Death Of The First Grand King

[Luchian 214]

 

 

Thorik Grandaxe, son of Thrain, strode onwards through the snow, the sun falling low from beyond the treeline. Rays of light had breached the foliage ahead, illuminating the ground that lay before him. His footprints led far from the great gates of Kal’Azgoth, where he had departed from some hours prior. He was clothed in thick furs that drooped down from over his expensive garments. Without a word, the old dwarf stopped in his tracks as he looked through the forest, his fingertips running through his whitened beard. Ahead of him stretched the trail of Morgrim Grandaxe, firstborn son of his old friend and advisor, Valen Grandaxe. The young dwarf in all his recklessness had vowed to travel north, to what was likely certain death. He could not allow him to go alone. Striding forward, his old bones were weakened but not enough to hold him back from pushing onwards. As he he gritted his teeth, he remembered who he was. A warrior, once a Grand King, who had endured even the harshest of environments during his younger years. From the scorching hot deserts of Krugmar to the rugged northern mountains of Aegis... He would not stop now.

Tirelessly he wandered on, bearing only a single thought on his mind. He sought to ensure the safety of his kin, yet as age had withered him, his resolve and determination had grown ever stronger. He had lived his younger years with a steadfast loyalty to his father Thrain... He remembered the final words he had given him the last time they had met. When all was lost, it was he who was a dwarf to aspire to. Now, his days of ruling lay only in memories. He recalled the faces of his sons and of those who served him as he once sat upon the grand throne of Kal’Urguan. Valen, Urir, Karl and Chaecus... Those lost to the halls of Khaz’A’Dentrumm, but never forgotten in the hearts and minds of his kin. It was he alone who still survived them, wandering the forests of an unfamiliar land.

 

As he reached the edge of the treeline, he peered over the vast plains of snow that stretched out before him. A full moon had risen high into the sky above while surrounding him, a thick mist lingered. A heavy snow had begun to fall, covering the footprints that lay ahead of him. From within the midst of the forest, a great shriek echoed into the night sky. Thorik looked around, as it sounded once more. Unstrapping his battle axe from over his shoulder, he slowly lumbered into the clearing, the shrieks growing louder and ever closer towards him.

 

 

From the darkness, a pale figure emerged, its ears sharp and its back hunched over. The corruption of Ondnarch had cruelly ensnared those beings who once wandered these lands, now mere slaves to his will. Within moments, he was surrounded. As the pale figures enclosed upon him, he gave a final roar of battle and charged forward into the disorganised ranks. Even in his older years, he still had some fight left within him. He swung sideways, impaling one of the creatures through a tree branch, while swiftly decapitating another. Though two kills would not be enough to keep him alive, he fought on as more poured into the enclosing. A harsh, yet familiar voice tore through his mind... “You are lost, Thorik, son of Thrain... Your days of greatness long behind you... Why do you fight?” Thorik could only recognise the voice of Ondnarch, bringer of the Silent Cold... Yet he would remain defiant. It seemed like an hour before all of the beasts lay dead at his feet. He rose, his axe raised high as a fierce expression remained fixed upon his face.

 

From the corner of his eye, he noticed a reflection in the moonlight. As he attempted to turn around on his heel, he felt only a sharp pain rush through his body. For a moment, there was only silence. A great blade of ice rested, impaled through the centre of his chest. The voice echoed through his mind once again. “See... You cannot resist, Thorik.” He roared and in a final act of defiance, swung his axe behind him, swiftly cutting the throat of the pale creature who had struck him. As he did so, the very air around him seemed to roar in pain. He fell to his knees, dropping his axe as he collapsed sideways into the snow.

 

As he looked into the sky above him, he gave a chuckle, his teeth filled with blood. The snow, once white was now stained with red. His view grew hazy, as a sharp pain continued to grip at his chest. Stars glistened as his mind delved upon the stories of old. For those few moments, he no longer thought of the task at hand or of where he was. In his mind, he walked through the great halls of Khaz’A’Dentrumm, a King once again. By either side of him stood the friends and loyal subjects he had once known, their faces now more clearer in his mind than ever before.

His younger years had seen the rise of the Ironborn and the onslaught that was brought about by their reign. He had fought and watched his kin die as they struggled to restore honour in the name of Urguan’s legacy. With his own ascent to power, he had fought and led the Kingom with all the might he had against the Uruk hordes and their Warden allies. Yet, for all these years, he longed for nothing more than peace. In his heart, he had served the dwarves all his life. Now he was home once again...

 

 

"So ends the tale of Thorik, son of Thrain, the First Grand King of Urguan."

[Lathros 377]

Lathros cries. Only because he is a dwarf. 

[lιoɴ 248]

Wulfric hears of Thorik's heroic death and sheds a manly tear. He returns to his office scratching the words into the History of Urguan "The Grandaxes have lost yet another great man. An honorable dwarf, one of the most long lived, one who had fallen twice by the hands of the enemies of the Brathmordakin. Thorik Grandaxe, the First Grand King, has passed away." Wulfric drops his quill as he walks to the tombs of the Grandaxes with an unlit pipe in his hands. The body was not yet found, but a tomb was already made in precausion. Wulfric bows down before Thorik's tomb and lights his pipe. Instead of smoking it, he lays it on top of the coffin. He imagines Thorik laughing and breathing in the chilled smoke. 

He returns home to realize how empty the Hall feels without his brother, Morgrim and Thorik. His kinsmen. The most important thing a dwarf can have.

[iris1612 1780]

((This is one of the best written death posts I've ever seen.))

[Thrym 188]

Thrym hears of the death of Thorik while at his forge. As the tale of the death reaches his ears his hand grows numb about the handle of his hammer and it slips from his hand, banging loudly upon the blade resting on the anvil before him. Oblivious to the now ruined sword, he sits against the wall and thinks back to the days in Urguan. He remembers working as the Forge Lord under Thorik as Urguan grew to new heights under his reign. Sitting up with new resolve he grabs the ruined blade being forged upon his anvil and throws it into the fire, melting it down. Thrym begins the work of forging a new, finishing the blade with more care than he has given for many years, working as carefully as if it were his first blade, not one of thousands. When it is completed he begins inscribing upon the face of the blade with a chisel. Grabbing the blade he heads to the tombs, bowing his head in greeting at Wulfric as he comes into the Grandaxe crypt. He lays his blade beside the pipe on the tomb of Thorik, a blade with all the mighty works he completed in his life etched upon its surface, the final insribing telling of his fight with Ondnarch's minions. He spends a time at the tomb, paying his respects before turning to leave the tombs. As he reaches the stairs he says one thing.

 

"Farewell, ma lord."

 

 

EDIT: ((#Thorik4Paragon2k13))

[bignsxxy 128]

*Live from Barbek, after hearing the news.

 

In Barbek, the community is in shambles and distraught.

[Moot 1719]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.