"Not to mention I'm not an Aestheric yet so you might be limiting how much I'm brought into things." Gabriel murmured, partially to himself but also partially to Krokar. Thinking aloud. He didn't sound bitter. If that's how things were that's how they were and if he was wrong same deal. This organization seemed to know what they were doing. But Gabriel wasn't one to sit on the side lines when he could help, so he had to at least try. Gabriel thought about it for a moment. Krokar had said there was nothing else to do but all the same, ”Would it be rude to ask what I can assist in, given my current position?”
"You can certainly assist in many matters, just not some of the more delicate ones. You already know far more than any non-Aestheric should, but there are plenty of matters that need attending to. There are still skirmishes going on, plenty of healing to be done, Toramin started plans for some fortifications for the city, training of willing civilians to learn how to fight."
Gabriel paused, but not to completely deny the idea. "A question if I may? It may go into a more delicate area, so I understand if it's not my place to do so. I guessed when leaving the underground complex where we slayed Targ that the Masked Healers didn't participate in healing the combatants during the fight. Did that continue after the fact?"
Tucking the scrimshaw and tiny pick away, Bjorkus enters the half-orc's command tent.
"Thanks for meetin' with me", he offers in greeting. "I got some news I think might be worth lookin' into. The tribe of desert elves outside Akropash is smugglin' slavers to safety. I hear some of 'em are as close as the caves two miles away. If you can spare some scouts I'd like some eyes and ears out there. The spy game's Heff's thing but knowin' who and what these elves are sneakin' outta town might be worthwhile."
"Really? I wasn't aware they were still daring to be in the area. You're right, this is Heff's area of expertise and I'll notify him of it. I'll keep you updated on what happens."
"if we gotta move against these elves for whatever reason, I'd appreciate a chance to talk to 'em first. Despite bein' hairless and weighing as much as one of my legs, I think we might have somethin' in common. You know, honor among thieves and all that."
"That would be me. Who do ya think is in charge of routing all these bloody bastards?" He laughs, smacking Gabriel on the back with what surely will leave a bruise. "Bjorkus actually already volunteered to help out. It's good morale for the men to see their heroes fighting alongside 'em. I have him fighting in the northern district, mostly for the fights that I think are unavoidable, so I'll send you to the eastern where most of the slavers are held up. You're a little more diplomatic, I'd prefer to avoid bloodshed if possible." He gives Gabriel a few details before sending him out.
"Though I actually think I might have to re-evaluate what I think of them. I suppose I was comparing them a little unfavorably to a friend of mine. She's a lot like them, but she never let fear keep her from healing others. Or what I thought was fear at least. She'd probably understand them better ironically."
Gabriel shrugs just a little, "Might be that someone as young as I am is 'holding people to my own rather limited experiences'. Kind of funny, they told me I'd have to work past that if... uh... Well they told me I'd have to work past that at least and it's hard to argue with that."
Gabriel winces when he feels the bruising force of the blow, but remembering something earlier, a part of him suddenly wanted to see what it was like to spar with such a strong person. Hell, maybe he could offer a few pointers as far as sword work went. Scratch that, definitely could. But he focuses on the mans words and definitely tries for the peaceful approach each time. Sometimes he took advantage of his relative strength compared to the slavers to give them multiple chances to surrender. Once before the fighting started and once after a few men were on the ground, bleeding.
And though it probably wasn't a typical thing to do, he did end up treating those he injured who survived, using magical healing in only the most dire cases to save a life. It had been the one thing the Masked Healers had requested of him when they taught him how to better heal others and it was honestly something that seemed right, when much of what was going on seemed so grey. It probably helped his image a little that during all of these fights there was a white, winged horse beside him. A mythical creature, even in these lands, that lent some credibility to the honor of his words.
He would do this for a good chunk of the day but either those ready to start trouble were drying up or they were simply readying themselves for the next day. When the last of them seemed to crop up, Gabriel would thank those he fought alongside, then move through the city to try and find another friend of his. Edward. He had mentioned the knight before to Krokar but with his mistake yesterday and the work he had to do today, Gabriel really hadn't the time to speak to the human knight.
~The Grand Tour Day 15~
Once everybody is ready and outfitted with all of their gear, Liamsho has everybody gather in a circle and join hands. Dalton and Toramin notice his hands are icy cold despite the heat of the area. With an incantation and a swirl of magic, their surroundings change.
Mountains, ice, and snow dominate the landscape as far as the eye can see to the north. It's the most wild, dangerous, uncharted wilderness imaginable. A slip at the wrong time could kill you, not even considering all of the wild creatures and beings that must inhabit these behemoth mountains. The world is in a primal state here with no influence of man, shaped by the gods themselves. Nature is wild and free, unquestionable in its dominance of the land.
Turning the other direction, there is the Marble Cliff. One massive, smooth cliff that stretches completely out of view both east and west. Even more unnerving, it is so steep that the bottom isn't even visible. The scale of this piece of landscape are impossible to imagine, and it appears to be made out of flat sheets of ice instead of rugged icy rocks. If climbing a cliff of such epic proportions was difficult before, the perfect smoothness of it makes it an impossible task by anything short of flight.
All of this is taken in, then the natural body heat of the party members begins losing to the elements as they notice the incredibly hostile environment they're in. The desert was one beast, but this is on a whole new level. Breath freezes in throats, crystallizing nose hairs and spit in seconds. Hair and beards become hard and frosty. Spit freezes and bounces before hitting the ground. They even find themselves having to blink more often to keep their eyes from freezing in addition to the blinding reflection of the white snow everywhere. On top of all of this, after a minute they start breathing more heavily, as if in a small room where there's not enough air.
Liamsho gives a bow to the party, and with a gesture vanishes, leaving the party alone in the icy mountains.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
~Day 15 The Grand Tour~
"Fresh mountain air! I've missed this place."
Looking around at his frigid companions, Toramin smiles "There is a small town nearby. It will be a good place to get supplies. I'll admit it's a touch rough and tumble, but I'm sure that you, Bjorkus' will fit right in. We can find some warm furs there. If any of you start feeling warm before then well, we have that wand. Thank Torag that we didn't start at the bottom of the Marble Cliff."
The dwarf begins to lead them towards the small, hidden enclave. Normally taciturn, there appears to almost be a bounce in his step and delight in his voice.
"There is another good reason male dwarfs have beards: keeps the neck warm!"
Chortling the dwarf continues, "I feel like I should tell you a bit about my family. I am one of twelve siblings -- seven sisters and four other brothers. In birth order my sisters go as follows:"
"Ianna, she is simply the best. While some people might say that dwarfs have no beauty, they have never met my sister. She is a daughter of Bolka, priestess of the goddess of beauty. She is everything a lady should be: clever, graceful, brave, kind, witty, and wise. I could never exhaust her virtues. She has long been my best friend. She is the reason for this trip. I'm worried about her." What has befallen her?
"Bold Sehitha, you probably won't meet her in Dağın Kalp, since she prefers to wander in the high empty places. I've seen her run barefoot, head uncovered, through the snow."
"Careful Myrogni and pious Dagna are twins. Myrogni considers herself something of a scholar, while Dagna is being trained by my grandmother in life sciences and priestcraft."
"Tig followed in my mother's footsteps, where Lagatha is the daughter for whom my father prayed." She is like him in other ways too. Snakes have warmer blood and more compassion.
"Last is young Esther, who claims that our ancestors speak to her." Every great family has its share of crazy.
"I have fewer brothers. Narad wants to be the blacksheep of our family, but to his chagrin he was never the disappointment to our father that I am. Last I heard, he was in Andril seeking his fortune. Avador is my father's assistant . . ."
Toramin pauses briefly here with a wistful sigh.
He is too good hearted for my father to break.
"I don't know my two youngest brothers, the twins Anrad and Onrod, well. They are very young by our standards. Barely 18 years old. What 18 year old has much of a personality?
My mother is called Magda. She is of the Saifír clan, a wizard of that lineage.
My father . . . my father is the most brilliant man I have known. Skilled and perceptive, all acclaim him as one of the greatest smiths and golem makers to live. He is also not a kind man. My advice is to treat him with respect, tell him as little as possible about yourselves, and avoid him if you can.
On a more pleasant note, the city of Dağın Kalp is a beauty. It extends from deep beneath the earth and its tallest spire is crowned by cloud. Some say it was carved by Torag himself. Whether there is truth to that it has been worked and beautified by countless generations. It is one of the few places in the northern mountains where non-dwarfs are permitted to visit. Some of my people are less than welcoming of other races. Which is terribly foolish in my opinion."
When Toramin had said they’d be teleporting Bjorkus hadn’t known what to expect. Magical transport was a complete unknown to him but his first instinct had been to assume it wouldn’t be so bad. Wizards do it all the time and they’re nothing but skin and bones! Taking Liamsho’s icy hand inside his massive paw, the bull observes as the strange priest’s magic takes form but is completely unprepared when it actually hits him. The disorienting weightlessness leaves him staggered but it’s the immediate intense cold that really sends the bull for a loop.
Growing up on warm coastal waters and sporting a thick hairy hide, Bjorkus was accustomed to wearing little – often just a loincloth – and even the chill of the open sea didn’t bother him much. This was entirely an entirely different kind of cold that was both painful and cruel. Snorting with the effort to catch his breath and stop his head from spinning, Bjorkus digs in his pack and retrieves a heavy kilt.
”Besmara’s tits”, he rumbles in complaint. ”Toramin you didn’t tell me your family lived in the soddin’ icy layers of Hell.”
~Day 15, The Grand Tour~
Pausing his monologue, "Technically, we live beneath the ice. Our underground cities are quite comfortable. Magma warmed water flows through pipes to bring warmth to even the meanest hold."
Toramin kneels down and brushes some snow aside, revealing a slab of man-made stone. He knocks on it, and after a few seconds it is pushed up with a groan and a stocky human with a full beard and furs shows them in. "Welcome to the Marble Cliff ladies." The party walks through a lit tunnel that has several branches off of it. Even inside there is a nip of cold, but most of the rooms have warmth emanating from them. Dwarves are as prevalent as man here, and there is an occasional appearance of other races. There's only a few women present, but every single individual looks tough as nails. Each carries at least one weapon and scar, some several more.
The stout human leads them on. "Name's Viktor Rusnak, paladin of Erastil. If you need something, just ask somebody nearby. We ain't a shy lot." He takes one of the branches, and through an open cavern leads them into a underground tavern. It's lit by flickering candles on the tables and a single magical light at the center of the room. The room is mostly empty, although there are two dwarves, a man, and a half-orc looking over what appears to be a map at one of the tables. A well groomed dwarf with light furs on and a symbol of Torag around his neck. He looks up as the newcomers enter, giving them a grunt. "Welcome to the Frosty Mistress."
After making sure Coralla was coping well enough with the cold, Bjorkus tries to follow the descriptions of Toramin’s extensive family.
”Are some of these half-brothers and sisters? I thought dwarves were slow breeders. I’ve run into plenty of ‘em out on the seas and most of ‘em had no siblings to speak of.”
***
Bjorkus follows where Toramin leads, breathing a sigh of relief when the party steps down under the snow and into relative warmth.
”This some kinda outpost?” he asks aloud. ”I thought the dwarves didn’t entertain many visitors.”
~Day 15, The Grand Tour~
"No. Each of us share the same parents. The gods have seen fit to bless the Trealamhgabha with many sons and daughters. But, you are right, dwarfs generally have far fewer children -- two or three, especially twins, are considered a great blessing."
**************
"Well met, Viktor, I am Toramin Trealamhgabha, paladin of Torag. May your hunts be ever favored. I'm leading my companions to Dağın Kalp. We need to purchase furs, climbing gear, ice-cleats, snow shoes -- everything necessary to keep lowlanders alive. Who would you recommend?"
Toramin follows the god-favored human to the tavern. "Greetings, brother, I am Toramin Trealamhgabha. These are my friends: Bjorkus (and companion), Master Dalton, and Mistress Rilka. May we have something warm and hardy?"
Viktor points a bit down the hall. "And may your defenses be ever strong. We only have one place for supplies here, you'll find everything you need in there. If I were you I'd hunker down for the day though, supposed to be a pretty bad storm coming through."
The dwarf gives Toramin a hearty handshake. "Greetings, I am Ragnal Diabeoir. Yer bloody right you can, I got a good supply of dwarven stout here that'll make a dwarf walk barefoot from Dağın Kalp to get a taste of. Something a little less strong for the ladies perhaps?"
~Day 15, The Grand Tour~
Returning the other dwarf's clasp with a wide smile, "Ragnal, I cannot tell you how good it will be to drink the ale of the Diabeoir again. It is like I've returned to civilization. Use your best judgment, I doubt she would enjoy hair sprouting on her chest."
Not finding the oddity of Toramin's large family worth further question, Bjorkus's changes his focus.
"Tell me more about these sisters", he chuckles.
***
~Day 15, The Grand Tour (outside Marble Cliff)~
Toramin laughs and shakes his head. "You will get no help from me trying to bed my sisters. I would watch out for Sehitha, though; she would eat you alive."
"You'd be surprised. Sometimes women like that are just waitin' for someone willin' to challenge 'em."
***
"So what's there to do down here?" Bjorkus asks of Toramin when it looks like the party will be stuck in Marble Cliff for the night. "After Akropash I don't know if I'm ready for a quiet night with some ale."
~Day 15, The Grand Tour~
Sehitha is wild and fey. If she can handle the mountains, what challenge could one bull pose.
Smirking, Toramin replies, "Good luck with that."
*************
"The last time I was here I saw a poetry contest, a friendly brawl, a rather unfriendly brawl, and some drunken story-telling. Seems like any or all of the four could happen to you."
Bjorkus finds himself rather hopeful. Any/all of those sound like a good time to the bull.
”You gunna try to get another message home? Whoever or whatever’s been messin’ with ‘em will have no idea you’re this close now.”
Torami considers Bjorkus' suggestion.
"I'm not certain who is interfering with my letters, so I don't know their capacities or the extent of their knowledge. Best not to risk it. Perhaps you could get us started with some stories, Bjorkus. I doubt many people here have heard of your prowess on the seas or how you defeated a behir."
The following morning, he felt much better without Tiasar's hangover. Moreover, he was confident he could master the spell's in Acera's text. While copying his own into the book, he decided there were a few other subjects he should check in on. More importantly, a few loose ends that need answering.
First though, it was time for him to get back to the crafting which was his art. Being a town of mining, there were likely to be many a place where metalworking equipment was available. For a bit of magework, Dalton did not expect to find difficult using those tools if he supplied his own materials.
[ooc]Crafting item: Sapphire ring, set in silver with component underneath a la Poison Pill Ring. This a DC 20 item.
During the evening, after dinner, he returned to the abode to try his hand again at the divination.
The landscape was beautiful - but austere. Dalton had half a mind to re-prepare some temperature abjurations, Tormain found them a haven before too long.
"What a wondrous land to behold! This is definitely many a step above the desert!" The wizard knew dwarves prided themselves on nearly everything they did, and the landscapes they frequented were no exception. However, the cold was also easier on the large mage's body than was the heat.
"Whyever couldn't I learn a thing or two from your father? I was looking forward to it!" It seems not everything is roses underground.
"He has much to teach. Skill such as his is rare even among my people, Master Dalton. If you wanted to learn the crafting of charms, weapons, armor, even constructs -- there are many less adapt teachers than he. Once I watched him assemble a clock-work mage from scrap. May you find greater joy in his lessons than I did."
He measured that construct's accuracy using me as target practice.
The dwarf's countenance momentarily clouds over with remembrance.
"I know that you and my mother could have fruitful conversations. She has been studying the arcane arts for over a century at this point. She and my some of my sisters are elementalists, though I cannot tell you how 'void' is an element. Myrogni insists that it binds the cosmos together."
"Something is nothing, I suppose. It's not my specialty, but I have a hunch she knows what she's correct. How about those drinks?" The transmuter was not at all shy about trying new beverages.
Even though he was still a ways from the sea, his ship, or her crew, the thought that he was closer than ever inspires Bjorkus. It doesn’t take much goading to get him talking about his former life and once some of that rich dwarven stout wets his tongue there’s no stopping the bull.
”Why don’t I start with the tale of the time the Raging Storm and I captured the Sandbalot”, Bjorkus begins while eying his audience. ”That one never disappoints.”
”It was a cloudy day when we spotted her just off the bow, a forward-masted sloop with pretty white sails. My eyes up above tell me Sandbalot’s painted in gold across her hull. Now it’s normal in the piratin’ world for a ship to set an evasive course when somethin’ like the Storm sets its sights on ‘em but the Sandbalot didn’t move an inch. Luthor, my first mate, tells me she might be surrenderin' but I know something’s goin’ on. A ship like that doesn’t touch the water unless she’s gunna be ready for trouble. The question was, were they ready for my kinda trouble”, Bjorkus adds with a laugh.
The bull rests his tankard and then uses his big hands to illustrate the closing vessels as the story continues.
”So we’re closin’ and the Sandbalot isn’t movin’. We’re just about in range for cannons when we hear a whistle from the Sandbalot’s deck. We thought it might be a signal to open fire but she didn’t have any weapons that could be seen. No, the weapon was in the sky…” he rumbles with growing excitement as the hand that was the Sandbalot becomes a shape overhead. ”It breaks through the clouds and dives toward the water - a huge beast with dark shaggy fur, a head like a lion, wings like a soddin’ dragon, and worst of all, a long tail covered in barbs as thick as a man’s arm!”
”The damned thing levels off and starts headin’ straight for the Storm!”
Toramin gasps appreciatively.
”The thing hurls toward us like a comet and someone on the crew tells me it’s a manticore. I tell ‘em I don’t care what it’s soddin’ called. I want it dead!” Bjorkus says before pausing for the laughter to die down. ”But before the gunner can get into position the manticore flicks its tail at us like a rawhide whip and a load of those big ass spikes slam into the Storm’s deck like bolts from a ballista. One poor fool dies instantly with one in his neck and another goes down with a barb in his belly”, he says while clutching his dagger flush with his own hairy midsection to mimic the injury.
”The crew started scramblin’ to find cover but I got the gunners to turn the cannons on the beast and dump a load of grapeshot on it before it could come around for another pass. Now the pellets from grapeshot aren’t meant to kill a man or sink a ship. They’re tiny and they spread as the fly through the air because they’re meant for tearin’ up enemy sails but, it turns out, manticore wings are a whole lot like sails. With its wings a shredded bloody mess, the thing spins in the air and turns just enough to crash into the Storm’s deck.”
Bjorkus jumps to his hooves to show his wrestling stance. ”The manticore was bloodied by the grapeshot and busted open pretty badly by the fall but it was still alive and soddin’ dangerous. One of my crew moved in to stick it with a pike and got his face torn open by its dagger-like claws. Knowin’ I’ve got to bring this thing down for good I charge in. It claws up my shoulder but not before I can get in and grab it by the neck. It bucks and thrashes tryin’ to throw me loose but I hold on tight and squeeeeze crushin’ its windpipe. I start to feel bones crackin’ and poppin’ under the pressure and before I know it, the beast is getting’ weaker and slower and I know it’s over. After a minute it’s too weak to fight back. I plant my hooves and twist until there’s a *SNAP* from its neck breaking and the manticore is soddin’ dead.”
The bull sits back down and grins while draining the rest of his tankard.
”The rest was easy. Seein’ their guard dog dead the Sandbalot lowered their sails and surrendered – really surrendered this time. While the crew helped themselves to the Sandbalot’s cargo of spices, expensive silks, and trade bars, I worked things out with the Sandbalot’s pretty little elven captain. We came to an agreement… first in her cabin and then back in mine on the Storm”, he adds with a wink and a hearty laugh.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
I hope their agreement was consensual, but how much consent can one have under duress?
Despite his misgivings about the exact nature of some of the bull's liaisons, the story was exciting and well told. Toramin bangs his now empty mug on the table to demonstrate his appreciation.
"Magical beasts should be careful around you, Bjorkus! I have a story too, though I doubt I can tell it as well as a skald."
With his protestations still fresh in their ears, Toramin begins his story.
"When I was much younger and still hoped to be found worthy of serving the gods as a priest, the god I held most in honor was Grundinnar, the Peace Maker -- brother of lovely Bolka, mighty Trudd, and honorable Kols. Grundinnar is the god of friendship and loyalty. Although I have found much joy and fulfillment in Torag's service, I have not forgotten the stories of his son. One of his stories involves the creation of Dağın Kalp, and since we are headed there I thought I mighty share it with you.
This story takes place near the beginning of things. Trudd was not yet born. Drannvgit still had hope for the future. Droskar had not yet fallen into wickedness. You could say the world was still aglow from the heat of Torag's forge.
In this ancient time, Torag and his divine family still lived in the world. So too did the other gods. The gods of elves, halfings, orcs, goblins, giants, and all other manner of peoples lived upon the world.
Yet, Torag held his family and his people apart. He sought neither friendship nor enmity with any of the other gods. All Torag desired was to live and work with his family deep within the bones of the earth and beneath the vault of the heavens. So he came to these very same mountains and built Dağın Kalp.
First he carved the Yemin Merdiven, the grand stairway that stretches from the peak of the mountain down to its heart. Upon these stairs Kols carved the first laws and oaths of our people. Even today there is still space to carve new laws and new oaths upon the Yemin Merdiven. Upon the heights of the Yemin Merdiven there is a great observatory so high that it is above the city's cloud crown.
But the greatest part of Dağın Kalp is below the peaks deep beneath the earth. This is where Torag carved the primordial home of my people -- our halls and our hearths, our forges and our temples. Folgrit, the Watchful Mother, took fire from her hearth and with the help of Angradd, the god of fire and Torag's youngest brother, caught this fire in gems. These gems are still alight today and fill Dağın Kalp with light. Angradd also breathed upon the heart of the mountain until it burned. Droskar -- this was before his banishment mind you -- constructed a cunning device that sent the heat from the heart of Dağın Kalp throughout the city. In those days, Drannvgit was still the goddess of hope not of debts and vengeance. She filled the halls of Dağın Kalp with all manner of wondrous and beautiful thing. Bolka danced and sang, inflaming the hearts and loins of the divine dwarfs, and thus, their numbers increased.
Suffice to say, the dwarf gods and goddesses were happy in their new home. They had their works to fulfill them and each other for company. What need did they have for any outside their mountains? Only one of Torag's divine family, Grundinnar, remembered that they were not alone in the world.
Indeed, they were not alone. They were not the only gods in the world; they weren't even the only gods in the mountains. In those days, as in these, some of the gods were kindly and good. Others were . . . less kindly.
One of these less kindly gods was Lamashtu, the Mother of Monsters. She had seen the dwarf gods and goddesses labor long and with great hardship to build Dağın Kalp and its many glories. Lamashtu was lazy. Why should she work to build things, when she could take what others had built? Though she was lazy, she was also cunning. She knew that the dwarf gods and goddesses held themselves apart from the other gods, they were content to be with each other, alone. Lamashtu is never alone. Where Folgrit has several children, Lamashtu has a multitude.
So, while the dwarf gods and goddesses built their wonders in Dağın Kalp, Lamashtu pulled divine gobins, gnolls, and all other manner of her divine children from her womb. Eventually she had a horde of demigods, and she commanded her children to seize Dağın Kalp and murder Torag, his divine family, and all of their peoples."
Here Toramin pauses for dramatic effect.
"Lamashtu was tired of being cold.
There are stories of the first battles between Torag's family and the children of Lamashtu: stories of valor and stories of woe -- stories like Angradd's stand, Magrim's death rite, and the murder of Drannvgit's children. These are excellent stories, but I will not tell them tonight except to say that it was in those dark years that Drannvgit swore eternal vengeance against Lamashtu, and changed from the goddess of hope into the Debt Minder.
Despite the bravery and valor of Torag, his divine family, and their people -- they were eventually driven back to Dağın Kalp. Here the remaining gods and goddesses of the dwarfs reached a stalemate with the children of Lamashtu. The gates of Dağın Kalp had been carved by Torag. None of Lamashtu's children could break them. Lamashtu tried to send nightmares to Torag, his divine family, and their people, but they slept before Folgrit's hearth. In the Watchful Mother's hearth there is a potency that not even the sorcery of the Mother of Monsters could overcome.
So, Torag, his divine family, and their people survived, trapped in Dağın Kalp, diminished in number, and very much alone. But Grundinnar had not forgotten the other gods -- elven gods, halfing gods, the ancient beast-headed gods of desert, and the gods of all other peoples. He saw that there was strength in number in Lamashtu's horde and that there was a weakness in the solitude of Torag and his divine family.
To save his family and his people Grunnidar snuck past the siege of Dağın Kalp. When his family awoke to find Grunnidar gone, they thought that the god of loyalty had fled, betraying them, or had been murdered by something that had slithered past their defenses. Drannvgit counted up these sorrows in her heart, while the other gods searched for Grunnidar in Dağın Kalp.
But, Grundinnar was neither dead nor had he betrayed them. Through words of friendship and mighty deeds -- also outside the scope of this story -- Grundinnar won the hearts and loyalty of many of the kindly gods and goddess of all the peoples who lived beyond the mountains. Together they returned to these mountains and lifted the siege of Dağın Kalp. United with the Torag's family this coalition of gods and goddesses of good heart drove Lamashtu and those children of hers who survived from the mountains. They harried the Mother of Monsters until she took refuge in the Abyss, where they were loathe to follow her.
Seeing that Grundinnar's friends had given them the strength to overcome their enemies, Torag swore that all peoples of good heart would always be welcome at Dağın Kalp. Kols carved these words upon the Yemin Merdiven, where you can still see them today.
It was this story that first opened my eyes to the truth that all peoples are one people."
~Day 15, Grand Tour~
As the cold hits her, Rilka shivers and pulls her jacket tightly around her. She laughs at herself for thinking her jacket was thick enough. Goose down had never failed her before, but then again she never had been anywhere like this. ”How high are we?” she asks, mostly wondering to herself. She appears to be thrilled with the scenery despite shivering and her jaw trembling so much she can’t speak clearly.
Something a little less strong for the ladies perhaps?”
”Do you have any mulled wine or mushroom tea? Or do you serve that stout warmed up? Anything that will take the chill away.”
Void is an element? she thinks, following the conversations around her. What a strange idea.
While Bjorkus tells his tale, she warms her hands by cupping the mug. She gives a start when Toramin slams his mug onto the table. She chuckles. ”Thanks Bjorkus,” she says. ”Adventure and romance...what story should I tell?”
Rilka sits quietly for Toramin’s story, appreciating the creation story. She makes sure to empty her mug. When he is finished, she follows the dwarven custom and bangs the table with her mug. ”Well told!” The halfling looks at Dalton and Coralla and asks, ”Who’s next?”
***********
Toramin makes a brief bow at Rilka's accolade and calls for another round.
"Please, brother Ragnal, another round for my companions and I. Stories are thirsty work."
After the desert, we can all enjoy a bit of peace and fun. When I look at the faces of Dalton, Rilka, and Bjorkus, I see the truth of Grundinnar's journey: friendship is the truest strength.
But there was also a fourth face: Coralla.
I fear Bjorkus' attentions will not serve her well. Danger and death haunt both the path in front and the path behind. How will she survive the mountains let alone the treacherous seas.
Not wanting for his thoughts to turn maudlin, Toramin digs into the food and waits for the next story. I hope Rilka tells a happy story.
Ragnal listens with interest, chuckling and nodding along with the stories. "You tell it well Trealamhgabha."
He turns his attention to Rilka. "We're not much for wine or tea drinking up here, but if you want something to warm ye up I'll make you and the other lady a couple o' hot flips. It's me favorite drink after a long week outside in the cold." In a few minutes two steaming mugs are set down on the counter. The drink is earthy, but has hints of spices in it that leave you with an sense of curiosity. Coralla looks around in wide-eyed silence, sipping at her hot drink.
He gives a grin to Toramin. "Hear hear! I imagine we'll be joined by many o' others later when the storm starts hitting. I'll start ye on a tab."
He begins taking food orders as well, offering what they have. An assortment of meat from bear to goat and even giant, mushrooms and tubers, a variety of eggs that size from miniscule to the size of Rilka's head, onions and shallots, some kind of blue lettuce, and if you're willing to pay a little extra they have haggis.
Bjorkus knocks his tankard on the table in appreciation as well when Toramin's parable comes to a close. I wonder if that's how he sees all of us...
While he waits for the next rounds to be poured, the bull squeezes in next to Coralla.
"What do you think so far of all this? It looks like the enchanted dwarven kingdom I promised might have to wait a few more days."
Coralla shivers a bit. "It's a bit...overwhelming to be honest. I was expecting to walk out of Akropash and start seeing nearby lands first. This is exciting though! I just wish it wasn't so cold..."
"We can probably do somethin' bout that", Bjorkus muses.
Toramin eats with gusto. During a blizzard and in the mountains it was always good to be well fed. A full stomach gives the energy one needs to fight off the cold. He avoids the haggis, however, the texture never appealed to him.
The dwarf feels a brief pang of guilt about their coming trek. This would be a much easier journey if we took the deep roads.
Communication, goods, and troops easily passed between dwarf cities, outposts, and strongholds all across the mountains due to tunnels carved to connect them. Some cities were even connect by underground rail. A journey of a week could be accomplished in a few hours. Yet, such things were not for non-dwarfs to know. Though it pained him, Toramin saw the wisdom in not sharing all of the latest technological advances with the less civilized. Without civilization, technology could harm both its users and the land. Even within Toramin's short life, he had seen the Voices in the Stone deem that humans were ready for a new piece of science or technology, and slowly they shared their "discoveries." The Voices in the Stone were prudent, unlike the gnomish inventors who cared only for "progress."
Returning a moment later, Bjorkus drapes a second heavy fur across Coralla’s shoulders and then takes a seat with his freshly filled tankard in hand.
”Who’s next? Let’s keep ‘em coming!”
Rilka drums her fingers on the table top as she thinks. Her face drawn in thought. ”Hmmm,” she says slowly. ”There’s Halfling New Year. That’s always fun. Have you seen the steeple race? Plank, rope, and ledge race too....Well, okay. I’ll tell you how my family got the name ‘Featherfeet.’” She takes a sip from her mug, licks her lips, and nods with her decision.
”You might think it’s because the family is really good at walking softly, stealthily. It’s rooted in that, true. But we could be named ‘Golightly’ or ‘Whisperstep’ just as easily if that was the predominant case. It starts with Papa Baritho. He lived sometime between 500 or 600 years ago. 25 or 30 generations! Maybe longer. There's not an actual, definitive lineage like 'Casti son of Mistro son of Flebb son Flibb.' A lot of the middle generations got forgotten or...well I can name ten ancestors back and that's about it." She shrugs.
"I don’t even know where he lived. My gran tells it like he lived somewhere in Andril. I have a cousin who heard it from someone that he definitely lived in Taryin. Another swears Balgradash. There’s a ‘Featherfoot’ family that lives in Jelm, but they don’t claim descent from Papa Baritho, so they probably aren’t related.” She takes another sip.
”Now, picture a rural community of halflings. Animals, crops, probably a few pastoral hills filled with sheep. Papa Baritho had a garden, a shed for drying tobacco, and plenty of tools. He could fix windmills, wagon wheels, fences, and furniture. Papa Baritho was also a noted trapper. I won’t say poacher because I don’t know who had hunting rights, if anyone did, at that time. He’d go into the woods, and birds would practically fall out of the trees to be taken home and cooked in a pot. Maybe he lured them with bird calls. There are plenty of stories about his singing.
“So for years part of the way he provided for his family was trapping in the woods. As he got older he didn’t enjoy traipsing around the hillocks and terrain as much. He decided to go for easier prey, namely chickens. There was a halfling named Phobtribin. I’ve heard various family names: Bogbreath, Brooder, and Cockcomb. He was known for his prize-winning — if indeed prizes were given out at the time --chickens.
“This is where his talent for building and repairing fences comes in. He made a special door in Phobtribbin’s fence that only he knew about. Every once in a while, he would sneak through the door, creep into the hen house, and take a chicken or two. There was never any evidence of Papa Baritho being the culprit. Who knows how long this chicken...stealing continued. Eventually, Phobtribbin decided to catch the chicken thief. For quite a while he saved in a big sack all the chicken feathers he plucked. As the new moon approached, he made a really sticky glue. He hid this in a shallow trench at the foot of the hen house, just covered with a layer of soil so it didn’t look too odd.
“Papa Baritho loved his chickens so went to get one that night. He’d been doing it so successfully he probably grew a bit complacent. He didn’t approach the hen house very carefully. Shhuuuup. His feet were stuck!
“Phobtribbin was a kindly halfling. He didn’t actually want to hurt the thief. Hence the sack of feathers. He thought a good scare would take care of the problem. Seeing a shadowy figure stuck in the trap, he ran from his hiding spot swinging his sack with all his might. It burst enveloping Papa Baritho in a cloud of feathers. As he freed himself the feathers stuck to his feet. He ran away, not bothering with his secret door, and left a trail of feathers to his door as they fell off his clothes and hair. By the time he got home, his feet were the only parts that still had feathers. They didn’t come off for at least a week. That’s when people in the community started calling him ‘Featherfeet.’ I guess you could say the name stuck. I wonder what he would have been called if he had kept his own chickens.”
"Prudent," Toramin offers with a smile. The dwarf had been listening raptly to Rilka's story. There are few things a dwarf liked better than stories of the (mis)deeds of one's ancestors.
Toramin then drains the rest of his flagon and pounds the heavy base against the table. Another, if you please, brother Ragnal."
"With pleasure!" Ragnal keeps the liquid flowing, pleased to have a lively group telling good stories and buying drinks.
Bjorkus roars his approval and claps little Rilka on the back in appreciation.
When his tankard's filled, the bull toasts to his friends's health with Toramin and anyone else still holding a mug.
"Master Dalton, Coralla, brother Ragnal -- tell us a story." Toramin implores with good cheer.