Bvaerin the Black, First and Only of His Name, Conqueror of the Crescent Mountains, and Kron of Krons. These titles and so many more he had earned in his long life. The Green Extinction, when he had slain the last Orc Khan three thousand years ago. The Slayer of Kwaermersog, when he had burned the miles deep Arachnos hive beneath his mountain home. Drakesbane, earned at the death of his greatest rival, the Archdragon Aeros. By his might, and with the strength of his empire behind him, he had made his mark upon history forever. His legacy, the greatest of any dwarf, hells, any mortal to have ever lived. And yet for all of this, even he could not resist the pull of time. Death’s black hand crept ever closer, and he was powerless to stop it. Not that any of these petty supplicants cared.
Bvaerin yawned atop his mithril throne, one clenched hand holding his head aloft as he slouched against the padded armrest. He idly scratched at the withered skin beneath his chin, ignoring the dust that fell like sand from his hands as he did so. What was the dwarf before him complaining of again? Something about Dunervsky ram and ancestral land. It was always the same with these leeches.
“…and that is why, I believe, the valley between Aegirshold and Mount Ignaris should be returned to my family, as is my ancestral right, oh Great Kron. I...”
Bvaerin cut him off with an irate wave of his hand, signaling the end of the man’s pleadings. The man seemed to want to plead further, but Bvaerin had heard enough.
“Do not speak to me of your ancestral right. Aegir’s Valley has been controlled by its’ ruling Kron for nearly five centuries, and you seriously expect me to entertain your ‘ancestral right’.” Bvaerin snorted, and the room stilled. It was beyond laughable. Centuries ago, this sort of plea would never have been brought before him. How low the petty nobles must think his Diminishment had brought him if they thought they could waste his time with this. Clearly, he needed to remind this fool of his place. An example, then.
“Let’s see…” He pondered for a second on the dwarf before him. What was his name again? Maybe his mind was diminished. Damnit. “Darenor of Clan Org, your appeal is denied.” He watched silently as the dwarf before him shifted with displeasure. A tense moment passed before Darenor turned to leave, taking the silence from his Kron as a dismissal. Bvaerin smirked with satisfaction beneath his beard, and simply raised his hand again. Fool, you are thousands of years too young to be petitioning before me.
Guards stepped forth from the shadows and stopped Darenor, overpowering him easily and bringing him back before the throne. Confusion etched upon his face, then anger, and finally realization. He looked up to Bvaerin, barely able to meet his stony gaze.
“I do not remember dismissing you, nor do I remember seeing you show proper respect as you tried to leave.” Bvaerin stood, hefting his massive, runed hammer over one shoulder as he strode down the flight of marble steps from his throne to the red silken carpet that adorned his hall. The ground shook with every step he took, the sound of his plated boots striking stone echoing throughout the hall. Not a murmur escaped the mouths of the other dwarves within his hall. They all knew what they were about to witness. Bvaerin did not need to look to know the fear in their eyes. Bvaerin stopped but a few steps from the unfortunate dwarf kneeling before him.
“How old are you?”
A simple, but unexpected question.
“…75, my Kron.”
“A shame then, just old enough to know better but just young enough to not understand what you’re going to miss.”
A question formed on the dwarf’s face. What was he going to miss?
“Your disrespect for this throne is noted. For that disrespect, I sentence you to a century in the Fifth. Perhaps your time there will humble you. Perhaps not.” The dwarf was pulled to his feet by the guards, barely containing his protest. A noble clan head, forced to fight alongside humans? There was no greater dishonor, other than…
“Also, Captain. Shave his beard. Fitting for a child who does not know his place.” The guard captain did not hesitate to pull his axe from his side. Darenor struggled at that. An unbelievable shame, for him and his clan. And a brutal punishment. Bvaerin watched stoically as the guards rushed forth to restrain Darenor, and the ensuing struggle as he was forced to the ground lasted but a moment. It was over seconds later, as the captain scraped every hair from the dwarf’s face, cutting Darenor’s face open and reducing his jaw to a blood-ridden mess. The scars that formed would never leave him, and his beard would never grow right again.
When Darenor was finally dragged from his hall, Bvaerin returned to his throne. He sat idly upon the throne for but a moment, before allowing his voice to resonate throughout the hall.
“Now then, who is next.”
No other petitioner came forth, and after a prolonged moment he nodded silently. Finally, he could be done with this farce. He rose to leave, when suddenly a clamor arose from beyond the the great stone doors to the chamber. An armored dwarf rushed into the hall, passing by the guards without any concern for their orders to stop.
“My Kron! I bear urgent news from General Nieran!”
Oh great, more trouble. He sighed as he turned to face the soldier, motioning his guards to let him pass. He stopped before his Kron, showed his respect with a salute, and then knelt. Bvaerin looked upon his subjects, their eyes glued to the soldier before him. His guards had already begun to clear the room, and not for the first time Bvaerin was grateful for their competence. When the room had emptied, he motioned the soldier to rise.
“Report.”
“My Kron, Aegirshold has fallen. Last night, the hold was infiltrated and Kron Aegirs’ entire clan put to the axe. The valley is in flames. General Nieran and the 3rd Legion are in full retreat.”
Bvaerin was taken aback. What force could have overtaken the entire hold in less time than it took for him to respond. What dwarven hold could not stand against his enemies for years, if not decades. The Dwarven Roads, the vast tunnel system connecting his holds together, guaranteed resupply in prolonged sieges. Unless…
“Who dares attack me, soldier?”
The soldier gulped, his breath catching in his throat.
“Cairnshold, my Kron.”
Bvaerin closed his eyes. It had finally happened then. The First Oath was broken.
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Never, in the five thousand years of Bvaerin’s reign, had dwarf waged war upon dwarf. Oh sure, there were occasional squabbles between clans, but never outright bloodshed and war. Not since the Age of Kinslaying that saw the death of every Precursor Dwarf in Estalon. Every single one but him. Had his complacency allowed this to happen? Had he grown weak after all these years? Surely not.
Bvaerin stood atop the palisades of his personal keep, staring out into the darkness of the Endless Caverns. Gemlights glowed faintly deep below him, illuminating the sprawling metropolis that had been carved into the walls of the miles deep crevasse. He remembered, even now, its virgin form. The rough, uncarved rock, glittering with gems and precious metals. The shape of his own Hewn, where he had been carved from the rock by his ancestors. The gentle lava flows that had flowed freely, naturally, beautifully. The faces of dwarves who had been his companions. How long had it been now? Nearly ten thousand years, at least. And all of it gone, destroyed by the ancient dwarves’ own hubris.
“It is not like you to be so melancholy, my Kron.” Bvaerin turned to face the man who had just entered. An ancient dwarf, though not as ancient as him, strode toward him, a look of regret upon his face, barely concealed beneath his black beard, woven into a single braid. As he got closer, he knelt before Bvaerin, his head hung low. Bvaerin rolled his eyes.
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“By the Earthmother, Nieran, rise.” Nieran rose stolidly. The oldest and most loyal of all his followers, and the only one whom he trusted implicitly. Nearly a decade had passed since he had last seen him, and yet their reunion could not be more bittersweet.
“Are you sure you do not wish to strike my head from my shoulders for my failures, my Kron?”
“Har har, very funny Nieran.”
The smallest of smirks flickered across Nieran’s face, quickly suppressed.
“I could not be more serious, Bvaerin.”
Bvaerin snorted. “How you have the composure for humor at a time like this I will never know.”
“Not at all.”
“Uh huh.”
The two men stared at each other for but a moment, before embracing each other.
“It is good to see you again, old friend. I nearly came out to rescue you once again when your man brought word.”
“Hah! As if I would need rescue from an old fossil like you.”
"It would not be the first time."
The two laughed heartily, before Bvaerin broke down into a coughing fit, dust blowing from his mouth in uncontrolled bursts. Nieran frowned, concern etched upon his face.
“Bvaerin…”
His only response was a flippant hand wave from Bvaerin. He brought his breathing under control and looked his companion squarely in the eye.
“None of that. I am six thousand years too old for you to be worrying about. I am not some whelp.” The concern did not leave Nieran's eyes.
“My Kron, look at your hand.”
Bvaerin paused and looked at the palm he had been coughing into. A hole had been blown clean through his palm, and a slow but steady stream of dust was pouring from his hand.
“Oh.” He looked at his friend. “That’s not good.”
“Not good?! You should have decades to go, at least. Enough time to bring these rebellious lesser Krons to heel and restore order!”
Bvaerin sighed. He had hoped to reunite with his friend for longer than this before such a heavy conversation.
“I fear recent events have hastened my end, old friend.”
Nieran visibly recoiled in disbelief at his words. He could see the questions forming in his mind as he pieced together what he meant. Finally, realization dawned on his face.
“The Oathstone, you mean. But how…?”
Bvaerin sighed and motioned for his friend to follow him. The two walked silently through the empty halls of Bvaerin’s keep, towards its center, passing numerous grand mosaics as they went. One portrayed Bvaerin holding aloft the head of some Human king after a bloody battle, roaring in victory before his mighty legions. Another depicted his dominance over the elves as he chopped down their holy tree, Yggdrasil, with a single blow. These and countless more, showed his dominance over the other races of Estalon. None were peaceful, and as he passed each, Bvaerin felt not for the first time their condemnation and hatred. He ignored it.
Finally, they came to their destination. They came to a pair of red adamantium doors, carved with runes and wards meant to protect the contents within. Were any but Bvaerin to approach this door, the full force of the runes would smite any intruder into ash. Now, though, the glowing blue runes were faded and dim, no longer powered by their creator. Bvaerin had carved these runes once, many years ago, but now his soul lacked the strength to power them, and his greatest treasure was left unguarded. Not that anyone would realize it or be foolish enough to intrude here while Bvaerin still lived.
Bvaerin pushed the doors open with ease, the lack of runic protection upon the doors not going unnoticed by his friend. Nieran chose to remain silent, however, and the two passed into the room beyond. Nieran nearly wept at what he saw.
The great Dwarven Oathstone, the source of Bvaerin’s grip on his empire and which powered his ungodly might, flickered with faint blue light. Once, this massive, carved stone had shone as a beacon throughout the entirety of the keep, but now it barely illuminated its own surroundings.
“Do you see now, old friend. When the stone flickers out, so too shall I. It barely has the power to keep me alive now, and only just. I may even dissolve to dust before that. Who knows? The end of an era, for certain.”
“How can you be so nonchalant about this!” Nieran could barely contain himself. “Millions of dwarves power this runestone with their Oaths, how can there be so little power left! What will happen to our runes, our strength, our homes!” There was a look of betrayal upon his face.
“I have been a conduit for this power for nigh on five millennia. It is not the stone that is dying. It’s me, old friend. Me. I no longer have the strength to channel the power to the stone from any Oath, and with the breaking of the First, I am afraid I am as impotent as a newborn babe.”
Nieran gaped. “I shall not slay my kin or bring undue harm unto my people. I shall be a stalwart defender of my hold, and see my people prosper. No enemy shall be spared my retribution, no darkness shall plague my hearth. This I swear, from my first day, unto my last.” He recited the First Oath easily, from memory, as if it was still his first Naming Day. “You’re saying that this one single Oath holds so much power? How?”
“It is the only Oath that I staked my soul on, all those years ago. The only one I really cared to see held. It was meant to be a statement to the world, that the once divided dwarven people would stand united against all of them, victorious against all odds.” Bvaerin sighed. When had his path strayed from this noble ideal? Far too long ago now to remember.
Nieran gulped. “You never told me that. Why? What now?”
“Now? I don’t know, I’ve held our people together for so long I never considered what would happen at my passing. I never even thought I could die of old age, not like our lesser kin. I am perhaps the only dwarf to ever Diminish. The only Precursor Dwarf, at least.”
Unlike his people, Bvaerin had been present at the beginning of it all. He had been Hewn, carved from the very stone and breathed to life by magic. Magic that had been lost to his people during the Age of Kinslaying. He was, for all intents and purposes, supposed to be enduring and unageing, like the very earth from which he was Hewn. Not birthed from other dwarves like his lesser kin. Not doomed to an ever-shrinking life expectancy with each passing generation. Allowed to live more than a scant few hundred years before his demise. And yet now, the magic that held him together faded, and his body crumbled to dust, to join his compatriots at last. The mortal world would surely rejoice at his passing.
“I have long suspected that every broken Oath tore at the bindings of my soul, and now I have my proof. I have but a scant few days, my friend.” He laughed bitterly. To see his entire empire die, crumbling along with his own body; Were he a younger dwarf, he would almost believe he had brought this upon himself. No doubt the rest of the world would see it that way.
“And I am left to pick up the pieces.”
“Indeed. Now you know why I left your head attached to your body.”
“Har har.” His friend deadpanned at him. They both chuckled.
Suddenly, the Oathstone flickered once more, and several runes went out all at once. Bvaerin collapsed to his knees, coughing uncontrollably. This time, the fit took his entire right arm from the elbow down. Nieran was beside him in seconds, lifting him to his feet.
“It is far worse than just a few days, my friend.”
“Perhaps…so…” He struggled to suppress his cough. “Listen, Nieran, it is clear I have not a clue how much time I have. You must claim the stone. Now. If you do not, the Oathstone may truly die.”
The two stared in silence at each other for a few moments. They both knew the implications of his request.
“You will die.”
“I know.”
“One day I will die like this.”
“Yes.”
They regarded each other again, and Nieran shut his eyes, his face struggling with emotion.
“You know I cannot. I am not a Precursor like you. I have but a few decades left at best. And I am not you. It’s not enough time to turn back all that has been done, to bring the Krons back in line. And when I die, who will hold it together then?”
Nieran stared deep into his soul and Bvaerin gripped his arm, trembling.
“Then what? What would you do.”
Nieran turned to look at the Oathstone, then back to his friend. Contemplating. After what seemed an eternity, he answered, his voice barely a whisper.
“Fine…”
“What was that?”
“I said, fine, damnit!” Nieran spoke more firmly now, conviction filling his eyes and his chest swelling with purpose.
Bvaerin chuckled and struggled to rise to his feet. Nieran helped him up and steadied him for a moment to ensure he did not fall again.
“You’re really leaving me with a mess, you know.”
“As always.”
“I’ll not have you dying like a bastard though. Here.”
He shoved his axe into Bvaerin’s remaining arm, forcing him to hold it while he pulled a dagger from his boot. Bvaerin looked at him with disbelief.
“Did you think you’d have to kill me to claim the stone?”
Nieran looked at him, baffled. He did not need to answer for Bvaerin to know.
“Look, foolish one, just lay your hand upon the stone, and swear your Oath. I won’t contest you, and the stone will be yours.”
Nieran gaped at him again, before grumbling and returning his dagger to his boot. “Gimme that.” He said as he pulled the axe back from Bvaerin’s hand. He stomped over to the stone. “So, what, like this?” And he laid his hand upon the stone. Deep within him, Bvaerin felt his soul quake.
“Yup, just like that. Now, choose your oath. Whatever you want, really, but remember that you’ll have to uphold it.”
Nieran grumbled something and stood for a moment, considering. And then, finally, he spoke.
“I shall return order to my home, to my people and to the empire which I serve. I shall harbor no traitors and put to the axe every traitorous Kron. And when I am done, finally, I shall rebuild the glory of my empire. This I swear, from my first day, unto my last.”
Bvaerin felt a tug at his soul, and finally a snap, as though a tether had been released. He looked at his friend and smiled, before his consciousness left him. The last thing he heard was a soothing, feminine voice.
“Ah at last. My wayward son returns to me.”