Angrin's eyes widen slightly, as he begins to accept the odd dwarf's ability. "Bloody Hell. That's eerie! Yer absolutely right. The Deep was in danger, some serious stuff, but I turned out t' be safe…" His teeth clench and he balls his fists at his sides. Damned drow, and their treacherous ways. They had no right to live, none! "Alrigh'. Ye're my attention, now, surfacer." And it appears he's not the only one. Daelric, the innocent lad, was also paying great attention. Huh. Maybe there was something to this odd dwarf indeed. The wizard, too. Huh.
Upon his return to the main feasting chamber of the Meadhall of Drun-Morogh Dakún’s light, almost gliding steps carried him to a stop before the proud granite statue of Grundinnar. With his long gaze he put the icon through a reverent and analytical study. Though his faith was rooted in the same pantheon and the same ancient traditions that had come out of primeval Nar-Voth, the many millennia separated from his distant kin had created significant alterations, especially between the dwarves of Avistan and those of Garund. The dwarves of Highhelm worshipped and prayed to all the sons of Torag, such as Kols and Trudd, whereas among his people only Grundinnar was openly offered prayers. Loyalty and friendship were essential and positive traits for any society to praise. Though the pose of the statue, the garments carved onto it and some of the facial features were different, it struck Dakún at how similar the likeness of the statue was to the open armed depiction of carved limestone that stood before Grundinnar’s temple in Tar-Telúl. Offering a silent blessing to the God for unification and friendship among his race, Dakún stepped away from the idol and cast his gaze in the direction of the bronze haired Vigar.
Though Dakún had come to offer his respect to the patriarch of a clan he had been told worked toward the betterment of all dwarf-kind, he was also possessed of ulterior intentions. He had hoped that he would be able to arrange a meeting with the Skuldafn heir, not for any selfish intentions, but rather to plead his case to the renowned Stonelord and make use of his many contacts in Highhelm and beyond. The destruction the firewyrm could wreak was not something that could be ignored. Unfortunately this plan had not succeeded, for Vigar was occupied with the many responsibilities he held at the funeral and when he was not, lords and figures of much greater standing then a visitor from a distant land consumed the Paladin’s attention. At the very least he had made a positive impression on the younger of the Hraggir’s sons.
Introspective in his thoughts, his feet had silently taken him near to where the strange sounding Granite Empress was holding audiences with those in attendance. A small throng of dwarves seemed to be conversing with the ‘Empress’ utilizing her handmaiden as an intermediary, though it seemed to Dakún that the handmaiden rarely translated the dwarven language to that strange and sing-songy tongue with which she spoke. Though he stared at the silken robed dwarves from the other side of the world, he kept a respectful distance, unwilling despite his curiosity to eavesdrop on the conversations. His gaze did however stay for a long time on the lion seemingly born of living, malleable marble. It was undoubtedly some form of magical creature, perhaps related to gargoyles or maybe connected in some distant manner to the great Sphinxes of ancient Osirion – for they too knew the secrets of living stone.
Once everyone has picked a card, Rogath collects them back up and begins to shuffle the deck together. "Now that you each know your Role, we can try to answer the question." He closes his eyes briefly and his lips move in a silent prayer to Desna, before he begins dealing out the Spread. The perceptive might notice a slight upward tilt to the corner of his mouth as people identify with their cards, but if so, it is quickly gone as he returns his full attention to the deal.
Once he has placed nine cards face down in a three-by-three square on the table, he sets the rest of the deck in front of him and taps each column in turn. "This first column represents the past. The middle one, our present, and this one," he pauses momentarily, then continues in a slightly hushed tone, "the future."
Flipping over the "past" cards from top to bottom, he reveals The Lost, The Uprising, and The Fiend. He contemplates this spread for a moment, then shakes his head and begins interpreting.
"The Fiend is a card of might. When it shows up here, it represents a great disaster in the past, or a mighty evil has arisen. Sadly appropriate to our times." He pauses for a moment of silence at this, then continues. "Above it is The Uprising, another strong card. Here, it represents that great events are in motion, and we are all as likely to be crushed by them as to be able to ride them to greatness." Tapping the last card in this column, he explains "This card represents The Lost, an undead bodak driven forever mad. The card is from the suit of wisdom and insight, and normally, it would indicate madness, confusion or forgetting who you are. However, when it shows up here, it is a hopeful sign. Here it indicates exceptional insight, even under the pressure of the great events going on."
Straightening up slightly, Rogath looks around at the group, and offers his opinion in a slightly more normal tone. "I can't say for sure who it is referring to, but given where we are, I would presume to say that it is the departed Master of Coin. He was certainly under great pressures, yet strived to keep doing what he could for all the dwarves of Highhelm, from the surface down to Varrok's Deep."
In the heat of the brawl Drunyar found a turned table at a corner, grabbed a stout mug and hided. Uninterested in the fight he eventually dosed off.
The sudden silence awoke him. And it was with surprise that he saw the Tian Xia's entourage. The Foo lion was indeed an impressive sight, he approached to admire it from a safe distance.
At first he didn't pay much attention to the card game going nearby but when he realized what it actually was he joined that table. The future and specially the past are topics of great interest to him.
As the cards are draw and columns form Grunyar seems hypnotized, his eyes locked with the card "The Lost".
So, what does the future brings for those lost to the fiend? he asks the fortune teller with sadness.
As Maven studies the card she's drawn, she's reminded of the day she found her weapon of choice.
The intrusion of Drow from beneath Highhelm had tested her and her kin; she learned that day the true value of triage, and she had decided not to hide behind shields when her own had splintered in her grip. She vividly recalled her desperation as the drow invaders backed her into a corner, predatory grins on their faces. The stinging of knife wounds was a distinct kind of pain that was impossible to forget. With naught but a shattered mace and a broken shield strap hanging from her arm, she'd been reduced to scooting backwards on her palms as the attackers tormented her with threats to her patients and her kin. Everything changed when she felt the haft of the hammer beneath her hand. Though the exact sequence of movements escapes perfect recollection, she clearly remembers the sound of her roaring charge and the dull, sickening crunch of drow bones as the long-handled weapon crushed ribs and splintered spines.
A glint in the corner of her eye causes Maven to glance towards a massive sword held aloft by a Dwarf half it's height.
I guess he don't hide behind shields either. Wonder how it'd stand up to Drowbreaker...
Talk of the future re-centers her focus, however. Rogath's interpretation of the past seems ironically appropriate, and yet a thought unspoken troubles her as she listens further.
...Insight?
Angrin frowns slowly. "Now, ain't that odd..." He considers each of the cards in turn with what might be a hint of curiosity. "How far back does the Past extend? 'cause I could think o' the Quest for the Sky when ye talk about 'the Uprising.'" He scratches his beard absently, considering. The Fiend made sense. There were always great disasters and evils arisen. The comet that hit Kyonin recently, the death of Aroden prior to that... Hell, even as recent as the increased aggression of the drow!
Then his attention goes to the Lost. At Rogarth's words about the master of coin, he nods vigorously. "Aye. He were a great man. Helped out the Deep in our times o' need. Hell, me father always said that Hraggir was one o' the main reasons we could still brew in peace." Well, relative peace... He pulls his mind away from the thoughts that follow, returning his attention to the cards.
With his respects paid and with little more for Rin to do, the young Dwarven man finishes up his performance to the late Hraggir Skuldafn the only way he can....by lowering his large sword into a stylish finisher.
As Rin's weight shifts backward, the sword above his head begins to plummet forwards, when suddenly the blonde Dwarf begins to turn, spinning faster and faster with every rotation, using the weight of his momentum to carry him around before his blade has a chance to hit the ground.
With a 7ft sword and a huge gust of wind thanks to his whirlwind manoeuvre, the Harrow cards and other loose bits of paper around the room begin to fly everywhere, before Rin slows himself down, bringing his blade softly to the ground.
'at'll eh'bowt d'wit!
As Dolgrin conversed with the "doctor," he casually glanced around the room, finally able to relax some and honor Hraggir in proper revelry. Well, not necessarily all dwarves definition of revelry. But things had calmed down much since the earlier outburst. It even appeared a game of cards was being played. Perhaps Dwunderbran was right, once the barriers between individuals were broken, or in some cases beaten, through a bit of a friendly tussle everybody was able to loosen up.
How dangerous is it when one such as Vulgarbeard shows more social cunning than some of Highhelm's finest? I'd wager the only ones in any danger would be the ones within a tankards throw of him. HA!
Pleased with his little study on dwarves social etiquette, he returned to munching on his food and chatting with Logem. However, his mind still managed to drift to thoughts of his conversation with Daelric earlier. So the young Stonelord wants some armor made of stone. I've done it before, though I much prefer metals. Perhaps I will just let Brewbane handle that order, the lad seems smitten with her anyway, he would probably treasure it more than any fancy design I come up with...most dwarves do actually...
Sampling a shot of the potent libation he has discovered, Dwunderbran becomes fleetingly aware of a small gust of wind at his back. Turning to regard the the blonde haired dwarf twirling an impractically sized weapon, he offers a brief snort at the sight. 'At blade be too big fer an ogre, an' this whelpling be thinkin' 'e can be swingin' it 'bout? 'E's nary a hope a'hittin' anythin' fit fer ta be hittin'. Ere 'e even hoisted tha cutter, ah'd 'ave me axe buried in 'is skull. He shakes his head briefly before noticing that the considerable length of his stogie has dwindled to naught but a cherry that threatened his lips and mustache. Spitting the thing out, he grinds it into a mashed mess with his thickly heeled boot.
With fleeting interest in card, sorcery, or nobility, Dwunderbran inevitably finds himself roaming to the table that plays host to the doctor and cleric-smith. Gaining his seat without permission or introduction, he casually begins forking plump helpings of cheese into his mouth, not bothering to swallow before speaking to present company. "'At boy-o's blade be more hindrance 'an threat. Stonelings these days..." The odor of the cheese, pungent though it is, seems to be helping somewhat to mask Dwunderbran's personal bouquet. "'Ey be fathomin' 'emselves slayers a'cause 'eir blades be bigger'n tha arms 'ey got fer ta swing 'em."
It hadn't dawned on him who the fellow in the strange white coat was. He had been decidedly larger during the pair's last altercation, a fact that was not lost on the cheese-inhaling dwarf. "Ye've gone a bit skinnier in yer arms, aye? Dunnae be tellin' me yer a nancy fop what dandies 'is fingers an' tongue 'round fer a touch o' tha sorcery." Disdain creeps once more into Dwunderbran's features.
Rogath appears to consider carefully, before answering the questions he's been asked. To the newcomer, he lays his hand on the third column as he answers, "It has not yet been revealed, but if you stay, you may find your question answered. Join us." To Angrin, he shrugs. "All that the cards say is that it is in the past. But it is relevant to those of us participating in the reading, or it would not have come up. It could be the Quest, whether the great one of ages past, or the personal ones of those of us born underground in more recent times. But that was a journey of the dwarves for the dwarves, and The Uprising usually represents something more external and compelling. Something beyond the control of any one person. The prophecy that triggered the Quest for Sky, perhaps."
He begins flipping the cards of the present, this time flipping the bottom card first and working his way up to reveal The Bear, The Carnival, and The Demon's Lantern.
"This column represents the present," he reminds the onlookers. Starting with the Lantern, he begins interpreting. "The Demon's Lantern is from the suit of precision and accuracy. The card itself indicates tricks and traps, slight of hand and slight of mind. A thieves' card, if you will. However, located here that is reversed, and instead of a trap, it represents a guide, coming to show the way to something better." He strokes his beard, running his fingers over the shiny beads laced into the black hair. In a more thoughtful tone: "Given the past we've been shown, it could represent Vigar, taking his father's place and guiding the way forward. Or it could be the empress over there, or one of us. It could even represent this draw of cards directly, with the Harrow providing the guide forward."
Resuming his more somber voice for interpretation, he moves down the row. "Another card of insight, The Carnival is a card of illusions and imprudent plans. In the center of the Spread, it has no advice to offer. It may mean the guide represented by the Lantern is false, or that we won't recognize the guide because of our own prejudices."
Tapping the bottom card, he frowns. "The last card is The Bear. It is another card of the suit of strength, and it represents strength, pure and simple. Located on the bottom of the row, it indicates that brute force is something to avoid, or that someone or something will impose on another by force. Or it could mean that our current use of force is going to have severe consequences."
With furrowed brow, Rogath looks up from the cards. "I have seen many readings in my travels, and performed many of my own. This is one of the most gloomy I have ever encountered. I almost hesitate to flip the future, in case it is worse. But it wouldn't be right to stop, so lets hope for a brighter future." But as he reaches for the next card, a sudden wind blows all the cards except the one under his hand all over the table!
With a cry of surprise, the fortune-telling dwarf throws himself almost bodily on the cards, to keep them from blowing away. "Catch those cards!"
Her braids tousled by the gust of wind, Maven is barely a step behind events as the gale kicks up, quickly looking up from her drawn card back to the source of the breeze, then, startled by the sudden dance of cards, she does her best to hold onto hers while diving for any that threaten to leave the table.
The wind gusts by Kal'Tos as he studies the spread of cards on the table, when the cards begin to move he uses his mage hand to stop several from moving very far.
Angrin's reactions to the reading seem to sober up Grunyar bringing him back to the now. His mind starts to racionalize the whole experience pushing away the ghosts. Its just another form of divination, as generic as they use to be. Everyone imbue them with the meaning that is dear to themselfs. Yet the young dwarf stays and sit at the table, curious about what the future holds.
When the wind comes he uses both hands to steady the cards and save the ones not flipped yet.
Edrukk sees the wind start to ruffle the cards, but is in no position to do much about it. He wasn't sitting closely, content to watch from a bit of a distance. Plus, all the dwarves that were intently watching the reading were filling the available space nearby scrambling to protect the object of their fascination.
Interestin' idea, so many combinations. But not as entertainin' as some spades.
Daelric appears too upset about the thought of his lost family to mention anything about the readings thus far, but he has been watching intently. As the gale starts to swirl and hearing the cry to catch the cards he whips his shield off of his back and uses it much like a net to catch the few cards that the others were unable to catch. Once all the cards have been caught he sit down in his seat again and hands them back to Rogath, "Please continue sir."
Daelric shoots an evil glare at Rin, "Idiot!" He then turns his attention finally to Rogath again.
With the help of several of the participating dwarves, Rogath manages to recover the cards which went flying, and preserve the order of the ones left on the table. Clearly disgruntled, he collects all the loose cards back into a deck and carefully counts them before relaxing. "My thanks to all of you. I don't know what I would have done if I lost any of these cards." Putting his hand rather possessively over the deck, he shoots a glare over his shoulder at the crazy dwarf with the big sword and adds, "I must say, I have never had the Bear demonstrated so immediately before. This is a very strange reading. Shall we see what the future holds?"
Carefully squaring the cards back to their original positions, Rogath begins flipping the final three, revealing (from top to bottom), The Teamster, The Trumpet, and The Beating. After a moment's contemplation, he resumes his reading.
"The Beating is another strength card. Like the others, it represents an external force imposing itself on us. In this case, it indicates there will be constant attacks from all sides. Enemies all around."
Moving up the column, he taps The Trumpet and continues. "The Trumpet is a card of endurance, like the ones you all chose from at the start. It stands for power and the force of righteousness. Like the archon depicted on it, we must be prepared to face a dire situation head on. However, there are also shades of recklessness indicated by its placement. Wading right in may not be the best option, even if it seems so at the time."
Reaching up to tap the final card, the fortune teller hesitates and closes his eyes momentarily, clearly collecting his thoughts before explaining. "Finally, we have The Teamster. Another card of endurance, this one represents an external pressure to continue on, no matter what. Placed here, it indicates that no matter what obstacles arise, we must press on. Doing so is the only way to a better future. Even when it seems like you are ready to drop, this card says you should keep going."
After another quick glance over his shoulder to make sure there isn't another sudden interruption coming, Rogath settles back a bit and summarizes. "The future does seem to be of a theme. Enemies pressing in from all around, which we must stand up to and press on. Only by enduring even when all seems lost can we hope to reach a brighter future."
The Lost | The Demon's Lantern | The Teamster
The Uprising | The Carnival | The Trumpet
The Fiend | The Bear | The Beating
Angrin frowns. "An unrecognized guide, or one who leads astray, eh? An' I thought me folks were gloomy. Vigar's got good Skulfadn blood, so I'm sure he isn't the leadin' astray sort." Maybe that dwarf in white, the kalistocrat from Druma. He didn't seem well-liked on the whole, and he might be a stinking liar.
"But brute force not the answer? Well, that's nothin' new. Ye can't beat 'em with brute force. Leastways, not in the Darklands. The enemies outnumber ye, an' most o' 'em are stronger than any six dwarves, or have some spooky magic crap t' play with. Ye have to outsmart 'em, or outrun 'em, 'cept when they attack yer home, y'see."
As Rin whirls his sword, though, Angrin whips his head around, frowning darkly. "Oi! Watch where ye're swingin' that bloody thin- Kol's braided ball hair! That's massive! What the Hell're ye thinkin', swingin' that where there're no foemen?!"
Angrin pauses, then takes the sword in more rationally. With a weapon that size, he couldn't be terribly mobile, and it'd be more of a hinderance than a help in the narrower tunnels of the Darklands. "Speakin' o' brute force not bein' the solution, here's an example o' one who thinks it is..." He mutters.
Finally, at the future, he speaks, mildly disappointed. "Ach. Well, ye're only mortal, so I suppose anythin' beyond 'endure' is too much to ask." He pauses, then says quickly. "Not that that's a bad message, mind, but, I was hopin' for the same sort o' accuracy as yer first cards."
" We are dwarves, when have innumerable foes and dark portents stopped us before? For we are of the race that completed the quest for the sky, and even now other races stand jealous of our great works." For once Kal'Tos actually grabs his tankard with one hand. "Let us drink to the strength of dwarves, both that which has gotten us to this point and that which will carry us into the future. TO THE STRNGTH OF DWARVES." Kal'Tos drinks deep from his tankard.
Grima Skuldafn had silently observed the celebration from the isolated table of honor within his family’s meadhall of Drun-Morogh. His attention had primarily focused on his brother and the kalistocrat. However, the Harrower now spoke of the future. Perhaps, a moment had arrived for him to honor his father and divine patron.
At the toast to “the strength of dwarves,” Grima stood up pushing his heavy seat across the stone in a screeching noise that he had witnessed his father use to similar effect. Those that knew Grima hoped the social leper would not embarrass the memory of his father and clan. For those that did not know the younger brother of Vigar Skuldafn, they saw a young dwarf in mourning attire covering heavy infantry full plate standing at the table of honor next to the empty chair of Vigar Skuldafn.
”Welcome guests, from far and wide,” he begins in the silence created by his chair nodding to Kal’Tos, the empress, the sand dwarf, and several other dwarves who clearly have traveled far to attend. ”We must indeed celebrate the strength of dwarves. Our numbers are few, so our greatest strength resides in our common purpose coordinating action. If our chisels are too few to shape the stone, we know directed water can. We must have the vision to know when to use water instead of individual chisels.” Grima pauses in dramatic silence and then concludes, ”The clan of Skuldafn is honored by your reverence and celebration. So says Grima, son of Hraggir, brother to Vigar, Lord of Drun-Morogh.” He holds his tankard aloft in toast and drains it. He smiles to everyone and sits quietly pulling the chair to the table.
The elders of Drun-Morogh are awestruck and dumb-founded. Never before had they heard such words from Grima. At least today, they could be proud of the youngest Skuldafn.
So we must endure? That much I already knew!! Grunyar says disappointed. I guess in the end press on is still the only viable option... Like always. The young dwarf shrug his shoulders trying to dismiss his disappointment.
Yes, to the streangh of our people. He says to join the toast and picks up a mug downing its content in one swing.
The white robed Sand Dwarf continued to be engrossed in his observation of the marble-skinned Foo Lion. So fascinated was he with the unusual beast, that he hardly seemed to take notice of the antics of the dwarf named Rin, despite the rippling of his robes and the waft of air near his face. He had heard the man’s garbled and thickly accented words in offered prayer to Hraggir Skuldafn and while he approved of the prayer, the flamboyant display afterward was a bit much. It was not until an object went fluttering over his naked bronzed head that Dakún acknowledged anything else. With startling speed Dakún’s left hand darted upward and snatched the object out of the air, moving like the clutching talons of peregrine falcon upon an unsuspecting songbird.
His attention pulled away from the Foo Lion, the Pahmet exile focused his jade gaze on the snared object. It appeared to be a strange and colorfully illustrated card. Depicted in the picture was a one eyed humanoid pouring beer into an empty mug. There seemed to be no other figures in the picture and the Cyclops seemed rather inconsequential. Dakún was not sure exactly why he thought as much, but to his eyes the Cyclops seemed achingly lonely. A few more moments were taken in study of the card. He did not know whether the picture held some deeper meaning or whether it was merely a curious distraction. Some form of portable art or a game seemed the most likely answer. Gripping the card between two fingers, Dakún soon cast his gaze about the large Meadhall. Apart from a song here, a few curses there, and the low rumble of private conversations the hall of Drun-Morogh was relatively quiet. It only took him a few seconds to spot the source of the Harrow cards. He began to stroll over to the table where Rogath held the attention of an assembled motley of dwarves when Grima Skuldafn’s sudden rising and the harsh screech of his heavy chair upon the stones caused Dakún Rabbúhamash to halt in his tracks.
The words spoken were simple, but effective. The message succinct and poignant. It was a message with which Dakún heartily agreed. A common purpose and coordinated action were at the root of the very reason for his journey to Highhelm. When Grima finished his words with a toast, Dakún loosened his drinking horn from his belt and drained much of the alcohol within. Though it no longer held the spirit of his homeland, he had possessed the sense to refill it with Highhelm mead in case he was called on to drink to in another honored toast.
As Dwunderbran approaches his table, Dolgrin sighs quietly. I thought too loud...
As Rin makes a strange show of his blade, Dolgrin agrees with Dwunderbran. "Aye, any smith worth their weight in Mithral knows to properly size yer weapons to their owner. Whoever made that blade either meant it fer a giant or didnt know the difference in a forge 'n an anvil."
Dolgrin stands and joins Grima's toast when the younger Skuldafn speaks up. Impressive speech from somebody so quiet. He should speak up more often.
Maven frowns at the final spread of cards. The will to endure was not an alien concept; she'd often pounded steel at her forge for days at a time, and moving between grievously wounded patients as they streamed in by the dozens was not a trifling chore, but an exhausting exercise. The portent of pushing on through hopelessness worried her, however; the fortitude of Dwarves was not to be called into question, and for something to actually challenge that fortitude outright would take a dire threat indeed.
As Kal'Tos's toast is received, she instead lays down her card and ponders the frustratingly vague interpretation of recent events. Wonder if it means anythin' about that shattered boulder I saw...Don't know whether ta hope they're connected or not...Ah Torag, why'd ye have to couch everythin' in riddle and prophecy? Sometimes I wish ye'd just come out and say somethin.'
She sighs and rests her chin on her knuckles as Grima heralds another toast and cheer. then again, who'm I to prattle bout speakin' up? Toastin' and celebratin' goin on and all I can think about's prophecies and forgin' weapons...Damn me awkward Brewbane blood.
Angrin raises his own tankard in salute to the toast, but when the authoritative (or loud, as they are often one and the same when it comes to dwarves) voice rings out, Angrin's head snaps around, his attention captured. It is a long-held habit, for when someone was shouting in the Deep, it was often because of an attack. The words, however, far from being a warning of incoming beasties, are instead a welcome to the funeral, and a thanks by - "Hold it, Hraggir Skuldafn had a second son?!" He exclaims, somewhat shocked. He couldn't recall hearing anything about that! His shock, though, does not stop him from wondering aloud. "Shape with water rather'n chisels? What's he on about?" It is correct, true, but… Angrin couldn't figure out what exactly Grima was talking about. He looks to his tablemates and asks "D'ye have any idea what he meant? An' when did ol' Hraggir have a second son?" Nevertheless, he admits privately, they were stirring words indeed.
Turning to Dunderbran for a moment, Rin glances at his blade and shrugs.
This blade? A hindrance? By Trudd's beard, it's a work of art! The finest craftmanship around I'd bet. Sure some can craft their own armour, but most work better with stone. Metal's my thing and has been for years!
As Issolda vents her frustrations, the blonde haired Dwarf turns towards her also, raising an eyebrow momentarily before shaking his head.
It wouldn't be appropriate but if I whipped it out right now, they'd certainly have a shock! I reserve that for lovers anyhow, and my sword is just a better representation of what I have below. It's effective in combat. My swinging serpent is not....or at least I don't think it is....
Rin laughs loudly, questioning the thoughts of the woman.
Ha! Hahaha! HAHAHA!!!! 'At b'wair yr'ong laahs. 's ah fyn re'pr'zent'asian 'f mi'tahl. Wai tha'trayn 'f fawt? Ya int'rsted ah sum'ng? he says, before placing his sword on the ground, horizontally in front of Hraggir's tomb.
As he climbs to his feet, he heads over to the table of Harrowers, bowing at Angrin's statement, before leaning over the card table to pour himself another drink, joining in with the toast and shouting AYE!, as he raises a full tankard high into the air.
Edrukk drinks deeply at the toast to all dwarves.
”Welcome guests, from far and wide,” he begins in the silence created by his chair nodding to Kal’Tos, the empress, the sand dwarf, and several other dwarves who clearly have traveled far to attend. ”We must indeed celebrate the strength of dwarves. Our numbers are few, so our greatest strength resides in our common purpose coordinating action. If our chisels are too few to shape the stone, we know directed water can. We must have the vision to know when to use water instead of individual chisels.” Grima pauses in dramatic silence and then concludes, ”The clan of Skuldafn is honored by your reverence and celebration. So says Grima, son of Hraggir, brother to Vigar, Lord of Drun-Morogh.” He holds his tankard aloft in toast and drains it. He smiles to everyone and sits quietly pulling the chair to the table.
Talon raises his whiskey in reply and declares "Here, Here" before downing the glass.
"Anyone up for a game of dice? Silver piece limit?" Talon rattles a set of poker dice hopefully.
Daelric joins in with the toast of Dwarven strength and again when Grima talks, he then sits again. Hearing Angrin's questioning he looks up at him, "If a chisel doesn't work, use a pick. If a Pick doesn't work, use explosives." He lets out a deep gravelly laugh filled with joy, happiness and a little sadness, " That's what my father always said anyway. I have never needed any more than my Pick and have never tried with water. I had heard rumours of the second son though and only guessed it was he due to where he is sitting during this celebration."
Finally, at the future, he speaks, mildly disappointed. "Ach. Well, ye're only mortal, so I suppose anythin' beyond 'endure' is too much to ask." He pauses, then says quickly. "Not that that's a bad message, mind, but, I was hopin' for the same sort o' accuracy as yer first cards."
As he collects the cards and stacks them back in his deck, Rogath expresses his agreement with Angrin and some of the others. "Aye, that I am. And the future is harder to glimpse than the past, as it is not yet set. But consider - out of all the possible messages and combinations, every single indication about the future was, as you said, 'endure' in the face of adversity. That in and of itself is meaningful in it's simplicity and repetition. It worries me."
To Kal'Tos's toast, he echos back "And to their endurance!"
"Aye, but... it seems an odd thing to say in a welcoming speech, don't it?' Angrin frowns, considering. What could Grima have meant... "It means somethin' about a change in tactics, I think. But why would we need t' change tactics, and with what? Ach, I'm overthinkin' this..." He sets the thought aside for later perusal, examining Grima for a moment, before he frowns a little at Rin's bow.
"What're ye bowin' for? I jus' told ye not t' swing that bloody thing where there're no foes." He pauses. "Common sense, really..." Unless, Angrin realized with a brief flare of horror, it wasn't common sense to these surface-dwarves... Perhaps having all that "open space" did something odd to one's perception of how close and far things were from each other, or simply affected the sanity of those who lived in it... Angrin pauses, then laughs aloud, unable to credit that with any truth. Hraggir had been a good dwarf, and no doubt those at his funeral were the same, even if they were... odd.
He turns to Daelric, nodding. "Did ye hear o' him, then... Huh. Wonder why we ne'er did. O' course, I spent lots o' time outside o' the Deep, so maybe I was behind on some o' the gossip... But I didn't think I was that behind..." He laughs again, eyes twinkling, trying desperately to conceal his confusion.
He nods again at Rogath, though he speaks up. "Oh? Why so worryin'? I woul' think that simpler'd be better in this case... I mean, th' original Quest for the Sky came about when Torag told our ancestors t' move up when the earth shook. An' that's pretty simple, isn't it?"
Daelric continues to look at Angrin and nods, "Only heard of him, it was all whispers. His brother Vigar apparently has the same sort of abilities as myself, though much more naturally talented than myself and from a royal line, but the priests would often talk about him and sometimes when no-one was around; or thought no-one was around, they would mention Grima. They said he is very ... odd and doesn't have the same abilities as his brother or father. But he seems normal to me, apart from the water thing. Tactics have to be changed if something new or powerful is coming when current tactics are not succeeding. Unfortunately his speech, your interpretation of it and Rogath's future reading have me worried."
"Aye... There's dark times ahead, methinks. E'en without the readin' and whatnot. The drow're on the offensive, same with the... Things, the surface elves' home were destroyed, sendin' earthquakes everywhichway, an' I'm startin' to get a kink in me back from luggin' me stuff around." He pauses, then grins at Daelric. "Though, honestly, that last one's a sign that dark times're here, yeah?" He winks cheerily, holding his doubts close to his heart. After all, it wouldn't do to unburden himself to this odd... clergyman? Actually, thinking of which... "Ye said ye had the same abilities as Vigar, then? Those're the powers o' a stonelord, aye?"
He looks at Daelric, moderately proud of himself for knowing this. There's only so much ignorance a dwarf can have, after all. "An' o' Torag, are ye? Meself, I swear by all our gods, 'cept that human one. Abadar, is he? But I know that the clergy select jus' one, usually." He pauses, wondering whether he should bore the lad with his tale further. Eh, why not? "One o' me brothers was a paladin, though not a stonelord, o' Angradd... fer all the good it did him..." His expression falls, and he shivers slightly as his mind goes back to that day.
"Come on, no-one want's to try their luck? I'll bet a silver piece to start."
Daelric continues to look at Angrin and even starts to drink some more water and reaches out for a final piece of bread, he spies from the corner of his eye the mushroom bread and grabs it. As he is about to eat it he also spies some honey and grabs that too, he then starts to spread the honey on the bread and eat it, sucking his fingers clean from the sweet stickiness of the honey. He takes out a cloth and wipes his lips too after every 3 or 4 bites. "Vigar and I both have the ability to feel the 'Heart' of the stone, yes. We are both martially trained and use the pulse of the stone to help us overcome our obstacles in battle. How Vigar got his powers I am unsure, but mine awoke in the mines. I had inklings of where to mine within the mine and always managed to find the best veins of ore, I had just considered myself to be lucky; as did everyone else, until one day I found this strange green stone in a deep vein. I tried to give it to the foreman, but not recognising it he let me keep it and I have had it with me ever since. It was then that I started to feel the pulse of the stone more powerfully. Once I got to the temple, I fashioned the stone into the symbol of Kols; The Oathkeeper, and have had it around my neck ever since. Kols is the deity I offer my prayers and thanks to." While talking about the stone Daelric is holding onto his stone symbol with his clean hand and when he mentions the fact he cut it from the stone he holds it forwards for Angrin to see.
Tired of waiting on the slack jawed empress to resond he spins about on his heel and marches towards Vigars seat at the high table. He comes to a stop before it and kneels.
I have one last bit of business before we end this. It is time for the renewing of certain oaths. As we were pledged to your father and his father and his fsther before him and so on to back before Father gave us the Quest for Sky the Skybreakers formerly the Deepdelves have served your clan. In Peace and War in Joy and Sorrow we have served. And so here this day before your father is laid in stone so thst he may witness. I call upon Torag our shaper, Kols my keeper, and all the rest to hear. Clan Skybreaker once again promises to Follow the Head of Clan Skuldafn for as long as he honors the gods and his forebears. Though we be dwindled to two we are yours to use and command Vigar for the good of our race. Having completed the ancient oath anew he waits for acknowledgement from Vigar.
"I see... Interestin', interestin'. Well, if ye're a worshipper o' Kols, ye can't be all that innocent, can ye?" Angrin winks to take any sting out of his words. "Anyways, nice meetin' ye, Daelric." He tilts his head back and drains the dregs of his tankard. "Come talk with me again sometime, an' I'll show ye how to drink proper. Only need one or two drinks t' get ye properly courageous, none o' this... excess." He nods to some of the other dwarves who are on their fifth or sixth tankard by now. "Ye'll see." He winks, slipping into the role of a mischievous young uncle, one he was moderately familiar with... No. He isn't thinking about that.
Daelric pretends not to hear the part about either Kols or himself not being innocent and nods to Angrin, "It was a pleasure to meet you Angrin, I look forward to our next conversation." With that Daelric turns to see most of the mourners leaving the hall, the messy hall, he sighs. He heads on over to the servant who lent him the cleaning tools earlier and begins to clean. He is the last of the mourners to leave, nodding to each one as they leave. Once the hall is clean and tidy again he looks to both Vigar and Grima, bow his head in respect, "I thank you for the lovely evening, I am sure that your father and our lord enjoyed his evening as much as everyone here. May your line stay strong and guide us through the dark." With that Daelric bows even lower, steps backwards without turning and after a few steps turns and exits the now near empty hall.
Angrin nods as Daelric turns to leave, tilting his head. "Huh. Interestin' sort. Better go pay me respects to the Skuldafns, though..." He goes through the formalities with approaching Vigar, then bows and says his piece. "Yer father was good to me an me kinsfolk. He kept Varrok's Deep afloat when we needed the help most. They woul've sent me with a token of our continued gratitude an' such, but we were jus' attacked by drow recently. Me apologies for not bringin' anythin', but while I'm still here, ye can call on me any time ye be needin' me services... Thank ye, and know that all o' Varrok's Deep grieves with ye." He bows again, then turns to go.
Maven hands her drawn card back to Rogath, helping to clean up any remaining cards that had scattered, doing her best to keep her chin up and her thoughts out of her eyes. "ere, lad. Thanks fer the peek at fate an' all, but I think it best I leave predictions o' the future to Torag; all the talk o' gloom 'n doom just makes the times more depressin' than need be."
As the hall begins to clear, she notices the plethora of plates, tankards and cutlery scattered everywhere, and lends a hand in gathering the dishes to stack in one place for the servants. She catches herself once again pondering the handiwork of some of the finer dinnerware, but covers her eyes, laughing at herself. Ach, hammer and tongs, is this all I'm made for, Father? Can't even look at a dinner plate without thinkin' bout how to forge a better one? Feels like I came out here for a reason, but it couldn'a been just to flip some cards and critique the cutlery. Maybe I shoulda asked the Silvertarn lad about that rock 'n hammer I saw.
Helping to bring the stacks of dishes to the washroom for cleaning, she moves to cast an orison to help fill the basins with water, but stops midway, eyes tracing over the stone fixtures as key phrases jump to the front of her mind. When chisels are too few, shape stone with directed water...hmmm. Wonder if I could do somethin' with that? Remembering herself before her thoughts drift too far, she finishes her spell, forming a growing bubble in the center of the basin that splashes into shape once released.
Satisfied with her part in restoring order to the hall, Maven says her farewells and pays her respects to the stonelord before parting; her feet seem to carry her without thought as her mind dances about all the things she's seen and heard. Her reverie is interrupted when the feels the heat of her slumbering forge. Home already...
Still chasing the unanswered questions that dot her mindscape, she slowly scans her work area with a lovingly ponderous eye. The anvil, the hammer, the tongs, the fire, the water barrel, the workbench, the grinding wheel; all the things that made up the rhythm of her life and gave her a center seemed to be right here. Yet, as her gaze paused on the rack of recently completed swords and axes, her brows furrowed.
Home and forge...almost the same thing to me...everythin' I need's right here...so why'd I feel like there's somethin' I'm missin' here? Like there's more to it than this?
Unable to arrive at any conclusions, she sighs and places the unfinished blade lying on the anvil into the fire. grasping the bellows rope hanging by the forge, she gives it three solid pulls to brighten the coals. After silently watching the steel shard slowly take on a molten glow, she lifts it from the coals, sets it to the anvil, and puts her back into her hammer blow, sending the familiar sound of ringing metal echoing throughout her home.
Edrukk leaves when the event starts to die down, giving the Skuldafn heirs a silent salute before doing so. He gathers his shield and hammer at the door and heads down to the deep. In the hours-long trip down the tunnels, Edrukk thinks over each of the dwarves he met that day.
Some outlandish, some mundane. All told, a much more interesting affair than these things typically are. The boys'll get a kick out of this story, but I suppose that's a tale for another ale.
When he gets to his rack early next morning, he takes his armor off piece by piece and sets it on the wall-rack made for it. He plops down onto the stone slab, comfortingly cool after such a warm party, and falls asleep.
Ah' woz n'wheh ni'ye, nor eniwun f'tha mah't. Jus' pei'n mah r'spcs woh'zahl. laughs Rin, as he grabs his drink and heads over to Talon.
't ahpeers wi'ff naow. Wuh'lafta plai uhnuva tym 'm 'frayed.
Rin nods to the dice holding man courteously as he steps away to say his goodbyes to Magnus.
Mahgns, 't sims ehv'rah'wun z'ohff naow. T'was er plehsur t'miit yuh. 've pade mah r'spcs uh'noffehd mah blaide t'tha mahn's sheryne. Fehrwehl m'frnd. 'f ya ev wahn' faind meh, jus loohk f'meh aht Rihn's. 's mi hoem 'n shohp.
Eyeing up his finest weapon ever made, the man smiles subtly before patting Magnus on the shoulder and nodding respectfully, as he turns away and starts walking out of the hall.
Talon sighs philosophically and puts his dice away. "I guess the party's over then. It was nice meeting all of you and if anyone is lookin' for the services of a guide you'll not find a better one." He gives the company a friendly nod and heads for the door. "An eclectic bunch to be sure. I'm not sure there's any here I'd want to be on the trail with but payin' jobs are hard to come by these days."
As the funeral services begin to wind down formally, Dolgrin wipes his mouth with a nearby cloth. "If'n you all will excuse me, I need ta do me part in tendin' to the services. 'Im bein a big part o' the Temple 'n all, 'im bein' gone 'as left a lot o' work ta be done ta fill 'is shoes."
He then stands, and says, "Been a pleasure ta be meetin' ye, doctor. 'N Dwunderbran, ye as well I suppose, but next time let's avoid the need fer a fight, eh? Miss Ironbloom, yer drink was the finest o' the night, by me standards."
He then leaves to rejoin his other clergymen at the Temple to work out where they are to go from here to fill the void left by Hraggir Skuldafn.