The rhythmic clink-clink-clink of the crude pickaxe became the heartbeat of the mountain. Eric worked with the tireless precision of a machine, his Berserker strength turning what would be weeks of labor for a normal man into a single afternoon's toil.
The veins here were generous. He hauled up baskets overflowing with Iron and Copper ores, their raw metallic scents filling the humid air of the tunnels. Beside them, he piled mounds of Stone for his masonry, grey Clay for his forge, and jagged chunks of Coal to feed the fires. He even chipped away at a crystalline shelf to find Rock Salt—a scholar's treasure that would keep his meat from rotting and his meals from tasting of ash.
But it was deeper in the dark, where the air grew thin and cold, that he found the true prize. Embedded in a wall of quartz were Large Turquoise Crystals, glowing with a faint, inner pulse. Eric ran a calloused finger over their facets. To a miner, they were gems; to a scholar of Niffelheim, they were the batteries of the soul, the core of Magic Essence. He carefully pried them loose and stored them in his heavy wooden chests. They were for the future; for now, he needed to eat.
Emerging from the gloom of the mines, Eric set to work on his Kitchen. He lashed together timber and twigs to create a workspace adjacent to his throne room, venting the smoke through a natural fissure in the cavern ceiling. He built a sturdy Cooking Stove from stone and clay, the hearth glowing with the coal he had just harvested.
The hunt was next. Eric stepped out into the crisp mountain air, his Mind's Eye scanning the forest floor. He gathered a bounty of the land: earthy Porcini mushrooms, wild Beans, Dry Seeds, and the hardy roots of Turnips and Carrots. He plucked sprigs of Rosemary, the scent sharp and clean against the smell of pine.
Then, he heard the frantic rustle of undergrowth. A sound he knew well.
A sound of Wild Pigs.
Eric didn't run; he became the shadow. He notched a Crude Arrow, his breathing slowing until it matched the sway of the trees. Twang. The arrow found its mark, followed quickly by a second. He shouldered the carcasses, his hunt successful.
Back in his haven, the kitchen came alive. The air filled with the symphony of a feast: the sizzle of Grilled Mushrooms, the thick aroma of Mashed Beans, and the steam of Boiled Turnips. But the centerpiece was the Pork Roast, crackling over the stove and seasoned heavily with the fresh Rock Salt and rosemary.
Sitting upon his wooden throne with a wooden bowl in hand, Eric ate. The salt brought out the richness of the meat, a luxury he hadn't expected so soon in this alien world. He was a warrior, a scholar, and now, a provider.
"A full stomach is the first law of a nation," he rumbled, looking toward the dark passage of the mines.
******
The remnants of the feast were still warm when Eric turned his attention to preservation. A scholar knows that a nation is only as strong as its pantry. He took a heavy wooden storage box and, with a steady hand, carved the Freshness Runes—the Isa-Laguz weave—into its inner lid. As the sigils took hold, a faint, wintry frost climbed the grain of the wood. He placed the remaining pork, the turnips, and the rosemary inside, knowing the magic would hold the rot at bay. With a warrior's discipline, he climbed into his furs and surrendered to a dreamless sleep.
Morning in the Dragon Mountains arrived with a pale, biting sun. Eric rose with the first light, his mind already sketching the schematics of industry. His crude tools were already beginning to dull, the soft wood and pitted stone showing the strain of his labor. He needed metal.
He spent the early hours hauling timber from the surface and stone from the deep veins of his mine. At the mouth of his cavern, he constructed a Forge. It was a massive, soot-stained beast of clay and rock, centered around a high-heat Melting Furnace that roared as he fed it coal.
"Now," Eric rumbled, looking at his bare arms, "I need the padding for the plate."
He set out with his bow, a shadow moving through the frost. He wasn't just hunting for meat this time; he was hunting for the components of war. He stalked the ridgelines and the thickets, his arrows finding their marks with grim efficiency. By midday, he had gathered a heavy haul: the soft Wool of wild sheep, the supple Rabbit Hides for lining, and the thick, grey Wolf Hides for reinforcement. He also harvested Fangs for trophies and a fresh supply of Rabbit and Lamb meat.
Returning to the heat of the furnace, the work of the scholar-blacksmith began. Eric smelted his copper ore into gleaming Copper Ingots, the molten metal glowing like a trapped sunset.
With the rhythmic clang of his hammer echoing through the halls, he fashioned his first true suit of armor. He layered the copper over rabbit-hide padding and wool lining to prevent chafing, forging a full set: Copper Pauldrons, Faulds, Boots, Bracers, a Breastplate, a Helmet, and a Belt. For defense, he bound wooden boards with wolf hide and capped them with a copper rim to create a sturdy Copper Shield.
He looked at his weaponry next. He took his wooden club and reinforced it with copper bands and etched Strength Runes into the wood, transforming it into a Shepherd's Club. From a branch of resilient yew he had harvested, he crafted a Yew Bow, though his quiver remained filled with Crude Arrows—the simple, reliable sting of his mountain home.
Eric stood before his copper-polished reflection, a warrior reborn in metal and fur. He was no longer a castaway; he was a lord of the deep.