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DeRe
Supernova
- Joined
- Mar 19, 2013
A bright orange sun rolled over the horizon, vividly colouring the snow-cloaked mountain below. Another spectacular dawn was rolling over the stone ceiling of Svartalfheim. But the spectacular sight was appreciated only by barren stones that were barely warmed by the distant glow. The harshness of the freezing granite slopes gave no succor to any kind of life, and for miles around the slate bleakness was as silent as a grave.
This appearance of lifelessness was deceiving, as was all things in the realm of the Dark Ones. Beneath the silent stone there was great activity, as the Dwarves thrived in their grim mountainous home. Clanging steel, guttural songs and hissed curses ran through the massive walls. Cavernous halls gave a cold metallic echo to the already harsh sounds, and the furious scarlet flames of the bellows provided a nightmarish illumination. This was a world where the sun, and everything that bathed in its glow, was not welcome.
The entrance to the underworld comprised a gigantic maw, as high as a hundred men, and wide enough to swallow a fleet. At the foot of this smoke-soaked mouth was something resembling a farm, albeit more of a parody of one. Saturated in the acrid fog, and with barely a few scraps of grass clawing through the stone, it was hardly a bucolic place. Yet the handful of cattle kept in an enclosure were healthy enough, maintained by the pure magical essence of their master. Even a warped attempt at a forest grew around the buildings, providing something of a last view of normality before the mountain swallowed everything.
If this grubby little homestead could be seen as a mockery of the homes in Midgard, then its warped little tenant was a twisted joke of a human farmer. Giftzwerg had been driven out of the sacred bowels of the mountain, considered too repellent to dwell among his more honorable cousins. Instead he was kept at the gates, as something of a guardian, but also to perform tasks considered humiliating by his peers such as tending the cows and burning refuse. The experience had left the already warped creature quite embittered, which in turn worked well to repel any welcome visitors to Svartalfheim.
Like the rest of his kin, Giftzwerg possessed formidable magic powers. Where most of the other Dwarves bent their abilities towards making all manner of practical things, he preferred to focus on the illusory. A practiced master of deception, he had won the annual riddling contest every year for decades, a notable victory that saw him even more despised by his less-skilled cousins. These gifts – combined with a boundless sadism and warped humour – ensured than any unprepared visitor to the mountain would never go further. It remained safe, and its poisonous gatekeeper got to sate his peculiar tastes on the hapless intruders.
On this particular morning he was sat atop a smooth rock beside his house, languidly carving some runes into a sliver of bone taken from a giant’s rib. He was concerned with little more than cooking something appetizing for his late breakfast, when his hairy ears suddenly bristled at the steady clop of an approaching horse. Giftzwerg slid his carving knife back into his boot, and fixed his cap on tightly. The once-red fabric had turned a rust-brown from decades of filth. Putting aside the rune-stick he stood up on the rock, taking a small gem from his pocket. Peering through the polished ruby into the gloom he started at the sight of his approaching visitor. Who was this blonde goddess?
This appearance of lifelessness was deceiving, as was all things in the realm of the Dark Ones. Beneath the silent stone there was great activity, as the Dwarves thrived in their grim mountainous home. Clanging steel, guttural songs and hissed curses ran through the massive walls. Cavernous halls gave a cold metallic echo to the already harsh sounds, and the furious scarlet flames of the bellows provided a nightmarish illumination. This was a world where the sun, and everything that bathed in its glow, was not welcome.
The entrance to the underworld comprised a gigantic maw, as high as a hundred men, and wide enough to swallow a fleet. At the foot of this smoke-soaked mouth was something resembling a farm, albeit more of a parody of one. Saturated in the acrid fog, and with barely a few scraps of grass clawing through the stone, it was hardly a bucolic place. Yet the handful of cattle kept in an enclosure were healthy enough, maintained by the pure magical essence of their master. Even a warped attempt at a forest grew around the buildings, providing something of a last view of normality before the mountain swallowed everything.
If this grubby little homestead could be seen as a mockery of the homes in Midgard, then its warped little tenant was a twisted joke of a human farmer. Giftzwerg had been driven out of the sacred bowels of the mountain, considered too repellent to dwell among his more honorable cousins. Instead he was kept at the gates, as something of a guardian, but also to perform tasks considered humiliating by his peers such as tending the cows and burning refuse. The experience had left the already warped creature quite embittered, which in turn worked well to repel any welcome visitors to Svartalfheim.
Like the rest of his kin, Giftzwerg possessed formidable magic powers. Where most of the other Dwarves bent their abilities towards making all manner of practical things, he preferred to focus on the illusory. A practiced master of deception, he had won the annual riddling contest every year for decades, a notable victory that saw him even more despised by his less-skilled cousins. These gifts – combined with a boundless sadism and warped humour – ensured than any unprepared visitor to the mountain would never go further. It remained safe, and its poisonous gatekeeper got to sate his peculiar tastes on the hapless intruders.
On this particular morning he was sat atop a smooth rock beside his house, languidly carving some runes into a sliver of bone taken from a giant’s rib. He was concerned with little more than cooking something appetizing for his late breakfast, when his hairy ears suddenly bristled at the steady clop of an approaching horse. Giftzwerg slid his carving knife back into his boot, and fixed his cap on tightly. The once-red fabric had turned a rust-brown from decades of filth. Putting aside the rune-stick he stood up on the rock, taking a small gem from his pocket. Peering through the polished ruby into the gloom he started at the sight of his approaching visitor. Who was this blonde goddess?