Brundir gave a nod to the king of Karaz Kadrin. “This’ll be my final chapter, much t’yer scribes’ relief, I’m sure. We came back t’Sheercleft an’ there was a breath o’ relief then. We buried th’ dead, rebuilt houses, started our mine again, an’ had a celebration on account of our town gettin’ its feet back under it. It was a fine couple o’ days, sure, but there’s no long rest fer us. Vark went home t’Mount Endelfjell fer a friend of his – a storm giant who could ‘ave news on what we’re lookin’ for with Matthew an’ his friends. While he was gone, we met someone by name o’ ‘Gabe’ who said he was somethin’ like a piece of Matthew.” Brundir split a big of a grin at this, “He was a slippery one, no doubt, but I’ll tell ye true Dumdrengi knew th’ measure of ‘im. I’d seen this thing shine like a sun at a demon, but Gabe was somethin’ else. I can die happy knowin’ I’d seen something big as ‘im turn away cause it was too bright. Gabe gave us somethin’ good, though: News our neighbors in Breanne had an army comin’ our way, led by someone named ‘Marcellus’. Gabe also told us Marcellus was tied up with those cultists we kicked out’a Sheercleft, so now we know a bit about where they’re holed up.”

“Next couple days, I’m sure you’d guess, were busy. Some of us rallied Sheercleft’s guard an’ volunteers, Xej went into th’ mines an’ found our kobold friends who agreed t’help. I went to Khaz a Gungron and asked fer their help. They agreed an’ sent soldiers t’help us. Vark even got a quick meet with our friends in Hyranatar an’ they sent their own lancers t’help! After a few days, we gathered our force an’ marched into th’ mountains east headed towards Breanne. We found a good spot on Mount Judgment where th’ mountain road wound like a snake an’ we could funnel’em in close.”

Brundir pauses, a flash of recollection on his face as he rushes to the others and shoves them into the open space with him. “Gotta give credit where it’s due first. On th’ night before we fought Marcellus, these crazy heroes went out on a night raid while I was stuck tendin’ fires an’ minds of our little army. They burned Marcellus’ catapults, raised a load’a hell, an’ even killed off a couple of ‘is cultists! Mind you, those cultists paid us a visit later that night, thanks to Marcellus an’ his strange magic. All said, though, it was a great hit on’em and I’m never stayin’ back again.”

“Next mornin’. Sun rises, armies draw up. We had good dwarven steel sittin’ in a good spot with a rise on each side. Marcellus sends out a nasty bit fer us first, though: Gnolls. I swear I thought our boys would run soon as they saw those crazy fur-bags. Says a lot they didn’t though, an’ they held that line like true soldiers. When Marcellus got his force close, our kobolds launched their own surprise. When I said there was a rise on each side, well they made it only a rise on our left. They spent the night diggin’ under that big hill an’ brought it down. Our lads charged through that breach and caught Marcellus on th’ side. By this point, we were stuck in th’ fight too. Marcellus was a tough bastard t’beat on account of his magic. Still, we had a wall of steel, lightning, and arrows that brought ‘im down. By some grace of gods above and below our mountains, we sent all of’em runnin’ back home with most of us still standin’. The Acharnost, Sheercleft army, and allied soldiers came back heroes.”

Tale complete, Brundir shifts tone from less courtly and oratory to a more personal, almost casual, demeanor. “When we got back, we knew we were stuck in a strange spot. Just as many enemies around as friends, every one of’em wantin’ us at once. Well, under Sheercleft we found a teleportation circle an’ got it cleaned up. We assumed Karaz Kadrin was th’ biggest hold in these lands an’ yer own seat. Between all our friends, it seemed like you’d be our biggest help, so we hurried here as ye see us t’day. We come askin’ more’n we should, I know, but we don’t come empty-handed, either. We’ll give an’ tell anything we know if ye’ll just help set us on th’ right road with a good few steps.” As openly passive as he could manage, Brundir steps back several paces from King Drakebeard, once again unslings Karakadrin, and lays it on the ground. Keeping low, with hands in clear view, he pulls Dumdrengi’s scabbard forward, slowly draws the blade, and offers the handle to the king. “As promised, my tale is done, an’ these arms go t’yer Loremaster. I don’t know how they left their home an’ came into a miner’s hands, but I’m hopin’ t’find out soon an’ put’em to good use.”

The blade clears its scabbard and the Stonekeep falls utterly still. Dumdrengi’s runes catch the first true light of morning, filtering down through the high vents, and a faint hum rolls through the hall, felt more in the bones than it is heard. A few of the older dwarves inhale sharply. King Ungrim studies the blade where it is offered, his eyes narrowed in concentration, as though listening to something that only he can hear. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, measured, and carries without effort.

“Stone does not forget,” the dwarf states in a low, measured voice that carries without effort. “Nor does steel.”

He steps down from the dais, each footfall echoing like a gavel strike, and the hearthguard shift to form a wider ring. The king looks past Dumdrengi to the assembled Acharnost, the witnesses of the court and the scribes whose hands ache from taking records that will be argued over for generations.

“You did not come to Karaz Kadrin as petitioners alone,” he intones. “You come as bearers of warning, burden and proof paid for in blood.” Ungrim's eyes harden. “You did not hide what might damn you, nor did you embellish what might glorify you. That integrity is worth more than gold in this hall.”

He reaches out, one hand closing around Dumdrengi’s hilt, and the runes briefly flare, before settling, like a forge that has been banked, rather than extinguished. A murmur ripples through the court and Odrik’s breath catches audibly. The dwarf turns and presents the blade to his loremaster.

“Record this moment,” he commands, “not as a surrender of arms, but as an act of trust given freely under Baraz.” The king then turns back to the Acharnost, his eyes as sharp as cut gems. “You speak of Sir Marcellus at the head of a Breannian army, of cultists and giants. You speak of a shard of a god wearing a man’s name and of ancient seals undone.” His jaw tightens. “You speak of a war that does not yet dare name itself. Karaz Kadrin does not rush to war,” Ungrim continues, “but neither does House Drakebeard turn its face from the dark and hope it passes.” He straightens. “You ask for guidance, aid, and a road that does not end with you standing alone.” The king turns, raising his voice so it carries to every corner of the Stonekeep. “By my word and by the hearth that binds us, the Acharnost will not be cast aside as alarmists, nor seized as liabilities. Your tale will be examined. Your enemies will be named. Your questions regarding both Dumdrengi and the Halfshield bloodline will be answered, but understand this,” he tells the Acharnost quietly, fixing the party with a final, weighing look. “From this day on, you are no longer walking on the edge of history, you are in it and that has its way of demanding its price.”

“The relics will be studied,” the dwarf declares, gesturing to Odrik and the gathered scholars, “the names will be traced and, before the next sunset, you will have my judgment. Not only on what aid Karaz Kadrin may offer, but on what role you are being shaped to play.”

Thurston has been quiet during all the tale of their adventures. He smirked at some parts, nod in agreement most of the time, and felt proud both for his friends and for Brundir's performance in front of the King and the Court. He hoped that no one noticed his suddenly dried mouth when the tale came to Marcellus part, fight and defeat. He shook a little bit his shoulders to get rid of that uneasy feeling. 

When all is said and the King gives his orders he steps forwards, towering at Brundir's side, but his attitude wasn't imposing, but rather supportive, making Brundir look taller, even when the Norscan heights almost as twice the dwarf size.

When Thurston spoke his voice sounded a little bit raspy at the beginning, part for being so much time quiet, part because, under the imposing gaze of the King he felt like he was about to be scolded by his father again. 

" If I may Sire " he says in a hard accented dwarven language. " First I would want to thank you for your hospitality with us, the Acharnost " Vark notices that this is the very first time Thurston pronounces their title correctly. He must be really concentrating in make a good impression  "  I... " he produces a single piece of cloth that the rest of the party was part of the first cloak Thurston was wearing when they first met.  "... I've made you a little present- Barely a trinket for someone of your position Sire, but it has been made by my own hands in the forges of this place. " he says giving it to the King.
As the King unfolds the cloth a simple iron armband is showed. It has been thread with small lines of iron to look lile an elegant rope. Normally, for the Norscan, it is ended with a couple of dragon heads, similar to those that they put on top of their boats, but this one has the head of a double axe in one side and the head of a hammer in the other. Some small, dwarvish runes are carved in the center the heads of both weapons. "Honor" "Truth" "Loyalty" "Friendship" had been the selected runes. 

"First I thought in using more noble materials, like adamantine or mithril to make it worthy of someone of your status... but then I remembered when we hail from. Sheercleft. So I took iron ore that had been mined there by the hands of the people there. I think it is more appropriate this as a simbol of the alliance between Sheercleft and Karaz Kadrin. I present it in the mane of the Acharnost, we would be honored if you accept it Sire."

" Also... "  He extends his hand and a great warhammer flies towards his hand across the great hall. 

"You've spoken of old dwarven relics. " he presented the hammer in front of the king " This is Rikkazarik. An older and honorable weapon forged by the dwarves as you all may know. " He stands tall, proud, showing the hammer so all in the Court could see it. Small sparks of blue lighting jumping across the metal and his hands. Then, before anyone can react, he kneels in front of the king and leave the hammer, the head in the ground, at his feet. His hands still holding its leather covered shaft.

"I've been his honored bearer since we found him locked in the vault.  He has chosen me to bring him to battle and procure worthy tales to add to his legends. Still... " he opens his hands " I understand that it is an important relic of your people. So I return it to you and the dwarven people. I would dare to ask you one thing Sire, that you consider to allow me to be it's bearer as long as he considers me worthy of such honor. I swear to Rikkazarik, You and your people that I would only rise him for just causes, in defense of those who can't defend for themselves, and for battles worthy to be sang by the bards and carved into the mountain stone. " he bows, waiting for the King decision. 

The sound, when Thurston kneels and Rikkazarik’s head touches the stone floor, is not loud, but it carries. A deep, resonant thrum that is felt more than heard ripples through the floor. and several elder dwarves straighten at once. One runesmith closes his eyes, while another grips his beard. Blue sparks crawl once along the hammer’s runes, before subsiding into a steady, patient glow and the hall holds its breath.

King Ungrim studies Thurston long enough for the weight of it to press down on the entire court. His gaze falls to the iron armband that still rests in his other hand and he turns it once, his thumb tracing the iron wirework and lingering on the runes. Honour. Truth. Loyalty. Friendship.

“You stand in my hall as an outsider,” the king declares, his voice calm but iron-hard, “yet you speak our tongue, forge in our fires and return what lesser men would think to clutch to their chest and flee with.”

A murmur moves through the benches and Ungrim steps down from the dais. Rather than reaching for Rikkazarik, he stops a pace away from Thurston and looks down at the Norscan appraisingly.

“Rikkazarik is not merely a weapon,” the king continues, “he is witness and judge. He has broken kings, who tried to wield him for pride, and has slept for centuries, rather than be raised by an unworthy hand.” Ungrim glances at where the hammer’s head rests upon the stone. “That he flew to you when called is no coincidence.” Only then does the king extend a hand, but he pauses, deliberately, before touching the hammer. “Understand this, Norscan,” Ungrim rumbles. “I will not take Rikkazarik from his chosen bearer. He is not mine to seize.” The king looks back at Thurston’s open hands. “If you would have me lift him, then you must give him freely.”

Thurston raised his head, meeting the King’s eyes. He is not defiant he just wanted the King to look him in the eye so he doesn’t have any doubt about his intentions.

”My King. Please accept my apologies. I am not as good with words as my Thane Bründir here. 
It is not that I do not want to give him freely, is that I can’t. He is not mine to give. You see, I am Rikkazarik’s wielder… guide if you will, but I am not his master. I cannot give him the same way I cannot give away any of my companions here. “ he gestures towards the rest of the party gathered a few steps behind Gründir and him “ I merely brought him to his ancestral home. And being honored to be able to share with him this part of the journey. “ He looks back to the hammer “He is back home and I always be humbled and honored that he has chosen me to bring him back here. Do I desire to continue my travels with him? Of course! He is the best companion and weapon one warrior could dream of. And the songs they would sang about us would be heard back in Valhalla. “ the emotion in his voice is evident in the rather silence chamber “But please Sire, do not misunderstand my previous words, which spoke of this dreams, with hesitation from my part. He is free to choose, as he always has been, and I freely leave him for you Sire to wield it. “ 

He reached out and grabbed the hammer again, lifting it. The weapon hummed when lifted. 
Still kneeled, Thurston offered Rikkazarik to the King with both hands opened and the ancestral weapon resting on them. 

Ungrim’s hand closes around Rikkazarik's outstretched haft and the runes on the hammer flare bright blue. With a grunt, the king lifts the weapon and turns it once, feeling its balance. Sparks of lightning snap between them, before calming and settling into a quiet glow. A few dwarves bow their heads instinctively, but then Ungrim carefully sets the hammer back down and releases it.

“He knows you,” the king tells Thurston, “and, more than that, he trusts you.”

“Karaz Kadrin! Hear this.” Ungrim proclaims, straightening so that his voice carries to the whole hall. “Rikkazarik has not been stolen, misplaced, or defiled. He has walked the world of his own will!”

“You have asked for leave, not ownership,” the king assures Thurston, turning back to the Norscan. “I grant it.” Ripples of surprise, approval and unease pass through the court, but Ungrim raises a hand and silence falls once more. “Bear Rikkazarik in the name of Karaz Kadrin and the dwarven people,” he commands, “and raise him only for causes that will not shame him. Should you falter, he will abandon you faster than anything that I could ever decree. Know this, Thurston Barnatson of Norsca, when dwarven bards sing of the days to come, your name will not be omitted. As for this gift,” the king adds, lifting the iron armband fastening it around his forearm, “iron from Sheercleft, shaped by honest hands and given without deceit.” A faint smile touches his beard. “That is no trinket.”

“Rise, bearer of Rikkazarik,” Ungrim declares, returning to his throne, “and stand with the Acharnost. Karaz Kadrin has heard you.”

Bründir steps alongside Thurston and gives a friendly nudge with his shoulder. "Seems it's as good a time as any, if ya think so, too, Sire. I said before we come with our own needs. Karaz Kadrin is more'n a stop on th' road; all of us 'ave somethin' in mind. Vark's told me he plans t'drive yer loremasters mad with questions, an' I'll be with'im goin' over ev'ry book we've got. Xej here needs a good look over his mask an' mind alike. I've even heard our Val's gone an' found a runesmith t' teach her th' ways. Mad times, eh? A giantkin comes an' learns good dawi craft. Good signs, I say, though."

Thurston no es to the King and only replies with a “thank you Sire” before stepping back with the others. 

“Well I would like to have some dwarven beer with all of you and Rikkazarik “ he says in low voice to his friend “and after gets Jex looked up then I think we should go with Vark. The kid seems to be keeping getting into trouble every time we leave him alone.” He smirks 

Thurston reaches down with one hand and lifts Rikkazarik back up off the ground. It's a simple motion and unbelievably effortless, given that others cannot even bring the hammer to move. The weapon's hum deepens, resonating through the flagstones like an anvil settling after a blow, and blue sparks gather around the Norscan's hands once more. The crackling magical energy flows up Rikkazarik's haft and licks across the hammer's runes, which dim to a steady, content glow. Several elders exchange glances.

“Here is a man who knows the difference between possession and duty,” Ungrim chuckles quietly, acknowledging another who understands the nature of a thing. 

“Rikkazarik is home,” the king declares, turning to address the whole hall once more, “and he chooses to walk further.” The statement settles something profound and a few dwarves strike their fists against their chests. "Stone remembers," can be heard murmured around the hall.

Next, Ungrim turns his attention to Bründir’s words and his stern expression eases just a fraction in response to his Thane's casual honesty.

“Mad times indeed,” the king rumbles, a faint, dangerous smile tugging at his beard, “when giantkin learn our runes, elves demand healing and loremasters dread the coming of curious youths... but these are the times that matter.”

“Hear my will,” Ungrim announces with a sharp gesture that causes several attendants to move at once. The court straightens to listen. “The Acharnost are guests of Karaz Kadrin, with full hearth-right. Our loremasters will answer their questions, within reason and with patience.” Odrik chuckles, already resigned. “Our runesmiths may take apprentices where they judge worth.” A few smiths glance at Val with renewed interest. “Your masked companion will be examined by our most trusted minds and hands and, yes,” the king adds, his voice dry from all the talk, “there will be ale.”

Ungrim's last statement earns a ripple of restrained approval throughout the hall. Then, he turns back to Thurston, fixing the Norscan with a measured look.

“You will drink dwarven beer with Rikkazarik,” he tells the paladin, “but do not let him hear you call him a companion too lightly. He is older than both of our peoples’ grudges.”

The king looks out over his new Thane, the ruby-streaked half-orc, the towering giantess, the tortured half-elf, Rikkazarik's Norscan bearer and his Breannian brother.

“You came seeking a road,” Ungrim recounts, “but you have found a hearth instead.”

He strikes the arm of his throne once with his fist.

“Court is adjourned.”

The hall begins to stir, Odrik already moving towards Bründir and Vark with a look that promises long nights, chalk-dusted hands and dangerous answers. A runesmith approaches Val with professional curiosity and a pair of hearthguard quietly, but protectively flank Xej. Somewhere deep in the stone below the hall, something ancient settles, as though Karaz Kadrin itself has acknowledged that the saga has properly begun.

End of Book 1 and the DnDBeyond Gameplay Thread

To be continued on the Stormchaser Roleplaying forum.