Home of the hearth mother
Collaborative effort by the dwarves. First part by Grumbaki, second part by Gankom, and third part by awarnock.
Valaya. The goddess of hearth, healing and brewing. The inventor of runic script, the founder of not only several dwarven holds, but dawi culture itself. Her name was one of reverence. Certainly, Grimnir was a god to hold in great esteem. For it was in his name and with his strength that the dawi of Karaz Ankor had built their empire, and it was by his example that the tides of chaos were held back. But what purpose is there for war, if you have nothing worth fighting for? And without a doubt Grimnir was a god who deserved the greatest of respect. Any who saw the architectural wonders of the dwarven people could see his importance. And the mere fact that ‘dwarven’ was synonymous with ‘quality’ was proof enough of Grungni’s power. But what is a home without people? What good is a tool without a hand to wield it? What good is art without eyes to appreciate it? And that is why, in Durak’s eyes, Valaya was the most important of deities. It was the heart that was worth defending. It was for those within it that the hearth is even worth building. And of course, why even live without brewing?
When Lord Snorri had come to him, asking which of the ancestor gods should be the patron of Ekrund Reforged, Durak knew what the choice would be. Valaya. He knew that this decision would be met by resistance from some of the younger dwarves. Many had come to Ekrund seeking glory, seeking war, seeking vengeance. They saw the perfidy of mankind as deserving of only death. They saw the desecration of the grobi and the destruction of the urk as being unbearable. They were dawi of Grimnir, through and through. Others looked upon the destroyed tombs, the broken murals, the defaced statues, and their souls cried out in anguish. They saw the gold that was stolen from the vaults of Ekrund, and the runic artifacts that even now sat in the hands of umgi wizards, and they pulled their beards in anger. These were the children of Grungni. Durak knew that both camps would see his choice and would deride it.
But what good was it to launch oneself at the foe, leaving your hard won gains behind to be ravaged? What good was it to worry about gold, when more could be mined? Of worrying about mere objects, fashioned from steel and stone, when more could be made? Certainly, grudges would be written. Blood would be spilled. Recompense would be demanded, in one form or another. But what was most important to him was to rebuild Ekrund. To make it into a thriving hold, where families could raise their young in peace. Where artisans could work their art for which the lesser races were so envious of. Of where merchants could come to buy and sell, enriching all. Without Valaya and what she stood for, there was nothing worth building. Without Valaya and what she stood for, there was nothing worth fighting for. It was she who cooled the fire within his heart, and replaced it with the steel resolve to fight for something bigger than himself. It was she who was the paragon of what it meant to be a dwarf, and it was she who would be held above all.
As such, he made a proclamation. Just as Khaz Vithang now held the populace of the hold, and just as it held its industry, so too would it hold a great temple to Valaya. This would be more than just a place of worship. It would be a great complex, where the injured could seek healing. It would be more than just a hospital. It would be a brewery, where all who fought for Ekrund could come to take off their iron shod boots and drink their reward. It would be more than just a brewery. It would by a symbol for all of the hopes and dreams that Durak had for this new kingdom.
Of the temple itself, plans were already drawn up. In the center of the temple there would be the shrine. On one flank would be a statute of Valaya in her peaceful aspect. With one hand the statue would hold a plump, healthy child. In the other would be a mug of ale, overflowing as she drank. On the other flank of the shrine would be a statue of Valaya in her attire for war. She would wear a mail shirt over a purple gown. In one hand would be her runeaxe, Kradskonti, or ‘peace keeper’ in the tongue of men. In the other would be a shield with her runic inscription upon it, Gromthi Rinri. The walls of the temple would be covered in frescoes of dwarven life in Ekrund before the fall. By the time that the reclamation effort was done, the frescoes would also represent the life of the residents of the hold.
Already he could hear the complaints. That there was a war going on. That building a temple was wasting energy better used to fight urk, grobi and umgi. But Durak dismissed the concerns. Because he knew that despite how brave his warriors were, they were tiring. Weeks of unrelenting combat under the mountains had sapped many of their strength. Righteous ire was giving way to grim resolve, and he knew that no matter how hard the steel, eventually it could break. This temple was for his warriors. It would be where they could come and rest their weary feet between battles. When marching to war, purple and gold clad priestesses would be there to hand out frothing mugs of ale to the dwarven clansmen. When the fighting was done, it would be a place where the wounded could be tended in safety. And most importantly of all, it would remind all of the warriors exactly what they were fighting for. He knew, from his own experience, that there was no greater warrior in the world than a dwarf fighting to defend his home.
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Lord Freyr sat in council with several of his closest advisors and war leaders. Currently they were listening to Brokkr, recently returned from meeting with Lord Durak Ironhelm.
Brokkr spoke with a flourish, almost more like a story teller then the grizzled old curmudgeon he usually was. “As the generals agreed, the construction of the new temple continues at a healthy pace. As you are all aware Lord Durak send each general a message and requested advice on what Ancestor God we should dedicate our glorious temple to. Such a decision would not be minor, oh no it would have great impact on us all! For the temple, this first majestic temple would represent the patron ancestor of the whole hold!”
Brokkr paused for dramatic effect but the other thanes grumbled. “We read the letter too you bloated bag of grobi farts.” One of the grumpier warriors shouted. “Did you deliver our reply or not!? What did Ironhelm say?!”
This caused a wide range of agreement from the other advisors, and brought a nod from Lord Freyr himself. Everyone was anxious to hear the results, for the vote seemed likely to be a close thing. Already there was talk amongst the clansmen, rumours both good and bad. Some of the younger beardlings whispered that this decision could make or break the future of Ekrund. Some of the more pessimistic even whispered that voting wrong would cause the Ancestors to doom the whole expedition. None would dare to say so in front of Lord Fairhair, but he knew the mood of his people. He hid it well, but his advisors could tell he was nervous as well. Possibly even as nervous as some of the beardlings. He’d stated his case with passion for which ancestors they should honor, but now, when the vote was finally called, he couldn’t be there. Instead he had led his hearth guard to the front lines. The war effort could not be halted, even for something as important as this temple. Freyr needed to be ready to put the agreed upon plan into action. If this worked, if it was kept secret from the urk and the human interlopers, they could win a mighty victory for the Dawi.
Yet… yet Freyrs mind would not focus on the task at hand.
“Now Brokkr.” He said quietly. “What is the decision.”
Brokkr bowed low to his king. “My lord. Many of the younger warriors argued fiercely for us to honor fearsome Grimnir. ‘We are at war Lord Ironhelm.’ They would crow. They talk of grudges to be settled and blood to be spilled. The more moderate of us spoke and called for us to honor stoic Grungni instead. With his patronage craftsman and artisans throughout the holds would flock to Ekrund. With them we can build mighty fortefications, craft siege machines and weapons, and create industry.”
Stroking his long white beard, Brokkr met the gaze of the advisors and his lord. “I delivered your message my lord, and declared for Valaya herself. We reclaim Ekrund not in the name of industry or war, but in the name of our future! For a future we require a home! We must look to our people! For we cannot build that future without healthy, strong bodies to do the work. If Grungi is how great we can build and Grimnir how fierce we will defend it, then Valaya is the foundation all that is built upon. That foundation is what is needed!”
Freyr nodded solemnly. They were his words afterall, even if Brokkr shouted them passionately. A sound argument, and one he believed Lord Ironhelm favoured as well. What he didn’t know is how the other generals would respond.
“Our declaration was not greeted happily by some of the warriors as you no doubt know.” Brokkr continued, shrugging apologetically. “They are concerned with the war. During the audience word arrived that Mount Bloodhorn had fallen to the urk. To say there was despair puts things lightly. We may need to move our own war plans forward, before our enemies realise what we’re doing.”
“The vote Brokkr.” Freyr reminded his gregarious advisor. “Your starting to sound like an elf with all this talk and flowery words.”
“As my liege wishes.” The longbeard said apologetically. “Word of the Mount Bloodhorn cut the meeting short, so the vote was called immediately. The decision was unanimous. Valaya will be our patron, and the temple will honor her. It will include a great brewery so that our soldiers can rest and recuperate, and a hospital so that the priestess’ can attend the wounded. Already they have been sent for and the mountainholms informed. When construction is finished any day now, the foundation stone of Ekrund will have been laid.”
This brought a rousing cheer from the assembled dwarves. Some bounded the hafts of their weapons on the ground, others slapped thighs or shields. For the first time in a long time Lord Freyr broke out in laughter.
“Great news my friend!” he called, striding forward to clasp Brokkr’s hand. “It seems my fellow lords and I share a great many thoughts. I can march to battle with my heart full and happy now. The decision is made and the die cast.”
He gave the room a few minutes to celebrate, but demanded order when some started calling for Bugmans finest to be brought out. “Comrades we have made another step forward, but the victory is not yet won. Tomorrow we march to battle again. The celebration will have to wait for now. I promise you, upon my beard and honor, that when Ekrund is won we will have a festival that will shake the mountain to its roots! Now let’s go win it!”
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Clan Alpsbane was, possibly, the rowdiest bunch of dwarves to have walked the halls of Ekrund, or most any dawi hold. They didn’t stand on pomp and circumstance, weren’t afraid to speak their minds, and always itching for a good fight. It was little surprise that many followed Grimnir, with his priests and priestesses well represented among the ranks of Alpsbane dwarves that sought to rid the ancient hold of the stench of grobi blood and filth, nor was it much of a shock to hear that the unruly dawi of the north were often at the center of any brawl that happened to break out. Fortunately, for the continued health of their fellows if not anything else, it was all in good fun for the Alpsbanes.
The news of the desecration of a sacred site to the dawi had enraged them, indeed it was fortunate that they were on the wrong side of the mountain to launch an immediate assault on the humans that had done this after taking Barak Gorm. The fury and fire that Brask let loose upon learning of this atrocity left even those who’d served the thane for years worried. When news of the Valayan temple to be constructed reached the camp, however, something strange happened. Clan Alpsbane gathered its ranks and put them in order. Priestesses of Valaya, clad in purple and gold, lead the columns to Khaz Vithang. There were no bawdy songs, no rousing stories, nor a single word spoken by the boisterous dwarves as they marched, just a single young dwarven maid reciting a prayer to the goddess of the hearth, a prayer to guide them home.
Though the temple was not yet completed, the clan began to prepare a feast, not for the thanes and generals, but the weary, the wounded, and the workers furiously working to complete the temple. All of the clan pitched in, from the youngest beardling all the way up to Brask himself. They set up a massive mead hall and prepared dishes fit for kings. They gathered all of the foot soldiers that could be spared and the workers that labored not a hundred yards from the clan’s camp. It was when the guests were seated that something unusual was going on became obvious.
Brask did not sit at the high table, nor did any of the dignitaries that had been invited. In fact, the table was empty, and the next highest places of honor were given to the wounded, ranked by the severity of the injuries they’d taken to free Ekrund of the grobi hordes. Brask and his advisers weren’t even seated. No, they stood as if they were the honor guard for the absent, most honored dawi. The thane of the Alpsbanes stood at solemn attention behind the empty chair that, by all rights, he should have been seated in.
The Valayan priestesses of Clan Alpsbane began to serve the meal, starting with the empty seats at the high table. Each course was served and taken up, with the dishes at the high table not having been touched as Brask stood guard as if he was watching over his liege like any good retainer. Whispers from the dignitaries began to worm through the throng and eventually, one of them asked a young acolyte as she passed, “why does your thane stand as if he was a common guard?”
The acolyte looked to the gray bearded dwarf to then smiled. It was a solemn, almost wistful expression.
“Brask stands guard over th’fallen this night,” she told the dwarf quietly, “if we had th’room, we’d have a place for e’ry dawi that’s fallen for our homes at th’high table. As it is, we can only give a few o’ them th’honor they’ve earned at a time. This is the Feast of the Fallen, an’ so long as there is one dwarf fallen in battle who has not supped in his place o’ honor, we shall hold it whene’er we can.”
No, Clan Alpsbane does not hold much stock with pomp and ceremony, but if there’s one thing they place any reverence on, it is the honoring of the dead fallen in battle.