Kvinn-khrunm

~][~

Azgrim stared down the length of the pipe-smoke filled feast-hall, he grunted unhappily to Imrak at his side, "I told you no elf-antics. And what did you do, you went shouting and waving your arms around for all to see. Like, like …"

"Like an elf princess," Breggi added helpfully.

"Yes," Azgrim said, "just like an elf princess. And now we have to put up with this nonsense."

Around them roared a ceremony celebrating the successful destruction of the thaggoraki invasion.

Breggi smirked, "Oh aye, being honored is a terrible burden."

"No more from you, boki," Azgrim elbowed Breggi, "we have work we should be doing. The mines are in ruin, you should be down there. I should be in the forge. And you, Rhunki, you should be with Kazadar."

Imrak spoke up, chewing a mouthful of roast beef, "I am with Kazadar. He's right there." Imrak pointed. The Runemaster was across the feast-hall, seated at the high table, along with thanes and heroes of the undermountain war.

"Bah!," Azgrim just glared at his stein and went back to picking at his food. He was not one to miss work unduly. If there was not a war on, and it was not one the four feast days during the year, there was no excuse not to be working.

Breggi on the otherhand, liked to celebrate. He was a hard worker, but he played hard too. As a thanks, the survivors of the foreign company had been given leave to eat and drink as much as they'd like, and Breggi's efforts were making the keg-masters grumble and tut. The miner was throwing down the ale with glee.

The king called the hall to silence. It took a while for all the talkers to become still. He held up his hand, the Horn Ring glinted in the light of a thousand candles and lanterns.

"Kin of my hearth," he said loudly, "The war with the rat-men is over, for now," he said, many beards nodded knowingly, the rat-man menace was never defeated, only delayed.

"Everyone here fought in the darkness below, you are brave, my Trommi's, and I salute you." Which he did, head bowed and fist over heart.

The whole room shifted with uncomfortable pride. To be honored by King was one thing, but to be saluted was something entirely else. Even the most egocentric dwarf would be uncomfortable with his king saluting him.

The King chuckled at seeing the old longbeards blush and squirm. "Enough of that sort of thing, eh!" He shouted out.

The hall burst into hollers and hoots.

The king snapped his fingers and servants appeared with heavy wooden chests, bound in thick iron. One was placed at his feet. He leapt off his throne, and ceased the lid, flinging it back with force. He thrust his hands into the chest and pulled a handful of shiny gold coins out, he let them flow slowly through his fingers, and clink back into the chest.

"Come now, fill your steins and smoke your pipes and listen whilst I reward the greatest and most heroic of my Hold. May their names and deeds live forever more in our Book of Remembering."

The King of Karak Hirn gave out awards to those who deserved to be honored the most. The surviving Rangers of Battle of the Skundrik Hall; Senior Engineer Orzad and his Cannon Crews that defended the North Longway; the King's own Hammers for leading the assault on the Skaven breeding chambers, and particular sergeant Wyrgrim who slayed the Skaven horde's warlord in single combat.

Awards and accolades were not only given to warriors, the priestess of the Temple of Valaya were honored for saving many hundreds of Dawi lives; the clan-companies – part-time warriors who would fight for months at time, then return to the Hold to take up their crafts and trades, were applauded by the King himself for their efforts of keeping the remaining mines working and meeting their quotas, the smiths for never letting the hammers stop, the stonemasons for keeping up with the constant repair work needed in an underground city-fortress, the brewers kept the ale flowing, the farmers keep meat on the plate, traders kept the coins coming in.

Imrak felt a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up and saw a servant in Karak Hirn livery standing there. He gave Imrak a respectful nod and said, "You should come with me. You'll be called soon."

Imrak nodded and shrugged at Azgrim and Breggi questioning looks.

He followed the servant around the huge hall and stood at the side, watching the room. A cloud of pipe smoke hung over head and the room buzzed with the low-level hubbub. Karak Hirn servants darted around, topping up tankards, bring more food, taking away plates piled with gnawed bones. They often shared jests or ribald comments with the guests. Dawi servants were professionalized, not enslaved or indentured in the same way their manling counterparts were. Dawi servants were paid a wage, and they worked hard to please their guests – their reputations, and the reputations of their ancestors, were at stake. If they were good and quick, they could gain employment with a clan or family of greater standing. The most talented servants where those of the royal family, and those servants in the hall were among the best Imrak had ever seen.

After sometime he was called to the stand near the dais. At the high table Imrak saw faces he recognized. Kazadar the Runesmith looked at him stony faced. Algrim Goldteeth nodded and wiped his beard with the table cloth. Maggrim Stonebones gave him a small, quick thumbs up.

Imrak saw the servant whisper to a robed herald and saw the dwarf nod. A moment later,"Imrak Brightbeard of Karak Kol," the herald announced loudly.

Imrak walked to the front of the dais and knelt on one knee, fist on heart, head bowed.

"Rise," the King said.

Imrak did so, he stood with his feet apart, and hands clasped behind his back, beard pushed out proudly.

"I hear it was your idea to lead my Ironbreakers to destroy that monstrous bell. And that you yourself slew the horde's vile rat-wizard."

"Yes, King, I did, on both accounts."

The king of Karak Hirn stared for a long moment. "I owe you a debt then. Your plan saved dawi lives. I offer you five hundred gold coins from my own personal vault."

A gasp went around the room. The amount was significant, a dawi could live comfortably on that amount of a decade, but more importantly was its source. The king was personally paying, not the Hold, not the royal clan, but the King himself. It was a personal acknowledgement of a great deed done for the benefit of the Hold.

Imrak said, without hesitation, "A humbling and tremendous offer, your highness. But I cannot accept it."

Another gasp went around the hall. On the high table there was a burst of tutting and harsh muttering. Kazadar scowled darkly. The king only slowly clasped his hands over this belly, waiting.

Imrak cleared his throat, "In giving me the coins you honor me, your highness. However, I want to honor the slain Ironbreakers who followed me. I would ask that you take those coins and honor the families of the fallen with them."

The king stared for a ten heartbeats before saying, "Well spoken, Imrak Brightbeard. You do your clan and ancestors proud. If you will not accept my coin, then at least take my thanks, the thanks of a King Under the Mountain."

Imrak bowed again, deeply.

The king nodded once to Imrak, and the robed herald stepped forward and ushered Irmak away.

Imrak's declining the offer had a several benefits. It showed the King to be generous, but kept the coins the Hold. The war had been costly, and every coin was needed in the rebuild Karak Hirn. It showed Imrak to be beneficent and honorable in acknowledging the sacrifices of the Ironbreakers.

When he returned to his seat Breggi just muttered over and over again, "Five hundred, five hundred …" Azgrim ignored the miner and placed a heavy hand on Imrak's shoulder and only said, "Good."

~][~

After the awards and rewards, came the entertainment. The hall was transformed; an army of servants appeared and with a smoothness of a well-coordinated military maneuver the tables and benches were taken away and the huge hall turned into a festival space. There were axe-throwing competitions, hammer-throwing for distance, anvil lifting, wrestling matches and boxing bouts. Smiths competed to see how much stretch they could get out of a piece of metal in one heat, masons competed to see how fast they could carve an ancestor's face in a block of stone, miners competed to see how quickly they could move a ton of coal one hundred paces, with only a shovel and a wheel barrow. There were competitions for who could name the most types of gold, who could identify the most types of beer whilst blindfolded, who recite the longest line of ancestors under the baleful glare of their clan elders.

A choir sang in one corner. A colorful troop of musicians marched down the length of the hall, stopped and wheeled into a line, pipes and horns and drums roaring out the best rendition of the classic marching tune Waggle O' the Beard that Imrak had ever heard.

"Oh, look at the grindals on that Kvinn-khrunm," Breggi said, elbowing Imrak in the side. Imrak was watching the boxers and was thinking of having a go. He turned to see a female-drummer. She had a big goblin-skin drum hung over her neck and was pounding away at it with yellow troll-bone drum sticks. Her grindals, her hair plaits, as dictated by her clan, were three thick strands. One took the hair from the front and top of her head, the second gathered the sides, and the last braid came from mass of thick brown hair at the back of her head.

Imrak grunted in a positive way.

The musician looked up, and scanned the crowd. Her smile was big, her teeth white and straight. As her eyes passed along the line, they paused on Imrak's. She stared straight at him, without looking away her arms pounded the drum without missing a beat. Under her gaze the runesmith smiled back. The drummer-lady winked.

Imrak blushed.

The musician found Imrak later. She was attractive, with brown hair plaid into three braids, and grey eyes. She had freckles across the nose and cheeks. Her hands were strong and she stood with her back straight. She looked Imrak in the eyes when she spoke to him. Imrak liked what he saw.

"Greetings," she said. She was shorter then him, and had to look up from his chin.

"Greetings," Imrak said awkwardly. He glanced at Breggi, who smirked like an elf. Azgrim's face did not change, but his eyes darted between the blushing rhunki and confident khrumi.

The drummer looked at the other two and said, "I'm Janna Dodanidotr, of the Izilskaud clan, at your service."

"Azgrim Tenstone of the Thrynazklad clan, and this here is Breggi Bighands of the Byrnik clan, and we're at yours," Azgrim said politely, "but we were just leaving." He took Breggi's elbow. The miner just grinned even more.

As the two left she turned to Imrak, "Nice friends."

"Oh aye. Good lads to have along side you in a fight."

"That's not what I meant," Janna smiled.

Imrak nodded, "I know."

"You've not introduced yourself. That's bad manners. I might to report you to your clan elder."

"Apologizes," Imrak formally bowed his head and placed his fist over her his heart, "Imrak Brightbeard of the Aldrhungrungron Clan. Entirely at your service."

"That's better," she smirked confidently. She looked at the tankard in Imrak's hand and said, "Buy a girl a beer?"

Imrak smiled.

In one corner of the hall a brewer had set-up his temporary drinking hall. He had put up awnings of dark red, stretched across poles, from which hung oil lanterns. Tables and stools were laid out, making a surprisingly quiet drinking grotto in the middle of roaring celebratory festival.

Imrak ordered two ales and paid for them. He and Janna found a pair of stools and sat. He looked around for a bit, not sure what to say. She just stared at him. "So," she asked, "where you from?"

"Karak Kol," he said. "Though, I've been here nearly five years now. Working then fighting."

She nodded, "Thank you."

Imrak blushed at the generous comment, "If a Karak is in danger and I can do something about, I'll always try to help." He raised his tankard at her, "To the Everlasting Kingdom and to Karak Hirn, may the Horn Hold sound for all eternity."

They clinked steins and drank.

Imrak leaned forward and asked, "Have you been drumming long?"

Janna smiled. She smiled a lot. "My whole life. I love it."

Her enthusiasm for her profession was delightful to see. Imrak gestured to the hall outside the grotto, "You drum for the King before?"

She nodded excitedly, "Oh yes, twice. Though, not for anything like this. This is a wonderful moment. A lot of thanes and longbeards give us musicians' coins to play their clan's songs."

Imrak nodded, "Your troop is very talented, you must make a tidy sum at festivals like this."

She blushed and smiled brightly.

"Oh yes," she said and stood up. "Many give us musicians' tips for the quality of performances too," she said, straddling Imrak's lap. "Will you give me a big tip?"

Imrak was clever enough to come up with some off-colored replies, but was smart enough to say nothing. He just ran his finger through her hair, and kissed her.

~][~

The following morning Imrak and Janna lay together on her small stone bed. A few low burning candles displayed the rumpled blankets around their naked bodies

"It's so thick," Janna Dodanidotr was saying. "I don't know any other lad with one as thick as this."

Imrak nodded knowingly. He put his muscular and tattooed arms behind his head, smug and proud of his natural gift.

"So, so thick." Janna ran her fingers through his copper-colored beard.

Though he was loath to interrupt her beard-flattery, what dawi did not like to have a winsome kvinn compliment his beard, he wanted to tell her something. "Janna. Last night you mentioned a tip. I have no coin."

She stopped stroking his beard and looked at him, "Oh," she frowned for a moment, then smiled, "Well, no bother really. Just thought I was going to get lucky and go off with a handsome and rich war-hero. Guess I'll just have to settle for a handsome one."

Imrak's pride was stung by the implication that he was poor. But only for a moment. He felt like he had to explain himself.

"I had the King give his offered reward to the families of the Ironbreakers who died following my plan. I didn't have many coins before the war, and even fewer after. But I want to give you this."

Imrak took hold his bracelet and after a few moments of struggle, twisted it free from his wrist. "Hold out your arm." She lazily stretched out her left arm. Imrak wedged the bracelet over her wrist and gave it a tight squeeze. He gently pulled her arm down and kissed her hand.

"Oh that's nice. What is it?" she looked at the bracelet closely.

"It's a rune-forged talisman," he said.

Janna sat up sharply, "What?"

Imrak smiled, "I made it years ago. It saved my life when I was down in the dark, fighting the rat-fiends. Those runes you see are warding runes. They'll keep you safe from evil magics."

She touched it gently. A rune item, any rune item, was a magnificence gift – the sort of gift that was the basis of many tales. The Ancestor Gods themselves forged the first of them to protect their children. Kings gave heroes rune items for noble deeds. Famous reputations were made finding lost rune items. Fortunes were paid to have them made. Simply possessing one made a dwarf more socially important.

Her eyes were huge, her mouth slowly worked, "This, this is …"

"It's yours and yours alone. You decide what you do with it."

"Imrak, I can't. What's a kvinn-khrum like me going to do with something like this? I'm not important enough."

"Yes, you are," Imrak said, "You're as dawi as any thane in that feast-hall. Just because you play the drums, doesn't mean you're any less important."

Janna stared at it. A small smile was creeping onto her face. She was just beginning to understand what Imrak had done for her. He just increased her own standing in her own clan. She would now be a person of note. If she kept the item, and passed it to her heirs, she would be known in clan lore as an honored ancestor, Janna Bearer-of-the-Bracelet or by some other legendary nickname. Or if she choose to make it part of her dowry, she could wed into a much wealthier clan, bringing honor and pride to her clan.

"Oh, Imrak, you honor me," she said so softly and so sincerely Imrak had to look away to cover his embarrassment.

"Does it sparkle?" she asked.

Imrak looked back her for a long moment. "Stand up," he smirked slightly.

Janna kicked the blankets off and stood beside the bed. He swung his legs off the bed and sat in front of her. In the candle light her short, muscular, naked body was a wonderful sight to behold. Imrak ran his fingers down her flanks, sighing happily. Being a runesmith had a certain romantic appeal to some young females, so Imrak was not unfamiliar with the kvinns, but the sight of a beautiful woman was always worth enjoying slowly.

She playfully slapped his hand, "Sparkle?" she asked again.

Tutting, he took her braceleted arm and covered it with both his hands. He brought it close to his mouth and muttered long, complex phrases in ancient Khazalid. His voice was soft and deep and distance, and after a several hundred heartbeats he released her wrist and the runes, dozens of tiny rhun letters engraved on the slopes of the twists glowed light-blue from within.

Janna moved her arm back and forth, and the runes left a trail of sparkles.

"Oh Valaya!" she shouted joyfully, and leapt onto Imrak.

~][~

Master Runesmith Kazadar Burlokson stood behind the anvil, the fire in the hearth beside him burned gently. The aged runesmith took up a forging hammer. The head was polished to a near mirror shine, the wooden handle was black with decades of use. He gently tapped the hammer to the anvil, a slow beat of soft metallic ringing. He listened closely to the ringing, tuning his ear into the quality of the hammer's steel. He nodded to himself.

The master looked up. As an apprentice Hegbrak sat on the floor, literally at his master's feet. Imrak, as journeyman, was allowed to stand. Their relationship was more like a warrior taking orders from this Thane.

Kazadar swiped his hand across the surface of the anvil and said. "The past and the present live alongside each other in our working lives. Overlapping, intertwining, welding until it is hard to know where one ends and other starts. Each task is also a memory of the many times we have done it before and the people we did it with. As long as the work goes on, the Dawi that once did it with us live on as well, part of what we are doing, part of our stories and memories and our rememberings. They are a part of how and why we do those things."

He paused a moment, rubbing the hammer head with a thick thumb, "That is a why we do not change our ways easily, or without needful reasons, for to do so could dishonor our ancestors. Change is inevitable, but is also a disconnection. If we do not work in the ways of our ancestors, then we have no connection with them. And without our ancestors to guide us, we are lost."

He put the hammer down on the anvil and pointed at Hegbrak, "Think about your efforts as more than a sum of their end result, they are a ritual of memory." His finger drifted to the anvil, "to work."

Hegbrak stood up quickly, bowed formally and set about the fire.

Kazadar pointed at Imrak, "Come with me."

Imrak nodded and followed the master out of the forge-hall and into the corridors. They walked in silence for many hundreds of heartbeats and entered a series of libraries. The master strode on until he found a long table with dozens of damaged books at one end, and freshly made and bound books at the other.

Kazadar looked at the damaged books and gave a noticeable grimace of pain. He looked around and gave a short, sharp whistle. A young-ish dwarf in scholarly robes appeared, "Yes master?" he asked, after bowing his head.

"He's yours," Kazadar said the scholar and then looked at Imrak, "When you're done here, come find me."

"Yes master," Imrak said.

Kazadar grunted, "And don't take all day about it." Then turned and left without another word.

Imrak looked at the scholar. The scholar looked back, eyebrow raised in a questioning look.

"What am I to do here?" Imrak asked.

The scholar gave one last confused glance at the departing runemaster and said, "I think you're to re-copy out these tomes."

The books were large, with heavy metal covers and thick velium pages. Each was damaged, some were in a terrible state of disrepair. Smoke damage, fire damage, water damage, clefs and gouges made by blades or claws, blood stains, and more than a few smelled of skaven-piss.

Imrak took one, gently pulling it over, and easing the cover open. He read the first page, an engraved copper sheet, flipped a few pages, read some more, "this is a record of Clan Daldawr's mining logs."

The scholar nodded, "Aye. These are all logs books from the mining clans who suffered during the invasion. We're re-writing them, lest the knowledge contained within becomes lost."

Imrak nodded.

"Need anything?" the scholar asked, his voice curious to know why Imrak was there.

Imrak was not to going to indulge him. He looked around. There was plenty of table space, a chair, a large writing kit, and lanterns lit the room. He said, "A couple of writing stands, some candles, and a beer or three."

The scholar waited, to see if Imrak would say more, but when the runesmith just stared back, the scholar nodded and left.

Imrak knew what this was all about. As a new journeyman to Kazadar's forge he would need to be tested first. This test, the re-scribing of thousands of pages of complex and tediously dull mining logs, was test of skill and accuracy at writing. He would need to demonstrate his precision with pen and ink before he could trusted to carve rhuns. With the additional benefit of Imrak's free labor helping the Hold recover from the war.

As an apprentice in Karak Kol he had done the same task for months at a time, and he quickly settled into a routine. Every day, for twelve hours a day, he sat in the library methodically working his way through the damaged tomes. After three months, he was finished.

Kazadar stood at his work table, a new copy of Clan Daldawr Mining Logs: Deeps 5&6: Southwest Corridors: Betrek Workings: Volume 11 sat next to the old copy of the tome of the same name. The master sat and worked his way through the entire book, comparing not just words, the how precisely and perfectly each was formed.

After nearly a full day of meticulous examination, all while Imrak stood, as he never certain he was allowed to sit and thought it best just to stand quietly. The only sound during the day was Kazadar's fingers running along the lines of text.

Eventually the runemaster announced, "It'll do, I suppose."

Imrak had to use all his formidable will power not to smile in pure joy. He had a new master!

Instead he just frowned and grunted, and fell into step with Kazadar as he marched them back towards the Runeforge.