Mount Angradd

Mount Angradd rises from Abellio’s perfectly parceled plains like a command given shape, a flawless cone of iron-veined stone whose peak sits forever inside a crown of storm. Travelers reach it along roads that keep time with the Measure-bells of Arcadia, through trellis-portals of white ivory or black steel that bloom open on the hour, or by way of Mandible’s orderly markets, where formian clerks stamp passes, tally manifests, and point caravans toward the mountain with clockwork courtesy. Day and night come without twilight here: the Orb of Day and Night flips the world from noon to full dark in a heartbeat, and veteran companies drill for that instant, marching by cadence in day, shifting to lamp and shield at the flip. Even the orchards of Abellio nod to the war-god: potion-sweet fruit for the wounded, bread-grain for the rank and file, copper-barked trees that never shed a leaf out of place.  

The Mountain City

Within the cone lies a city carved with dwarven exactness, its straight halls bending only to follow the mountain’s curve, its light-wells punched up through stone so forges may breathe. Nine great districts knit the realm into a single war-machine.   Forge-Crown sits highest, a ring of foundry-citadels whose chimneys write strategy in smoke; below it the Banner-Spiral winds past drilling courts, musters, and parade galleries whose polished floors hold a thousand mirrored boots.   Stoneheart Ward keeps the wounded and the weary alive under Berronar’s sigil-light, its infirmaries pulsing like a second heart, while the Ember-Vaults warehouse blessed steel, shield-tiles, and siege plates in aisles so neat an archon might salute them. In the Oath-Galleries, vows are cut into granite and copied thrice, one for the signer, one for the hall, one for Mandible’s ledgers, so no pledge can slip the law. The Collegium of Tactics steps campaigns through sand-tables that shift with the Orb’s flip;   Bellfast Market supplies a host without haggling;
Pilgrims’ Halls lodge allied companies under guest-banners; and at the foundation, the Ash Market swallows the realm’s rough edges, where mercenary contracts, hard bargains, and watchful eyes that make certain tempers never turn to murder.  

Inhbaitants

Every soul in Angradd’s shadow trains for battle. The Alaghor, forge by day and drill by night, preaching that steel without discipline is just noise. Einheriar petitioners march beside the living and, if they fall outside the mountain, their essence does not gutter out but returns to Abellio’s fires to be re-forged. The Bright Lady of Strategy, first among Angradd’s archons, holds the muster in the god’s absence and can turn a rout into a hymn. Azer hammer blessings into axe-beards and plate seams; Moradin’s forge-priests cross the portal from Berronar’s Side to certify sacred temper; and Berronar’s Faenor keep the books of kin, the beds of the wounded, and the steadying songs that keep steel from turning savage.  

Access from Nidavelir

There is another way to Mount Angradd: Root-Ascents spiral up from Nidavelir’s glowmoss caverns, and Ember-Wells venting Muspelheim’s heat bring smoke-lifts that deposit pilgrims at a lower gate the dwarves call the Redoubt Under-Hammer. Here the sky is a roof of basalt ribs, the light is forge-amber, and the air tastes faintly of iron seas. The nine districts exist in rougher mirror, more guard on the drill courts, more watch at the ash-chutes, more duergar scouts testing the doors and yet custom holds: Guest-Right by Salt & Iron, Bell-Toll Judgment, Mark-Oath engraved where all can hear the ring. From this under-face the Redoubt wages closer wars against duergar phalanxes, goblin sappers, and giantish forays probing the Root-Roads; the same banners hang above both faces of the mountain, and the same roll of the fallen is read on Everguard night.

At dawn, the mountain thrums with the Trial by Fury: obstacle runs and shield-lines, mock sieges under scalding steam, and the long silence where a novice must stand alone in the storm-wind until fear loosens its hand. The Oath of Vigilance is sworn with a palm on warm iron, kin first, hearth first, never glory before duty and banners are kissed to the anvil so their colors carry truth. On the longest night the beacons of Everguard burn from ridge to ridge, a red chain across Abellio; on Shieldmeet the halls dim, and the roll of the fallen is read until the last name sits easy on the tongue; on Hammerfast the forges roar, enemy steel is melted, and new blades are quenched in water laced with tears and wine.   The Drum of Angradd beats faintly through the stone, a cadence that sets shoulders square and steadies hands—within the mountain, courage takes root as naturally as breath. The Heart-Anvil sings when a weapon will not hold its truth and falls silent only when oath and steel agree. The Banner-Fire at the mid-spire consumes captured standards in sparks that rise and drift, some say each spark marks a soul who will never again kneel to tyranny. In the Oath-Galleries, the Measure-Stone shifts from warm to cold on the skin depending on whether a contract is held or bent, and the Ninefold Hammers, colossal reliefs above each district gate, ring once when a great deed worthy of record is done.   Forging or blessing an item in the Ember-Vaults can inscribe it with an Oath Rune, granting a one-time boon of courage or protection