"Torag, old below sky and stone, hearth and shield of our endless days!"
A curious chant reverberates out into the cool air of Summermount, a bustling metropolis of humanity nestled amongst shaded valleys and snow-topped peaks. It came from the meadhall of clan Tharnhammer, oldest and most respected of the descendants of Dammerhall, where the greatest gathering of stone-folk in a generation had come to celebrate the passing of Magnar Tharnhammer, eldest son of the Tharnhammer line.
"We, thy sons and daughters all, our loyal voices raise!"
Under the eyes of a massive granite statue of Grundinnar, dwarven god of friendship and loyalty, hundreds of dwarves feasted and drank to the memory of the late dwarf patriarch. Although a lord in name only, the body of Magnar gave the impression of the king his bloodline deserved. Clad in ironshale stoneplate polished to a near mirror finish and gripping the haft of a mithril axe, his grey beard caught the light of a high window, shining as if it had been dipped in silver.
"Return your child, Magnar of the Tharnhammers, to the stone!"
The feast was spectacular. Six huge aurochs had been roasting for hours, turning slowly on wooden spits while kitchen boys basted them with butter and herbs until the meat crackled and spit. Tables had been placed in the middle of the hall, piled high with sweetgrass and strawberries and fresh-baked barley bread. There was a thick soup of barley and venison, snails in honey and garlic, trout fresh from the river baked in clay, sweetbreads, baked apples fragrant with cinnamon, and, of course, beer. Rich, dark, and thick, dozens of kegs were stacked
against the far wall to allow the friends and family of Magnar Tharnhammer to quench their thirsts and drown their sorrows.
"Shall he e'er in mem'ry treasured be, tho' we roam the whole world o'er!"
Among the celebrants, a lone dwarven man sits with mixed emotions. He is sad to see his oldest friend return to the stone, though they had grown apart as of late. Doled Quartzoath, clad in a gold silk robe with white accents, sat amongst the wealthy elite, surrounded by laughing, drinking, and story-telling, though he participated in none of it. The golden key of his faith hung around his neck marked him as an outsider. He had long ago given up the trappings of tradition to follow a human god: Abadar, the lord of cities, law, and wealth.
"Then forward ever, dear Torag, o'er our hearts unrivaled reign!"
Doled sings the old songs though; he remembers them by heart. While influences from the outside have turned him towards a faith with a better future, Doled remains a dwarf. He reached into one of his voluminous sleeves, and produced a scroll bearing the rune of Tharnhammer. He grimaced, recalling the words of his friend Magnar. He needed to find worthy men and women; dwarves strong, sturdy, and wise enough to return their people from the brink. Dwarves worthy of building a nation. Hands trembling, he rose from his seat and walked into the din, searching for... something. He wasn't sure for what exactly, but there might never be more dwarves in one place in his lifetime. Surely, there were some of Tharnhammer blood worthy of reclaiming that most precious jewel of dwarven kind; the ancient city of Dammerhall.
"Onward ever, old Torag! All hail to thee, Father of Creation!"
Lothar Graelson and his small family of nine Dwarves sat at the edge of the gathering; about as far from a place of honor at the central tables as was possible. The family were not seething in rage at the lack of respect; they instead bore it with sad nods and grim acceptance of their fall from grace. With one of their few remaining friends who remembered the Graelson's devotion to the Tharnhammmers having passed, each Graelson knew that their family was truly about to hit rock bottom, in terms of their finances. Without Magnar's influence to dissuade them, the vultures from once-lesser houses would soon circle, eager to pick what little flesh remained on the proverbial Graelson house's bones. The house's scion, Morghrim, Lothar's father, would try to forge new friendships and seek assistance and reprieve from other Dwarven families; much as it hurt the old Dwarf's pride, he must still provide for his own.
Lothar moved over to fetch a keg. almost freakishly strong, the young Dwarf had little difficulty hoisting one of the massive barrels over one shoulder. Seeming to move in a leisurely fashion, he stopped a passing Dwarf to inquire of him-
Forgive our ignorance; we were beset on the road and only just arrived. How did worthy Magnar fall?
Moving through the throng of revelers, Pravic grinned at the feast and the merriment of his brethren.
A dwarven funeral feast! No one does a funeral celebration like a dwarf.
To Magnar! Pravic hears behind him. Turning quickly to return the toast, along with dozens of other dwarves near him,
Stoic and emotionless most often, Pravic can't help but smile at the brotherhood and camaraderie he watches as he moves. These moments have been too far between as of late. It was as if the inevitability of the decline of his people weighed on them all and every dwarf was simply too stubborn to admit it. He longed for the days when this type of feast was commonplace in dwarven halls across the realm, and worthy moments were celebrated with feasts as glorious as the occasion they memorialized.
Even without armor and dressed in simple robes for the occasion, with the holy symbol of Torag proudly displayed, the paladin was a physically imposing dwarf. A light colored beard with a reddish hue, neatly braided, hung low enough to just tuck into the ample sized belt around his waist. A broad nose that could only belong to a dwarf stuck out over a bushy moustache that was braided into the beard. His barrel chest made him wider than most dwarves, but didn’t seem to slow him down moving through the crowd. He moved with relative ease, sliding from conversation to conversation, toasting, smiling, eating, and enjoying his time.
Passing through near the edges of the revelry, Pravic passes a stout dwarf with a keg casually slung on his shoulder.
Bit of an ov'rsized mug ye got there, what's the rest of yer kin gonna drink?
Pravic grimaces immediately at his awful attempt at an ice-breaking quip, quickly raises his mug and smiles in salute as he begins to turn away. Well that was awkward, where did that come from?
Bali patrolled the somber hall in anguish. Her friend and ally, no, her brother in arms had passed. Her misery was obvious. Magnar was her prime connection to the Thranhammer clan. Though most of them loved her, she never really became attached to any of them as she had with Magnar.
Realizing she was acting like a child, she pulled out her stein and gazed longingly at its bottom. I'll have a drink for father and mother. She wanders a bit more and finds a keg which isn't being swarmed at the moment. *sighs* Torag bless this ale. As she fills the stein of her father, the flow slows to a dribble well before filling her mug, filling her with anger. Damn you! she curses, punching the keg.
Carefully she turns around, hoping no one saw her fit, she blushes when a few others offer a chuckle. Ugh, will my life be like this till the end of my days? she mutters to herself. I need to find a good tunnel and kill some Drow, that'd take my mind off things a bit.
Taking advantage of the crowded hall, Bali walks off hoping she did not seriously offend anyone.
Lothar smirked in response to the well meant jest, which eventually cascaded into a chuckling guffaw.
I'll bring more one mug for my mother, but the others are going to have to fetch their own... he said with a wry smile as he turned to ask a question of another passing Dwarf.
Lothar's question caught a rosy-cheeked dwarf man passing by, full mug in hand.
"He passed in his sleep as I heard it. Magnar was a mighty man, but he was aged and weary. I fear the world will never again see his like."
Tears welled up in the eyes of the dwarf, although he was grinning.
"I'd ask you to share a drink and a story, but I see you have someplace to be." He gestured to the keg on Lothar's broad shoulder.
Family first, i'm afraid. I'll seek you out a little later friend Lothar said politely, deciding to deliver the keg before he attracted too much attention.
I haven't tried to start a conversation so awkwardly since my first meal with the clergy... Maybe its food. Or ale... Guess I better refill this stein
Suddenly Pravic's eyes lit up and a grin crossed his face. Walking swiftly over to the stack of kegs, he deftly hoists one of the barrels on his shoulder and makes his way back to the table of the young dwarf he met earlier.
I can 'preciate a dwarf who respects his mother enough ta not make her git her own mead, I thought I'd bring yers over and save ya the trip, he says setting the keg down with a thud.
Tapping the keg and filling his mug all in one swift motion, he smiles and lifts his mug in toast. So did ye e'er have the pleasure of meeting dear Magnar?
Bustling through the crowd, Bali sees a strange, yet familiar figure get up out of his seat. Where did she recognize him from?
Hello, forgive my asking, may I have your name? I swear I've seen you before, but I can't place you. Were you friends of Magnar?
A quiet dwarf with a good hundred summer behind him sits at the table nursing another mug, letting his belt loose for the second time this feast. He is dressed in well kept robes that any local should know belong to a scholar of Summermount's academy. Thorin gets up and pours a mug deciding to mingle with his brothers. How long has it been since I've seen my brothers together like this? I wonder what stories they have to tell.
He listens in on the awkwardness of several of these conversations. He focuses his mind to one of Magnar's favorite songs. He waits for the room to grow quiet then belts out as loud as he can in his best singing voice.
Pour your brother one more round. Pick each other off the ground. Let another chorus sound. Pour your brother another round. He pauses a moment hoping other and better singers will join in with him and the song will help ease the tension.
Draw another draught for me. Drink 'til I'm too blind to see. This one's done, pray, get me three! Draw another draught for me
Pour your brother one more round. Pick each other off the ground. Let another chorus sound. Pour your brother another round
Cheers to the brewer, then for his brew. Without this ale we cannot do. Drink until the cask is through. Cheers to the brewer, then for his brew
Pour your brother one more round. Pick each other off the ground. Let another chorus sound. Pour your brother another round.
Pravic turns to the female dwarf addressing him, Aye ye have seen me before, Bali. I've been called Stoneblood since I joined the order, Pravic points to his holy symbol as he mentions the paladins, but Tharnhammer blood runs through me veins. Its been a while since I've seen ye around the halls though. Collecting drow ears still? he quips with a friendly smirk.
I know that song...
Pravic lifts his mug in toast and his voice in song along with Thorin, joining in the second chorus before turning back to his conversation with Bali.
'Midst the gathered company of rowdy and sorrowful Dwarves were spread here and there some servants making sure the party went off without a hitch. The casks of wine never ran low, the meat was not over done, and overly disruptive guests were swiftly "escorted" out due to these silent, nearly invisible people. These are the members of the often overlooked House T'jener. House T'jener has been the closest Thane to House Tharnhammer for as long as records exist. They are the designated servitors of the Mithral Throne and have held that position against all competitors until their existance was accepted as immutable fact.
The Patriarch of this Clan stood just behind the High table now. He is easily one of the oldest Dwarves still alive at over 200 years. He has been bald for as long as anyone can remember and stories say his hair had gone white before then. He is built well, albeit average for a dwarf with leathery, wrinkled skin and stands strong for someone who almost remembers the Fall.
He stands in his customary place and occasionally scribbles in a large book. He coordinates the feast with practiced ease. A simple point and gesture was usually all that was needed to fix any issue. When the recently departed Magnus's song was started he smiles in rememberance. It was an old song. It had once rang in the halls of their lost home and threatened to bring the Mountain down upon them, but, of course, it never did. At least, that's what his father, a survivor of that calamity, used to say.
Reginald stands and waits for orders. The younger generation was in charge now. Gods, he had watched these tykes grow up. How did they get so big so fast?
Thorin approaches the aging dwarf bowing in respect. "Hail master T'jarner, do you remember me? I was a student of your some 90 summers back." Thorin toasts his mug to the elderly dwarf glancing to ensure Reginald's glass is still full.
Reginald looks the young dwarf up and down. Ahh, Thorin. Liked to mix things just to see what would go boom. Yes, my lord, I remember. I do hope you kept up with your studies. A sharp mind is as good as a blade, after all.
His mug is still full from the first drink that was poured. He has only partaken when toasts required him to do so. He had a fineral feast to run after all. The air around him takes on a vague hint of mint that tended to elicit bouts of nostalgia in whomever he taught. He chewed mint leaves almost constantly. A habit formed just after the Fall in the Starving Times to keep his belly occupied.
Elated by them mention of slaying the dark elves, she reaches over her should and pats her longhammer. I try not to leave enough left collect...
Paladins, hehe, none better to have at your back.
It's a shame, she states as she looks over to the head of the room, where Magnar lies, he was an extraordinary Dwarf.
"Of course master. I have practiced hard to control anything I make. I am no longer the fool of an apprentice I was. I have studied hard and even begun to guide the youths of this world myself."
As is proper. I am proud of all my students, but I count it a particular honor to have tought the Tharnhammers. He spots Bali patting her beloved longhammer and smiles. Some took to my teachings more than others.
After a brief pause, he adds, I taught Magnar, you know. A good student, but headstrong. He grew out of it and became a great leader, but when he was a youth he would have given a stubborn rock lessons in immoveability.
I haven't tried to start a conversation so awkwardly since my first meal with the clergy... Maybe its food. Or ale... Guess I better refill this stein
Suddenly Pravic's eyes lit up and a grin crossed his face. Walking swiftly over to the stack of kegs, he deftly hoists one of the barrels on his shoulder and makes his way back to the table of the young dwarf he met earlier.
I can 'preciate a dwarf who respects his mother enough ta not make her git her own mead, I thought I'd bring yers over and save ya the trip, he says setting the keg down with a thud.
Tapping the keg and filling his mug all in one swift motion, he smiles and lifts his mug in toast. So did ye e'er have the pleasure of meeting dear Magnar?
Lothar nodded in slightly cold acknowledgement of the female Dwarf who had interrupted his conversation with Pravic. His pride bristled, but he took a deep breath and let it go. She was a Tharnhammer, after all.
Only once, when I was still a whelp. A real larger than life figure i'd heard tell of from my pa. He was always good to our family though. Say, are there any contests happening tonight, I wonder? A bit of friendly competition would surely honour the patriarch... be it drinking, wrestling or axe throwing. Perhaps Bali Drow-Slayer would even care to compete? he said, trying to clumsily invite Bali to make the conversation three-way rather than force Pravic to speak between them.
Grimdahl sits quietly in a corner, watching. The smoke from his cigar drifts upward and along the trestle table; he ignores the looks of annoyance from his neighbours. Let them stare at his brimmed hat (worn to keep the sun off). He bears the name of Tharnhammer, which is more than many here could say, even if he is only a minor relative of the deceased Magnar.
He watches his distant cousin, Thorin Tharnhammer, and his cousin-by-adoption, Bali. It is some time since he has seen them. He thinks. Yes, it must be 15 years since he was last here, when he came to swear his oath before Magnar, to remind them all that he is – and remains – a dwarf, despite his travels and his association with humans.
Speech does not come easily to Grimdahl. He listens gratefully as others speak, or sing. In a lull, one of the brief moments of silence, he contributes his own, a memory from a time when his race could afford to go to war, when others trembled at their might:
”Earth and Stone,
Dust and bone
None of us
Will die alone.
Ale and Mead,
Heroic deed,
When our race
Has greatest Need.
Forge and Fire,
Funeral pyre,
We shall triumph
As our foes tire!”
Death may be unavoidable, but it will come to our enemies first, he thinks.
Aware that he cannot simply sit here any longer, he makes his way over to the venerable Master T'jener, and his distant cousins Thorin and Bali. ”So.” Grimdahl is not one for long speeches, but even he realises this is inadequate. He tries again. ”A sad day for our dwarven race.” That at least should be a safe thing to say.
Aye cousin, another dark day for our people. I begin to wonder if we shall ever reclaim the glorious days that our ancestors had. Thorin embraces his young cousin. Still, we must not waste our precious time together. Do you still travel with that group of humans. I would be greatly interested to hear any tales from the road.
A light-haired, dark-skinned dwarf leans against wall of the meadhall, supporting his weight with the butt of a chipped and weathered greataxe, no doubt having seen more than its share of conflict. The hood of his cloak hangs low, shading eyes more accustomed to navigating the tunnels beneath their boots. His eyes glow like dying embers from within the depths of his shaded visage, matching their glow the ember at the end of his pipe brightens as he takes a long pull, exhaling the smoke from the corner of tight lips drawn over clenched teeth.
”Ack, these dwarves! Fools, all of ‘em!” He mutters to himself, slowly shaking his head. ”Some may accept the fact that ‘e died old and content in his warm bed, but they’d be wrong, aye.” Despite his grumblings to no one in particular, his voice was beginning to rise, drawing more than a few stares. ”I’ve seen puncture wounds like ‘at ten times over, and that’s no prick from a bloody rosebush, no. Those black terrors down belows what did it. One of them darts from their blasted handbows, I’ve no doubt!”
Thorin embraces his young cousin. Still, we must not waste our precious time together. Do you still travel with that group of humans. I would be greatly interested to hear any tales from the road.
Grimdahl gladly returns his cousin's embrace - he is, even now, not entirely sure of his welcome here. He considers Thorin's question. What to say? "Nothing that wouldn't sound like old wives' tales. Do you know that up north, where there's nothing but ice, the sky burns green at night? Or that there's stranger things in the forest, things that make even the elves look normal?" He chuckles slightly - this is the most he's spoken in a long time. "Mostly though, I learned about rock and stone - they move very slow, but there's nothing can stop them... I heard about your expedition - went about as well as my own youthful exploring, by all accounts. Still, we're grown now. Wouldn't mind another crack at those drow."
Grimdahl pats the hilt of the prized scimitar Magnar Tharnhammer gave him the day he swore his oath. He hasn't yet given the blade a name. He hopes one day to slay drow with it, and anything else that tries to stop him from reclaiming the deeper sunless lands.
EDIT -
Grimdahl considers the dark-skinned, pipe smoking dwarf and his claims of drow poison. "Unlikely. Don't give them more power than they already have."
Oh! Bali exclaims, blushing again from embarrassment. Forgive me. Though I would as likely kill a Drow on sight as raise my mug with you, I could not accept the title Drow-Slayer. She looks thoughtfully to the side with a grin. Drow-Slayer? Perhaps in another age, when we Dwarves reclaim our lost homes, and the children listen to their parents tell our tales of valor, will they call me 'Bali, Drow-Slayer'... It seems out of place somehow to me... here, now.
Speaking of mugs, could I fill mine here? She adds with a genuine smile.
Watching the drinking and talking is a strange dwarf - an outsider, despite having been part of the family for a few years now - around twenty, in fact. Her black hair hanging down the left side of her face, a faint glimmer of gold threading through it, seen only under just the right light, Ingrid watches. Conscious of the stares her burn scars and bald right side are drawing, she waits. And through the clamour, she sees those talking of Bali, of her exploits against the drow.
As she walks past the group, in search of a drink, the old scars flare with a sudden heat. She hisses, clutching her face with one hand, the other dropping to the axe at her hip. Immediately, she curses herself, removing the hand from the haft - this is a place of peace, after all (never mind the crazy fairhaired one who thought the whole thing a drow conspiracy).
She hovers awkwardly near her 'cousins' - the Tharnhammer name was hers by marriage, not by blood. It was a name, nothing more - as a widow, it was barely even that anymore. It held no weight, no meaning. But Magnar had been family, if tenuously, and so were these people. So she stands, and she listens, nodding along with the conversation, trying to present her unmarked side to the group.
Reginald is momentarily distracted by a servant approaching and whispering in his ear. He nods and whispers back. The servant scurries off and Reginald returns to the conversation. He doesn't speak unless addressed, as is proper, but he likes to hear the tales that come out at funerals. In all the sorrow and tears, the happy stories always burst through like veins of white marble in grey granite. He keeps an eye on the paranoid Igmar Thornstone. If he talks much louder Reginald will have to intervene.
Edit: Reginald recognizes Grimdahl Tarnhammer as a cousin of the main Tarnhammer bloodline. Reginald had less direct association with the branches of the family. His duties required that he stay close to Magnar's line, but T'jener surely served his branch of the House as well. He would have to inquire after Grimdahl.
Reginald pops open the large book he is never without and scribbles down a note to contact Witheram T'jener and retrieve Grimdahl's records.
Oh! Bali exclaims, blushing again from embarrassment. Forgive me. Though I would as likely kill a Drow on sight as raise my mug with you, I could not accept the title Drow-Slayer. She looks thoughtfully to the side with a grin. Drow-Slayer? Perhaps in another age, when we Dwarves reclaim our lost homes, and the children listen to their parents tell our tales of valor, will they call me 'Bali, Drow-Slayer'... It seems out of place somehow to me... here, now.
Speaking of mugs, could I fill mine here? She adds with a genuine smile.
Lothar put on a mock frown.
No more out of place than a full troupe of Dwarves, gathered here in a Human town. You mean to fill your mug from mine? he jested, gesturing to his as yet unopened keg. He grabbed a couple of tankards and filled up Bali's as well as his own, passing the cup over. He caught a glance from his father; the Graelson senior seemed please that Lothar was socialising with esteemed Tharnhammers.
I had heard that the Drow favor crossbows, beneath the earth. I never saw any myself. The Graelson mine is a humble one; doesn't go deep enough to catch any of them.
"Ingrid!" The dwarf in tattered leathers, floppy broad hat and the neatly-trimmed beard is trying to remember the last time he saw the woman. In a voice of quiet regret, he adds "Was sorry to hear about your husband. One of the best."
Grimdahl isn't good with words, or particularly sociable, but he's a keen observer, and perceptive with it: he senses her unspoken awkwardness. "Don't worry about it. Birth, adoption, marriage - no matter. Magnar said you're a Tharnhammer: no one's going to argue." The tone is surprisingly firm. "Let me get you a drink - what're you having?"
”Ack, these dwarves! Fools, all of ‘em!” He mutters to himself, slowly shaking his head. ”Some may accept the fact that ‘e died old and content in his warm bed, but they’d be wrong, aye.” Despite his grumblings to no one in particular, his voice was beginning to rise, drawing more than a few stares. ”I’ve seen puncture wounds like ‘at ten times over, and that’s no prick from a bloody rosebush, no. Those black terrors down belows what did it. One of them darts from their blasted handbows, I’ve no doubt!”
A young dwarf dressed in expensive but very simple and functional dark clothes approaches Igmar.
"Igmar, my friend, please relax. I know that eyes of us who have traveled the deeps have seen a lot and we cannot help but see danger everywhere we look, but you have to keep it under control tonight. A great dwarf has left us, and on this day we need to pay him our respect."He lays his hand friendly on his shoulder and continues as an afterthought:
"Furthermore, it is not proper to offend warriors of the lord like that. I am sure they would not let any drow get anywhere near Magnar. Try to relax and lets pay our respects as it should be"
Davros has entered the hall a few minutes ago and didnt even have time to great friends and relatives who are present. Upon hearing Igmar's words, he approached wanting to help thinking that someone from similar profession could best understand him.
Aye a burning shy of green. I've seen it in in books and paintings but never with my own eyes. It is amazing to see what Torag's forge can create. He raises his mug high, shouting, TO TORAG THE FATHER OF CREATION! Thorin then downs his glass hard at his own toast. He slams the mug down his head swimming a bit. Gods I haven't drunk this much in ages. Something about being around so many of my kind it inspires me.
Come now brothers, this is no human we lay to rest. We should not be speaking in sorrowful morning. We are dwarves! Let us celebrate our patriarchs passing with stories and songs so loud the humans in all the realm tremble as though an army approaches!
Oh, finally, thank Torag Reginald thinks. With a wave and a hand signal several large drums are wheeled into the hall along with a host of other traditional instruments. Servants, members of house T'jener all, stand ready.
His voice is clear and strong in spite of his years, My Lords and Ladies! Thanes and Allies! Now has come the time of song in rememberance of the mighty Magnar Tharnhammer! Who honors his memory and his House with the priviledge of singing the First Song to send with his soul into the stone of our Fathers?
Despite the open nature of the older Dwarf's request, Lothar knew it would cause uproar if he or a member of the Graelson's were to volunteer. Besides... he had never been much of a singer.
I had heard that the Drow favor crossbows, beneath the earth. I never saw any myself. The Graelson mine is a humble one; doesn't go deep enough to catch any of them.
Ye'd be right on account of the crossbow, and their evil clerics wield wicked magic from a wicked source. Ye'd do well to mind the end of yer tunnels, ye ne'er know when the vermin will crawl through the tiniest of cracks.
Pravic turns his head when he heard the elder dwarf address the gathering. A flutter started in his stomach. He could face down the vilest of evil from the deep with a smile on his face and a song on his lips, but he hadn't had quite enough ale yet to start this one.
I'd better get a refill...
Grimdahl is initially silent. He has nothing to say about Magnar, much less sing: he loved the old dwarf for accepting his oath, but cannot find words to express that in (horror!) public. Yet – as a youth, the druid loved the old songs, loved to hear of time past when dwarves lived as dwarves should: under stone, away from the sun.
If he cannot find the words, he will let his forebears do it. Grimdahl raises his voice, and sings the mournful bass tones of remembrance:
”From Dammerhall's famed Mithral throne
Dwarf kings did build an empire grand:
From caverns hid beneath the stone,
We dwarves did rule the sunless land.
It fell, it fell, and none could say
Which of the lesser holds would reign;
Forced into the light of day,
We dwarves were looked on with disdain.
Yet we survive, and shall outlast
Those who now do mock and scorn:
Forget the dusk, the eve is past;
We dwarves shall have our glorious morn.
Scattered now, and rent asunder
Mere remnant of our previous might;
Let none dare pity, or yet wonder:
We dwarves will own the Throne of Night!”
A mournful tune, to be sure, but it ends with defiance, even hope. Grimdahl hopes that this is suitable: even though it doesn't mention Magnar directly, it embodies all that he stood for – defiance, stubborness, hope for the dwarven race.
He will leave the songs of Magnar for those who can compose for themselves, rather than merely recite - as he has - what his ancestors taught him.
...
Suddenly aware of quite how out of place he looks in his leathers and broad-brimmed hat, he scurries off to find another ale. Maybe two.
Kalderin was surprised to have gotten the invitation. Had he known Magnar better, he wouldn't have been. He had met the old Dwarf only once, when he was very young. His family didn't often come to these gatherings anymore. When he was a child, his father had tried to attend as many as possible. Funerals, weddings, what have you. Anything where he could attract attention, and perhaps find an opportunity. But over the years he became disillusioned and discouraged. And after Kalderin's mother passed, there was no one to continue to push his father.
They, of course, had heard Magnar was ill. Even so removed, he was, after all, still family. And so news of his passing was not surprising. His father was uninterested in attending, as could be expected. Kalderin, however, may not have known Magnar, but he had heard of him. And he couldn't allow his own household to dishonor such a distinguished member of the family or such an honored dwarf.
I'm late. The funeral has already started.
The latecomer steps into the hall to whispers. While his hair is slightly lighter, auburn, like his mother's, he is the striking image of his father, and grandfather before him.
My grandfather killed many who are kin to those in this hall. Probably one of the many reasons why Father has decided not to attend. We Dwarves tend not to forget such things.
The whispers die down after the Dwarf passes and attentions turn back to the call for stories and song. He walks quickly and purposefully and takes an ale. Kalderin raises it and toasts, quietly, then turns back to watch the proceedings.
The first song is met with great approval from the gathered T'jener. The collective wish of the House has always been to take back their ancestral home, and the song resonated with special significance today. Reginald himself pounds his book in agreement when the song ends.
Bali raises the ancestral mug and cheers Dammerhall! We shall renew your glory in Magnar's honor!, then quickly drinks the pungent ale.
Magnar shares triumphant days
Under roof of ancient grays
Never again to walk Torag's claim
Instead sung proud in loud acclaim
No more trouble to worry his soul
Or does he stand eternal patrol?
Torag, if still you hear our plea
Grant Magnar's last decree
That under rock and under stone
Restore to us our ancient throne
Never again be seen a lesser race
Restore to us our halls of grace
Another song, another round of approval from House T'jener. That Magnar's own kin were singing ensures that the songs all ring with a weight of truth as the Dwarves sing and drink their to their patron.
Ogrim had come to the funeral out of duty more so than desire. In life, Magnar had been mighty and he had been kin after all, but still, even in his finest, Ogrim knew he was out of place, surrounded by so much finery.
"May the light of Torag's forge guide you home."
Ogrim sipped at the ale that he had grabbed off of the tray of one of the serving men that circulated in the crowd. It was a fine brew, as befit such an event, but drunkenness wasn't a tenant of his faith that Ogrim prescribed to.
With little else to do, he wanders over to congratulate the singers on their homages to the departed.
"Well sung. I'm sure the old man would have been honoured to have such eloquent words spoken in his honour."
Welcome friend, Thorin of the Tharnhammer clan. I am sorry, I do not know your name friend. Thorin thrusts his hand into Ogrim's greeting him heartily.
Garnak arrives late, though he tries to be respectful and avoid disturbing any of those leading songs. His posture is impeccable and he walks with determination and confidence, gazing with red burning eyes at any that whisper of the rumors surrounding him.
At least some sing of anger instead of mourning.
He walks over toward Grimdahl and nods. You are right cousin. This is not a day to mourn Magnar, but a day to burn for what was taken from us. He pats the man on the shoulder before taking and ale and moving to find an open seat. Some of the dwarves around him when he sits get up to find other seats, but he remains and calmly drinks his ale.
So few present, so few chances remain.
He stands, raising his mug and clearing his throat. Magnar is dead and we drink to celebrate his passing. But we should instead remember what the name Tharnhammer means. We should boil in anger at what was stolen. We should honor the dead with vengeance. It is the way of Dranngvit to keep an accounting of all debts and we dwarves are owed much. Each royal that returns to the stone weakens the fire of vengeance. Should we not tend to it I fear that soon all we will have left will be ashes.
A ruddy dwarf enters the hall during Bali's song. He stands in surprised silence as she sings and wipes at his eyes as she finishes, trying to hide his tears. He carries a fine waraxe on one hip and a large buckled pouch on the other, which looks to contain a book of some sort.
"I'll drink to that." He takes a mug of ale and takes a long drink. Talk of Tharnhammer and debts has him slightly shaken. "The Tharnhammer name means many things to many people," he says quietly. "I've come to at least show respect to that name."
"Igmar, my friend, please relax. I know that eyes of us who have traveled the deeps have seen a lot and we cannot help but see danger everywhere we look, but you have to keep it under control tonight. A great dwarf has left us, and on this day we need to pay him our respect."
He lays his hand friendly on his shoulder and continues as an afterthought:
"Furthermore, it is not proper to offend warriors of the lord like that. I am sure they would not let any drow get anywhere near Magnar. Try to relax and lets pay our respects as it should be"
Igmar looks down at the hand on his shoulder with a fiery glare, but after a few moments his eyes soften and his tense shoulders relax, causing him to lose a few inches in height.
"I di'nt have no intentions of offendin' the dead, aye," Shifting his weight he takes a moment to tap the ashes out of his pipe, before reaching into a pocket and refilling it from a sticky burlap pouch. He pops the unlit pipe back into his mouth, clenching it between his yellowed teeth, before continuing, "But iffen ye think those devils haven't come that close to the surface, just ask my men what they think o' that! Their screams keep me awake most nights, ye ken?"
He pats Davros on the back as he walks over to the newly tapped keg, awaiting his turn at filling his mug. The long pull leaves a dark tan ring of foam around his mouth, which he doesn't seem to notice. Surveying the room, he takes in the other dwarves as they laugh and sing and celebrate and he finally gives into the fact that this is not a time for accusations or sorrow, but a time for celebrating a dwarf that embodied what all dwarves of this age aspire to be. Caught up in the moment, he takes his turn lifting his deep voice in a song of remembrance:
"Father of Creation
King of Kings
From the depth of stone we call
Heed our song
Fill our hearts
In the name of Magnar Tharnhammer we call
Speed our hammers
Guide our axes
As from the shattered halls we call
For ahead is the test
Plentiful times are past
In the name of Magnar Tharnhammer we call"
Kalderin raises his mug again and calls out, with a deep voice:
I did not know Magnar Tharnhammer personally, only his legend. But the stories of him must be true. Before me stands so many honorable and distinguished Dwarves. Only a truly great Dwarf could command so much respect. I toast to Magnar Tharnshammer, what he did for our People, and for the future that he has built.
With that he finishes his mug of ale and steps back to get more, listening to the songs and stories.
"You're too kind, Grimdahl," Ingrid responds, clasping the leather-clad dwarf's hand firmly. Her smile is warm, though the loss in her eyes is clear. After the years, the mourning hasn't yet passed, it seems. "I appreciate your words, though I doubt all would share your sentiment. The name is mine, but the stares suggest the honour isn't." She runs a hand brought her half-head of hair regretfully.
When he leaves, she notices the awkwardness he fells. It's something she's all too familiar with, and she follows, fetching two drinks as she does so. "Here," she offers, catching up to him and offering a drink with a sad smile. "To the outcasts."
"Not outcasts," the stocky druid replies quickly. "Scouts: we're away, but return - and belong." Grimdahl has got used to being stared at, even questioned, but no longer cares. As far as he's concerned, Magnar accepted them and that really the end of it.
He clinks flagons with Ingrid, and drinks deeply, enjoying the heady richness of a properly-brewed beer. He has (much to his surprise!) grown fond of humans, but by Earth and Stone they know nothing of brewing. Proper beer takes time; they're far too impatient.
This is good: rich, earthy and filling. He sighs deeply and has another. "Good to see you, Ingrid. Don't be a stranger."
Magnar shares triumphant days
Under roof of ancient grays
Never again to walk Torag's claim
Instead sung proud in loud acclaimNo more trouble to worry his soul
Or does he stand eternal patrol?
Torag, if still you hear our plea
Grant Magnar's last decreeThat under rock and under stone
Restore to us our ancient throne
Never again be seen a lesser race
Restore to us our halls of grace
Grimdahl listens wistfully to his young cousin's soft piping voice. Yes, she's right, Magnar is free of this world's cares; he hopes that the afterlife will be good to him. Maybe the old dwarf will be allowed to watch over those who remain.
"So." He resists the urge to ruffle the younger girl's - woman's, he corrects himself - hair; last time they met she was, what? Still in her thirties? Younger? Instead, he offers her the warrior's grip, wrist to wrist. He winces slightly at her strength, no doubt these days she could kick his ass without trying too hard. "What do you do when you're not beating up on ale kegs?"
...
Noticing the empty seats around Garnak, the leather-clad dwarf takes two, putting his feet up on one. Fishing around in his pocket, he lights another cigar and puffs thoughtfully for a time or two. He listens to what Garnak says about the fires of vengeance and nods, before offering a toast to his red-eyed, tall cousin: "To vengeance, justice, and reclaiming what is ours." He drinks again.
I have tried mercenary work with the humans. They do enjoy getting into trouble. I usually leave them when they go to their boats and ships, though, preferring the earthen feel of solid ground beneath my feat. Otherwise, she pauses and gives a slight chuckle. Beating up on ale kegs! And then slaps other Dwarf on the back. I'll join you if you join me, let's take a keg for ourselves.
Bali looks around and wanders off to fetch a keg...
Reginald supervises as more Dwarves from lesser houses come forward and sing. The music continues in the background for as long as there are singers.
Pravic, despite his trepidation for speaking in public settings, feels a sudden urge that could only be described as a spiritual nudge. Hearing the songs and fervor that speak of reclaiming Dammerhall as tributes to the great Tharnhammer patriarch they are honoring, he cannot help but raise his voice with a common battle song, often heard on the front lines.
If they want to get fired up for reclaiming our rightful heritage, then maybe this will be the bellows to their forge...
The shout of war
The ring of steel
The thunder of our kin,
Make devils squeal
And vermin reel
As waves of Dwarves roll in!
An avalanche
Of rock and stone
To crush our foes beneath!
Tis not mere stone
That Torag casts
Tis Dwarves that he’ll unsheathe!
Nurin bangs his mug on the table at the words in Pravic's song. "Here, here! Here, Here! Now that's a song to live for! Torag's beard, I'd love to test my mettle against whatever is locked behind those Dwarven walls at Dammerhall."
Nurin glances down at his waraxe. "I'd like nothing else than to see that great hold. And a Tharnhammer to lead us would only be fitting."
Garnak clinks his mug against Grimdahl's and nods, taking a drink.
To vengeance indeed.
He sits down and shifts a bit to turn to those singing. Listening to their words he seems calm and patient at the moment, though his eyes scan the assembled to attempt to gauge their various reactions.
Hopefully we can find the strength of will to go with all of this nostalgia.