The Mountain Clans

Living quietly atop the highest peaks of Nevendaar, the Mountain Clans had always kept to themselves. Not out of malice or ill-will. It was simply their nature not to meddle in the affairs of men. But with the discovery of new iron mines south of Timoric, the production of Dwarven crafts drastically increased. Supply must meet demand, and the lowland people demanded the quality of iron goods that only the Dwarves could produce. And the pride of the Dwarves would not allow the world to be deprived of their magnificent craftsmanship.

And then Memnor, that oldest and wisest of Dwarves, had a dream that boded ill for all of the Mountain Clans. The word went out, carried along the cold thin air of the Dwarven heights, that Memnor himself would announce his prophecy from the summit of the Griffin Heights.

The mines stopped production, and the loud clanging of hammer and anvil was replaced by the weak but commanding voice of Memnor. Pale and trembling, his voice traveled easily over the cold thin mountain air. He spoke of the Ragnarok: the great destruction. The end of the world was coming, said Memnor. These words, so calmly spoken, would have created a frenzy of laughter among the skeptical Dwarves had any but Memnor uttered them. But there was only dreadful hush. Even the icy winds – those gusts that strike pride in the hearts of Dwarves – fell silent.

The salvation of the Mountain Clans resided in the knowledge of the runes, said Memnor. But all knew that the knowledge of the runes had been long-forgotten, and the scholars who might interpret them lay buried in their icy tombs…

From the abode of the dead they came forth – nameless, faceless, merciless horrors. Hastily assembled bands of heroes ventured into Hela’s forsaken realm in search of the Runes of Wisdom. What they encountered there no mortal can say; but what they discovered upon their return has already been carved in stone that future generations will never forget. The shambling corpse-men of the fleshless goddess Mortis had marched upon the Dwarven heights. Their once proud kingdom now lay barren and scorched before their sullen eyes.

Valkyries saddled on their winged steeds descended from Wotan’s domain in search of the fallen. This was the Wolf-Age, for in these dire times gods were created and heroes were made; and the carrion wolves fed upon the weak. The King himself was slain, and with him many of his most courageous warriors.

Despairing but not defeated, the Mountain Clans moved deep into the underground city of Svatalfaheim. Here, it is said, they patiently wait for their fallen warriors to return.