The Shadowspire Compass
‘The Light of the Nine Realms’ Introduces Elysia Vren, Ur-Captain of the Shadowspire
Chapter Two of ‘Barnabas Grymm: The Merchant of Jotenheim’
Elysia Vren, called Stormhand by the crew, stood in the helm’s cabin sheltered from the biting wind. She opened a locked box, revealing an ornate and complex mechanism, which she carefully set into a dedicated space at the center of the bridge. To most, it appeared to be a finely crafted compass, the work of the talented navigator-smiths of Svartálfheim. Only a skilled mage would recognize it for what it truly was: the more sophisticated—and possibly illegal—technology of Asgard, a Shadowspire Compass.
From a locket around her neck, she removed a gem and slotted it into the device. The compass hummed to life, its mechanisms glowing with blue light. The projection revealed local weather patterns, wind currents, and, in the distance, the direction of the Shadowspire Nexus. It confirmed what she already suspected: a storm was brewing, one that would chase them all the way to their destination.
The ache in her metallic left hand, a construct gifted by the dwarven smith Brinni of Farsin, confirmed the compass’s prediction of a powerful storm. She flexed her fingers, the intricate mechanism of glass, steel, and unknown dwarvish alloys responding smoothly. The hand had been a gift born of Brinni’s desperation. Drunken and destitute after losing a wager he couldn’t pay, the smith had promised her a new hand—a masterwork that would warn her of storms if she learned to listen.
A fine piece of craftsmanship, it allowed her to return to ship repairs instead of delegating them, though it had taken years to master. Over a decade passed before she could feel the weather through it, but now the construct was as much a part of her as flesh and bone. With it, she could read the skies in any of the Nine Realms as if she were native to them.
The compass confirmed both the weather front and the rising storm aligned with their course toward the Shadowspire Nexus. Satisfied, Vren removed the crystal, silencing the device. She knew the compass could not be used for long without drawing unwanted attention. Returning the gem to her locket, the mechanism now appeared to be nothing more than a finely crafted tool, indistinguishable from any other.
If the ship could maintain its speed, they’d reach the Tower of the Goddess in ten days—enough time to petition for safe passage into Jotunheim before the ice choked the rootway completely. Without the goddess’s blessing, they’d have no choice but to run the gauntlet of her sentinels—a far riskier proposition, leaving the Shadowspire vulnerable before the crossing. Should the weather turn against them, Vren would have to earn her moniker all over again.
The dangers were many. Winter in Jotunheim brought ice floes, rogue icebergs, and opportunistic raiders lurking in the fog. The Jotunn feared neither the cold nor time. Their patience was their deadliest weapon; they would wait until the crossing closed, when desperate ships had no choice but to navigate treacherous waters.
Vren closed her logbook with a satisfying snap, tucking it beneath her arm. Moving from the forward cabin to the main deck, she cast a sharp eye over the crew. Every corner of the Shadowspire was a reflection of her work, and she inspected it as if it were her own flesh and blood. She oversaw stores being lashed in the hold, sails tightened against the brisk winds, and lines looped with practiced precision. By the time she returned to the deck, the crew was moving as one, the seasoned hands quickly silencing the green sailors’ chatter.
Satisfied, she gave the signal. With a groan of timbers and the snap of canvas, the Shadowspire eased from port, riding the evening tide alongside other ships taking advantage of the strong winds and friendly currents. From time to time, the crew pointed at familiar landmarks, silent farewells marking their return in the spring.
Grymm had not been seen since the Shadowspire departed port. He and the mercenaries he had hired disappeared into his quarters for hours before they left, emerging only long enough to stow their gear and assist in getting the ship underway. While the mercenaries worked without complaint, the captain remained behind his closed door, his absence a shadow of its own, a silent specter that lingered unspoken among the crew.
The old hands didn’t mind. Grymm would make himself known when it mattered, and there was too much to do in the meantime. The winds were strong, and the evening tide high—perfect conditions to leave port alongside other ships riding the same current. From time to time, as they carried stores below, the crew pointed out familiar landmarks, silently marking them for their return in the spring.
The mercenaries, however, drew more attention than the captain’s absence. Despite their strange accents and colorful garb, their scars and steady hands marked them as seasoned. They fell in with the crew with a minimum of fuss, their efficiency quickly silencing the green sailors’ gossip. Two of them bore the look of Jotunheim—a restless, feline wariness that seemed ready to pounce. Still, their demeanor softened when they spoke, their laughter carrying over the deck in short, warm bursts.
Only Lady Lyra Synn remained absent, her cabin door sealed tight. None spoke ill of it. Her work would be arduous enough soon, and all aboard knew their lives would hang on her readiness. From within, faint flickers of blue light danced beneath her door, like veins of distant lightning.
The grey seas along the coast of Svartálfheim lashed against the Shadowspire’s blackened hull, their spray mingling with the cinders of Elvish forges and the acrid tang of Dwarfish industry. For those returning, it was a grim perfume of home—familiar, biting, and inescapable.
For those sailing away, however, the ocean’s transformation was ominous. The waves, once vibrant and cerulean, darkened to an inky black as they deepened, carrying the ship far from the conceits of humanity and its kin. Here, in these primeval waters, the world shed its fragile artifice and returned to its divine, untamed form. The distant cries of uncatalogued fiends echoed across the waves, their songs both warning and promise, whispering truths better left unknown.
The crew moved with practiced efficiency, stowing stock and supplies before the ship reached deeper waters, where the swells would turn any loose cargo into dangerous projectiles. Most were seasoned sailors, their movements as precise as the gears of a well-oiled machine. Under the watchful eyes of the quartermasters, crates were lashed, barrels secured, and every coil of rope stowed with purpose. Though the work took hours, it was accomplished without fanfare.
From the galley, the rich scent of roasting meat wafted through the ship—a savory promise to keep spirits high. The first meal underway was tradition: a celebration of returning to the sea and a hopeful offering for an uneventful journey to distant shores. There were bound to be stories as well; the crew would introduce themselves, tales as currency—a means of bonding and understanding one another, uniting them under one purpose and one banner, in the service of Barnabus Grymm, the Merchant of Jotunheim.
Above, the wind-filled canvas snapped with sharp reports, but below decks, the sailors worked in near silence. Handsigns flashed between them in the cool glow of mage lights—blue orbs suspended in midair, their illumination casting eerie shadows across the hold. Each step pressed the ship further into the unknown, and the sea’s ominous depths whispered secrets that strained against the timbers.
Elysia Vren’s voice cut through the creak of timber and the crash of waves, sharp and commanding as she oversaw the quartermaster’s inventory. Praise and rebuke came in equal measure, her words firm but fair. None complained. Her eye for the ship’s workings was born of years at sea, and her commands carried the same weight as Captain Grymm’s own.
Emerging onto the main deck, Vren spotted him at the prow. Grymm stood motionless, watching Svartálfheim’s lights burn on the horizon. Hours had passed since they’d left the shore, yet its glow lingered against the growing darkness.
“Nostalgic already, Captain?” she called, her tone dry as she approached. Relieved to see him above decks, she studied him for any hint of what their latest mercantile adventure might hold.
Grymm didn’t turn immediately. His gaze lingered on the fading lights before he replied. “Not really. I’ll have time to miss it—this window to Jotunheim won’t open again for months.” He shifted slightly, his hands gripping the rail. “It’s been years since we wintered there. Are you ready for it?”
Vren considered the state of their supplies. “Yes, Captain. I thought we might stay awhile, so I stocked winter gear for both ship and shore. I also hired new fishermen familiar with Jotunheim’s waters for our catch duties.” She studied him, searching for something behind his words, but his face remained unreadable. “You haven’t spoken to the crew yet. Will you? Or is this going to be one of those trips where I do the real work while you hide in the cabin?”
At that, Grymm turned to her, a flicker of humor breaking through his usual gloom. “No, I’ll pull my weight this time. Early winter means iceberg season, and I’ll need every hand sharp.” His voice hardened slightly, though the faintest smile lingered. “We’ll talk after the feast. I want drills until the crew can spin this ship on a gold coin and get spare change.”
Vren smirked, her no-nonsense demeanor softening. “Good. I was worried you might be going soft.”
Grymm didn’t answer, turning back to the horizon. The lights of Svartálfheim had vanished, swallowed by the night. Ahead lay only the uncharted black.
VISITING THE NINE REALMS: SVARTALFHEIM
Mythic Adventure Series: The Light of the Nine Realms by Thaddeus Howze
A Brief Tour of Svartalfheim, Realm of Craftsmanship and Shadows
The next stop in our journey through the Nine Realms takes us deep into the enigmatic world of Svartalfheim, a realm renowned for its unparalleled craftsmanship and veiled mysteries. In Norse mythology, this is the home of the Dwarves, creators of Mjölnir, Gungnir, and countless treasures that shaped the fates of gods and mortals alike.
For Light of the Nine Realms, Svartalfheim is more than the forge of legend. It is a realm of intricate politics, ruthless ambition, and clandestine machinations. Beneath its jagged mountains and glowing forges lies a world of brilliance and danger, where creation and secrecy are inseparable.
Svartalfheim: Realm of Craftsmanship and Shadows
Essence of the Realm
Svartalfheim thrives on duality—a place where light meets shadow, and creation arises from secrecy. The Dwarves and Dark Elves who inhabit this realm embody these contrasts, their lives dedicated to forging, weaving, and shaping the forces of the Nine Realms while guarding their secrets with unyielding vigilance.
The Landscape of Svartalfheim
Terrain: A realm of stark contrasts, with barren, rocky expanses above ground and sprawling labyrinths of tunnels, mines, and cavernous cities below. The underground is illuminated by the soft glow of enchanted gemstones, molten rivers, and rune-etched forges.
Climate: The surface is harsh and desolate, often shrouded in clouds of ash. Below, the air is warm and heavy, charged with the hum of magic and the heat of endless industry.
Settlements: The subterranean cities of Svartalfheim are architectural marvels, blending function and beauty. Towering spires of obsidian and basalt rise alongside glowing forges, while enormous vaults house the treasures of the realm.
The People of Svartalfheim
The Emperor: The ruler of Svartalfheim is a shadowed figure whose power is unquestioned yet rarely seen. Legends claim the Emperor wields an artifact of unmatched might, forged in the Eternal Forges, granting them near-absolute control over the realm.
The 12 Great Houses:
Svartalfheim’s political and social structure revolves around the 12 Great Houses, each representing a unique craft or magic. These houses govern the realm’s resources, forging alliances, and feuding over influence in the Emperor’s court. Some examples include:House Brimstone: Masters of fire-forging, specializing in weapons of destruction.
House Veilspire: The Dark Elves’ premier shadow mages and spies.
House Deepdelve: Dwarven miners whose riches fund the realm’s economy.
House Frosthearth: Experts in frost-enchanted creations, bridging Svartalfheim and Niflheim energies.
Lord Kaelith and the Shadow Council:
Known as the “Shadow Architect,” Lord Kaelith is a Dark Elf whose secretive organization, the Shadow Council, operates behind the scenes, ensuring the balance of power within Svartalfheim. Some whisper that Kaelith seeks to challenge the Emperor, while others claim he is their most loyal servant.
Svartalfheim’s Unique Dynamics
The Eternal Forges
Powered by fragments of Muspelheim’s eternal flame, the forges of Svartalfheim burn ceaselessly, producing artifacts of immeasurable power. The creations forged here are coveted across the Nine Realms, yet their secrets remain fiercely guarded.
A Realm of Secrecy and Suspicion
The Great Houses vie for dominance, weaving alliances and plots with equal fervor. Trust is scarce, and betrayal is an art form. Beneath this chaos lies the steady hand of the Shadow Council, pulling strings to maintain a fragile balance—or to achieve its own hidden goals.
The Balance of Craft and Power
While the Dwarves craft weapons and artifacts of unparalleled might, the Dark Elves wield shadow magic to guard their secrets. This balance of creation and concealment defines Svartalfheim, a realm where every act of brilliance casts a long shadow.
Horenheim Forge
A Beacon of Industry, Trade, and Secrets
Deep in the heart of Svartalfheim, Horenheim Forge stands as a glittering nexus of industry, wealth, and whispered intrigue. Its sprawling forges and bustling markets draw traders and emissaries from across the Nine Realms, but it’s also a hotspot for clandestine dealings and power plays. Beneath its molten glow, alliances are forged as readily as blades, and the faintest whisper in its halls can reshape destinies.
Key Features
The Grand Foundry: A sprawling industrial complex producing weapons, artifacts, and machinery of unparalleled quality. Its furnaces burn day and night, their glow visible from miles away.
The Western Mercantile Exchange: A massive, open-air market filled with goods and treasures from across the Nine Realms. Deals struck here ripple across the fabric of commerce and diplomacy.
The Veiled Forge: Hidden below the Grand Foundry, this secretive chamber is known only to a select few. Lord Kaelith often uses it for covert meetings, ensuring his plans unfold away from prying eyes.
Points of Interest in Svartalfheim
The Black Anvil: The largest forge in the realm, where legendary artifacts like Mjölnir were born. Its flames are said to be visible for miles, fueled by the raw magic of Muspelheim.
The Obsidian Court: The seat of power for the 12 Great Houses, where political intrigue and secret bargains dictate the fate of Svartalfheim.
The Shadow Sanctum: The hidden base of the Shadow Council, deep within the darkest caverns. Protected by powerful wards, it is rumored to house forbidden knowledge and artifacts too dangerous for even the gods.
The Dangers of Svartalfheim
Deadly Wards: The realm is protected by ancient runes and traps designed to repel invaders. Those who trespass rarely survive.
Jealous Creators: Theft is a capital offense in Svartalfheim, and its inhabitants are quick to exact brutal retribution on those who attempt to steal their work.
Shadowborn Beasts: Creatures born of shadow magic lurk in the deepest caverns, deadly even to the realm’s most skilled warriors.
A Realm of Secrets and Mastery
Svartalfheim is a place where light and shadow intertwine, where ambition drives creation, and secrets hold as much power as skill. To walk its tunnels is to enter a world of unmatched brilliance and treacherous intrigue, where every artifact tells a story and every shadow hides a secret. It is not a realm for the faint of heart, but for those who dare to enter, Svartalfheim offers wonders—and dangers—beyond imagination.
