Thorvall gave a thin-lipped smile as the murmur of the crowd before him dimmed. The Caru-lûth had hosted his Oathsworn in good faith, in return for the liberating several of their kin, those who refused to be pressed into their warbands, from the Draig-lûth fort. The rescue was a happy chance while raiding rather than their goal. However the Stag-Clan had promised to hear their offer of an alliance against the Dragon Clan, and now feasted them.
Two contests had been made, custom apparently, and both had narrowly been won by the Oathsworn, Wrecca felling a young champion in a bout of wrestling before Adriwyn managed to outshoot one of their hunters. Now a story was to be told, and Issa, a translator who hailed from the Stonedeans and resided with the Caru-lûth ushered him upon the platform.
A tale to be told. He had hoped Alweard would do it, but he had already promised a song, and urged a tale from the “Old man” instead. He knew he’d have to tread carefully, any tale of the Eorlingas would no doubt stir some resentment, and any Dunlending tale he knew they no doubt knew better than he. Even a tale of Gondor may drag up some ancient enmity.
And so, Thorvall found himself facing near three dozen Dunlendings as well as the small gathering of his own comrades, sat about the fire, watching as he climbed upon the pine boards. Damn how he wished his son was here, either of his eldest would feel more at home here than he. Still, he told himself, better to do a thing than live in fear of it. And he thought, for their purpose, he may have the right tale…
“Listen.
Most of the history of my folk, the great tales told, are laden with strife between our two people.
This tale is of the great men who came before the line of our Kings, when we were not the Eorlingas, but the Éothéod. King Frumgar, who ruled in the days when the great Sea-Kings of Stoningland still ruled in their splendor.”
Frumgar, he who had led his people north from the marshes they called home, founded a mountain fastness, of which the name first given is unknown.
Lord Frumgar brought with him a son, a fine lad, versed well in the lore of his folk, with a keen mind. Above all else, he was skilled in sword-craft, beloved both of his people and his father. The boy grew strong and proud, fair of face and bold of heart.
Alas, these things do not last, for no tale worth the telling is void of hardship, and none knew more hardship than the Dwarves of the Grey Mountains to the North.
They in their time were a proud folk, folk of stout heart and cunning craft, but their hoarded wealth drew the envious eyes of enemies far and wide, and none more reviled than the Dragons of the Withered Heath.
As is the way with Dragons, they look upon all that shines with jealousy, content to let others toil in the making of a hoard before greedily turning tooth, claw and miasmic breath to the purpose of it’s taking.
The North was sacked, the Dwarves diminished, but not yet defeated. Had they known of the great peril that still persisted, they may have forewarned those poor folk of Frumgar, for a great greedy eye turned it’s ireful gaze southward, the Great Ice-Drake, Scatha!
Hateful, this wasteland stalker, foe of Elder Days saw easy prey among the folk of Frumgar, and despite the stout defence of his knights and huscarls, made near ruin of his home, Frumgar himself was wounded in the bitter fray that followed, arm torn to ruin by the claws of the fiend.
When all was done, near a third of the fighting men of those men lay dead beneath that northern sky, the Wrym was gone with the treasures of that place.
Frumgar, it is said that even as his flesh knitted and bones straightened, the wound to his heart never healed but festered, he died within the year.
And so Fram was made King, and he set about rebuilding his town with vigor, a fey light in his eyes, shining as he laboured long to raise his people up once more, and as he worked always he would cast an eye northwards, as if watching for the monstrous Wyrm, and the moment of his return.
Several years later, Fram raised the point with his Witan that it was now time to march North. He would see his father avenged, see their slain kinsmen avenged, see their folk safe from the long shadow that loomed from the north to darken their spirits each time a chill wind blew down from those pale crags.
“It cannot be done.” They said.”. “All the Elves and Dwarves of song did not slay it in the days of old, what hope have we?” It was claimed. “Scatha’s hide is too strong, his claws too sharp, it will bring ruin on us once more…”
Fram listened, but would not be swayed. He spoke then, simple words with the finality of a King who’s wyrd was suddenly revealed to him. “Yet those heroes of old killed it’s sires, slew it’s kin, and a beast does not live so long when all it’s kind have died by it’s boldness alone, skilled as it may be in the murder-make, but by cunning and cowardice.”
Doom was upon him then for better or worse, all could see it and yet still those companions to the king, his hearth brothers and knights willingly fell into its weave as their Lord spoke on.
”Such a beast is used to being the hunter, but we shall give Scatha his turn of being prey, hunted haunted and sleepless will his days be, and with loud horns we shall pursue him until he is run to ground, slithering into a dark trap of his own making.”
This gave heart to the folk of the Éothéod, and they cheered the Lord, heaping him as his knights with gifts and provisions as such that they could carry as they rode to their noble task, brynia bright in the blazing sun their passage could be marked by their gleam as they wound their way along the mountain passes northward, toward the Dragon’s lair.
The road was long and perilous and many fine warriors met their end upon it, and tales could be told about the deeds they themselves did before they were laid low, but our tale is of Fram, who after two long years of searching, had finally cornered the dread beast within it’s reeking den, high in the mountains of the North.
The mighty Fram delved deep into that loathsome lair, and lacking in light as it was he was able to follow his nose on account of the creature’s foul breath, it’s rumbling growls threatening to tumble the walls about him, the beast was aware of Fram, his scent filling the fell foe’s senses.
Our hero came into Wyrmsgraf, a great chamber filled with the plundered hoard, stacked high with gleaming gold and bright gem, blade and axe, sorely missed by the Dwarves Scatha had raided in winter’s past, and with barely a word of boasting, foe met foe in the bloody fray!
Long they fought, striving against one another with fury and skill, locked in combat, the breath of each hateful to the other. Such blows were struck that would have been the doom of lesser beings of a lesser time as they led one another through the winding cavern.
Eventually, after a blow hard struck, Fram’s sword was broken, and the son of Frumgar himself tossed upon the hoard as if he were another trophy for that terrible Wyrm. Crowing his mastery, Scatha flashed his teeth, drawing close to our hero as he moved to make meal from him, death dealing jaws gaping wide when…”
Here Thorvall leapt from the dais, Heartbreaker torn from her scabbard and bright in his hand.
“He pulled a blade, made well as any of Dwarrowcraft from the hoard and thrust her forward, deep into the beasts grim maw and...
The blow struck true! The foul Scatha roared, and writhed and finally with hateful words that his killer took to the grave, died beneath the mountains in Wyrmsgraf, Fram had the victory! He returned home with hoard and glory enough to lift his people, and that wealth was spent in part on strong walls, and until it’s abandonment it was ever after known as Framsburg.
Scatha was the last great Wyrm, and the last Dragon to plague the world, save the calamity of the Dale Lands. He was slain not by an Elvish Lord, nor a legion of Dwarves, but by a man, like your folk, like ours.
I wanted to share with you my friends a history of our people, a history of my own bloodline for Fram’s sister sired my father’s kin. Indeed this very blade is said to have come from that legendary hoard. Perhaps even the very one that ended that foul Wyrm’s life. But that is beside the point.
Above all else my friends, I wanted to assure you that heedless of their poison in their breath and the danger in their flashing claws, Dragons can, and must be slain.”
Thovall peered at the weapon he held for a moment longer. Indeed it’s blade was not crafted in the fashion of men, even if the pommel and handle was of Eorling make.
Sliding the blade into her fleece-lined scabbard, Thorvall smiled and nodded as folk called their approval or raised their cups to him, bestowing Aeshaeidr with a wink and a grin as he passed her to find his seat. As Alweard, hair darkened to form his disguise as Gwyn of Gapholt took his place, he only hoped his tale, indeed all of their efforts would be enough to convince the Stag to turn it’s tines away from the Horselords and aim them towards the Dragon’s belly.
