“Thank Torag this armor is Mythril…” he muttered to himself for the twelfth time; he sat upon the high-backed chair at the end of the great hall of Citadel Drezen, Scorizscar’s grizzled visage sat mounted above him, a look of eternal surprise taxidermized on its once terrific face; Bryndr’s gauntlet-ed hand lazily rested upon the pommel of Radiance, its adamantine-capped scabbard digging into the marble near his right boot. He had been sitting in this position for roughly six hours, the Dwarves milling about the hall minded themselves with maintenance, and the four Paladins stood vigil over his deliberations were as implacable as he looked, and just as likely as uncomfortable, at least he got to sit down; as he began to thank Torag once more his reverie was cut down a shrill voice: “… in conclusion, it’s simply unconscionable that we should execute every enemy we come across! How are we to bring beauty back to this world if we so casually depopulate it?!”
Ser Julyan - “The Handsome” no less - an Adherent of Shelyn, lately of Taldor, before his distinguished service during the siege of Citadel Drezen, something of a deft blade if Bryndr recal- “FURTHERMORE! My sworn oath! And I quote! “Where my blade passes, a life is cut short and-“
Most of the day-to-day administration and logistics of Citadel Drezen and the surrounding town were compartmentalized, Paladins take to rules fairly well, mostly, and Dwarves by nature are orderly folk; his people kept the wheels turning smoothly, but sometimes a wheel squeaked so loudly and so often that the noise would work its way up the chain until there were no links left, and so here Bryndr sat, listening to an otherwise capable warrior whine about the fact that Truddyg had relieved a surrendering cultist of the back of his skull with the hooked back of a warhammer; what was next? “Horgus and Carbo, again. Even if they aren’t on the docket…” he thought bitterly, beginning to drift out of focus before he realized the Paladin standing before him was still talking despite no clear indication of any inward breath, it was a miracle of Shelyn’s own design, Bryndr was sure.
His left hand raised a command to halt as he interrupted the man, “Julyan, enough. If you can provide us with an even remotely compelling reason to spare an enemy agent the sword or rope, anything at all, even the uncertain hope that they may provide us with a tactical advantage or kernel of strategic knowledge, bring it to our attention immediately. Otherwise, the order stands. Understand me: ‘No Quarter’ is not a suggestion; despite your well-intentioned and assuredly heartfelt rhetoric, this will in no way become open to negotiation. Once the threat is subdued, the orders will be revised, not a moment before.” - “… but… “ – “Julyan, this is the third time we have spoken on the matter. It is also the last. We will not address this again, am I understood?” - a long moment of silence followed before a muffled “Yes.” emerged from beneath Julyan’s pencil-thin mustache.
“Go.” And Julyan went. Bryndr sighed heavily once the man had cleared the hall’s double doors and huffed past the narrow, shaded hall where a long queue was piling up; a thought raced around through his mind – he hadn’t interacted with his half-brother much since the Dwarves arrival, not out of spite, more habit if he was honest with himself, but with the work being done he had precious little time for niceties between the firstborn bastard and the younger heir; that would change going forward, Thorgrim heard the call and came without hesitation, he was owed recognition and thanks, a position or title to exceed “Priest” or “Stonemason” - looking to the paladin on his right, he spoke his orders: “No more petitioners today. Bring me Throgrim Anselme, as soon as possible. I want the items Gundr and I have set aside brought even sooner.”
A little under an hour later, he and his men had loosened their armor’s straps and stretched, he retook his position and waited, Throgrim’s arrival was heralded by the banging of hammers against chisels, and what Bryndr hoped was not an explosion from the newly established Wizard’s tower, in strode an older version of Bryndr the Younger, and a younger version of Bryndr the Elder, the familial resemblance was uncanny - “Scion. How may I serve?” Bryndr hated that title, and Thorgrim knew it.
Clicking his tongue and smiling, Bryndr Bryndrsson motioned to the Ironwood Chest at the foot of his throne-prison - “Dangerous question, Anselme…” he felt the score even as Thorgrim’s jaw visibly clenched and loosened as quickly “… but a good question, nonetheless. You may continue to serve as a mason, a worthy contribution to our cause, to be sure, but I had another role in mind for you, you still remember Uncle Bronn’s lessons on statecraft, Torag’s Ways, and civic management, don’t you?”
“Aye, that I do.” Thorgrim rumbled, taking in the container with a raised eyebrow.
“Good…” Bryndr stood, half-kicked open the chest and turned it around, revealing a king’s ransom in arms, armor, and enchantment, before Throgrim could comment, he continued: “… then I would do you the greatest wrong and most grievous harm I have ever done a blood relative: You may serve, Anselme, as Castellan of the Citadel, and Seneschal of Drezen, to arbitrate in my stead, to uphold the Law of this bastion, and see to its administration, maintenance, and protection of its people. And you may take the office immediately, should you choose to.”
Silence fell over the hall as the various comers and goers ogled the mithril and steel trove, it was broken by Thorgrim’s even tone “The protection of the people of the Citadel? All of them? Even Horgus Gwerm?” – “Yes. Even Gwerm.” – “I protest that particular point.” – “Noted, protest if you must, but you will keep that man safe, even from himself – if he wasn’t standing between the Knucklebreak Clan’s new Mill and the Stoutbrew’s new Feast Hall – it would be me mediating their grain dispute; for that alone, he’s valuable.”
Thorgrim chewed the end of his beard for a long while, his eyes wandering from his younger kin, the chest between them, the grim remains of the Woundwyrm, still perplexed as it was in its final moments.
“I may take office immediately?” he finally asked.
“On one condition…”
Some ten minutes later garbed in his new raiment, Thorgrim stood before Bryndr Bryndrsson, adjusted the laurel wrath on his head for a final time, and looked his half-brother directly in the eyes, and speaking with a clarion voice that echoed the hall, he said “Bryndr, Lord of Drezen, I accept your offer; I take up the burden and privilege of the administration of this Citadel and the protection of all good folk who inhabit it. You are relieved until such a time as you choose to return to your seat.” Bryndr stood slowly, walked down the handful of steps, and stood aside, allowing Thorgrim to ascend and take his seat.
Settling in, Thorgrim took stock of his guards, the work going on about him, and finally, Bryndr. With a wave of his hand, Thorgrim spoke the first order of his new command: ‘Go.” And Bryndr went.
