The War Against the Old gods
Rï-urf blud ka swåt Kazunith Mükdverdür dǒrrslávir; Ind nådodur kza Ärun mük slovax’es. Därförin mük Eregrim stiig’es, mett blud kza zakälin sult pat kivi
By blood and sweat the Dver were forged; in Arun’s graces we were wrought. And so our Elders come to ascend, with the blood of immortals spilt on the stone.
Agamor; Allfather; Vigilant of the Dver; First of the Elders and the Keeper of the Stone. Once mortal and now ascended to the realm of the gods. He who took upon him the pleas of his people, and to forge an enlightened path for all Dver since.
The tale of woe and blood as old as the stones begins with you. Vigilant was your creed and clanless your bonds. To walk the path of the accused, you carried the need of your people to the highest of the holy peaks.
Our gods, the Bellan, of old. Their thirst knew no end. Their desires for blood could not be quenched. Brother slaughtered brother at their behest, and the bones of the dead fed their immortality. It was Agamor who saw their truth, there on the peak. He saw their carelessness. Their sins against the Dver. They were not of our ancestors. They were not of our blood. They were interlopers, pretenders and blasphemers.
Their idol, their strength - the Thorgen, the Yurrir, the Runestone he stole. He brought it down to the valley and hid it in the forests of yor. He sapped their blood-idol and invited their ire, and the time of woe was upon us.
But Agamor; Allfather. As the clans fought and died, you brought them the light. By the knowledge that our blood sacrifice served no end, you brought upon the Dver a new dawn.
The greatest of us joined the fight, as the old gods descended from their throne to destroy us. Fallarn, mighty of heart and bravest of us all. Norgall, brother of the Allfather and eternal protector. Oreiss, chief among the mining clans. Toreval, the keeper of histories. Gort, the fiercest of our generals. Bazardin, master smith and most level headed amoung us. And Urir, the assassin that could kill a god.
Six hundred and eighty-four years it took. For the war to reach its zenith, Six hundred and eighty-four years of searching, to unravel the mysteries of that stolen stone. It gave it’s bearers unnaturally long lives, the start of their ascension. It’s magic gifted us the - the ancient magic of our kin. It blessed us with the power to finally push back the old gods and their ways, to chase them back into the void from whence they came, and to bring piece to the valley below the holy mountain.
But victory walks along the same path as corruption. And with each tip of the scales in your favour, the balance of another is upset. The magic of the Runestone required an Anathema, and the cosmos was calling for an answer. In trying to save himself and his clan, Oreiss stole the stone, and took it to the divine realms in order to sell. What power could he gain? What price would he pay to save his kin.
But Maia, goddess of Magic, knew the destiny of the stone was bound to the Dver. The balance required had to come from their own blood and tears. For his betrayal, Oreiss was blamed. And it was his own son who took on the mantle of the martyr. By binding his soul to the stone, he became the vessel of the curse. The Runestone bound their fate in balance. Equal in power and influence over the Dver. They became the ascended Eregrim, and named their antithesis Durathor.