WINTER AND TWILIGHT
Sat upon an oaken chair, the elder wrote away. The tip of his quill swaying in the air, the soft scritch-scratching of the inked tip upon parchment etched words from mind and heart into undying memory. A single candle lit those words, as did it his study: A small room in the building he had enacted in the hovel after the death of his loving wife and children. Its walls were cobble and wooden beams, the latter carved with beautiful shapes and ancient Dwarven runes, the arching ends taking the form of Gryphon and Dragon’s heads as so many of such works did here in Kirthaven. A single rounded window peered out over the main road, one that led down past the roost and into the center of town, now fogged up by a clammy autumn’s evening pressing against the thin glass inlays.
Galvrin reached for his mug of herbal tea, a concoction he had learned to make back in Ironforge; over three ages past. “A recipe as old as living memory.” He was told, and by the ancestors, she had been right. For a moment he paused as he sipped from that mug, daring a stare in it. There he saw a passing shadow of that broad, boisterous Dwarven Warrior who could make himself be heard over rolling thunder in the deep of Grim Batol; a lively fellow who had lost all he had known to wicked wars and evil deeds, just as all of his clan had. There they carved a new home into the mountain, adorning the arches and bridges with the heads of Gryphons: Mighty creatures which dwelled high in the sky, a token of freedom and carelessness. Such was the hope of the Dwarves of Grim Batol, that they could be set free from the shackles which had bound them to Ironforge, to the ruin of the united sons of Modimus. A mouse skittered down the wall next to Galvrin, plopping down upon the tapestry adorned floor and scooting on over to the fireplace. With a slight groan of wood or that of his bones, he could not tell, the elder shaman turned. “Why, wee fellow… What brings ye so far from yer home ‘n into me study hrghm?” He muttered amusedly before planting one hand on the table, the other on the arm of his chair to lift himself to his feet. He shuffled then over to the little creature, which sat silently before the crackling hearth as it wrung its little rodent hands to clean, to warm, to whatever end such critters saw fit.
From a shelf Galvrin gathered an old and stale piece of bread, leaning down to place it on the ground for the little fellow to enjoy. “Here ye go, it’s nae much bu-” cut short in his hushed sentence, pain rolled over his body as his knees gave way, sending him tumbling to the ground and nearly crushing the mouse. With softly spoken protest and muffled curses, the elder turned upon his back to cough the rest of his grievances away. “Blighted ‘n bebothered be this weakenin’ frame, bah…” He looked about from the floor, his study upside-down. The new roof of his sight and its odd furnitures were stacked with upside-down piles of books, rolls of parchment, folded letters and unfinished works, scattered about were mugs and plates, improvised paperweights and a myriad other items. Meanwhile the seeming floor was much cleaner, only holding a chandelier of seven slow-burning candles. The walls of course were adorned with many an upside-down bookcase, each filled to the brim, as well as paintings and dreamcatchers made either by him or his many students. There, as Galvrin finally turned right-side up, and the room along with it, he glanced the dusty old hammer he had once called his own. “Grund A’dron”… He whispered to himself. “Hammer o’ Thunder’s Boom…”
“Take it up, Galvrin Thunderbeard, son o’ Throín, son o’ Moghan.” The voice was like a distant memory, even as it happened right in front of the young warrior. At length he stood silent, eyeing the ancestral weapon, forged in the heart of Dun Morogh, in the heart of Ironforge. “Galvrin?” the young Thane asked, arching a black haired brow. Snapping out of his waking dream, Galvrin cleared his throat and stepped forth. “I take this weapon nae as a trophy o’ strength, o’ prowess… Instead I take it as a reminder, a promise to me forebears and me child, perhaps children in time…” He glanced at Grelda, a fond smile upon her beautiful face. “Ta never let fear prevail, ta stand as a Wildhammer o’ Khardros’ stock, o’ Egthol, o’ Moghan o’ Thunderbeard. Here I stand, on tae slopes o’ our new home… Ancestors, witness me now.”The memory faded as soon as it had come, for the little mouse had returned and cradled itself just under the weapon’s slanted backside. Its beady eyes peered at the elder- or perhaps the piece of bread which now laid flattened and broken next to the sitting elder. A soft sigh left him, rubbing the knees as he turned his head down to eye the bread. “Used to be a nice sandwich…” He muttered, taking up the piece and placing it a bit further towards the mouse. “Eat up, wee lad. Yer body be needy, more so than mine.” It did take the critter some time to finally skitter forth, during which Galvrin had managed with much trouble to get back to his feet and to the chair. There he sat down, taking a breather. There the mouse went, eagerly munching away before scouting out other parts of the room, leaving what precious little it had not eaten for another moment. Following the little tip-taps of its feet, Galvrin felt his age now more than ever. “So swift…” He thought, his eyes then falling upon that damned hammer again.
“Ye ready?” Wingmaster Huran asked firmly. “She’s a mighty beast, took us a long ol’ while ta get her ready fer flight.” “Aye, ready as can be.” Galvrin answered, adjusting the reins in his hands. At length Huran spoke once more. “When ye feel ready, tug ‘er up into tae sky ‘n see where tae wind guides ye both. Dunnae fear, for tae Gryphons are mighty ‘n smart, they’ll nae see ye drop unless ye do evil by ‘em. Now, fly!”That day was so long ago. Still Galvrin remembered the breeze turning to a storm, his brown hair swaying in the wind as he rose far above the Aerie, looking down at the stone carvers shaping the aerie out of the mountains below, while many a building was being constructed all over the peaks. It had been the day he earned the name of Thundertalon, one of the Aerie’s gryphon riders set to join his kinsmen in Northeron to the South-East. How happy he had been, how strong.
Galvrin allowed himself a smile, though forlorn it was. A tickling sensation gave him pause then, and seemed to originate from a thankful little fellow which now skittered up his tattooed hand, over the Khal’brass and to the shoulder. There it no doubt burrowed beneath a wild and trinket adorned white beard, keeping safe from the ever fouler weather outside.
Sniffing, he turned himself to his writing again, the parchment he had been working on sat empty still but for the few words he had mustered before.’To the sons and daughters of the Highlands whom it may concern,
I, Galvrin Stormheart, last o’ Moghan Thunderbeard’s line, blessed to be accepted as a brother to Grahda Stormheart, son o’ Olgan, son o’ Bal’gahn, am dying.
No, not quite dying, but alas the ravages of three centuries has finally started to take a final hold of this mortal body. With the wounds sustained of flesh and heart, I shall be counted lucky to still be sharp of mind so deep into Twilight.’The wrinkled Shaman paused, eyeing the words with a newly dipped quill in his hand. The weather outside had worsened, rain and wind now howling against his hovel home.
’With the final leaves falling from the trees, my winter has now come, a winter which I am decreed to spend wisely. As this is scribed, the spirits are in manic confusion, the elements rumble. A grand thing is about to happen the likes of which I am loathe to fully grasp; so must I write this heavy document, for there are those who must take my place as an Elder Shaman of Stormheart, the Earthen Ring and the Highland Wildhammers perhaps sooner than the heart is willing to admit…’
So he wrote away: That elder dwarf upon his oaken chair, pained and weak, putting to words that which he had never feared… Until now.
