Interlude: Gundrak (Patreon)

Perhaps one who had walked the golden halls of Dazar'alor would have at least the faintest idea what it was like to stand within Gundrak. Where every stretch of wall was dominated by sigils, art or gems, statues and carvings of gargantuan proportions watching on as if alive. Ritual fires and glowing crystals filled the dark stone with warmth and light as well as any hearth-fire.

As was popular in nearly every city troll city Arctikus had heard tell of, running water was a constant. The sound never far from one's ears and proving both strange but oddly soothing in Arctikus’s mind.

The king, his entourage and her tribe were welcomed with hearty fanfare. Great feasts with a startling variety of meats and even greater surplus of hearty vegetables harvested from the Drak'Sotra Fields that were said to stretch on for days.

Guides had proven a necessity from the first day, as many-a Frostmane had discovered.

The buildings of Gundrak, be they residential, studies, smiths, barracks, or armories were woven into one mighty temple. One could find steps leading everywhere, they wound about one another like a nest, or bush. Each street and stairway flowing into the next; shaped stone melded together with magic and alchemy, giving the sense of almost being alive.

But then a moment would take her and she'd look for her son only to find the space where she should stand empty and the majestic halls were left looking sullen and harsh.

It was easy, almost too easy to forget there was a world outside Gundrak, Arctikus found. 

Loque’Koa had spoken of Zul’Drak as though its own world, but if so then Gundrak felt like a universe unto itself, a hidden realm for which the outside was something to be glimpsed through windows and scrying pools.

When one did take to a window and embrace the breeze, it could never be mistaken for their home. The changes in land aside, there was no scent of pine to the air, no chance of knowing the enlightening tangy aroma of the Shimmering Sage. 

Baths the size of small lakes billowed steam into the air of cleansing halls that had swiftly filled with the cheers of excited children and relieved sighs from ancient elders as warmth and balms soothed aching bodies.

No matter the chamber, one could find their walls bedecked in jewels, furs and weapons, grand pictographs, some dating back to before even Gudnrak's founding. Vivid pictographs showing disparate tribes came together to do battle against hateful spirits and erect a home that would honor the gods and shield them from the element’s wrath.

In moments like this, a part of her wondered if the Dwarves had left anything behind. The art, the tents, enchanted to withstand a hundred winters, medallions and spiritual markers. Did the mountain winds and rumbling stone mourn the absence of their last adherents? 

The capital still held to the Drakkari's seemingly near uniform taste and preference for darker minerals, but the multitude of dyed furs, woven rugs and plush silks did much to offset what might otherwise have felt like a harsh and claustrophobic city.

As night turned to days and that soon become weeks, plans were drawn up for the new settlement and resources were gathered. Always the matter of Rohk’Aka dancing on the tips of clever tongues as priests, generals and bureaucrats flittered in and out of Malakk’s mighty throne chamber and filled his boisterous dining hall.

Petty though it was, and full though they were. Arctikus knew some among her tribe were silently missing the sweet taste of apple, the strength of barley and richly salted pork, all once staples, now consigned to memory. 

Arctikus often found herself wandering the halls late at night. Instincts to patrol and memorize the lay of the land driving every step as she mulled over the comings and goings of the Drakkari Court or simply marveling at the city, and relishing memories of her tribes buoyed spirits.

‘The time is coming, soon there will be a decision made and I pray it is the right one.’