Hrokaz

Clan Grimgold Khazamar Korodaurok Clan Grimgold is a proud Mountain Dwarf Greater Clan known for their grim resolve, masterful craftsmanship, and the sacred tradition of the battle-funerary mask. Descended from the ancient and venerable Goldhand lineage, the clan traces its founding directly to Theodoric Grimgold, the fourth son of the legendary Tungdil Goldhand. Having fled during the Age of Blood before the rise of the Empire of Khorvad, Theodoric led his kinfolk to the island they would call Da Kirkja Gorix, or ‘The Holy Rock’. The clan’s sigil is the Mask of Theodoric, a fearsome black-and-gold battle-funerary mask that has become the enduring emblem of Clan Grimgold to honor their founder. Worn by the clan in life and carried into the grave, the mask represents the clan’s core belief that a Dwarf’s real face is revealed only to kin and the gods. Thus do they call the mask a True-Face and their bare face a God-Face. The clan tends towards a deep reverential and almost militant devotion to the Brathmordakin and their self-considered paragon ancestor, Theodoric. Compared to the traditions of other clans, the Grimgold faith remains that of the Kultas Grimnarri, or the Cult of Maskmakers. In contrast to the other henotheistic sects, the Grimgolds believe the gods exist as a divine family, with Yemekar seen as the King of the Gods, but not the creator of the other Brathmordakin. Worship of Dungrimm and his wife Belka are of exceptionally high regard, with the Grimgolds themselves considering Theodoric to be a literal son of Belka Herself and Dungrimm operating through Tungdil. Thus to a Grimgold, their bloodline is divine. Grimgold Traits Strong Mountain Heritage: The Grimgold Dwarves descend from a long line of Mountain Dwarf stock. They tend to be on the taller end, usually between 4’4” (130cm) to 5’ (150cm), strong of body and pale of skin. Their hair tends towards shades of gold, but red and black are not uncommon. Their eyes often have a brilliant shine to them, with shades reminiscent of fine gemstones, a bright blue sapphire or green emerald being the most common. Salt Blooded: The Grimgold lineage is often a stubborn and driven lineage, their burning blood coming from the wrathful and fiery Theodoric. While stubbornness is a common trait amongst Dwarves, the Grimgolds seem particularly driven to maintain a stubborn adherence to their culture and way of life, even against the Dwarven mainline. Island Isolation: While stubborn, the Grimgolds are not stupid or foolish. Having grown isolated on Da Kirkja Gorix, opposed to most Warrior Clans, they lean towards a more philosophical direction. Action is not a spur of the moment decision, but often undertaken with a deep level of thought and consideration. This does not always make them ‘correct’, but more so ‘heavily opinionated’. Living Weapon Creed: Every Dwarf is a weapon (or tool) forged by the gods themselves. To dishonor your body, your skill, or your conduct is to insult the divine craftsmanship that made you. Therefore, a true Grimgold must maintain their edge, through discipline, training, and not sacrificing honor. And to protect the sacred form the gods gave you. When outside clan territory, a Grimgold travels fully covered, preferably armored, with a mask or veil. So that no outsider may profane what the gods have wrought and your form may not rust. Sons and Daughters of Wrath: Theodoric was possessed with a rage made flesh, a deep burning fire in his chest that erupted in a wrathful fury in battle. Many of the Grimgold line of Dwarves are born possessing this great battle-rage and burning passion, a blessing from Belka herself they claim. Grimgold Culture and Customs Da Grimnir: Every mask is more than armor or tradition, it is a holy artifact of the clan. Grimgolds are peerless maskmakers, forging battle-funerary masks that are at once beautiful, terrifying, and spiritually potent. To craft or maintain a clan-mask is a solemn duty; to let one rust or be profaned is an insult to the divine craftsmanship that made the Dwarf himself. For women, it is also common to replace the mask with a gilded veil. So long as it represents the wearer and obscures the face. Khoroklann Herders: The black goat, Khoroklann are a sub-species of gold goats that are as connected to the Grimgold Dwarves as their masks. While not unique to them, they did develop upon their homeland of Da Kirkja Gorix, spreading by the expansion of Grimgold sailors across the world. They are the standard mount, farm animal, and companion of the Grimgolds, with their meat, wool, and milk making up a large aspect of the diet and culture of the clan. Born on the Sea: While most Dwarves shun the open water, Grimgolds thrive on the ocean. Often called ‘Salt Dwarves’, they are one of a handful of clans that prefer to live near coastal cliffs. Most Grimgold villages are found near the water, with easy access for their boats to go to sea. They also form one of the most premier boatmaking clans, with their halls often made of the same timbers as the boats they pull ashore on. Culinary Masters: The Grimgolds are a clan with a long history of exceptional and renowned cuisine. Salted fish, eternal stews, all forms of fresh baked bread, hand pies, and fermented vegetables. Grimgold cooking has been a backbone of much of Urguan’s culinary history, and the diet of a few kings. Da Kultas Grimnarri: Most Grimgolds are adherents of their sect of Brathmordakin worship, called Da Kultas Grimnarri, or the Cult of Maskmakers. While not a requirement, it is the dominant faith of the clan, espousing a belief that the gods were born of either the Void or one another. Yemekar, Dungrimm, Anbella, and Khorvad were the first to emerge from the confluence of the Void. Yemekar and Anbella birthed Belka, fully grown, and Ogradhad sprung from Yemekar’s mind as he slept. Finally Dungrimm and Belka birthed Armakak and Grimdugan. The masks they wear often reflect the faces and images of the gods, and they believe in the possibilities of communion, revelation, and prophecy. Clan Trials For entrance or ascent into adulthood within the clan, a Grimgold is expected to perform three trials to earn the right to wear a sanctified Grimnir compared to a standard clan mask. These trials are crafted to help teach the young Grimgold about how the clan and life amongst Dwarves functions. They are- The Trial of Work: The first of the trials, a Grimgold is expected to produce some form of physical work to present to the Clan Lord. It could be a statue, a weapon or tool, a crafted item, or even a food or drink. This test is meant to show the quality the Dwarf can put into their work. The Trial of Wonder: The second trial has the Grimgold seeking out or creating a piece of knowledge to bring to the Clan’s library. They must find or produce a unique book, study, poem, song, or any other form of written art that can be added to the clan’s library. This test is meant to show the constant quest for self improvement. The Trial of Worship: The last of the trials has the Grimgold dedicating themselves to one of the Brathmordakin and crafting either a mask or artifact of some sort in dedication to that Brathmordakin. This they will keep with them as a reminder of the oath and service they will bear to that god. After completion of all trials, the Grimgold will be allowed to don their unique mask and are given a fully trained Khoroklann to allow the Grimgold freedom of travel into the outside world. Grimgold History The First Age The Second Age

Alaric Grimgold sat behind the locked doors of his flagship when he came upon the missive in a stack of papers. Staring blankly at it for a long time, he finally spoke. “What da fu…”

1st of Malin’s Welcome, 2A 278Y 03/26/2026 POSTED BY: Alaric Grimgold First Admiral of the Tagar Tazarak Expedition ᚢᛖᚾᚨᛉ ᚾᚨ ᚾᚨᚱᛒᛁᚦᚨᛉ Hope and Recompense Venaz na Narbithaz ᚢᛖᚾᚨᛉ ᚾᚨ ᚾᚨᚱᛒᛁᚦᚨᛉ Expedition Sign Up To all Dwarves of the fleet, to every refugee of the fallen halls, and to any who would hear these words, I, Alaric Grimgold, once of the Grand Kingdom, now write not as servant to a throne, but as witness to its end. The Fourth Grand Kingdom is no more. Its banners have burned. Its crown lies in ash. Its halls, once thought eternal, have been broken and cast down. Let no dwarf cling to false hope or hollow titles, the Kingdom we knew has fallen beyond recall. With it, I cast aside all allegiance to its throne, its court, and the failings that led us to ruin. We are no longer subjects of that Kingdom. We are something else now. We are a people unmoored, but not undone. Hear me clearly: the refugee fleet shall no longer drift as a remnant of a dead realm. From this day forth, it shall be reformed and reborn as an expedition. One not bound by the weight of old crowns, but driven by the will to endure, to build, and to begin again. We name this endeavor the Tagar Tazarak Expedition, the Exile’s Unity. Under this banner, we will not seek to reclaim what was lost. We will not rebuild the old Kingdom in bitterness or pride. Instead, we will search for a new place, a land that will have us, or one we shall carve with our own hands and there we will found something new. Not a shadow of what came before, but a future worthy of those who yet live. To that end, a new order shall be established. In time, a government shall be formed, not of inherited crowns and distant rulers, but of those who stand, work, and endure together. Its shape will be decided not by the ghosts of the past, but by the will of those who commit themselves to this path forward. But hear this also: No dwarf shall be forced into this future. Any who do not wish to join this expedition will be given safe passage. When we make landfall, you may depart the fleet with provisions and dignity, to build your life where you see fit. There is no shame in choosing your own road and no chain shall bind you to ours. Yet for those who remain, for those who would cast their lot into the forge of what is to come, you will be asked to swear yourselves to the Expedition. Not to me, not to any throne, but to the shared purpose of building something better than what we lost. An oath not of blind loyalty, but of labor, defense, and unity. To stand beside one another as kin not by crown, but by choice. To learn from the failures that broke us, and to ensure they are not repeated. We have been humbled. We have been scattered. But we are not finished. Dwarves were never meant to be creatures of comfort and stagnation. We are the children of stone and fire. When the mountain falls, we do not weep forever in its shadow, we take hammer in hand and carve anew. So choose, each of you. Choose the road of your own making, wherever it may lead. Or stand with us, beneath the banner of the Tagar Tazarak, and help forge a future that will outlast even the memory of this ruin. By my hand, upon the open sea, in the first days after the fall, Alaric Grimgold First Admiral of the Expedition Fleet Servant of no Throne, but of the People

20th of Sun’s Smile, 2A 277Y 03/23/2026 POSTED BY: Alaric Grimgold First Admiral of the Ark Fleet Tagar Tazarak ᛉᚨᛗᛖᚱᛞᚨᛉ ᚾᚨᚱ ᛚᚨᚱᛖᚢᚨᛉ Mourning and Regret Zamerdaz nar Larevaz ᛉᚨᛗᛖᚱᛞᚨᛉ ᚾᚨᚱ ᛚᚨᚱᛖᚢᚨᛉ The roar of the harbor had faded into a distant memory, replaced by the groaning of the iron hull and the slow, mournful churn of the steam engines beneath the deck. Below, where the light of the burning capital no longer reached, Alaric Grimgold stood alone. The weight of centuries pressed more heavily upon him now than any armor ever had. Piece by piece, he had removed it. The gilded plates, chased with the runes of his line. The mask, his clan’s proud, unyielding face to the world, set gently upon a crate as though it, too, were a relic of something already gone. Beneath it remained only the truth. Age, ruin, and endurance. His hair, once the deep burnished gold of his forebears, now lay dulled to and streaked with ash. One eye, clouded and pale, caught the lanternlight like a dead moon. The other, still sharp, still burning, stared for a long while at nothing. Or perhaps at everything. At the past. At the flames. He had watched a kingdom be born. He had watched it die. Alaric drew in a slow breath, the air thick with oil and salt and the faint, clinging memory of smoke that had followed them out to sea. It filled his lungs, settled in his bones. It would never leave him now. “The Fourth…” he murmured, though none were there to hear it. He could still see it as it had been. The great halls of Arcas, hewn with purpose and pride. The clang of hammer on anvil, the chorus of a people reborn beneath the stone. He had been young then, by Dwarven reckoning, and fierce with it. A Legionnaire of Dungrimm’s own, marching beneath banners that still smelled of fresh dye and hope. The Under Kingdom had not yet known what it would become, only that it would endure. And endure it had. Through war. Through fire. Through the stubborn will of Dwarves who refused to fade. He had stood there when Utak Ireheart’s triumph had lifted them from a kingdom beneath the earth to a Grand Kingdom among all others. He had felt the tremor of that declaration in his chest, like the first strike of a hammer upon a new-forged blade. He had believed then that it would last forever. Alaric let out a low, rasping breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. Fool. No kingdom lasts forever. Not even those carved in stone. His thoughts wandered, unbidden, to faces long gone. To Dorimnur; blood-brother, rival, fool, and kin. The arguments, the ambition, the bitterness that had seemed so vast at the time. How small it all seemed now, measured against the ruin of an entire people. He remembered the deathbed. The clasp of hands. The forgiveness. Too late, and yet not too late. “Ye were wiser than I, in the end,” Alaric muttered, voice low. Or perhaps they had both simply been old enough to see the futility of pride. He turned from the empty space and moved deeper into the lower deck, where a small shrine had been hastily erected. It was nothing compared to the temples he had once presided over, no towering pillars, no great braziers, no carved epics upon the walls. Only a simple altar of dark stone, its surface marked with the sigils of the Brathmordakin. War. Death. Forge. The Ancestors. He reached for the black diaphanous shawl laid beside it, drawing it slowly over his head. The thin fabric softened the harsh lines of his ruined face, casting it in shadow. In that moment, he was no admiral, no marshal, no relic of a fallen age. Only a servant. Only a Dwarf before his gods. Alaric lowered himself to one knee with a stiffness that spoke of long years and longer burdens. For a time, he said nothing. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant thrum of the engines and the creak of the ship as it cut through dark waters. When he finally spoke, it was not with the booming authority that had once commanded legions, nor the measured cadence of a High Preceptor addressing the faithful. It was quieter, worn. “Brathmordakin… hear me.” His good eye closed. “I have given ye war. I have given ye death. I have given ye the work of my hands and the strength of my arm. I have crowned kings in yer names, and buried them beneath yer gaze. I have held to yer ways when others faltered.” His voice wavered, just slightly. “And still… the Kingdom is gone.” The words hung heavy in the dim space. Not accusation, not quite, but close enough to taste. Alaric’s brow furrowed beneath the shawl, his scarred hand curling slowly against the stone floor. “Was it pride? Was it folly? Was it the failing of one King… or the failing of us all?” He exhaled, long and slow. “Nay. It matters not now.” The sea had taken the answer, as it took all things in time. What remained… was what came next. He lifted his head slightly, clouded eye catching the faint flicker of the altar’s flame. “There are Dwarves above, huddled like children in the dark. Scattered, kingless… broken from the stone that birthed them. A diaspora, cast upon the waves like ash.” His jaw tightened. “They look to me. They look to us.” Not for glory or for conquest, but for something far more difficult... Meaning. “Tell me, then,” Alaric whispered, the edge of steel returning faintly to his voice. “What task do ye set before us now?” The Brathmordakin did not answer in words. They never had. They answered in burden, in trial, in the long, unyielding shaping of a people through hardship. Alaric knew this. He had preached it. Lived it. Bled it. And still, he waited. In the silence, memory returned, not of halls or crowns, but of the island. Da Kirkja Gorix. The Holy Rock. The place where his clan had once hidden from the world, clinging to what remained when all else had fallen away. They had survived then, not by might, but by endurance. A slow realization settled into him, as steady and inevitable as the tide. “Not an end,” he murmured. “A tempering.” His shoulders straightened, just slightly. A kingdom had been shattered, its people scattered, its legacy reduced to refugees and memory. But Dwarves were not defined by their halls… they were defined by what they built. Alaric placed a scarred hand upon the altar. “Then I will be yer hammer once more,” he said, voice firming. “Not for a throne. Not for a crown. But for them.” For the children above deck, who had never seen the old halls. For the smiths who had lost their forges. For the warriors who had no more walls to defend. “For as long as breath remains in me… I will see them reforged.” The flame upon the altar flickered, or perhaps it was only the movement of the ship. Alaric rose slowly, the years settling back upon him like a familiar cloak. For now, he turned toward the narrow stair that led back to the world above. To the refugees. To the sea. To whatever future awaited them beyond the broken chain of the Kunai waters. Behind him, the small altar burned on in silence. Before him, a people awaited their next beginning.

17th of Malin’s Welcome, 2A 277Y 03/19/2026 POSTED BY: Alaric Grimgold First Admiral of the Grand Kingdom of Urguan ᛉᛏᚹᛖᚱᚲᚨᛞ’ᚢᚱ’ᚢᛖᚺᛞᚨᛉᚨᚦ Order of Evacuation Ztwerkad’ur’Vehdazath ᛉᛏᚹᛖᚱᚲᚨᛞ’ᚢᚱ’ᚢᛖᚺᛞᚨᛉᚨᚦ By the Seal of Alaric Grimgold, First Admiral of the Grand Kingdom, Hear me now, all citizens of the Grand Kingdom, and heed these words with the gravity they are given. The Empire has pressed us to the very walls of our capital. The day has come when stone alone cannot hold, and steel alone cannot save. Therefore, by my command and for the preservation of our people, all who are not fit to stand in the defense of the city are to evacuate at once and make for the docks without delay. Bring your children, your elders, and such goods as may be carried in haste. Leave all else behind, for there is no room now for delay, and no honor in needless death. The ships of the fleet shall receive you, and by their strength you shall be borne away to the sea, where the Grand Kingdom’s bloodline and memory may yet endure. Let it also be known: all books, all records, all relics of the Kingdom, all that bears the history of our people and the weight of our fathers, are to be gathered and loaded aboard the cruisers. The Obsidian Throne itself shall be taken, for while stone may fall, the right to rule shall not be surrendered to the flame. The docks shall be kept open and ordered. The fleet shall depart before the battle is joined, so that what little remains of our kingdom may be preserved from the ruin that threatens it. And know this above all, one vessel shall remain at the harbor, provisioned and ready, to receive our soldiers should the city fall. Let no warrior think himself abandoned. If the walls break and the gates are lost, there shall yet be a path to the sea, and the chance to fight again beneath another sky. Stand firm in your courage. Move with discipline. Preserve what can be preserved. The Grand Kingdom may be wounded, but it shall not be erased while even one of its children still carries its memory. NARVOK OZ URGUAN Alaric Grimgold First Admiral of the Grand Kingdom

9th of Deep Cold 2nd Age Year 266 01/06/2026 POSTED BY: Alaric Grimgold Priest of Dungrimm ᛞᚨ ᚲᛟᚱᛟᛞᚨᚢᚱᛟᚲ ᚲᚱᛟᚾ’ᚢᚱ’ᚲᚢᛁᛊᚨᛗᚨᚱᚱᛁ Da Korodaurok Kron’ur’Kvisamarri The Grimgold Book of Whispers ᛞᚨ ᚲᛟᚱᛟᛞᚨᚢᚱᛟᚲ ᚲᚱᛟᚾ’ᚢᚱ’ᚲᚢᛁᛊᚨᛗᚨᚱᚱᛁ Upon the salt-washed, stone-swept islands of our Grimgold forebears there was kept a book, spoken in whispers and carried from parent to child. It is da Kron’ur’Kvisamarri , The Book of Whispers, which preserves the tale of the Brathmordakin, the flight of Theodoric’s folk, and the shaping of our clan. Long were we separated to the Holy Rock of Theodoric, guarding these words from the gaze of Khorvad and his servants. Now, returned at last to the lands of Urguan’s kin, and standing once more among those whose faith endures, we bring this book forth from secrecy. No longer bound to whispered inheritance alone, its chapters are offered openly to the temple, one by one, that all may hear, remember, and judge its truth. Not as THE truth, but as one of many in the multifaceted truths of the Brathmordakin. YOTH BRATHMORDAKIN NA YOTH MAKAZ’KIRKJA’RUM’MAR’EDOS ᛁᛟᛏᚺ ᛒᚱᚨᛏᚺᛗᛟᚱᛞᚨᚲᛁᚾ ᚾᚨ ᛁᛟᛏᚺ ᛗᚨᚲᚨᛉ’ᚲᛁᚱᚲᛃᚨ’ᚱᚢᛗ’ᛗᚨᚱ’ᛖᛞᛟᛊ CHAPTER I NIRDABYRJAZ ᚾᛁᚱᛞᚨᛒᛁᚱᛃᚨᛉ In The Beginning In the beginning, when the gods first lived, Salty sea nor cool waves, nor sand was there. The world was not yet made, nor the heavens above, All was a gaping void, and there was grass nowhere. Upon one edge of the void, was change or To Be, And upon the side opposite, was stasis or To Not Be. Where the two things met, the Void churned like rough sea. And birthed four gods, from What Was and What Wasn’t. First of this churning wake, came Yemekar paramount. Then walked forth from the Void, Anbella bursting with life. Dungrimm next came to exist, for in life there must be death. The last was born twisted, stunted and evil Khorvad. Highest amongst High, Yemekar the craftsman, Thought upon the nature of the Void, of this Black Doom. All was emptiness, and stagnation was everywhere. Time was not yet counted, nor was space measured. In timeless meditation, the Allmaker contemplated, Outstretching his hand, into the confluence of Is and Isn’t. He pulled out the primal element, from where the conflux churned, With the material that created all things, he built the Wall of Sky. Time for the first beginning, had become recorded things, Space for the first beginning, had become measured things. Brathmordakin all gazed upon this creation, marveling its opportunity. Yemekar spoke sacred words, heard by divine assembly. ‘This thing I have thought of, I have named it and call it Rhun’ Anbella agreed with the high one, so too was Dungrimm in accord. Khorvad held the sole dissent, questioning why only Yemekar had created, He grew jealous of the Rhun, Khorvad himself being incapable of creating. In the vast tapestry of existence's creation, Khorvad's envy grew more and more, seeking his own rule. Longing to stand alone, he desired for sole dominion amongst the gods, Envious of the Rhun, fate's intricate guiding force. Yemekar, wearied by the creation's grand scope, Sought solace in slumber, a divine retreat to regain his strength. Emerging from his subconscious, a deity rose anew, Ogradhad, the embodiment of wisdom, questions he'd seek from Yemekar’s mind sprung. Anbella, goddess of life, breathed vitality and love, Nurturing the world entire, flourishing with life. Dungrimm, lord of death, maintained nature's course, Balancing existence, with his law unbroken. Khorvad lurked in the shadows, his envy ever burning, As Yemekar awoke, Anbella his chosen true. Together they birthed Belka, goddess of passion and sea, Her waters imbuing the world with life to be. Born fully grown, with spear in hand and armor strong. As the moon ascended, she gazed upon its grace. Journeying to Khaz'a'dentrumm, the lunar palace, Belka became Dungrimm's queen, their union sealed the moon and sea. During Belka's absence, the world began to submerge and flood, The gods called her to return to the sea, an urging dirge they pled. And in her return, Dungrimm moved the moon to sea at end of day, With darkness cloaking the world, veiling its light. To illuminate the nights devoid of celestial glow, Armakak, their son, offered himself instead. Yemekar crafted for him a palace, the Sun, a radiant orb of fire and gold, Igniting the world, beneath its glowing skies. Grimdugan, twin to Armakak, collected embers from the Sun's fiery forging, Scattering them above to honor his brother, Stars the night sky wore. With order restored, the gods surveyed their domain, Breathing life into its essence, a divine spark granted their creation. Yemekar sculpted Krug, the first mortal creation, Anbella breathed life, their creation combined. Dungrimm bestowed a soul, the essence of being, To journey through life, but upon death to him return. Krug and his people, the Orcs, lived guided by instinct alone, But Khorvad's envy marred their innocent embrace. With tendrils of darkness, he corrupted their mind, their form, Twisting their nature, darkness now became their mold. Disappointed, the gods sought to make amends, Creating the Elves as they had the first, wisdom and age they gifted. Led by Malin, they shared knowledge and lore with the Orcs, Yet Khorvad's touch tainted, and the second race fell as the first. Seeking harmony once more, the gods crafted the race of Man, With Horen as their leader, his figure crafted by Yemekar’s hand. But Khorvad's influence sowed discord and bane, Dividing their hearts, he once more threw the world into strife. To thwart Khorvad's schemes, the gods weaved a plan to stop the corruption of their craft. They crafted a race from illusion, born of inky black tar. Form gave Yemekar and life gave Anbella, but soul did Dungrimm withhold. Khorvad could not resist corrupting this creation, but upon his touch found himself bound to the glue. With each tendril that touched the race, another tendril was ensnared. Dungrimm sprung upon him, as he lay trapped in their ruse. And from the material plane he was banished, through the Gate of the Void. And in his rage, his tentacles snapped apart, ripping the soulless race into pieces uncountable. Banished to Vuur'dor, beyond the Wall of Sky, Khorvad seethed and grew, his power to zenith within his prison. The shattered race, born without soul, became demons, his malevolent kin, Seeking to breach the Wall, their father battering upon span and door. Undeterred, Yemekar and the pantheon divine, Crafted a final race, strength and fortitude they were gifted. Urguan Silverbeard, their leader, noble and just, With Yudora by his side, united hand-in-hand. Eight sons they bore, blessed by divine grace, Yavok Ireheart, Tungdil Goldhand, Dwain Irongut, first took their seats. Bogrin Grandaxe, Ulrah Frostbeard, Gloin Treebeard all born strong, Gotrek Starbreaker and Velkan Ironborn, their stories too are heard. Belka granted unto them passions and emotions deep, Armakak bestowed fortune, guiding along the path of luck. Ogradhad's wisdom illuminated magic in their steps, Grimdugan's greed sparked ambition, driving their breaths. In the grand tapestry of gods and mortal races, The world was set, divine purpose in its bones. Each thread woven with intention, a tale yet untold, Guided by the Brathmordakin’s love and wisdom, we find our way.

Alaric Grimgold sat alone by the low fire, the old stones warm at his back, the silence of the deep halls broken only by the slow breath of flame. The note lay heavy in his hand. Another name. Another life weighed and found wanting of breath but rich in deeds. Gror Ireheart. Unyielding, unbreakable, a Dwarf whose fury had been a shield for his people. The petition for Paragon lay beneath the death-mark, respectful, inevitable. The fire’s glow drew his mind backward, as it always did. He remembered the day he crowned Sigrun Stonehammer, Undead Slayer, before a sea of beards and banners. He had lifted the circlet with hands steady despite the heat, the sacred flames licking skyward as the crown met Sigrun’s brow. He remembered his eyes. Unflinching, proud, resolved; and the roar of the Temple as if the mountain itself had given assent. He had named heroes before and after, but that day had burned itself into him like rune and scar alike. He set the note aside and took up a scrap of vellum, already knowing what must be written. The High Preceptor would decide, as law and custom demanded. Yet blood and duty bound them still. Alaric wrote only two words, the ink dark and final, and sealed the slate. When the cave crow took it and vanished into the tunnels searching for Grelu, Alaric returned to the fire, alone with memory, judgment, and the quiet certainty that Gror Ireheart would not be found lacking. “Confirm Him.”

17th of Snow Maiden, 2nd Age Year 230 04/23/2025 ISSUED BY: Salt-Prophet Alaric Grimgold ᚨ ᚲᚨᛚᛚ ᛏᛟ ᚦᛖ ᚠᚨᛁᚦᚠᚢᛚ A Call to Unity ᚨ ᚲᚨᛚᛚ ᛏᛟ ᚦᛖ ᚠᚨᛁᚦᚠᚢᛚ YOTH BRATHMORDAKIN NA YOTH MAKAZ’KIRKJA’RUM’MAR’EDOS ᛁᛟᛏᚺ ᛒᚱᚨᛏᚺᛗᛟᚱᛞᚨᚲᛁᚾ ᚾᚨ ᛁᛟᛏᚺ ᛗᚨᚲᚨᛉ’ᚲᛁᚱᚲᛃᚨ’ᚱᚢᛗ’ᛗᚨᚱ’ᛖᛞᛟᛊ To His Majesty Ulfar Starbreaker, Grand King of the Dwarves, and to the High Council and Citizens of the Grand Kingdom of Urguan, By the Mask of Dungrimm, and in the name of His stern will do I, Alaric Grimgold, Prophet of the God of War and Death, set quill to parchment. Let it be known throughout the halls and forges of our ancient race-- I henceforth renounce all folly of rebellion between our people, seeking forgiveness for the seeds of discord sown between our holy blood. In pride, a blow was struck against the unity of the Dwarves; in shame I repent this grievous sin and beg for reconciliation amongst all sons and daughters of Urguan, the Most Mighty and Majestic Ancestor. In the solemn hour within the throne room for Urguan-- where banners of Clan and Brathmordakin hang side by side-- I, once branded enemy of your crown, did meet with Your Majesty face to face. There, amidst the flicker of firelight upon blackened steel, we spoke of the outrage suffered by the Brathmordakin at the hands of the Aengul. In that discourse our hearts became one in purpose-- to avenge the dishonor wrought upon our brethren and to heal the fracture created on the path to Khaz’a’dentrumm. With that, I swore my hammer anew to Urguan, that never again would it raise against the crown. Yet, let none be deceived by false mercy-- the Aengul have committed the foulest sacrilege in usurping the souls of our kinfolk, diverting them from their rightful passage to Khaz’a’dentrumm. They have defiled the sacred journey that every Dwarf must undertake. For this offense, I implore the Grand Kingdom-- and all Dwarves far and wide-- to rise up as one and smite down the Aengul False Gods. Their idols must be hurled down, their temples brought to ruin, and their blasphemous rites extinguished beneath the steel and strength of our divine vengeance. The hour is at hand to shatter the false pillars of the Aengul and to reclaim the destiny of Khaz’a’dentrumm. With hammer and axe, sword and bolt, shall we rend their abomination and restore the sacred path to Khaz’a’dentrumm for all our fallen kin. May Dungrimm’s Wrath, Long May I Serve, guide our blows, and may Grand King Ulfar Starbreaker’s wisdom lead our march. May our people stand united in steel and faith, so that no false god nor daemon shall sunder the hearts of Urguan’s children ever again. By my Hand and my Faith, Alaric ‘the Black’ Grimgold Salt-Prophet of Dungrimm, The Anchorite, The Black Beast of the Gods

Xo’Siyaj’ K’ak would look over his assembled people, noting something as he read the missive. “I see. I see.” He nodded. “If I see a Canonist, I must kill them.”

21st of Grand Harvest, 2nd Age Year 214 01/05/2025 ISSUED BY: The Anchorite of the Brathmordakin ᚨ ᚲᚨᛚᛚ ᛏᛟ ᚦᛖ ᚠᚨᛁᚦᚠᚢᛚ A Call to the Faithful ᚨ ᚲᚨᛚᛚ ᛏᛟ ᚦᛖ ᚠᚨᛁᚦᚠᚢᛚ YOTH BRATHMORDAKIN NA YOTH MAKAZ’KIRKJA’RUM’MAR’EDOS ᛁᛟᛏᚺ ᛒᚱᚨᛏᚺᛗᛟᚱᛞᚨᚲᛁᚾ ᚾᚨ ᛁᛟᛏᚺ ᛗᚨᚲᚨᛉ’ᚲᛁᚱᚲᛃᚨ’ᚱᚢᛗ’ᛗᚨᚱ’ᛖᛞᛟᛊ The Words of the Anchorite ᛏᚺᛖ ᚹᛟᚱᛞᛊ ᛟᚠ ᚦᛖ ᚨᚾᚲᚺᛟᚱᛁᛏᛖ Children of the Stone, Kinfolk of Yemekar’s forge, hear these words with open hearts and unshaken minds, for they come not from a mere Dwarf but from the glory of the Brathmordakin’s will. I speak not as a Lord nor as a Prophet seeking worldly acclaim, but as a servant of the Brathmordakin, bound to their purpose and devoted to their truth. At this moment, when our hammers fall idle and our axes turn against one another, we must turn our eyes to the heavens carved in stone and recall who we are and why we were made. Before the halls were built, before the gold was struck from the mountain’s veins, we were the work of Yemekar’s hand. Each of us was shaped with purpose—crafted not for selfish ambition, but as threads in the tapestry of his divine design. It was He who gave us form, Dungrimm who taught us strength, Anbella who bound us to one another, and the rest of the Brathmordakin who gifted us with wisdom, wealth, and wonder. And yet, we falter. We bicker like quarreling siblings, and in doing so, we betray the very essence of our creation. What is a dwarf without his gods? A shard of rock, jagged and aimless, destined to crumble into dust. The gods are our bedrock, our foundation. They do not waver, nor do they forget their children. It is we who have wandered from them, letting pride and wroth become chains that shackle our unity. But these chains are not the gifts of the Brathmordakin! Greed untempered by wisdom, strength turned inward, and pride that blinds us to the needs of kin—these are the poisons of Khorvad, the betrayer who would see our people undone! Do you not see, O children of the forge and anvil, that the answer lies not in crowns or kingdoms, nor in vaults or thrones? The answer is, and always has been, the Brathmordakin. The gods do not demand wealth or tribute—they demand purpose. They demand that we fulfill the sacred roles for which we were made. To hoard gold for self is not to honor Armakak, but to squander his gifts. To wield strength against your kin is not to follow Dungrimm, but to mock his teachings. To forsake the bonds of brotherhood and sisterhood is to spit upon Anbella’s love. If we are to endure, we must return to the sacred. We must become once more a people united not by fleeting laws or mortal crowns, but by the divine will of our creators. Let us forge a kingdom of faith, where the Brathmordakin are honored not in idle words, but in every strike of the hammer, every swing of the axe, and every breath we draw. Let us rekindle the flame of purpose that burns within each dwarf and let it illuminate the darkness that threatens to consume us. Do not misunderstand me, my brothers and sisters. I do not call for rebellion against kings or clans. I call for rebellion against apathy, against greed that divides us, and pride that blinds us. I call for rebellion against Khorvad’s lies that have wormed their way into our hearts. Let us rise as one people, a legion of faith, unbroken and eternal. Let us become the stone upon which no tide can crash, the mountain that no storm can erode. The gods are watching. They weigh our deeds in the scales of eternity. Will they see us squander their gifts, fracturing like brittle ore? Or will they see us rise, reforged in faith, united in purpose, unshaken in our duty? The choice is ours, but the time is short. The stone does not wait to crumble, nor does the flame of the forge burn forever without tending. Strike now, my kin. Strike true. Strike as one people, under one purpose, for one divine truth. Return to the Brathmordakin, and we shall know glory not as a fleeting echo, but as an eternal hymn sung through the ages. Return to the gods, and the mountain shall once more echo with the songs of a people united, unyielding, and unforgotten. The Brathmordakin made us, let us show them the quality of their craft. Signed, The Anchorite

The Kharajyr God-King laughed at this missive, having already signed an agreement to provide Hefrumm with land. “Seems they didn’t let everyone know about the land…”

13th of Grand Harvest, 2nd Age Year 208 November 23rd, 2024 The Inscription of the Obsidian Path Before you stands a monolith of shadowed glass, smooth yet jagged, shimmering faintly beneath the light of the moon. Its towering surface is etched with glyphs and lines that twist and weave like the flowing rivers of starlight. Each groove catches the faint glint of silver, as though the moon herself has kissed this obsidian stone. The intricate carvings are alive with purpose. Great crescent shapes embrace feline forms, paws clutching shards of black-glass, their eyes lifted toward the heavens. Beneath them, the symbols spiral downward in a dance of glyphs and words, speaking to the heart of any who gaze upon it. This is no mere stone. It is a testament. A guide. A call to those who walk beneath the stars, to the children of the moon who seek to shape their destiny. What is written here is not just history or prophecy—it is a covenant, meant to be read by those bold enough to carve their place into the world. Step forward, Kharajyr. Let the weight of these words press upon your heart and stir the fire within. The night is long, but the path is before you. Etched here in timeless obsidian lies your truth, your purpose, your destiny. Read now, and rise: Kharajyr, Children of the Moon, Bearers of Obsidian, and Builders of Destiny, I, Xo’Siyaj’ K’ak’, Chieftain of Xibalamtecatl, Divine-Lord of the Blood Moon, K’uhul Ajaw of the Kharajyr, carved this. Hear my words, etched in black-glass for all to read, a guide to our hearts and hands as we shape a new age. Metztli’s Gift and Purpose “The moon once bathed us in her full and radiant light, guiding our every step. Yet as the moon wanes, so too has she departed from us, leaving the night to test her children. This was not a punishment, but the greatest act of faith a mother could give. She left the future in our hands. For just as the mother steps aside to let her child walk, so too has Metztli entrusted us to rise. She gave us life, but not our purpose. She gave us the stone, but not the blade. It is now our task to shape ourselves, to prove that we are not merely her children, but her triumph.” The Path of Obsidian “Look upon the obsidian shards that rests beneath our paws—dark, unshaped, yet full of promise. It is a mirror of ourselves: raw potential waiting to be honed. To live is to take this stone and strike it against the world, to chip away weakness, fear, and doubt, until what remains is sharp, balanced, and true. Each challenge we face, each burden we bear, is the artisan’s strike upon the stone. Do not curse the blows, for they are the tools of transformation. With each strike, we grow closer to the edge we are destined to become.” To Walk the Obsidian Path “To walk the Obsidian Path is to embrace the journey of transformation. Like the child who takes their first uncertain steps, we must face the trials before us with courage and determination. We will stumble, we will fall, but each failure is a lesson, and each lesson is a step closer to our destiny. The obsidian beneath our paws is not simply a symbol; it is a promise. It whispers that within us lies the strength to rise, to endure, and to become. But the path is not easy. Each shard of ourselves must be tempered by fire and shaped by struggle. The world is the artisan, its trials the hammer, and we are the blade. Every hardship strikes away the excess, revealing the sharp, balanced truth within. Yet even the sharpest blade is nothing without the hand that wields it. So too are we incomplete without our people. Together, we forge a collective strength greater than any single shard. Through unity, we become the weapon that shapes our future. To walk the Obsidian Path is to accept that we are not yet whole. It is to choose action over fear, resolve over doubt, and unity over isolation. As we press forward, let us hold our heads high, for each step shapes not only ourselves but also the legacy we leave behind.” The Two Edges of the Blade “The blade of a Kharajyr must have two edges, as sharp as the obsidian crescent that strikes with the moon. One edge is our devotion to Metztli—her memory, her teachings, and her dream of us as a united people. The other edge is our ambition—to carve a new path, to build a Kingdom that honors her, not through waiting, but through action. A blade with one dull edge is no blade at all. It is through balance that we find strength, through devotion and ambition that we fulfill our purpose.” The Promise of the Moon “Do not despair at her absence, for the moon waxes and wanes, yet always returns. So too may Metztli return, though the time is not for us to know. What we do know is this: if she gazes upon us again, let her see not scattered shards but a blade reforged, a Kingdom built from strength, and a legacy worthy of her love. We are the stewards of her dream, the builders of her vision. With every stone we place, every field we sow, every blade we sharpen, we prepare for the day her light shines upon us once more.” The Divine Call “Take up your obsidian, Kharajyr. Each of you is a shard, unique yet incomplete. Together, we are a mosaic of power, beauty, and purpose. In unity, we will carve our name into the world’s memory, not as wanderers or refugees, but as children of the moon, rightful inheritors of her dream. Shape yourselves. Shape the world. Build not for her return, but because you are worthy of it.” Under the Blood Moon, we rise. Xo’Siyaj’ K’ak’ Xibalamtecatl K’uhul Ajaw of the Kharajyr Son of the Jaguar’s Skull Born of the Blood Moon Descended from Empires

“For this, they were exhumed from Kharakatua long ago, to live on either the outskirts of the declining Empire or settling on the Islands surrounding Khalenwyr, where they stayed for centuries until now.”

18th of Snow Maiden, 2nd Age 206th Year November 6th, 2024 A Proclamation to all Kharajyr: The Fire is Born A Proclamation from Xo'Siyaj' K'ak' Xibalamtecatl K’uhul Ajaw of the Kharajyr, He Who is Called 'Fire is Born,' Son of the Jaguar’s Skull, Born of the line of Xerdun To all Kharajyr in exile, wanderers of foreign lands and keepers of the lost ways, By the grace and vision of our Mother Metztli, whose memory burns eternally in our hearts, I, Siyaj’ K'ak', Ajaw and devoted servant of our people, summon all Kharajyr to return to the Vale of Nevaehlen, to the place we shall call our Yencuic Aztlan—the New Island, the sanctuary and stronghold for our people. Once scattered, like the stars in the night sky, we will now shine together, a constellation reborn under the guidance of our ancestors and the memory of our goddess. We are called to a new beginning, here under the banner of kinship and the will of our Mother, who watches over us even in her absence. In a great ceremony soon to come, I will be crowned as K'uhul Ajaw, protector of all Kharajyr, and I extend my hand to every family, every clan, every Kharajyr who yearns to reclaim the strength, faith, and dignity of our people. Here in Nevaehlen, you will find a hearth lit, a safe haven of kin and kinship. Come as warriors, come as artists; come as priests and diplomats, farmers and scouts. Each of you has a place here, as we build a New Island for ourselves and the generations yet to come. Let the Tigrasi warriors and artists return to make our new city a place of strength and beauty, the Pantera nobles and shadowpaws to share their wisdom and loyalty, the Leperda priests and diplomats to rekindle the spirit of our people, and the Cheetrah scouts and farmers to bring the bounty of the land. Each one of you is called, each one of you is needed. By the grace of our ancestors, I proclaim that we, the Kharajyr, are no longer alone. We walk in the light of the great Teteo, those who have been given divine guidance by our Mother, and they will guide our steps and strengthen our spirits: Teotl Rha’kir, who led our people through the death of our Mother, guiding them from shadow into salvation. Teotl Keidha, who forged the path to a new land, establishing the hope of a second home with his dying breath. Teotl Kabletli, who brought forth a vision from our goddess in his dreams, showing him the way back to our lost continent, that we might once more walk the sacred soil and return the Moon’s favor through holy pilgrimage. Through the legacy of the Teteo and the memory of our great ancestors, like the Tlatlanni Xerdun, who in his self-sacrifice earned back our Mother’s favor, I call you all home. Let this be the era in which we reclaim our unity, our honor, and the blessing of our Mother Metztli. Though her form may be absent, her spirit guards us still, as our loving father in my person shall guard each one of you. Come, my children, my people, my heart. Let us shape this new Aztlan in her name. Let us walk as one into the dawn of a new age, so that the Kharajyr may live as they were meant to—together, strong, and filled with the blessings of our goddess. Xo’Siyaj’ K’ak’ Xibalamtecatl K’uhul Ajaw of the Kharajyr Son of the Jaguar’s Skull Born of the Blood Moon Descended from Empires