

Quote from Barlow >>

Bründir smile wide, as though he were a prized student under a prestigious mentor. "I'm happy t'hear yer approval. T'be fair, I wasn't plannin' on our whole tale comin' out t'night. I'll have a better tellin' fer th' king. Hopefully the others'll fill in my gaps, too."

Odrik smiles, his beard shifting as he dips his chin.

"Good," he replies, his voice low and gravelly. "A king’s hall deserves a telling with weight and polish, not the scatter of first words. Let the tale settle in your bones tonight, so that when you speak it on the morrow, it rings like hammer on steel. Your companions may shape the tale where you cannot. No loremaster worth his ink trusts a single tongue for the whole of history."

The dwarf leans a little closer.

"Remember, when the king listens, he'll hear more than your words. He'll weigh the truth of your bearing, the strength of your conviction and the ties that bind you to those who walk besides you. Hold fast to that and the telling will carry itself."

Quote from Lyrel >>

Valaith stares at Rook as she listens to the words of Thorek when he speaks about the weapon, her appreciation of his knowledge climbs higher. Perhaps he could also teach her about her family's hammer. She holds the weight of his words in her hands as if feeling them like she would the stones of a land bridge before crossing or a hand hold on the face of cliff she wanted to climb. And this choice... it was that cliff, she felt it. She had a choice and it would forever change her. Climb to the heights that her brother could have achieved or... turn and remain Valaith. She feels Larkin there more than saw him, felt his nod within her very soul. No, this was no choice. She was destined for this. Every obstacle she had ever faced she had overcome. She had lived danger since the moment of her conception. And this was dangerous, the gravity of Thorek's words made that very clear to her. In her mind she grabs the first handhold on that cliff face as she extends out her massive hand to Thorek. "I swear this, by my gods, by my family, by me." 

Thorek doesn’t hesitate when Valaith extends her hand. His own scarred, stone-like fingers close around hers and, although the dwarf's grip is nothing compared to the goliath's raw strength, there is a weight to it like that of the mountain itself. The weight of an oath spoken before stone and sky. Their surroundings fall still. The smell of forge-smoke and the echo of hammer strikes fade, leaving only the deep, resonant thrum of the earth beneath their feet. It travels up Valaith's arm and into her chest, until it's hard to tell whether the sound is in the air, or in her bones. Thorek's eyes never leave hers.

"Then the path that you take is no longer just yours, Valaith Kalukavi," he rumbles. "You’ve set your hand to the climb and the mountain has heard you. The hammer that you carry will answer differently now. You'll feel it, as you feel the ledge under your fingers before you leap."

The runesmith's free hand comes up, briefly touching Rook's haft. A pulse of warmth radiates from the metal, like the first flare of a forge brought to life.

"From this moment on, it will also test you. It will show you what your brother reached for... and what he feared. If you falter, it will not break, but it will remember. If you rise, it will become more than it was."

Thorek releases Valaith's hand and the faint hum of the earth subsides, replaced once more by the muted roar of the forge. At the edge of her awareness, she feels Larkin, like a steadying hand on her shoulder, and Rook has grown subtly heavier, its balance shifted as though waiting to be swung in a way that it hasn't been before.

Val knew that contracts held power, she had witnessed the power wielding by Vark for many moons now since his pact with the entity he named Matthew, but it was not until this moment that it became real. As the sounds around them become back to life she glances at Thorek, then at Rook as she absorbs the words of her new mentor with the solemn gravity this moment required. She grips the handle tighter as she feels the weight of Rook subtly shifting being changed at the exchange of vows. She could feel it differently, the mountain. It felt like... it was alive, breathing... a force. She grins at Thorek. "When do we begin?"

Thorek studies Valaith's grin for a long, silent moment. Although his face is carved from the same stern stone as the mountain itself, the corner of his mouth tugs upwards. Not much, but enough. The dwarf lets out a low breath through his beard, like a chuckle muffled by gravel.

"Spoken like a true hammer-bearer. Eager to swing before the forge is even lit."

The runesmith turns back toward the workshop, motioning the giantess inside with a flick of his thick wrist. The interior is a cave of heat and shadow, the air heavy with the tang of iron and the sweet bite of charcoal. Rows of chisels, each etched with their own tiny, perfect runes, line the walls like soldiers in formation. Plates of metal gleam on racks, faintly glowing where characters have been cut into them, pulsing with a quiet rhythm like heartbeats.

At the back stands an anvil, blackened with centuries of use. Its edges have been worn smooth and its face is scored with ancient marks that shimmer faintly in the forge-light. Above it, carved directly into the stone, are runes that might be older than Thorek himself. Some are half-faded, while others blaze bright as though they were chiselled yesterday. The dwarf wipes his hands on his leather apron and then folds his arms.

"We begin now, if ye’ve the will for it. First, ye’ll learn to listen. Most think runes are about the chisel, the hammer and the shape of the stroke. Wrong. They’re about silence. About hearin’ the name that the stone already carries, the name that the steel whispers when it’s born of fire."

The runesmith gestures toward a block of raw stone sat on a low table, its face smooth but untouched.

"Sit. Put Rook aside. Forget yer strength for a moment. Lay yer hand on that stone and tell me what ye feel."

Behind Valaith, Larkin’s outline flickers faintly. She can hear his voice, soft as the wind in deep caverns.

"You know this, Val. Like the cliff face. Like the ice under your boots. Trust it."

Val's keen eyes taken in all the details from the tiniest imperfections to the variable brightness of the runes. Even as her eyes sweep over everything, she listens and takes in everything Thorek speaks on. She opens her mouth to ask a question, but he then gestures towards the stone and instructs, so she closes her mouth and moves to comply. She sets Rook against a nearby wall, but always within eyesight as she moves over to place her hand upon the stone. As she does, she can hear the voice of her brother gently urging her on. She feels a tightness in her chest that she doesn't trust so she closes her eyes and lays her palm onto the perfectly smooth surface of the stone. 

She holds it there for several heartbeats, focusing too hard on what she can feel with her hand; the surface was cool to the touch, smooth yet textured, hard and unyielding. She holds her hand there longer, not feeling anything but the physical features of the stone itself. She huffs angrily, the cold mists of her anger puffing into the heat of the room. 'They're about silence.' Thorek had said. Maybe not just silence of the mouth, but... the mind? The spirit? She takes another deep breath and lets it out slowly this time. She let's go of her thoughts, let them drift on the wind like she sometimes would back home during those frigid, still mornings as she would stand at the precipice of the mountains and watching the dawning of the day. She felt a stillness waiting for her there, a presence that wasn't a presence, but an absence? It did not make sense to her, but--- 'Quiet.'

Val let's go of her thoughts once more, allowing the stillness to return. It made her feel strange, but calm. In that stillness she feels a quiver from the stone, not in her hands, but in her spirit. Something was there in the stone, a presence that she could sense now in her stillness. It whispered so quietly to her, but it was too quiet and she could not understand what it was saying, but the presence felt comfortable it felt like... "Home." She whispers aloud, her eyes opened and she looks at Thorek. "It feels like home."

Thorek watches Valaith the entire time. His arms are folded and the orange glow of the forge dances across the deep lines of the dwarf's face. He doesn't interrupt when she huffs, or when the mist of the giantess's breath curls against the heat, instead letting the impatience burn out of his would-be apprentice like a forge-fire consuming dross. When she finally stills, the barbarian's tone turning quiet and reverent, Thorek steps closer, his boots grating softly on the stone floor. The runesmith lays his thick hand besides Valaith's on the untouched block and her palm dwarfs his own.

"Aye," the dwarf tells her. "Home. That’s the mountain. Not the peaks, or the mines, or the halls that we carve, but the heart of it. Every stone ye'll ever touch carries its own name, its own memory. Some are as harsh as the glacier winds and others as soft as the hearthstone, but all of ‘em belong. That's what ye felt."

The runesmith pulls his hand back, looking the giantess full in the eye.

"That's the first step. Don't mistake it for a small one, mind ye. Most never hear anything but the chill in their fingers, but you… you heard where ye come from, even if yer blood’s not o’ the mountain. That means ye can listen an’, if ye can listen, then ye can learn."

A deep silence follows, broken only by the crackle of coals. Then, with a grunt, Thorek turns and begins pulling a chisel and hammer from a rack. He sets them down before the barbarian with deliberate care. The metal rings faintly, as though the tools themselves are acknowledging the moment.

"Tomorrow, we begin the work proper, but, for now, remember this feelin'. The stillness. The home ye found in the stone. Ye'll need to call it again, when ye strike yer first mark."

Behind Valaith's shoulder, Larkin lingers like a shadow of warmth, his expression softer than she’s seen since his death. For the briefest flicker of a heartbeat, she even hears him laugh with quiet pride.

Val beams with pride, nodding along with Thorek, but also basking in glowing of victory. She glances at the chisel and hammer with a gravity that was unnatural to the energetic, young goliath warrior before her headiness breaks through once more. "I will! I will remember, Thorek. What time should I return?" 

Thorek gives a low, gravelly chuckle, brushing a hand through his beard as he watches Valaith's enthusiasm.

"Sunrise," the dwarf tells her. "When the first light strikes the peaks, meet me here. We'll start with the old ways. 'Stone before steel, meaning before mark.' You'll learn to feel the rune before you carve it." The runesmith glances toward Rook once more. "Bring the hammer. It'll need to remember what it once was, same as you will."

With that, Thorek turns back towards the forge, and the rhythmic sound of hammer on metal resumes.

Bründir sighs, but returns a coy smile, "Guess we better get our story straight, eh? I'll go meet th' others now an' let'em know what they've got comin'."

Xej spends a restless night thinking on his conversation with Vark and the feelings of his friends on Jex and himself. Awake anyway, he rises early and sits crosslegged on the rug once again. Taking the mirror, he places it on his knees and braces himself for what is to come. Drawing a deep breath, he removes the cloth which covers the reflective surface and looks int it. For a moment, it seems as though Jex has decided to ignore him, and Xej is almost relieved, but he should have known better. His own face shifts into a sneer and hisses from the mirror.

"They want us together because you are in control. You are useless to them, you're an assassin who won't draw his blade. You can't protect them, you can't help them. You are consumed with self doubt and indecision. You need to let me in, but you need to forget the doubt and guilt, let me have control."

The image shifts again and Xej is once again left looking at his own reflection. He wraps the mirror again and rises, ready to meet with the king.

When dawn breaks over Karaz Kadrin, it is sharp and cold, painting the mountain’s teeth in fire and frost. The Stonekeep stands at the heart of Ungrim Ironfist's realm like a fortress hewn from the bones of the world. Its outer walls are rimed in ice that catches the sunlight in ghostly orange hues and, inside, the air is heavy with the mingled scents of forge smoke, beard-oil and the faint tang of old incense, which still clings to the carved stone pillars. In the great hall, braziers burn low along the walls, casting long shadows over engraved scenes of the drengi kings and their oaths of vengeance. Warriors in burnished mail stand silent besides runic banners and the scrape of boots echoes off of the vaulted ceiling, along with the occasional cough as the council assembles. Lords of the kingdom, priests of the Morndinsamman and Odrik Thangrimsson among them with his slate and runic stylus in hand.

At the far end of the hall, on a throne carved from black granite veined with adamantine, sits King Ungrim Ironfist beneath the great banner of the Karaz Kadrin. His mane of orange hair flares in the torchlight, bound with iron rings that matched the grim gleam of his eyes. The drengi king’s presence filled the hall. Not just his physical might, but the sense of restrained fury that clings to him like heat from a forge.

The heavy doors groan open and the Acharnost step inside, their boots leaving faint prints of snowmelt on the flagstones. The dwarves murmur quietly at the sight of the runic arms and amour that Bründir bears, while Odrik’s stylus pauses mid-stroke, eyes already sharp with scholarly interest.

"Bründir Halfshield," a herald’s voice rings out across the chamber, "son of Sheercleft, and the companions of the Acharnost, bearers of the tale of Dumdrengi and the stones beneath the world. Come before His Majesty Ungrim the Ironfist, son of Durgan, son of Drogun, lord of House Drakebeard and king of Karaz Kadrin!"

As the echo dies away, the king’s eyes settle upon Bründir and his companions.

The time had come, and Brundir felt like an ant among the feet of tallfolk. Though the inhabitants of the hall were of a similar stature, the majesty of it all was above and beyond anything he’d seen. There had been stories, yes, but seeing truly was believing.

The herald’s announcement did nothing for his confidence, either. A more accustomed lord would stride forward at the tail of the introduction, present himself, speak pleasant greetings and supplications, and perhaps kiss a ring or some such sigil. Brundir had no such formalities in mind, and the absence spread throughout his body. Heartbeats of silence passed, and he felt his bones turn to jelly so only his armour served to keep him upright. A falling feeling, however, finally drove him forward. He led the way, doing his best to appear worthy.

There was no marking on the floor, just a long stretch leading to a grand throne. How was he to know where to stop his feet? Too far and he wouldn’t be heard, or worse, seen as timid. Too close and he may be seen as threatening or arrogant. Brundir slowed his feet, then finally stopped a dozen steps before the throne. He awkwardly tipped, then eased down to a knee and lowered his eyes. What words does one say to a king? Say something quickly! “Hail, King of Karaz Kadrin! The Acharnost is honored that you would welcome us to your hearth and hold.”

Bründir's words hang in the air. His voice is strong, but carries the tell-tale edge of someone who's spent his life shouting over mines, rather than speaking in courts. The great hall remains silent, save for the dull, rhythmic pulse of forges somewhere deep below the mountain. A heartbeat of the hold itself.

King Ungrim's eyes do not waver from Bründir's bowed form. He sits motionless for a long moment and the silence presses down like the weight of the mountain. Then, the king shifts. It's a small motion, but the rustle of his mail and the creak of the throne make it sound thunderous in the quiet. When he speaks, it is like distant thunder rolling through a canyon.

"Rise, Bründir Halfshield," he commands.

Ungrim leans forwards, one hand resting on the arm of his throne, the other on the haft of the axe that stands besides it.

"You come bearing ancient arms and stranger tales. The sons of Karaz Kadrin have long memories and keener eyes for those who claim blood and honour in our halls."

His eyes flick briefly to Dumdrengi, Karakaklad and Karakarin, then back to Bründir himself.

"Tell me, Bründir Halfshield, what brings you and your company to the gates of the Drengi keep? Do you seek counsel, recognition… or judgement?"

A hushed murmur follows among the attending dwarves. Recognition and judgement are words that carry heavy weight here. Even Odrik, off to one side amongst the scholars, has lowered his slate, his eyes fixed keenly on Bründir.

Bründir stayed down, but raised his head to match the king's discerning gaze. "Fer each, their own, sir- eh," Bründir caught himself for a moment. This was no quarry overseer. Lord? No, that was his own honorific as provincial thane now. "...Sire. Shortest answer, I s'pose, is counsel an' recognition. We're 'ere on a matter we feel puts us all at risk. Sheercleft. Khaz Gungron. Karaz Kadrin. Th' Elven lands. Beyond, even. I'll put it plainly, but there's a tale t'follow: Somethin's waking up - a few somethin's, actually - an' it's started in our lands. Our neighbors 'ave thrown in with it an' tried twice now t'take Sheercleft."

Confidence begins to rise as Bründir stands now to address the room as much as the king. "If I can be so bold, ye'd 'ave an army of goblins on yer border if it weren't fer us. When we finished with that, an army marched against us. They'd've come in an' unleashed all kinds'a terrors if, again..." Bründir paused, turning slowly until he faced the Acharnost. He couldn't help but smile, now. Everything he'd said and done now was because of them. "We hadn't stopped them. Again, I say, there's a tale t'follow, an' we've each got our parts played, but we'll be brief as can be, sire. Yer own loremaster, there, took a first account just last night."

Bründir turned once more to King Drakebeard, unsung his shield, and pulled Dumdrengi uo by ots sheath as much as his belt would allow, "If ye'll allow, we'll tell th' tale. As ye see, I come with arms buried, sealed, an' lost away. Karakarin, Karakalad, and Dumdrengi. Let'em stand as proof of our tale. When all's done, I'll turn'em over t'yer loremaster so their history can be set in stone. Then, th' Acharnost will make a request of ye, sire. It's in yer right as king t'turn us down, but I'd ask ye think on what we tell, and hope ye know yer newest thane would be forever indebted t'ye." Bründir gives a half-bow and a smile at the stern king, then sets himself for a great tale before a captive audience.