Otemme yarred ok'agnar | Shelter beneath the Mountain

[SimplySeo 6999]

[MUSIC]

 

The sea was a rage.

 

Dafi Brinebeard had never seen the ocean toss and turn as it did now, not during the Atheran expedition, not during the Korvassan campaign, not in all his years as a crewman upon the Dwedsmark. Even when Evraal erupted as they fled, and it shook the earth to it’s core, the sea did not react as violently as it did now.

 

The mighty warship tossed and turned, just barely cresting the waves. As much faith as Dafi had in the old workhorse of the Dwarven fleet, he had to admit part of him feared she would go under, one of the escort craft already had. He was roused from his worries as a crack of thunder echoed across the turbulent sea, setting the sky alight, despite it being well past sundown.

 

He didn’t dwell on his fears, there was work to do, and he was a sailor, nor a mourner. Firmly he held in place the rope as he finished his knot, it was one of several that had been tied, holding one of the cannons in place, as the last thing they needed was those cannons flying across the deck and killing a man.

 

“Brinebeard, are the guns secure?” Came a shout from the rigging. Deckhand Kadrim hadn’t been on the ship as long as him, the boy was a beardling after all, but there were few better at scaling the rigging and ladders upon the stacks. Dafi looked up, nodding. “Aye!”

 

“Which god do we pray to when the sea tries to kill you?”

 

Dafi snorted at that, adjusting another rope, before bracing himself against the side as another wave crashed against the ship. Wiping salt water from his brow, he barked in amusement. “Pah! Do I look like a priest? Leave the prayers for later, we’ve work to do!”

 

Another crack of thunder rocked the sea, and for a moment it would look like Kadrim would be thrown from the rigging. The boy held his footing though, and pointed out onwards. “Did’ja see that Brinebeard!?” Dafi looked up, how Kadrim could see anything in this blasted storm was lost on him, Dafi himself could barely see over the prow of the ship. A moment of clarity came as another bolt of lightning raced across the sky, illuminating the turbulent sea. It was then he saw it.

 

Imposed upon the horizon was the cliffs of a mountain range, arrayed against the shoreline like a vast seawall. More than that though was one which stood above them all. A peak rose above the range, it was the highest of them all by far, and the largest Dafi had seen in all his years. Piercing the dark night sky, it seemed to scrape against the roof of the world itself, it’s vastness shocked him. It took him a moment, and another crack of lightning illuminating it for Dafi to process what he saw. Finally he shouted down the ship at the top of his lungs, two simple words.

“Land ho! Land ho!”
 

 

---

 

[MUSIC]

 

It had been two days since they made landfall, Jorvin finally felt at ease, he never liked the sea after all. The land which they found was anything but calm however, and the shore was oft wracked with storms. That however, Jorvin found no issue in. Yemekar beat against his anvil on high, if anything, t’was a sign they had ventured in the right direction.

 

His folk had made landfall at what appeared as if the ruins of an old port, half-swallowed by the sea, it was built into a natural harbor, and as such was the perfect place to make landfall, and so they did. From there it was as simple as making their way alongside the mountain tops, until eventually they reached it. Unlike the port, it seemed as strong as the day it was made, and was unmistakable Dwarven.

 

Several of his company peered about. Letters were scribed upon the gate, all of which seemed to puzzle them. They were Dwarvish in nature, but could not be deciphered. Jorvin however, recognized them for what they were, Old Dwarvish, dating back to the Old Kingdom. He read as several of his company guessed as to their origin.

 

“This gate was erected by the mason Snorri Fortbeard, and the Runesmith Kazrel Starbreaker in the twelfth-hundred and forty-second year of the world. Let none save the kin and kith of our folk pass through it.”

 

It wasn’t the age of the gate which shocked Jorvin, who knew how the Dwarves of yore built to last, it was it’s location which surprised him. Had they found a fallen hold? If so, what caused to to be deserted, and what lay within? He paced, before one of his retinue spoke up, Dimlin Irongut, his Marshal.

 

“How do we open it?”

 

Jorvin mused...That was the question, wasn’t it? The gate clearly hadn’t budged in centuries, and Jorvin doubted that they’d be able to break it down, not without runecraft, and it had been well over half a century since that art was lost to his kin. He paused in thought for a moment, before looking to Dimlin.

 

“This gate was built to keep our foes out, yes? Then let us show that we aren’t foes. Pass me your dagger.”

 

The Marshal raised a curious brow, but didn’t protest, instead unsheathing the dagger from his belt, and holding it out to Jorvin. The Grand King approached the gates, looking over the letters up close, before finding a peculiar line, one that stood out, one that wasn’t Dwarvish. Drawing the knife, Jorvin took a moment to remove his gauntlet, before etching a shallow cut into his thumb, he winced in pain, before pressing the cut up against the gate…

 

The runes began to glow, faint at first, but brighter after a moment, and without further delay, the ancient stone gate began to creak open, an irritating scraping sound echoed on out as it was dragged along the stone floor, for what had to have been the first time in at least half a millennia. The gate revealed a tunnel, not entirely dissimilar to the one in Kal’Evraal, though it was clear this one was built by old masters, and built to last. Arrow slits lined the wall, and an old, rusted cannon was the first thing that greeted them, as it overlooked the gate. Jorvin was almost certain that if he looked, it would’ve still been loaded, ready to repel the foes of Urguan.

 

Down the tunnel they went, through the defensive gauntlet, and over a bridge of stone set above an open lavaflow, which spilled down into the belly of the earth, far below. Eventually however, they reached a second gate, opened in much the same manner…

 

And out it revealed a vast valley, several miles around, surrounded on all sides by the mountain range they found themselves in. It was a valley closed off to the rest of the world. A river flowed from on high, down into a chasm below, and a grove of old, sturdy oaks and pines lined the western side. It was sat upon the eastern face of the range, where that giant mountain stood, that caught Jorvin’s eye the most however.

 

It was there he saw it, to call it a ‘ruin’ insulted it’s craftsmanship. Defiant against foe and time alike, carved into the rock-face was a gate, unmistakably that of a Dwarven hold, the faces of ancestors adorned its wall, and even now, ancient cannons and ballisti lined its battlements, deterring whatever invader managed to get past the mountain gate.

 

Upon the wall, runes were carved, and glowed faintly even now. Strengthening the wall so that no monster, nor storm might batter it down, they were runes lost to time, even before the art was lost to his people in recent years...Surely, the work of the mighty runesmiths of yore. Even here, on this far-flung corner of the world, his ancestors carved mighty halls, and even now they still stood, it humbled the often-arrogant Grand King.

 

Gasps came from behind as the rest of his party exited the tunnel, and saw the vastness of the hold before them, and the undisturbed beauty of the isolated valley surrounding it. There they halted for a time, before finally approaching the holdfast. 

 

A shout called Jorvin’s attention, from another member of his host. “There’s more writing!” they shouted, and as Jorvin drew closer, he observed. Upon every stone were etched names in their forefather’s script, the names of the masons who toiled to build such a stalwart citadel, or were they names of soldiers who fell defending it? Or perhaps both? He knew not. As they came upon the entryway, another line caught Jorvin’s eye, along the side of the doorway.

 

“Built in the second, third and fourth decades of the twelfth century of the world by the six hundred masons of architect Karlen Irongut, and the seven runesmiths of Kazrel Starbreaker. Beneath the peak of ancient might, within the storm-weathered mountains. Defiant of foe, nature, and time. Glory to Urguan’s Sons.”

 

As he finished reading, Jorvin remained in silent reverence for a moment, after months at sea, it felt good to be beneath a mountain-home, one where his ancestors walked no less. He looked up and down the assembly of his kin behind him, before reaching for the axe at his belt.

 

“It seems our exodus is at an end, fellow Dwedmar. Ready yourselves, and let us cast out whatever loiterers have made themselves at home within this hall of our folk. And then, when the work is done, we will finally rest. Gods know we’ve earned it.”

 

Part of Jorvin thought he’d failed his folk, when Kal’Evraal fell. Maybe the gods had given his kingship a second chance? Only one way to find out...

[Elite Snipes 3563]

Bakir Ireheart walks throughout the mountain with his Yavok kin, exploring the right side of the cave which spiraled down. It came upon a slight opening and a feeling. Though he turned to Axel "This will be a good place for our Clan hall. Kjellos smiles upon Us"

[Algoda 885]

As the dwarven folk disembark from the boats, the weary but cheery Stormbreaker clansmen states

 

"Not too shabby lads, the crossing could've been worse. Parathek Nir da Ithrum, never forget!"

[hotbox_monk 1049]

Draakopf would pace about his study within his home, overlooking the bustling city circle.  As he thought back to the many dwed who had lost their lives in Arcas to see to it that those here alive and breathing now.  May forge a lasting prosperous life within this foreign land.