Grundal-Thrynaz
Entry posted by Rungi
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The Glittering Host:
There was a smell… A smell beyond sweetness - more ripe - that would’ve turned the stomach of a less seasoned soldier. As Dhurgan Dorginson marched his ranks of hammerers out to the ridge where the patches of sword-grass gave way to rocky slopes, he noticed slight vents of the pugnant steam rising from beyond the line of battle. Growing quiet he plodded on grimly, aware that this mission would likely require more than routine hammer-work. Others noticed their captains change in mood and tightened their grips on their double-handed warhammers.
What they saw as they advanced over the edge made hair on their necks bristle. Frenzied grots were scrambling forward in waves, as many slashing with claws as wielding any sort of actual weapon. They screeched at an unnatural pitch and snapped needle-lined jaws at duardin and eachother alike. More alarming still was the strangely-colored steam that burst from the ground every few feet. Some insidious brand of sorcery was at work here. To his right Dhurgan heard a usually steady warrior stifling his gags and the captain didn't have to guess why. They had all been raised on tales of warpfire burning their kin alive. The silence of the dwarves as they set to their task spoke volumes as to their fears.
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As the enemy closed, it mattered not that the champion could not make out the details of their faces at the speed they were scrambling. The gnashing teeth and disheveled scraps of leather were a blur that only became harder to distinguish as it got closer. The way his clansmen had planted their feet, suddenly in a more perfect shield wall, white knuckles wrapped around axe handles… They were ready. Thane Brom Firebrow was sure his grandfather could see his excitement and pride in his charges, even at a distance and at his advanced age. With massive shoulders, a barrel chest and the legs of an ox, Brom was made to cut down the clan’s enemies. Brom took a deep breath, attempting to slow his pulse. Today he would display the leadership he had lacked thus far and which had stalled his invitation to join The Chosen.…
Thane Brom Firebrow of the Karakigrom, Champion amongst clansmen
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Norgrim Proudsong looked about at the glittering host as they went about clearing a path through the greenskins. The golden embellishments suggested a decorative or ceremonial purpose to the armor which belied its power to protect the King’s chosen right arm. The deep blue cracks would be considered flaws in ordinary craftsmanship, but in this case were revered as a sign of the materials origin, from the heart of the mountains of this world. The sun gleaming off of their polished white helmets and shoulder guards stood in sharp contrast to the disfigured wretches with their blotchy pale skins and scabbed, metallic growths. This was truly a case of the noble cleansing a blight from the world.
Lord Proudsong glanced behind him. Holding the line was a massive shieldwall. In some places clan heraldry was illuminated by the glowing runes that framed it. In others they glittered with ornate phoenixes wrought in mithril and gold. In most places though, copper effigies of the ancestors adorned a blue-painted field. In the heart of the line stood a wild, red-bearded warrior hacking in broad arcs through every grey-skinned foe that came near. Where most made amateur attempts at the defensive maneuvers they’d been taught, this dawi still wore his shield on his back and maintained the offensive in bold defiance of the enemy. The fool was a force to be reckoned with, no doubt, and probably envisioned himself as some type of inspiration. He also might be the downfall of the clan against a stronger opponent. Norgrim’s heavy white whiskers lifted in a small smirk as he turned away, amused at what his son must be thinking as he evaluated the next generation’s performance.
Honor in Waiting:
Norbrum Proudsong held one of the greatest honors a duardin could be afforded. As captain of the Peak Guard he fought at the king’s right hand and was responsible for selecting and training the king’s new personal bodyguard. His excellence with either warhammer or short sword and shield were well known throughout the clan. Norbrum had successfully commanded units of reclaimed in legendary encounters: holding realmgates alongside the thunder god’s stormcast, cutting through herds of beastmen to deliver the Azyr’s words of hope, and most recently, standing guard at his king’s side as the slave hordes pressed close at the command of a beaked shaman and his cultists.
“The hammer and shield” they were admiringly called - father and son leading the greatest the Vengeful Throng had to offer. His father trained every hammerer to pass through The Chosen, including the revered who raised the king’s banners, carried his grudges, and had whispered him advice since childhood. Norbrum’s climb was swift, rising to captain the Chosen, then into the guard, and finally refining his maneuvering and tactics enough to be trusted with calling the orders alongside the king himself. He was his father’s finest weapon, forged in fires of battle as red as his wild beard. If only he was as skilled as a teacher...
The king would be addressing the survivors tomorrow morning as soon as the sun crested the ring of mountains around their valley sanctuary. That meant the Thane would be having a quick bite of stonebread and nap by the fire for his late dinner and full armor and sharp wits for his breakfast. Too many nights like this and even this disciplined soldier might find himself astride a wooden bench, arm-wrestling for the next round as beardlings and rin looked on and fueled his ego… “I’ll leave that to you now son.” Norbrum said aloud, chuckling as he settled by the fire. Shifting his weight back and forth until he was comfortable, Norbrum’s senses heightened, as they were wont to do when he was anxious.
Brom had saved lives. Brom had out-dueled several scores of desperate grots. And tonight there would not be a shortage of tales told about the carnage Brom brought. But come the morning, Brom would stand with his warriors while his father and grandfather stood with the hammerers. For all his accomplishments, Brom had not been able to outgrow his youthful impulsiveness and prove himself worthy of a place among the elites. For his part, Norbrum had tried to council the fool, and his son had played his part, nodding agreement as the shame burned in his flushed face. Why did he lack so much discipline? Why did he feel the need to always play the lone hero? Could he not see the honor of the shieldwall? The way it honored not just the warriors beside him, but his ancestors?
**CRASH**
The glass tankard shattered as it fell from his hand and collided with the stones he sat on, snapping the thane to his senses. He would speak to his son again when time allowed, but tomorrow the lad would be lucky to catch his steely blue gaze as it scanned the ridgeline for threats. His mouth was sticky at the edges, dry from his clenched grimace. Theirs was the warrior arm of the family; captains of broad-shouldered heroes and smiters of hell’s creations. Rungi had called on the honor of great duardin clans in order to bring to life the stuff of their childhood games, the Barazi-Wyr. His family would uphold their oaths, and the bull-tempered son would learn from the father’s deafening silence.
Thane Norbrum Proudsong, Captain of the Grundal-Thrynaz
A Great Honor Bestowed:
Norbrum could recall the day the king bestowed onto him the gifts of the Grundal-Thrynaz, the first honor guard of emergent king. Now they added new hammerers to their ranks and grew to a full force under his command. It would be a somber ceremony; a moment of honor earned on a painful day so many had not survived.
The broadbacked Darbli Doorcarver had lined wooden chests in a row before those to be recognized, each decorated with ornate carvings. The carvings depicted the great deeds of the clan since their emergence into Chamon. As Norbrum addressed each warrior, the clan’s grudge-caller opened the chest and laid out the contents one by one on the ground before him. Each item was a symbolic gift. Gleaming blue breastplate, gromril helm, runic warhammer; all inlaid with purple jewels of the kingsguard. Thick black leather gloves that could withstand the hottest forges. Talismans holding ancient powers. Brass tankards from the clan’s brewmasters, always to be kept full for as long as the honored could sit upright on a bench. Babes in the front row of the attending crowd could barely contain their excitement as each gift was bestowed. This was a day that would change the path of the dawi’s family for generations.
Darbli Doorcarver, trusted advisor and childhood friend of the king Grudge-Caller of the Karakigrom
Norbrum turned and faced a hammerer who had stripped to his underclothes. As he handed the great warrior each item, the dawi was transformed before their eyes. He was no longer an individual within the clan. He was the clan, the finest of themselves they had to offer. There were dark days ahead of them, but so long as these dawi could hold a warhammer the sun would rise again and chase away the night. This was why the ever-stoic Norbrum served. This was why he held this position sacred. He believed Rungi was the sun that would drive the darkness from the duardin holds, and he, Norbrum Proudsong, would make sure this prophecy was fulfilled.
Grundal-Thrynaz, personal guard of King Rungi
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