Chronicles of Hedda Bardinsdottir - A Tale of Treasures

Lohner may not be any closer (so he says) to finding Hedda Bardinsdottir, but his search has turned up pages from her journal.

From the Rhunikron of Hedda Bardinsdottir

It took over half a day to fabricate and replace the damaged rudder of the Grungni’s Whisper. If I had a beard I’d a pulled it out, so great was me rage. Once more the Git got away, and this time the imp dared to mock me, waving the very treasures I’ve sworn to get back.

The first of these is the oathcup of Karak Azgaraz. How it came to be stolen and in possession of Count Noctilus I don’t know, but he was known to have many artifacts plundered from the Dawi holds of the Grey Mountains, includin’ the skakgal that sent me on my seawards quest. When we defeated the vampire fleet both items must have fallen into the hands of that cursed Grobi, Gangplank Git.

It was none other than King Thuringar that asked me to recover his hold’s oathhorn, and t’would not be proper to refuse a King, but even more so, I could’na refuse him as a friend, for it is how I think of him, rememberin’ his past kindness to both me and me Da.

Yet even more important to me n’ mine is what Cousin Okri refers to as ‘the Ancestral Eye’. This dates back to the Time of Woes, when my distant forefathers were forced to flee Mount Silverspear, it was then that my ancestor Orrek of the Copperhelms, a stonemason by trade, took a grobi arrow in the eye. In a rough camp between battles he fashioned a round river pebble into a replacement eye using only the tools he carried on his back. Later, when the refugees found more permanent homes amongst the Grey Mountains, Orrek added more detail to the orb, including a thin band of gold inscribed with many runes. They spoke of losses, of glories left behind, and of vengeance.

‘Tis true, I hew me own path, and like to throw a spanner in the patriarchal works now and again. I admit I’m considered a hazkal – a fiery warrior not always wont to listen proper to her elders, but all the same – me Ma, Grelda, and me Da, Bardin – raised me proper. Any that say otherwise will meet my axe. They taught me that respect for one’s ancestors is paramount, and I can list out my kith and kin, their clans and holds, their accomplishments and their grudges, dating back thousands of years. Just like all my people back to our beginnings, I can tell you who inherited Orrek’s eye – for it came to be an heirloom of our clan – a reminder of what was taken from us, coming to stand for far more than a single eye, or a single mountain hold.

The worth of this Ancestral Eye would measure but little in the markets of men, but, despite rumours of goldlust and unremitting greed, such treasures are not what truly holds the hearts of Dawi. It is perfectly sized sphere, shaped under harsh conditions by a craftsman turned warrior at need. It is a chain carried by each ancestor in turn, links unbroken by millennia to a once glorious past. Bardin and Grelda would weep to hold it once more, a connection to our ancestors, and our hardships, and the burden of vengeance we all carry.

Since the times that brought down the Golden Age of our folk, that humble false eye has been ours, and when I take it from the severed stump of that grobi’s hand it will be again. So swear I, Hedda Bardinsdottir. Be assured of that.

The sound of our engine thrums. We are only a half day behind...