The Tragedy of Death-Rune the Kinslayer
"Gather 'round, beardlings, gather 'round." Old Whitehammer barked across the tavern, swinging his tankard in a long, swooping motion, but not spilling one drop of the precious contents.
"Gather 'round and hear ye tha' tragedy of Braki Ironbone, tha' bravest Paladin ever ta' grace tha' Light with his service, and 'is fall from grace!"
Old Whitehammer told many tales to the patrons of the tavern, some older than the living mountain itself and some he just made up as he went, but this one they had never heard before. The passion with which he spoke caught their ears, and the prospect of a good tale turned their heads his way, the usual rumbling noise of bickering and drinking and laughter that frequented this tavern dying into a sudden, chilly silence as they all came to rest their eyes on the aged, white-haired warrior.
"Now ye've all heard 'bout tha' Paladins, an' tha Scourge, an' tha lands of the North, 'aven't ye?" Whitehammer began, looking over the collected folk surrounding him.
"'twas so, I say, that tha' brave an' glorious Hero of tha' Ironbone Clan, Braki tha' Brilliant, son of Snarri, father of Dalgrim…" Whitehammer paused, turning his head to a massive dwarf sitting straight ahead of him, his lush brown beard sparkling in the torchlit room and the black pearls that were his eyes were set grimly on the elder Dwarf. Not letting the younger dwarf's stare halt him, he continued.
"'twas so, that he journeyed ta tha' great ices of tha' North, seekin' vengeance for all Dwarves lost ta' tha' Traitor Prince, an' wipe that dishonourable culprit from tha' books of history!" He paused again, this time surveying his crowd while avoiding the dark gaze of the massive dwarf seated among them. He knew he didn't need the suspense of a dramatic pause to keep the attention of even the most shortbearded Dwarves, but he had always told his tales this way, and always would.
"With him he took sixteen brave warriors, an' his wife, Brynloka, whom we recon tha' finest shot this side of tha' Maelstrom. 'twas so that tha' party would journey ta Icecrown 'tself, down a long, windin' path ta keep 'em clear of tha' wretched walkin' dead."
Whitehammer noted that the 'outsiders', a ruddy collection of four humans, two elves, two gnomes and a draenei, were all silently watching him from behind the throng of beardlings. The gnomes were sitting on the shoulders of one elf and the draenei, respectively. While this unexpected interest amused him, Old Whitehammer as always maintained his steady pace and, after a needlessly long gulp from his tankard, continued with his voice hushed slightly, causing most of the tavern to stoop forward all at once.
"Now tha' path was given to 'em by a man of reputation, a man whose honor none would doubt… 'til that day. As tha' bold dwarves thundered across tha' icy lands, stalkin' as shadows 'round tha' menacing forms of dead flesh given life inna' twisted form of forgework, they knew they'd been betrayed."
When Whitehammer paused, he saw how aghast his audience looked, and during other circumstances perhaps would've managed a hidden smile under his thick, silver-white beard at how enraptured they were in his story, but not this time. This was, after all, not a work of fiction he was retelling.
"None tha' less they dinnae' turn back ta' run, for such disgrace is nought befitting of any Dwarf! They vowed vengeance on tha' man-traitor, but tha' greater grudge was with tha' Scourge. On they would press, an' so did they."
Once more, his gaze flickered past the burly dwarf, who sat as motionless as be he a statue carved out of the wall. Despite himself, Old Whitehammer found himself nervously waving his hand for another mug, hoping his sudden interruption would be missed by the crowd. One of the Night Elves – A tall, purple-skinned female he recognized as 'Starbreaker' – tossed him a mug with exceptional accuracy, and without missing a beat, the veteran drinker caught it squarely with one outstretched hand and took a long sip, pretending to savour the taste despite the cold feeling up his spine.
"Now where was I? Oh aye. 'twas one night exceptionally cold an' dark an' with tha' Scourge's most foul all over, an' no cave nor woods for shelter on tha' icy tundras, when Braki set out ta' scout tha' surroundin's while tha' party slept, hidden 'way in ripped an' worn tents." he paused again, this time regaining his proverbial footing and lowering his tankard to emphasize the grimness of this sudden silence. The crowd was so silent he could hear the dull thunder of the Great Forge, far into the depths of the city.
"'tis so, that no-one knows what happened ta' Braki out there, in tha' tundras. None can say what evil befell him, but befell him it did. 'twas there a glorious blaze of light an' thunder like tha' Titans 'emselves stepped down ta' Northrend. An' 'twas there a roar above tha' thunder, like no dwarf – Nay, like no beast – had uttered since tha' time dragons ruled our fair world… An' then, out from tha' blizzard, Braki returned."
For a single moment, Whitehammer thought he saw the form of the massive brown-bearded warrior shift, stirring his concentration ever so slightly.
"Braki returned with all Hell in tow…" Whitehammer finally said, "an' woe for so 'twas that he dinnae' what 'e was doing, for tha' madness of tha' Traitor Prince had befallen him there, on tha' tundra. His ax guided by tha' Frozen Corpse's indomitable will, Braki led a swarm of tha' fiercest, foulest ghouls ta' his kin."
Kinslaying, the act of murdering one of your own blood, was the greatest and most heinous crime any dwarf could commit. No grudge or grievance, no influence nor cause could justify it. Nothing. Even speaking of it, indeed, would be anathema in all but the grimmest, darkest hours of night. Whitebeard knew from the start it would come to it, but now, with the cool shadow crawling up his spine and the breathless silence through the tavern, it seemed like the atmosphere itself was pressing him down, trying to stop him from continuing his tale. None the less, he spoke…
"'twas so that tha' dwarves fought tooth an' nail, ax an' shield ta' stop tha horrors tha' night threw at 'em, but ta' no avail. None would stand up ta' Braki, an' none dared strike him an' condemn 'emselves. 'twas so, then, that fortune favoured tha' bold. As more dwarfs fell dead at Braki's ax an' hammer, Brynloka stepped up ta' 'im an' struck him with a blow so fierce 't could clip a bear's back! 'twas then that Brynloka fought Braki, an' tha' Corpse-King's plan came ta' fruitation, or so t'would seem. 'twas so that Braki struck his wife down in tha' snow, an' with 'is weapons scattered ta' tha' snow, 'is hands found rest 'round 'er neck…"
Silence.
"'tis said that Brynloka's face was twisted with frozen tears as she fell, 'er neck cracked like an orc-forged shield. 'twas so that Braki saw 'is wife's broken body as he rose, an' what was left of 'is soul broke loose of tha Corpse-King's hold, roaring like tha' crumling mountains an' crashing all deadite filth that surrounded 'im inna frenzied rage unlike any rampant orc… An' 'twas so that he fell, weepin' blood an' howling names into tha' wind, and 'twas so that he was found by Sturlaf, son of Belkir, and Jadgut, son of Hafut. They, tha' last survivors of tha' party, 'eard tha' fallen speak."
The weight of the darkness seemed to lighten ever so slightly and another sip from his tankard helped him ease his throat.
"An' so he spoke; 'Mourn me nay, for I am fallen. Strike me dead an' leave an' never look back, kin, for I kno' nay how long tha' Filth-Prince's influence will be gone from me mind.' And mark my words, 'twas he said. Sturlaf an' Jadgut could'nae do this deed, to slay 'im as he be still their kinsman in mind and body. Seeing this, Braki spoke once more. 'Yer honor will serve ye well, kin, for 'twill be tha' only thing ta' keep ye true dwarves when tha' time comes. Alas, tha' next time we meet, t'shall not be as kin, an' ye shall kno' me as Uzkulrhun'… An' so he painted tha' rune of the dead into tha' snow in tha' blood of his wife, for 'twas still on his hands, and never to go away. With this 'twas that Braki tha' Brilliant ceased ta' be an' forever here on be known as Death-Rune tha' Kinslayer, an' 'twas with that Sturlaf an' Jadgut left for home, to bring tha' dark tidings ta' their hold."
Old Whitehammer overlooked the crowd again. It was a mix of emotion across the young, and the aged too. Fear, fascination, even sorrow were seen in the eyes of those around him. He raised his mug.
"We drink for tha' dead who no-longer can feast with us." he said, simply, and with those few words the crowd went into a crescendo, hooting and cheering suddenly and raising their mugs, bellowing their gratitude to the dead and the lost, who never would drink with their kin again, but whose sacrifices were never to be disregarded.
Old Whitehammer turned now, away from the crowd as they, satisfied with his story's dramatic conclusion, went back to their business with gambling, drinking and conversing in needlessly raised voices. He saw now that his mug had become empty again. He had drunk more during the climax of his tale than he had noticed. As if by magic, a full tankard suddenly appeared before him, and then he felt the thick, muscled hand on his shoulder. He turned to find himself face to face with a massive brown bush.
"Quite tha' story, Brangar. Quite tha' story indeed." the behemoth of a dwarf said.
"Aye, aye." Brangar Whitehammer replied, "'tis good fer tha' tavern's business an' all that when tha' beardlings are all excited…"
There was a short pause, much like in the midst of Whitehammer's tales.
"He was a good man." he then said, "better than most."
"Aye." the younger dwarf replied.
"Dalgrim… Chances are 'es still out there." Whitebeard told the younger dwarf, "an' there's a chance some part of 'im, in all that darkness… Is still alive."
Dalgrim Ironbone, son of Braki, nodded solemnly.
"'tis so."