Ever since the legions of Dodan—the mightiest dwarf in all of Midgard—seized the stronghold, the diversity of life within the land of Alfheimr has surged. The halls are now a melting pot of dwarven kin, weary human travelers, and wide-eyed adventurers seeking their fortune.
However, with the fires of war between the gods Modi and Vidar still smoldering, the screening process at the gates has become a matter of grim necessity. Yet, the consistency of the dwarven guards remains more temperamental than the mountain weather. On a good day, they might warmly invite a wandering elf to share a flagon of ale; on a bad one, they might kick a fellow dwarf out the door just for the fun of it. Entry depends entirely on the fickle whims of whoever holds the watch.
On this particular day, Rauenason (famously known as "Red-Nose") held the keys to the kingdom. An aging soldier with a reputation for being spectacularly hard of hearing, he served as the final arbiter of who was worthy of Ainen-dor.
"What was that!? Your name is Innri (Inside) of the Svikari (Traitor) clan!?" Rauenason bellowed, his voice cracking as he glared at a merchant trembling before the gate. "Do you think I'm an idiot? I'd sooner let a frost giant in than a member of the Traitor clan! Begone!"
Without waiting for a reply, Rauenason shoved the merchant so hard the poor man tumbled backward. The man had actually introduced himself as "Inari Sigurli"—a name meaning 'Victor'—but with the old guard refusing to listen, the merchant could only retreat dejectedly, gathering his scattered wares from the dirt.
Next came a dwarven warrior clad in gleaming plate armor. He approached with a soldier's discipline, declaring himself a mercenary eager to bolster Dodan's ranks. Rauenason leaned in, squinting suspiciously.
"Do you think I'm a fool!?" the guard screamed. "You claim to be a gardener, yet you show up in full battle-rattle? You're clearly a spy in a clumsy disguise! Get out! Beat it!"
The warrior stood frozen in confusion. He had never touched a shovel in his life, yet he found himself driven back as the other guards—howling with laughter at their captain's senility—began leveling their crossbows at him.
The next to approach was the Ruby Team, led by the formidable Berlynda and her two pupils, Amanda and Aki.
"Three women! What business could you possibly have in our fortress during these dark times?" Rauenason barked, his eyes scanning them as the other guards prepared for another round of mockery.
"I am Berlynda, an old comrade of Dodan!" she shouted, pitching her voice high enough to pierce the old dwarf's deafness. "We have traveled far to deliver urgent news!"
"What's that? You claim to be a friend of our Great Leader? And I'm just supposed to take your word for it?" Rauenason retorted with his trademark bluntness.
Berlynda didn't bother with words. She reached into her gear and produced an ancient, weathered cloth. On it was a clear inscription: "To my oldest comrade—your counsel is always welcome. —Dodan." The transformation in Rauenason was instantaneous. He snapped into a stiff, respectful salute. "My humblest apologies! Make way! Let the honored friend of Lord Dodan pass!"
The crowd watched in stunned silence as the three women strolled through the gates. Amanda leaned in to whisper to her teacher, "Master... did you cast a confusion spell on him?"
Berlynda offered only a cryptic smile as she led them through the mist of the waterfall gate and into the heart of the fortress.
Deep within the fortress lay the central hall, a cavernous space where the ceiling was lost in shadows, save for the faint, ancient elven carvings of vines etched into the stone. While the elves may have used this hall for poetry and song, the dwarves had repurposed it into a massive brewery for their specialty: wild boar milk ale. One corner of the hall was even cordoned off for the sows used in production.
"Master... it's pungent in here," Amanda whispered, wrinkling her nose.
"The scent is remarkably similar to yours, Senior Sister," Aki remarked, her face as flat and expressionless as a granite slab.
"You've lost your mind, Aki! How could I possibly smell like a pen of pigs!?" Amanda hissed, her face turning a vivid shade of crimson.
Aki gave her short, stout senior in her red tunic a long, clinical look. "Perhaps not a wild boar... but a piglet? The resemblance is striking."
"You little—!" Amanda lunged, but Aki slipped away with the grace of a shadow. The two began a frantic game of cat-and-mouse, circling Berlynda and drawing the amused stares of every dwarf in the hall.
Ignoring the chaos of her students, Berlynda's eyes swept the room until they landed on an old man in pale blue robes. He was a wizard with a beard that reached his toes and eyes that glittered with ancient secrets. When he recognized the former Valkyrie, he stood and approached with a beaming smile.
"I didn't expect to find you in this den of industry, Berlynda!" Galdur called out, his voice raspy but full of life.
"You've grown even more decrepit, Galdur," Berlynda countered, gesturing to his snowy beard.
"You call me old? You are far more 'vintage' than I, my lady," Galdur chuckled. "Who in this universe could claim more seniority than a survivor of the fires of Ragnarok?"
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"Your tongue is as sharp and irritating as it was when you were a boy," Berlynda said, though a rare look of relaxation crossed her face.
"Ho ho ho!" Galdur's laughter echoed as his own party joined them, led by a bright-eyed young man and a girl.
"Great-grandfather... is this lady a friend of yours?" Fiona, Galdur's great-granddaughter, asked tentatively.
"Not a friend, child... she's more like my 'Great-grandmother,'" Galdur joked.
"You old goat! Who is your grandmother!?" Berlynda snapped, though the exchange drew hearty laughter from the group.
Amanda, having given up the chase, piped up with a grin. "So, Master, does this mean the wizard is our 'Grand-disciple'?"
"Amanda! Don't you start too!" Berlynda sighed, rubbing her temples.
Amidst the banter, the young man accompanying Galdur stepped forward. He placed his hand over his heart and bowed with the polished elegance of a high-born warrior. "Good morning... I am Farran Magnison."
Berlynda's brow furrowed. "A human using the name Magnison? That is Dodan's clan name."
"I, too, am a disciple of the god Magni," Farran explained, his voice steady and unwavering.
"Magni was my brother-in-arms," Berlynda noted. "In that case, boy, you're the 'Great-uncle' to this old wizard here."
The hall erupted in laughter. Even the stoic Aki cracked a smile. Galdur held up his hands in mock defeat. "Fine, I surrender! I'll be everyone's grandson. Now, do any of you 'elders' have a gift for your poor little descendant?"
Chuckling, Galdur gestured toward the tables. "Come, let us find a place where we can speak properly."
They moved to a massive stone table in the center of the hall. Since their group was too large for a single setting, a handsome warrior with a mustache shaped like bull horns stood up from the next table over.
"This spot is yours," he said with a grin. "It's time for my shift at the vats anyway."
Farran nodded in thanks. "Much appreciated, brother. Might I ask your name?"
"Just call me 'Marino'... I'm off!" The warrior waved and vanished into the steam of the brewery.
The party split between two tables. At one, Amanda, Aki, and Fiona began to bond; at the other, the air grew heavy as Farran, Galdur, and Berlynda turned to more serious matters. Berlynda's playful mask vanished. She looked at Farran, her gaze softened by respect.
"I have not yet offered my condolences for the loss of your master," she said softly, touching her forehead in the traditional salute to the fallen—to Magni.
Farran took her hand and placed it upon his head. "I accept your kindness, Lady Berlynda."
"Magni left behind a disciple like you," she said, her voice regaining its strength. "That means he did not die in vain."
Galdur waited for the moment to pass before leaning in. "Berlynda, what brings you this far?"
"My journey is tied to Magni's end," she said, her eyes turning to cold flint. "I am here to claim the life of the one who took his head."
"Is your target Enya?" Farran asked directly.
Berlynda blinked in surprise. "Among your people, is Enya known as the one who slew the God of Travelers?" She had expected him to name Dark Asanee first.
"If there was a mind behind that slaughter, it was Enya, the 'Night Blade,'" Farran insisted.
Berlynda nodded. Deep down, she knew Enya was the only one capable of wielding the Dark Asanee like a scalpel. "And you? Are you here to bleed for Dodan?"
"In a manner of speaking," Farran said, his voice dropping to a temperature that felt like winter. "But my true target is the traitor prince, Torvin... the man who lured my master into the elven trap like a coward."
Their conversation was cut short by a dwarven officer who approached Farran with familiar ease. "Farran... my father wants a word."
It was Grimm, General of the Rapid Response Division and son of Dodan himself.
They were led to the third-floor command hall. It was a place of stern power; though it lacked a throne, the massive timber table and the ring of silent dwarven guards gave Dodan an aura of absolute sovereignty.
Dodan sat at the head, his eyes piercing. "Seats," he grunted, a command rather than an invitation. Grimm took his post behind his father like an iron shield.
"Farran," Dodan began, leaning forward. "I hear rumors that you have installed a woman as the leader of Iceland?"
The room turned cold. Farran didn't flinch. "She is the daughter of the god Modi, born in the village of Mj?llnirshús."
"Hmph," Dodan grunted. "A daughter by that S?tkinn woman?"
"The very same," Farran confirmed.
"Then it is well. Iceland needs a leader while Modi is at the front," Dodan's eyes clouded with a darker ambition. "Farran, you have grown. We, the disciples of Magni, must be the pillars that elevate Lord Modi to 'Supreme Power.'"
Farran remained silent. He wondered if Dodan meant victory in the coming war, or if the dwarf was eyeing a throne higher than any mortal or god should possess.
"Soon, Modi will clash with Vidar again," Dodan continued.
"How soon?" Farran asked.
"When the time is right. We do not question the gods. We only ensure they win... by any means necessary."
The weight of Dodan's words hung heavy in the air. But before Farran could press for details, the heavy doors of the command hall were slammed open.
CRASH!
Rauenason, the gatekeeper, stumbled in. Gone was his comical grumpiness. His face was the color of ash, and his eyes were wide with a primal terror.
"What is the meaning of this!?" Dodan roared, half-rising from his chair.
"The Slatan... it's back!" Rauenason wheezed, his voice cracking.
"Speak sense, man! What are you talking about?"
"The Slatan... Lord Born's mount!" the old dwarf shouted, his deafness making his voice boom with horrific clarity. "It just trotted up to the waterfall gate... with Lord Born's severed head tied to the saddle!"
"WHAT!!!?"
The scream that tore through the room didn't come from Dodan. It came from Grimm—a father realizing his only son had been butchered.
In a blind rage, Grimm seized Rauenason by the throat, hoisting him off the floor. "Don't hurt me! Please!" the guard begged.
"Grimm! Stand down!" Dodan commanded, his voice like a hammer on an anvil. "We are warriors! To die is to meet the god H?er! Everyone has their time!"
But Grimm was deaf to reason. His eyes were bloodshot, his mind fractured by grief. He threw the guard to the floor and stormed out of the hall without a word. Dodan watched him go, a flicker of exhaustion crossing his weathered face. He turned back to Farran.
"Go. Rest," Dodan said quietly. "As of this hour... you are a General of Ainen-dor."
That night, Farran was escorted to the high-ranking quarters on the second floor. A massive feast was laid out in honor of his promotion. The centerpiece was a giant roasted boar—though as Farran looked at the head of the beast, he couldn't help but notice the patches of reddish-brown fur still clinging to the skin.