Thondain Bokreran
mD monk (physical exemplar) 1/slayer 1 N
hgt: 5’2 wgt: 200 lbs
eyes: grey
hair: brown
age: 125
Appearance:
Where once he was found smiling as often as not, now Thondain's face is impassive. One has the impression that he is paying the requisite amount of attention to be polite to those speaking to him, while forever listening for something no one else can hear. His face is ravaged by the tortures he has endured, and his implacable gaze is eerily hollow.
Thondain
Background:
Do not stare too long into the abyss, for the abyss stares also into you.
The training to become Nalbrin is both grueling, and a great honor. It means you have shown the mental fortitude and physical prowess necessary to become one of the pillars that keeps the mountain from crashing down on your people.
Do not. Do not stare.
The Brokal rely on the Nalbrin for their very existence; without the favored few, the dwarves of the Iron Mountain would have been wiped from existence long ago. In a time when pride, honor and tradition meant more than life itself. Or is that now? It is hard to remember, sometimes.
Do not stare too long.
Memory is important. Memory is where the heart of dwarfdom resides. Whatever they take from me, they will not take that. To be Nalbrin is to protect the heart of all dwarves. To never speak, no matter the agony.
Do not stare too long into the abyss.
Thondain raised his head, looked at his captors with hollow eyes. They had left him for now, tired of their games and frustrated in their purpose. He had told them nothing, given them nothing but cries of pain. As he had expected, once they had "broken" him, they had gone off to squabble over their wagers, leaving him all but unattended. That was their mistake. It was stupid to take your eyes off a captured Nalbrin, but then, orcs were not known for their brains. No doubt they had expected their shackles to hold him, but now blood and sweat slicked his wrists, hunger had eaten away the muscle that might have held him, and he had a few tricks of his own.
All he needed was the bent blade they had left in his shoulder. Only that, and time.
***
He returned to an outpost rather than his home itself, wary of inadvertently leading the orcs into the Iron Mountain fastness with a trail of blood. Not all of it was his; there was some satisfaction in that, he thought. He had to think it, for it was hard to feel. Hard to feel anger for what had been done to him in the orc encampment. Hard to feel joy at seeing his companions again when they came, exclaiming and welcoming him. Hard even to remember the pride he had felt in being Nalbrin.
He had told them nothing, but it had come at a cost; they had broken something in him. Not his will. Something deeper. He would kill them, of course. It was expected, and it was necessary. But he felt no hate. He had seen too much for hate, waited too long. Been too deep in the pit of the orc's lair. Only ashes remained of the hate he had felt.
Do not stare too long into the abyss, for the abyss stares also into you.
Now there was work to be done.
Languages:
Common, Dwarf, Orc
