(epiloge) This is the start of a collection of short stories to fleash out my favorite character Surgemender. If you’re interested in RP you can find surgemender on emerald dream part of the everlasting all dwarf Guild Clan Battlehammer.
The Awaking of Surgmender
For the Storm Does Not Ask. It does not plead. It arrives, and it endures
Stones and Ghosts Thalrik Stormbrew’s hammers bit deep into the rock. Not boulders—stones. Big enough to test sinew, not too big to shatter. The twin heads of Stormfather and Ashmaw struck in rhythm, one after the other: a steady beat in the frost-bitten morning below Aerie Peak. Stormfather was broad and cold-forged, etched with runes long faded. The lightning motifs once meant something, but now the grooves were dull and lifeless. Ashmaw bore a crueler weight, its surface blackened and cracked like slag. A hint of red traced its edges, as though some fire still whispered inside—but no flame ever answered his swing. They had been his father’s. Stonethane Borgrim Stormbrew, who fell during the doomed attempt to reclaim Grim Batol from the Black Dragonflight. Thalrik had been a whelp barely old enough to hold a training axe when the hammers were recovered from the ash and grief. What twists of fate had brought them back to him was a tale for another time—but they had not sung in battle since Borgrim’s death. Not until today. As Thalrik trained, his thoughts wandered. Trolls again, defiling the woods. Rot-tusked bastards slinking down from the ruins of Zul’Mashar like lice through a frostwolf’s fur. They’d been probing the edge of the forest—just far enough from the gryphon paths to go unnoticed by highfliers. But Thalrik had smelled it. He always did. Like blood on the wind. He spat. “Filthy shadow-lickin’ weedchewers. I’ll grind yer tusks into powder.” The hairs on his neck stood up. Not from anger. From silence. Unnatural. Too still. Then came steel.
Ambush in the Pines Pain lanced across Thalrik’s shoulder. A poisoned blade—thin and fast. A laugh echoed, slithering between trees. “Rogues,” Thalrik growled. “Cowards with knives.” He twisted, barely catching the shadowed form before it vanished again. His hammer struck air. A roar followed—louder than a bear’s—then the crashing of underbrush. A troll warrior charged in, wild-eyed, tusks painted with blood and bone. A jagged runeblade arced downward. Thalrik raised Stormfather to meet it. Sparks erupted, knees buckled, but he held. “Yeh want me alive? Come and earn it!” Magic prickled at his spine. A third troll stepped from the tree line—eyes aglow, a mage cloaked in fel-marked bones. Fire bloomed between his fingers. Thalrik cursed. “Three? Oh, ancestors bless it all…” He turned and ran. Not from fear. From strategy. He’d seen the narrow maw of a cave earlier that morning while scouting. Small. Tight. Enough to even the odds. Let them funnel in. Let them feel what it meant to face a Stormbrew in the dark.
The Cave Gambit The wind screamed through the trees as Thalrik dashed toward the rocks. Fire scorched the bark behind him. The rogue’s blade nicked his side. The warrior howled his name. But the cave—gods, the cave—was just ahead. He dove in, hammers out. Darkness. He turned—waited. The rogue came first, silent as breath. But Thalrik was breath. And blood. And stone. Stormfather met ribs. A thunderless crack. Bone gave. The troll’s cry died on the wall. The warrior followed, screaming. His blade came down. Thalrik caught it on Ashmaw—and the metal shrieked. A flash. Etchings on the hammer glowed. Runes appeared—new ones. As if fire licked into the steel, carving its mark. The troll recoiled, snarling. Thalrik pressed in, smashing the troll’s knee. He dropped with a howl. Magic filled the cave. The mage. A firebolt roared forward. Thalrik crossed his hammers to block— —but lightning erupted from Stormfather. The etchings, once cold, now blazed with living storm. Lightning traced the lines, pulsing from the haft to the head. The fire spell shattered against the energy field. Thalrik staggered, wide-eyed. “By the Stones…” The hammers were awake. He charged. Stormfather crashed into the mage’s staff—it split in two. Ashmaw—burning now with inner fire—slammed into the troll’s chest. A burst of flame burst from the impact point, searing the air. The mage flew backward, limp. The warrior crawled, bleeding, trying to rise. Thalrik’s voice thundered. “Yer fight’s done, tusker.” He raised both hammers. Lightning and fire fell in tandem. Silence.
Name of the Mountain Then the cave trembled. Not from battle. From presence. A shape emerged from the stone. Broad as a house, with a face like carved granite and eyes like molten silver. The elemental radiated age—not years, but mountains. It did not speak aloud. But Thalrik heard it. Felt it in the marrow. “You stood. You endured. You did not beg, nor falter. You are heard, Thalrik Stormbrew.” The hammers pulsed in his hands. Fire and lightning danced between them. “You bear storm and flame. You shall be called Surgemender. The elements will answer your call—so long as you honor the balance.” Thalrik dropped to one knee. Not in submission. In awe. When he rose, the elemental was gone. The cave was quiet. But the hammers… They hummed. And the storm had found its voice.