RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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"Doo yáʼáshǫ́ǫ da!"
A voice cries out in the dark, heard over the sounds of snapping branches and feverish breaths; foreign tongue. From the edge of the wood, two dozen men draped in heavy furs and chain armor stand at the ready. Torches behind them cast off the shroud of night in irregular blotches of illumination, gleaming fiery hues off of the edges of raised axes and swords. Plumes of steam gout from each warrior's chapped mouth, and their shoulders rise and fall with the heaviness of each breath. They can hear someone running, a single soul, scrambling through the darkest of the hillside thickets, screaming with all his worth as if it would save him.
"Ulfen brødre, heve dine våpen og stå høyt!" One of the warriors calls out, hoisting his sword high above his head as he bellows a war cry that joins with the distant figure's less couragerous screams. Each of the men standing shoulder to shoulder in the line let loose a raucous warcry and slam their blades against their shields and raise them aloft. A few look back, behind their line, to the distant glow of torchlight beyond and the jagged pallisades of their home. Some long for it, others know that Valenhall is not far off, and whatever emerges from this forest will mean a journey begins -- one way or another.
The screaming finally draws near, and as tension spreads like wildfire through the line of Ulfen warriors these brothers in arms lower their blades and raise their shields, ready to face what they expect; a raiding party of Skraelings from out of the wood. They have weathered their attacks time and again, and the walls of their distant home will not budge. But they mistake the frantic cries of one skraeling as warcries, as the yips and hoots of a charge leader.
Through the treeline a single man emerges, dusky skinned and covered in blood, eyes wide in fear. His arms are covered in ribbons of uncurled flesh, and the moment he emerges into the torchlight of the Ulfen warriors, their thunderous cries drown out whatever he tries to speak, and the whiff of a fusilade of arrows being launched from the village pallisades silences his screaming as a half dozen arrows punch through his body, sending him crumpling to the ground in a bloodies mess. The ulfen let loose a cheer, a brief celebratory howl, before six sinuous lengths of rubbery mauve flesh ending in hooked talons lash out from the darkness like fishing lines. Two snatch the corpse of the skraeling man and haul him back into the darkness and the remaining tendrils latch onto ulfen warriors and yank them off of their feet, dragging them screaming through the air into the darkness.
It takes a full moment of silence and labored breathing for the ulfen to even realize what just happened, and as their wide-eyed stares focused on the blood stains on the snowy ground ahead of them, the forest before them explodes in a mass of shattered timbers before a wall of undulating flesh and bulging eyes as a hooked mass of lashing tentacles and gaping mouths the size of a longhouse fills their vision.
And becomes the last thing they ever see.
R U I N S OF P A T H F I N D E R
"Highhelm, old below sky, hearth and shield of our endless days!"
Within the vaulted ceilings of the meadhall of Drun-Morogh of clan Skuldafn, a granite statue of Grundinnar -- dwarven god of friendship and loyalty -- oversees a mass of celebrating dwarven men and women proudly drinking to the honor of the fallen. Such voices raised in song and celebration would seem incongruent to a human observer, were one present, but the chorus of "mourners" here in this great hall have come to celebrate the life of Hraggir Skuldafn, eldest son of the Skuldafn line and master of coin for all of Highhelm. Thousands attended his funeral, and now hundreds of those celebrants have come to sing and drink and praise his name under the watchful eyes of Grundinnar.
"We, thy sons and daughters all, our loyal voices raise!"
Amount the celebrant mourners is Vigar Skuldafn, a bronze-haired son of Hraggir and renowned Stonelord of Torag. Dressed in the finest ironshale stoneplate armor, he sits at the head of the meadhall in the chair his father once sat in. Weary-eyed despite his relative youth, Vigar watches the drinking, story-telling and singing with dedication but waning investment. It is not out of disrespect or sadness that Vigar remains so sullen, but rather out of a sense of something far deeper than either; duty.
"The hours we spent at thy Father knee and drank of wisdom's store!"
Thousands of miles away, the sky citadel of Janderhoff has gone silent, and with the armies of the runelord Karzoug the Claimer to the west Vigar is troubled that the sky citadel has fallen to the runelord's grasp. The High King of Highhelm has refused to send aid, as the city has seen its own troubles bubbling up from the depths of the darklands in recent years, and too many subterranean levels of Highhelm have already been lost to drow incursions. Dragging fingers through his thick beard, Vigar stares out at the crowd of well-wishers, friends and family without confidence in his heart that they will all be here for another year. Without confidence that Highhelm will be here another year. The world threatens to collapse and yet the dwarven people -- ever resiliant -- think themselves the mountain that will endure the storm. Vigar is not as convinced.
"Shall e'er in mem'ry treasured be, tho' we roam the whole world o'er!"
Among the celebrants, a lone dwarven man will come to assuage Vigar's concerns in the coming days. But for now, the dark-haired and stony-eyed Halsiig Halfhammer sits among the wealthy elite. Clad entirely in white and gold, Halsiig represents the incursion of foreign ideals into dwarven society, from the cut of his clothing to the cadence of his speech taking on a cosmopolitan Taldane accent. The white gloves he wears are signs to some of his allegiances, and the symbol hanging around his neck bearing two concentric circles penetrated by a larger triangle proof positive that he is a kalistocrat of the Prophecies of Kalistrade, an invasive Druman religion finding root within the wealthy of the Five Kings Mountains.
"Then forward ever, dear Highhelm, o'er our hearts unrivaled reign!"
Halsiig sings the old songs, though, he remembers them by heart. While influences from the outside have turned him towards the Prophecies, Halsiig still bears below those robes of white the iron heart of the dwarf. Mid-song, he rises from his long table and ambles towards the steps leading to Vigar's chair, stooping in perfunctory manner as a hasty bow. Vigar knows him, well enough to allow him to join his select table on the dais, and Halsiig knows Vigar's worries enough to need to speak with him this night at the time of his father's honoring. The Prophecies wait for no one, not even the dead.
"Onward ever, old Highhelm! All hail to thee, the quest for sky!"
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Sitting amongst everyone at the tables drinking is a very stocky man, he is dressed in heavy mail, a wooden shield is beside his chair, as in a heavy pick. Strapped to his hip is an axe. He seems to be enjoying himself, drinking his ale eagerly, singing with everyone else. During the singing he seems solemn, as if remembering those who have also passed on and are watching us live on. In between the singing he laughs a lot and drinks some more.
This man wears a symbol around his neck, the symbol of Kols, the Oath-Keeper, the symbol is made of stone and has a very slight green tint to it. He see's the man rise to head to the main dais and rises with him, not moving from his spot but showing the proper manners and respect. He then bows to both the men at the head dais, keeps his eye on the man in the White and Gold and then takes his seat again while continuing to sing with his fellow mourners.
Kal'Tos grabs several pints of stout and begins drinking from one of them. He wanders around for a bit then sees a stonelord sitting my himself, "You seem to be drinking alone my friend, and none should drink alone this night. For we celebrate the life of great dwarf and such celebrations should be done with much drink and great tales. I am Kal'Tos, a scholar."
I stand as Kal'Tos heads towards me and bow my head, "Daelric, pleased to meet you. Care to join me Kal'Tos? I am trying to celebrate, unfortunately these events also remind me of the ones who have passed on before and remembering lost friends is always hard. But as you said, tonight is a night for celebrating the life that was spent with us and for that I thank you for reminding me." I then sit down again, smile with a big smile and grab another drink.
Why am I here?
The thought kept ringing in her head with the same rhythm of her hammer. She had requested her funeral gift be presented by the clergy, and yet she found herself here, amongst revelers and mourners alike, nervously eyeing the crowd, and every so often, at Vigar Skuldafn himself, who seemed to be as inwardly focused as she was.
He doesn't look comfortable here, either...But then he did just lose his father.
Maven's mind still circled itself trying to figure out what had possessed her to leave her forge and come to the gathering. The clergy had respected her request; no one had coerced her, by guilt or otherwise, to appear, and yet she had changed her mind. After aimlessly wandering the tables and hall for a few minutes, a growling, almost audible enough to be heard above the all the clamor and singing, solved the riddle. Oh. Right. I guess even I should eat once in awhile.
Glancing around for a free seat, she gingerly sat, quietly scanning for untouched helpings of food. An apple here, a leg of mutton there, and a few rolls were enough to take her mind off the throngs of Dwarves toasting and singing everywhere. While she munched, though, she caught herself absentmindedly staring at an unused wineglass, evaluating the craftsmanship. Bronze, dented on one side, the neck is bent by a few degrees. Probably just shaped wrong. Missing a gem from one side...Tourmaline? No, topaz. Topazes inset on a bronze cup? Strange that it's not gold...
Dolgrin sat in stark silence, drinking ale from his stein a bit more seriously than usual. These celebrations always reminded him of Kordin. And once that happened, it became less of a celebration and more a frustration. He should be here now, sharing a stein of ale with me in honor of Hraggir...
Despite his dour memories, Dolgrin was determined to not let it get the better of him. He looked about the tables at the dwarven multitude assorted before him, and noted Lady Brewbane glaring into a glass. He casually raised his stein her direction, but made no move to join her at her table. Wonder what she would say about my gift. Probably consider it another elf-toy like all the others... Dolgrin glances over to the assorted gifts, immediately picking out the shield he crafted with the Skuldafn rune, ringed in an assortment of gemstones.
Dolgrin rises from his seat, moves to the ale cask once again, refills his drink, and then begins moving about the hall trying to join in the revelry, his heavily armored steps echoing through the room as he does so.
Talon pushes his way through the crowd until he finds an empty place at a table, "Mind if I sit?" Thumping down on the bench without waiting for a reply he takes a pull from his tankard, "I never know what to say at these things. While we're all singing it's fine but once the singing stops it's all boasting and gossip and I have little skill at either. Names Talon by the way, good to meet you."
Mired in contemplation at the odd wineglass, Maven almost doesn't spot the stein raised in her direction. She does a double take upon noticing whos hand it's attached to, and almost chokes on a mouthful of bread when she spies the items at his feet.
Brother Girndmar! What in the blazes?! HE made...oh no. Why him? Of all the clergy, why'd HE have to forge gifts too? DAMN! Now my work'll look like unsanded wood carvings in contrast!
Maven shoves away the empty glass with a huff, focusing now on mercilessly chewing her food while looking everywhere but Dolgrin's direction.
Those nearest the entryway to the meadhall are the first to be treated to the hideous odor that precedes Dwunderbran's entrance. Humming gruffly in tune with the singing as he ambles through the assembly, the reeking dwarf fetches a roasted boar haunch off of the nearest dish, clamping his teeth down on the morsel as he grabs a plate and begins stacking the dish full of cheeses and blood sausages. He perches his selection of food precariously, amid several glares and hushed whispers of outrage, as he fills a cup with a full helping of malt liquor. Satisfied with his lager after a test sip, he bounds over to the nearest available seat and plops down onto the stone bench with as much grace as a pig in a mud trap. The eager look on his face as he begins slopping down his meal leaves one with the impression he has not eaten such a feast in his entire life. The thought is soon perished with disgust however, as he continues singing—his mouth full of boar, spittle and food ejecting itself regularly—and waving the haunch in the air in time with the dirge.
It is not until he has cleared most of his plate and sucked down the entirety of his dark lager that his eyes come to rest on a familiar face—that of Dolgrin Girndmar. In an instant, Dwunderbran is on his feet and crossing the room to where the cleric has elected to mingle. A large, gloved hand claps Dolgrin on the back, accompanied by a half-crazed chuckle the cleric has heard before. Most of the dwarves in the immediate vicinity seem to politely excuse themselves as Dwunderbran manages to get out between the boisterous laughing, "Bless me manhood, I nae 'spected to bandy words with ye so soon, Dolgrin, lad!"
Dwunderbran clenches his right fist and strikes the immaculately wrought breastplate encasing his trunk as he continues beaming at the young cleric. "Nary a finer job I spied, aye! Worth twice the jink 'at greased yer palm, though none to subtle, aye?" The dampness of his recently consumed drink still settles into the depths of his fiery beard as he continues smiling a crooked-toothed smile at Dolgrin.
Dolgrin was mid conversation with a couple of former customers when he is jostled by someone pushing through the throng of guests. Turning to see a black haired dwarf make his way to a table and inviting himself to a seat, Dolgrin considers having a word with him when his eye catches Lady Brewbane's apparent change of mood. I wonder what is wrong with her?
Dolgrin turns to the dwarves with which he had been speaking, and says, "Pard'n me for a moment, sirs. Thar's someone I need ta 'ave words with."
Just then, Dolgrin feels the large hand slap his back, and the laughter that sends a shiver through his beard. Torag protect us. Dwunderbran!
The last time Dolgrin had had dealings with Vulgarbeard, the dwarf nearly lost several important clients due to Dwunderbrans uncouth behavior in his smithy.
Never the less, Dolgrin turned and greeted his dwarven brother with a smile. "Dwunderbran! I 'ad 'eard you 'ad returned!"
As Dwunderbran complimented the workmanship of his armor, Dolgrin began looking over the breastplate. It had seen some use, that much was obvious from the cuts and knicks into the surface. "Twas the least I could do fer such a fine warrior such as yerself. Looks like it 'as served ye well, too. I could fix 'er up fer ya in a jiffy, if'n ye like." Dolgrin almost reflexively reaches towards the breastplate, his hand glowing with magic that would quickly remove every blemish from the armor.
Edrukk stood near one of the kegs of ale, refilling his cup. He watched as the thick, dark amber brew slowly filled it.
Why do they bother sending us to these things?
He knew why. They made it a point to remind him every time. Sending the men of the 7th to social functions outside of the unit to keep 'em sane.
You can't spend the rest of your days with the screamers in the tunnels, it'll turn your mind to mush.
Not that the affairs were anything to complain about, the junior officer mused. Plenty of good food and ale, much better than the piss they were given to wash down their rations in the tunnels.
Not a fan of the company though. Wish they'd send a few more of the brothers out here, but they know no one would talk to us if we were in a group. Too intimidatin'.
His short (by dwarven standards, anyway) beard almost moved, but his mouth remained straight. One could almost see the smile in his eyes, though. It lasted only a second.
I never know what to say to these people. I don't even know the guy who died.
Edrukk moved from the keg and stood next to the wall, drinking his ale. Though he was next to the wall, he didn't lean; no, his posture was a telltale sign of his military training. His armor, though it looked soot-covered, was in a perfect state of serviceability. The skull insignia on the front proudly displayed his affiliation with the 7th. He had a pepperbox sidearm that looked to be in perfect condition in a holster, and beneath that he had another gun that looked more like a pistol-shaped rust sculpture.
He let out a belch that he subdued as much as possible.
I ate too much.
Dwunderbran recoils with a look that borders on abject terror, stumbling into a seated guest in the process. He seems oblivious to the invasion of another's privacy however, massive brows furrowed as a mix of fear and anger bleed into his features before his deep voice booms throughout the hall in response to Dolgrin, "I dunnae want yer glowin' bits polishin', prickin', nor pokin' me 'tween plate, hide, nor hair, ye grab me? Hold yer hammers, lad! This be a meetin' o' the gravest walks, and I'll not sully meself o'er yer chantin' touchery. Save it fer yer smithy, aye?"
The filthy dwarf relaxes noticeably, and nods, fully assured that he has saved the room from a social blunder that would have surely spoiled the mood of the evening. Fortunate for Dolgrin that Dwunderbran was sensitive to the finer details of affairs such as this. E's a good'n 'tween the anvil an' clanger. Shame e's got nae head fer ta be jabberin' in the big hall. Droppin' chants a'tween dirge an' food with nary a nod o' permission. Gorum's garters, lad!
Daelric looks about the room and see's some sort of meeting going on between 2 men, one very loud who he had just spied shoveling a large amount of food into his mouth, followed by a large drink. That wasn't so bad, but when he saw him rise and head in his direction he got nervous and placed his hand on his axe, it was only when he turned and walked straight passed him and to the gentlemen he was now talking to, the one with the glowing hand.
Seeing that there is nothing to worry there he releases his hold of his axe and looks around again and spots the pile of gifts, "Excuse me." Daelric stands, grabbing a leg of boar and an empty tankard, heads to the mead cask and fills his tankard up slowly, watching as the golden liquid rises and bubbles. "Looks like liquid gold and tastes just as sweet, I wonder if I could find out where they buy it from?"
With a full tankard Daelric heads over to the gifts and stands in front of them in silence until he spots a beautifully made shield with a ring of precious gems, "Woah! That's a nice shield!" "Bit too fancy for me though, that reminds me I really should see someone about getting a stone shield made ... I wonder if there are any smiths here I could talk to about commissioning such a piece?"
Looking around the room again to see if he can spot any smiths he notices a woman who looks a little angry, but has a smiths apron tucked into her belt, "Have to ask to find out." With that he heads over to the woman and just as he gets to her he see's a bronze goblet on the floor with a missing gem, not 5 feet from her. He picks up the goblet and places it on the table, "Mind if I join you m'lady?"
As Dwunderbran recoils in terror, so does Dolgrin, though more out of fear of imminent demise at the hands of Vulgarbeard than anything else. He immediately allows his spell to dissipate.
"Easy thar, brother. Twas only tryin' to make yer armor new real quick like. No 'arm intended."
Looking about for the stein he has been using, he spots it a couple feet away on the floor. Must've dropped it when the oaf paniced. He moves over and picks it up, and takes note of how disappointingly empty it has become.
"Come, Sir Vulgarbeard. Let us fill our tankards 'n rejoin the celebrations. Thar's another o' me clergy I'd like to introduce ye to."
Once the stein has been refilled from the cask, this time sampling the mead, Dolgrin heads over to where Sister Brewbane was being joined at her table by another of the revelers.
"Greetin's Sistar Brewbane. May we join ye as well?"
Turning to the other dwarf at the table, continuing, "Dolgrin Girndmar, at yer service. An' this dwarf be Dwunderbran Vulgarbeard," Dolgrin concludes, gesturing to Dwunderbran and awaits permission to join the table.
"greetings, Talon. I am Kal'Tos, a scholar of the arcane sciences. Here to bid farewell to a great dwarf, an event that must be done with much song, drink and great tales. Come, join me in honouring this man."
Daelric looks up at the 2 new arrivals, "Daelric Morieth, servant of Kols and protector of the innocent, at your service." I make some room for both Dolgrin and Dwunderbran to sit down, "You may sit here if you like, or would you rather sit next to your sister?"
Dolgrin considers the seats for but a moment before having a chair beside Maven rather than put her in close proximity of the uncouth dwarf. "Well met, Daelric, if only under better circumstances 'n this. Maven and myself be servants of Torag, if'n ye 'aven't guessed." Dolgrin clasps his iron pendant holding his beard braid together.
"Aye the circumstances could be better, but it is through pain and loss that we are able to appreciate what we have in life. It is my duty to make sure that those who cannot defend themselves, never have to suffer the pain of loss prematurely. So, you both follow the father and I follow the son? Would you raise a tankard with me, in the honour of Torag and Kols?" Daelric also touches his stone pendant that is hanging from his neck, before holding his tankard of mead out, readying himself for the clank.
"greetings, Talon. I am Kal'Tos, a scholar of the arcane sciences. Here to bid farewell to a great dwarf, an event that must be done with much song, drink and great tales. Come, join me in honouring this man."
Talon nods genially, "Well met, Kal'Tos. I'm a ranger by trade, a guide actually. I never knew Hraggir personally, though I've heard of him of course. I've no objection to drinking to his memory though." Standing he raises his tankard and shouts, . Talon takes a prodigious swig from his stein before sinking back to his seat. Wiping foam from his beard he turns to Kal'Tos with a grin, "I hate drinking with strangers. So tell me about yourself."
A gust of rank air and an indignant plop next to the Stonelord announce once more the presence—wanted or not—of Dwunderbran Vulgarbeard, the roiling and spilling foam of his drink's head a testament to the dwarf's general state of obliviousness. Seeing drinks raised in an apparent toast, Dwunderbran feels compelled to oblige, though it is not immediately clear whether he is sharing in the gesture or attacking everyone's drinks with his own. Streams of amber and gold libations mingle and share a resting place atop the impressively worked stone table, managing to land short of any one's plates. The guttural peal of the seemingly mad dwarf's laughter carries throughout the meadhall as fiercely as the rhythm of the hammers his present company is so accustomed to—a laugh that seems intent on continuing despite the torrent of mead that is sliding down his throat and beard. With a bellow of a belch, he draws his hairy forearm across his mouth to alleviate the sudden dampness on his face.
Dwunderbran turns to regard Daelric formally, drawing a thumb the size of a small sausage to point towards himself as he rambles off an introduction. "Me da' and ma' had the wits ta fit me with a name dandier 'an a forge in Highhelm, ye grab me? Dwunderbran Vulgarbeard! Mettle o' metal an' a wit sharper 'an a shark's biters, aye?" The name Dwunderbran is not readily known, but the family name sticks out in your mind: Vulgarbeard. A family of respected merchants and craftsman brushing just short of the crust of Highhelm's upper societal echelons. It is a strong name that carries honor and integrity with it, and the Vulgarbeard clan is renowned for impeccable business ethics and respectful candor. But this? If he is truly a Vulgarbeard as he claims, he is certainly an anomaly—a black sheep of the family. The ram's head motif that dominates the dwarf's breastplate and pauldrons seems to lend its own mockery to the notion.
Dwunderbran's antics stop suddenly and with exclamation as he turns to regard the vision of beauty sitting beside Dolgrin. Brows raise as his eyes go wide, mouth slowly making its way agape before he manages to stammer out a few choice words. "Cross me nethers and frolic in a patch o' lilies. I've nary seen a lass sprouted so true afore in all me days. Dolgrin, ye sly dag! Ye dinnae mention yer beaut' of a sissy."
Dolgrin prepares to join Daelric's toast, when another is called out across the hall. He stands and joins in the formal toast, then clanks his stein a second time to Daelric's. As Dwunderbran boasts on Maven's beauty, Dolgrin blushes at the confusion.
"N...nay she's not me sister, blood wise. We be Brother's 'n Sistar's in Torag's clergy, friend. We know each other from our work 'round the forge a' the Temple."
Hearing the toast Daelric also rises and joins in with the toast. Then upon sitting again he continues to toast with his original toast. He seems to hold his nose mentally, "Dwunderbran, eh? Are you also a clergy member then, if so who's teaching do you follow?"
Then he hears Dwunderbran's comment and he looks to the lady sitting beside him, "You are very pretty, a face carved from marble from some of the best stonesmith's of all time. You are both in the Clergy and follow Torag, would either of you happen to be skilled in the arts of armour crafting?"
Taking a real interest in the conversation, Dolgrin replies, "Almost all 'o Torag's clergy be smiths of some capacity, I'm sure he be aware. But Sister Brewbane 'n me'self be more 'n capable smithies. I forged this 'ere armor I be wearin', as well as me shield 'n 'ammer. 'N the Vulgarbeards commissioned me ta make Mr. Dwunderbran's armor as well. Before I closed me shop, 'at is."
Seeing the mostly mismatched group at a table, Edrukk noticed something. Many of them wore better armor than the rest and some of them even looked like their armor had seen some use. Some of the more posh crusties had started giving the table a wide berth, which suited him well as the room had begun to get more crowded with latecomers.
And with the smelly one joining them, I will seem all the more tolerable by comparison.
With that, he filled his mug once again and made his way over, sitting heavily into the chair and placing his mug on the table.
"Don't mind me, just findin' somewhere ta loosen ma belt. I ate a clan's worth o'that roast and its puttin' up a good fight, heh."
Maven's expression grows more flustered with each comment as the ring of Dwarves almost seems to close around her. Every bit of concentration goes to controlling her composure and keeping her skin tone from matching her hair.
"A...Aye. I smith...weapons and armor mostly. Torag showed me an anvil, an' I answered with a hammer. Been poundin' metal ever since."
She tries to keep her eyes on her mutton leg, if only to keep from anxiously glancing around the room.
Daelric smiles at Dolgrin's reply, "That's good, I wonder ... how much would it cost me to have a Stone shield with the symbol of Kols embossed upon it? I would like one of the same size as my current one..." He picks up his shield and shows it to them, it has seen some use and is covered in scratches and chips missing from it, although it has been polished and looks like care has been given to it. "...I am hoping to get a suit of stone plate too, but I think the Shield would be better for myself at the moment." He then places his shield down again.
Seeing Edrukk join the group Daelric nods at him, "Welcome to our little corner of the hall, feel free to make yourself comfortable. As long as our female companion here doesn't mind the company."
Spying the shield presented and the question poised, Maven's mind changes gears quickly, though she almost seems to be thinking out loud rather than answering a query. "Shield that size, made of stone, needs fittings and frame to hold shape, has to be thicker to absorb hits, needs alchemical treating to resist the weather...could make one for around twenty gold pieces...could make a GOOD one for about thrice that... "Eh?" Her eyes seem to snap back to focus as she hears yet another new voice.
I shoulda brought me hammer...feel so exposed without it.
Daelric smiles at the pretty lady, "60 Gold coins? That sounds reasonable, how much to make it quickly but still keep it structurally sound? How long will it take to create?" Daelric seems quite excited about the prospect of a new shield. "What about the armour?"
"Come by the temple after the celebration and ask for Sister Brewmane and Brother Girndmar, 'n we can talk out the particulars. Now be the time for rejoicing 'n enjoyin' each others company."
Dolgrin turns and greets Edrukk, "Greetin's, names Dolgrin."
"greetings, Talon. I am Kal'Tos, a scholar of the arcane sciences. Here to bid farewell to a great dwarf, an event that must be done with much song, drink and great tales. Come, join me in honouring this man."Talon nods genially, "Well met, Kal'Tos. I'm a ranger by trade, a guide actually. I never knew Hraggir personally, though I've heard of him of course. I've no objection to drinking to his memory though." Standing he raises his tankard and shouts, . Talon takes a prodigious swig from his stein before sinking back to his seat. Wiping foam from his beard he turns to Kal'Tos with a grin, "I hate drinking with strangers. So tell me about yourself."
My tale is rather short, I have been studying the arcane sciences with master Stronghelm. We have been traveling throughout the 5 Kings mountains collecting rare ingredients for arcane experiments. Hraggir funded Stronghelm's work so I may be in need of work shortly.
Daelric nods, "Sister Brewmane, Brother Girndmar, I shall come to the temple after the celebrations to speak more about the commissioned armour. I thank you both." Daelric reaches further into the table and pulls another leg of boar towards him and starts to eat it eagerly, grease running down his chin, he wipes it away with a cloth before it reaches his beard. Then takes a swig of his Mead.
"Dwunderbran, eh? Are you also a clergy member then, if so who's teaching do you follow?"
"Nay, nay. Said me fair share o' 'Besmara, ye sour teeted otter, don't sink me ship!' prayers, but it were stormin' fierce the whole lot o' trips when me blubberin' piped up, aye? Best ta folla me heart, I say. Or me nose, in the case o' the fella what called fer this celebratin'. Cannae say whose funeral this be, but I raise me mug ta the dead bastard all the same." Another swig affords a momentary reprieve from the awful affront that is Dwunderbran's breath, though the resulting belch and exhale of alcoholic fumes is not buffer enough when it renews its assault. "Aye, but tha' Trudd fella gots a nice ring to 'im, ya grab me? Can't fancy meself sittin' through any one else's sermons ta be sure. An' besides, men o' the cloth're just a buncha polite cutthroats askin' fer handouts. If'n their gods were rightly here, they'd miracle us outta these disasters, aye? Nay, they could nae give thrice a shyte 'bout us jink grabbin' lichen lickers."
The fact that he has just insulted the three people of faith at the table does not seem to occur to him, but the zeal for life creeps back into his facial expressions as a new face joins the table. Dwunderbran gives Edrukk a favorable look as he downs the remainder of his mead. His eyes inevitably find themselves staring at the emblem on Edrukk's armor. A far more somber look grips Dwunderbran's face, and he nods with reverence to the table's new resident. "Yer an old'n then, aye, boy-o? Cannae say nothin' but salute yans fer the work ye an' yer boys do in the stink pits below, aye? Hoped to join up meself once, but. . . ah, 'at's a tale fer another funeral, then. To the Seventh!" Dwunderbran raises a mug towards Edrukk, only now remembering he had drained its contents moments prior. Glancing beside him to Daelric's cup to see if the Stonelord is watching—and he is, not that it stops him—Dwunderbran pours a frothy splash of the other man's beverage into his own cup then continues his salute.
Dolgrin raises his stein in Erdrukk's honor, his mood taking a sour turn once again as memories of the death of Kordin to the Drow creep back into his mind.
"To the Seventh," he says somberly.
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In the midst of the conversations and celebrations, Halsiig spies an opportunity as the pair of priests drawing Vigar's attention departs his table. Smoothing out his robe as he stands, Halsiig glances about the other celebrants and weaves a path through caterers carrying trays of food and drink to the table. Casting furtive glances around the mead-hall, Halsiig side-steps the priests as they make their way to the steps to descend away from the table.
"A thousand pardons," Halsiig murmurs as he graciously moves aside for them. Then, with a flick of his eyes upwards, the white-clad kalistocrat moves hastily down the length of the table nearer to Vigar. Wringing gloved hands together, he stoops in a bow and upturns his pale gray eyes to the stonelord. "Lord Skuldafn," he croons, extending one gloved hand in greeting. "Halsiig of clan Halfhammer, your father was an honorable debtor to the prophecies and served as a fine business partner on several ventures."
Looking stirred from more distant things, Vigar stares at Halsiig's proffered hand as if not sure what to make of it. A moment later Vigar remembers himself and smiles awkwardly, reaching out to shake the gloved hand firmly. "Well met, cousin. You're the son of Falgaard Halfhammer, aren't you? My father spoke highly of him, a fine cleric of the Father." That last word is spoken the way a knife is brandished -- warning -- we revere the old ways, it suggests. Vigar's quick glance down to the symbol of the Prophecies of Kalistrade drives the notion home.
Halsiig is undeterred, however, and nods once in recognition while at the same time sliding out a chair for himself to join Vigar's table. After all, a conversation of ancestry cannot justly be held without proper comforts to speak long and full. Both men know the maneuvering, Vigar the one to realize he'd played into it. "The Halfhammer clan is a humble and small one, neither as noble nor as powerful as the Skuldafn. My father too spoke highly of yours; an honorable and just kin with strong convictions. May he carry them on into the stone beyond."
"A kalistocrat does not speak without a ledger held in one hand," Vigar suggests, looking Halsiig up and down. "What lingering business of my father's have you come to collect on during this ceremony?" Halsiig feigns surprise at the rightful accusation, laying a hand on his own chest just below his full beard.
"Nothing of the sort, your father's debts have been cleared with his passing," Halsiig waves a hand across the table as if conjuring some sort of accounting miracle that makes past debt disappear in a puff of smoke or some such nonsense. "I am here not to speak of the dead, but to speak of the future." Vigar's brows furrow at the suggestion, and he slouches to one side in his chair, resting a closed fist against his cheek, elbow propped up on his chair's arm.
"Go on," Vigar tiredly acquiesced, motioning with his tankard-hand to Halsiig.
"Janderhoff grows silent, my lord," Halsiig scoots his chair closer with a scuff of wooden legs on stone. "It has been three full seasons since we have heard report from them. Even Highhelm's roots collapse from the fractures caused by those dark elf filth..." Trailing off, Halsiig glances down to an empty mug on the table.
"What if I told you," Halsiig's stare flicks back to Vigar, "that in an age when all other prophecies fail, the Prophecies of Kalistrade still speak truths applicable beyond the bounds of Druma?" Vigar's brows furrow and his eyes narrow, regarding Halsiig with some suspicion now.
"Lord Skuldafn," Halsiig looks out to the crowd of funeral goers, briefly, then back. "I believe I have interpreted a sign in the Prophecies of Kalistrade, one that could lead to the prosperity of our people beyond this time of second darkness. Just as our ancestors were shown to the Sky by the Father of Creation, so too must we in our own age of darkness begin our own quest."
Vigar raises a hand for Halsiig to stop, and looks frustrated. "What could words written by a human say of our people, or our prosperity?" Halsiig strokes his beard, then rubs his forefingers and thumb together before leaning in closer to Vigar.
"Think like your father,' Halsiig suggests, "think like a brilliant tactician and military leader. Our backs are pinned to a wall built thousands of years ago, a wall that while sturdy looks more and more like the wall of a tomb as time passes." Halsiig raises a brow and shakes his head. "The dark elves beneath us, a demon lord and the whispering tyrant to our north, a runelord to the west..." He searches Vigar's eyes for recognition, "Where would we go if all else fails? East into the arms of the red wyrm Choral? To watch the fall of Taldor and be buried in it?"
Vigar's silence is consumed by the fire Halsiig's charismatic nature. "My lord, we have always been pioneers. Going where our kind have never tread before." Then, like any good showman, Halsiig prepares for the proper closing of his act as he pushes his chair back and smooths out his robe again. Vigar's eyes show a spark of curiosity, and then expectation.
"Think on that," Halsiig notes, quietly. "If you are intrigued, come find me at the hall of clan Halfhammer when all this,' he motions to the hall, "is put to rest." All Vigar can do is muster a few short nods, his eyes already searching the possibilities of truth in some of Halsiig's words.
And Halsiig? He bows deeper than before, and backs down the steps of the dais before slipping back into the crowd of celebrants, leaving Vigar with much to consider.
Thinking about the measurements of the shield and armor in stone and the particulars of stonework, Maven's expression changes to a burning glare almost instantly as the malodorous lout speaks ill of her order. Clenching a fist on the table, she guides a bite of cheese to her mouth without taking eyes off the Vulgarbeard, and chews with a slow, menacing rhythm.
Celebration. Funeral. Feast. NO fighting. NO fighting.
Thinking about the measurements of the shield and armor in stone and the particulars of stonework, Maven's expression changes to a burning glare almost instantly as the malodorous lout speaks ill of her order. Clenching a fist on the table, she guides a bite of cheese to her mouth without taking eyes off the Vulgarbeard, and chews with a slow, menacing rhythm.
Celebration. Funeral. Feast. NO fighting. NO fighting.
Dolgrin notes Maven's rising anger, then shakes himself out if his self pity and thinks back on what Dwunderbran said, then suddenly realized what the oaf had claimed about the Father.
"Dwunderbran, lad, ye need ta watch yer tongue when ye speak o' the Father 'n 'is children like that. The mortal realm is ours to tend to, 'n the Gods 'elp us as they see best. 'Tis nay our place to judge them. Who knows what else be goin' on in the other planes that they may be tendin' to."
Dolgrin notes the conversation held at the head table between Vigar and Halsiig, and can see that whatever was said has obviously put their host into deep thought. Nudging Daelric and nodding towards Halsiig as he departs, Dolgrin says, "I wonder what Halfhammer said ta Lord Skuldafn to put h'is gears ta turnin' so..."
Dolgrin gathers together a plate of sausage and mushroom bread and begins eating. He signals a servant to refill his stein with mead.
My tale is rather short, I have been studying the arcane sciences with master Stronghelm. We have been traveling throughout the 5 Kings mountains collecting rare ingredients for arcane experiments. Hraggir funded Stronghelm's work so I may be in need of work shortly.
Talon grunts his understanding, "Times are hard all over. Maybe the son will continue his fathers patronage. That's him over there isn't it?" Nodding towards Halsiig moving through the crowd. "You should get your master to talk to him. Actually it might not be a bad idea to talk to him yourself. Find out which way the wind's blowing."
Angrin sat in a quiet corner, half-regretting that he had no gifts to bring to the mourning family, half-reminded of his own family's recent demise, a thought that brought a burst of rage into him once more. Patience, lad, patience... there will be time aplenty for vengeance upon the betrayer... It was odd, how the words came in the voice of his old master. Well, perhaps not that odd, but the tangled-bearded dwarf needed something to think about to distract himself from the ongoing celebration.
Then Halisig speaks up, and Angrin's attention is caught. A new place? Interesting... Perhaps he could leave behind the memories, at least until he had a chance to sink his rapier into that bloody drow's belly. Repeatedly. He growled, and took a sip of his ale, slowly judging its taste. Not bad, really. Perhaps he could one day make such ale as this... The thought made him smile, very briefly.
Daelric also glenches a fist as the foul breathed man speaks foul words of The Father and The Oath-Keeper. "Please do not speak ill of the Father, his son or other family in front of myself or our 2 devoted followers again, Mister Dwunderbran. Insult me all you like, but not them." As Daelric says Mister Dwunderbran there is an obvious anger in his tone, once that is only subsided by the nudging of an elbow in his side. He turns to look at Halsiig and then looks to his nudger, "I am not sure what was said, but it is the result of what was said I am curious to see."
Daelric turns back to take some of his drink when he see's Dwunderbran take some of his mead, he breathes in loudly through his nose, an almost angry mood. But then just reaches out for Dolgrin's tankard, takes it and goes to the keg of mead, where he fills both up to the brim and comes back to the table. He hands Dolgrin back his newly filled drink and smiles. He then realizes his manners and turns to Edrukk places his hand over his stone symbol, lowers his head "To the Seventh!"
Edrukk raises his cup, returning the toast to the seventh.
"Aye, its a terrible way to live down there, but it's an honor all the same. I am Edrukk Odolgun, from Rolgrimmdur's Clan Odolgun. Puttin' lead in screamer bodies'll do a number to yer mind, so they send us to these social functions ev'ry so often. Equally mind-mushin', but the food's a hell of a lot better. Some'a you lot look like you can handle a bit o' violence, what kind of outfit are you?"
"I have trained in the temple of Kols for many years, but have spent most of my life as a miner, I have to say I still do it to help out whenever I have the free time. You could say the mining is also combat training, especially when you use a pick as a weapon..." Daelric smiles and he picks up his pick, then he places it down again, "...Something about hard work and helping others seems so appealing. Most of my combat experience is fighting Goblins and Orcs, filthy creatures! They have killed many innocent workers, fathers, brothers and sons." His tone seemed jolly to begin with, but upon the mentioning of Goblins and Orcs his tone takes a very serious and angry turn.
Daelric looks at the weapons at Edrukk's side, "What are they? I haven't seen anything like that before?" His tone almost back to normal, with a huge hint of curiosity.
"Ah, these are pistols. Loud as all get-out, but'll punch through most any armor at 20 paces. Shoots a bullet faster'n most can dodge. Way of the future, I bet, but I still carry a warhammer for when someone gets a mind to peck me on the cheek." Edrukk quickly exhales in what could almost be a half of a laugh before taking another drink from his mug.
Daelric looks a little surprised, "Such little things can do so much and rip through armour?! Well lets hope I don't have to come across anyone using them. Although I doubt that my enemies would have access to such rare and exotic weapons. Am I correct in assuming you prefer to fight at range then?"
Angrin sat in a quiet corner, half-regretting that he had no gifts to bring to the mourning family, half-reminded of his own family's recent demise, a thought that brought a burst of rage into him once more. Patience, lad, patience... there will be time aplenty for vengeance upon the betrayer... It was odd, how the words came in the voice of his old master. Well, perhaps not that odd, but the tangled-bearded dwarf needed something to think about to distract himself from the ongoing celebration.
Talon spy's Angrin's grim face and calls out, "Ho lad. Cheer up. There'll be time for looking all grim and foreboding later. Right now we celebrate the life of a great Dwarf. Come join us in a mug or two."
Shimon sits as in a reverie, close to the others, occasionally taking a few bites of his food or a swig of his ale. He didn't know the dwarf whose funeral this was very well. In fact, there were only a few he could say he knew more than passingly well, for he was a particularly taciturn and reserved dwarf, never exhibiting the boisterousness that some of his kin did. He did, however, help build Hraggir Skuldafn's tomb.
The stone, rock, the earth, it spoke to him, so he did not often feel the need to speak to others. The earth told him to dig, to unlock the secrets it hid and to delve structures into it's mass. Recently, however there was less and less call for such things. The dwarves of Highhelm had trouble enough hanging on to the parts of the Sky Citadel that they did. Expanding was seldom a priority. Except, of course, when some one needed a tomb. It was more than two decades ago that he was called upon to delve out a space for Hraggir's body to be laid to rest. He was just a young dwarf then, but already he heard the earth calling to him.
He and his fellow miners spent hours and hours working on the magnificent structure over months of time. But even with all that work, Shimon did not grow weary. Certainly his body tired of the work, but his spirit remained willing. Shaping the earth, bit by bit, swing by swing until finally it was formed into a suitable resting place for a dwarf of high stature. He would never forget it...
The great stone doors, beautiful things as all dwarven craftmanship are, engraved with gods and demons, dwarves and mountians, every eye a gem, every swordstroke a cluster of jewels and the very faces of gods inlaid with gold. These very magnificent doors burst loudly open, roughly and forcefully exploding inward as a lone dwarf entered. Well beyond fashionably late, almost to the point of rudeness this lone dwarf advanced forward. Clad from head to foot in rough hewen stone so marked with chips and abrasions as to resemble worn stone moreso than the once finely crafted and engraved stoneplate it was. To its side rested a slab of stone still covered in fresh gore and atop the pile of rocks sat a smaller one inset in a helmet so banged and dented and visably run through with cracks as to draw testament to the hardships it must have endured. Of the rock in its center, a face so smashed and misshappen, with a scowl and dull grey eyes framed by a scarred and bleeding brow blankly looked out over the mead hall.
Grunyar came early, he did not know the deceased but was told to come, that was what everybody was doing anyway. And they were giving away free ale. So he came, sat in a corner trying to stay out of the way and sang with the crowds, that part he liked. He was using his best clothes, pistol and dagger but not the silk armor. After working the morning shift he did not care for the strange looks his foreign armor usually got. But now surrounded by a mostly heavily armored mob he felt as much as an outsider as he usually do.
Not sure if the mood of the funeral is cheerfull or sad he does not remember ever attending one before. But after a couple of steins the young dwarf manages to forget his doubts and overcome his natural shyness. A series of toasts to the 7th batalion catch his attention and he recognizes the insignia in the armor of a mourner nearby. One of the dwarfs at that table calls out to the lad right besides him.
Grunyar turns and adresses Angrin Thronebearer.
Hi, yes? They seem to be calling you. pointing.
He then gets up and moves to the other table.
A young and skinny, by dwarven standarts, redheaded dwarf takes a sit besides Edrukk Odolgun. He seems to be a little tipsy as he adresses the soldier.
Hello officer. My name is Grunyar, yes Grunyar. I work at the Gun Works. I was wondering if the 7th already got the new 5 ton screamers and what did you fine folks thought about them. Marvelous pieces, yes marvelous.