Dorin Rogalsen's page

In the early years of Dorin's life, many a long winter evening was spent listening to tales of Conan. His father Rogal, powerful as he was, could not speak of the Aquilonian King without a note of respect, perhaps even awe, in his voice. He told of his defeats at the Cimmerian's hands early in his life, and the scars he proudly bore from those battles. How later, they met as allies, fighting together in some of Conan's many adventures. The years in between, after the death of Thulsa Doom, when Rogal returned to the mercenary life he had known before, fueled to greater feats of strength by the memories of his defeats while in the cult of Doom. Finally, his return to Nordheim, to start a simple life, here on the farm with his family. And all these tales, often heard with his father's hammer in his hands, served to fuel a spark in the young Aesir's heart.

One day, he knew, he would earn his own place in the world with the strength of his arm, just as the great king once did. Though mighty Rogal went to join Ymir's great halls before Dorin reached his full growth, Dorin's faith in the warrior's path never wavered. He joined with a mercenary company, and often returned to his mother's home in Asgard to make sure all was well and provide for her and his sisters. Eventually, he would make a pilgrimage to Aquilonia, to offer his services to Conan's court, but that day would not come until he had performed deeds worthy to lay before the hero from his father's tales.

On one trip to his childhood home, he found it in a shambles, his mother cold-eyed and despairing. There had been a raid - slavers from the lands to the south. The limp in her step was new, but worse than that, his sisters were no longer there, taken by the raiders. Rage, hot and fierce, began to light its fire in Dorin's brain at this news, and he stepped to the wall where his father's hammer hung in a place of honor. Lifting it reverently, he hefted the giant weapon to his shoulder, and nodded to his mother. Without a further word, he walked out the door to find and return his kin, or failing that, destroy their captors.

Since that time, he has found his eldest sister, Rannveig, in the pit of sin men name Shadizar. She had been freed from the fate of a slave by the mysterious sorcerer Xanos Doom. Tragically, not before her tongue was cut out by those slavers, but she and her brother were revenged on those individuals before a day was out. Rannveig had become an independent soul in her time away from her family, and opted to travel with the sorcerer for a time, but Dorin continued his search - which seemed, inevitably, to lead him back to the man called Doom.

The slave market is as hot and loud as ever when the two Aesir, a giant of a man and a woman, nearly as tall, at his side, stride in. They are both armed, the woman wearing a sword at her hip, not unusual in Shadizar. But the man carries a gigantic warhammer of an unfamiliar style slung over his shoulder. The two resemble each other, both blonde and blue eyed with strong features, and their clear gazes sweep the square. After a moment, their eyes settle on a particular group. The two glance at one another, and the woman nods.

Rolling his neck from side to side, the man stamps his feet to settle his boots and steps forward. There is no sale going on at the moment, the day being young yet, but the slavers are beginning to rouse their wretched charges for the coming day, slapping them awake and sluicing off their filthy bodies with water scarcely cleaner than themselves.

The group the Aesir are moving toward huddles in a corner, still hidden from the relentless morning sun by the shade of the buildings nearby. It is a relatively small group, most of their human merchandise being sold off the previous day. There are only two slaves left, kept to see to to their master's needs, of whom only four are visible.

Before they are quite within earshot, the man turns to his companion, and says in a rumbling bass, "These are them?" When she nods, he snorts. "Then perhaps I owe Bastich an apology. He was right about where to find them, and there's only one less than he said." Without another word, he breaks into a run, leaving her only a step or two behind before she moves to follow.

The nearest slaver has just finished cinching a saddlebag tight and stretches his arms wide, beginning to turn around at the sound of approaching footsteps. He only barely has time for his eyes to widen as a huge fist fills his vision and slams into him, felling him to the ground. His companions give a shout and begin to scramble for their weapons, but the big man is already in motion. He spins and in one practiced action unslings his hammer and slams it into the chest of the next slaver. The man is hurled against the side of the horses he was loading, which shies and rears up, kicking out at another man in front of it. He doesn't react in time, and takes a blow to the temple, practically caving in his skull. The fourth man has managed to get his sword from his belt by this time, and starts to swing it at his Aesir attacker, but with an almost casual motion, the giant slaps the blade to the side, imbedding it in their wagon. The slaver yelps and turns to flee, but the Aesir shoulders his hammer and lets fly with a boot at his back, dropping him with a thud. The man crawls away as quickly as he can, but a boot presses into his spine, pinning him to the muddy ground, and he goes limp, knowing when it's time to surrender.

He whines, face barely out of the filthy street, "What have we done, mighty sir?! Whatever it is you want, you may take it, only let me live!"

He cuts off abruptly as the head of the hammer slams down next to his ear, scattering dirt and offal into the man's face. He splutters, trying to clear his eyes, when the boot lifts from his back and the big man growls down at him. "Perhaps, cur, though I doubt it. If you have the right words to say." As he struggles to rise, the same boot catches him in the stomach, flipping him over, and he stares up at the Aesir, whose mastered rage yet cloud his features.

Hammer ready at his shoulder, the barbarian says in a voice filled with anger, "I am Dorin, son of Rogal. This," he gestures to the woman behind him, who steps forward, "is Rannveig. My sister." The slaver's face pales as he recognizes the girl, a slave sold only a few days before. Dorin leans forward just a touch, a promise of blood in his eyes. "Answer my questions carefully, and I may yet leave your worthless skull intact."

The man nods hastily, his eyes darting about. "However I can help...ah, master." Dorin growls and steps forward threateningly, and the man gives a choked wail, raising his arms over his head in a futile gesture of protection. "I am no man's master! I have never tried to buy and sell lives, the way that you worthless southerners -" Rannveig lays a hand on her brother's arm, and he stops, looking over at her. He stares for a moment, and then sighs, backing down. "Yes, of course. I will not attempt to teach this trash, we have work to be done."

Turning back to the slaver, whose panic is growing under control by now, he raises his lip contemptuously. "Now then. The first question. I know you were not the first to...acquire my sister, since she was able to tell me herself. Where, and from who, did you find her?"

The man licks his lips nervously, and says, "We took her alone, in the western kingdoms. We raided another camp's slaves, that's all. She was gathering water with other women, but she was the only one we grabbed before we had to take off."

"Was there another Aesir there?" Dorin barks anxiously.

"No. No, I swear it on my mother's eyes!" the slaver blurts out.

Dorin nods thoughtfuly, his eyes on the sky. "Very well then. The west. At least we have more to go on."

He crouches down, resting his hand on his knees, to look the pathetic man in the face. "One last question." He leans closer, a dangerous light glimmering in his ice-blue eyes. "Were you the one who cut out my sister's tongue?" The man recoils, scrambling backwards.

"I'm afraid I had that honor, you useless brute of a pig farmer." The voice, more cultured than the others, rings out from behind Dorin, and the Aesir flinches as the blade of a sword presses into his back. "Get up. Slowly." Dorin does so slowly, grinding his teeth as his hands flex on the haft of the hammer. "Drop the stick, and turn around." With great reluctance, the giant drops his hammer to the ground and turns to face the newcomer.

He finds himself facing an Argossesan, whose clothes are finer than one might expect on a trader of flesh. He is flanked by two others, both carrying two long knives. Rannveig is held in front of one of them with his dagger to her throat, fear and anger flooding her face. Dorin growls deep in his throat, but the Argossean's saber comes up to his neck, held unwaveringly less than an inch from his veins. "Now, now, none of that." His gray eyes scan the Aesir, sizing him up. "You are a big one, aren't you? The brother, I presume." He allows himself a sly grin when Dorin's face darkens. "You're the reason we had to take her tongue, you know. She was constantly going on about you, Dorin will break your bones, he'll be here soon, all that drivel. We finally grew tired of it." Dorin moves forward, red rage boiling, but the Argossean simply flicks his wrist and cuts him deeply along his collar bone. Hissing, Dorin comes to a halt again as blood begins to flow down his chest.

"Now then. What to do with you." The Argossean taps his foot, amusement dancing across his expression. "You've done quite a number on my men here. Worthless as they are, they do probably deserve some sort of retribution, wouldn't you say? I would say that we'll simply take the both of you back. I get to sell her again, and you'll fetch a fine price yourself, once we've taken your eyes." His sword wanders up to waver around Dorin's face, circling each of his eyes. "We certainly couldn't trust you to stay docile, even in chains, if you could still fight properly...so, right to it, then. Ashtan!" he snaps at the slaver still sniveling on the ground behind Dorin. "Get up, you useless bag of sh*t. It only seems fair you get to do the deed." The one he addresses lowers his eyes, and squeaks out, "Yes, Thenio."

As the man scrambles up, there's a commotion behind Thenio, and a curse. His eyes flicker to the right, and he swears himself, sidestepping away as Rannveig continues her twist. She slips under her captor's arm and with a lightning flourish, cracks his wrist as she takes the dagger from his hand. The man howls in pain, starting to drop to his knees, and Rannveig unceremoniously slashes his throat away. The other guard gives a shout and runs toward her, and manages only to impale himself on her sword as she whips it free. Thenio drops into a defensive stance, taking a step forward with his eyes blazing anger at the Aesir girl.

He snarls, spitting out, "What the hell have you done, slut?! I'll flog your damned hide free from your bones! I'll -" he stops suddenly as there is a smacking noise and something moves in his peripheral vision. He shifts his stance to see Dorin, straightening with his hammer in hand, dripping with blood from the pulped skull of the last flunky, Ashtan. The Aesir stares at Thenio with pure murder in his eyes as the barbarian rage bubbles up in his brain. Before he can move, though, Rannveig's blade flashes into the picture, slicing the bastard across the face. Dorin blinks and shakes his head, his growing battle rage disrupted by the unexpected attack from his sister.

Rannveig stands proudly, sword in one hand and the guard's dagger in the other, a thin line of bright scarlet showing across her neck where the thug had held a knife to her throat. She gestures with the blade, indicating Dorin should back away, and he does so, understanding. This man is her enemy, in truth, and her battle if she wishes it.

The Argossean stands in shock, holding his left hand to his face, and it comes away covered in blood. His right cheek is badly slashed, nearly to the bone, and the cut only barely misses his eye. He snarls wordlessly at Rannveig, dropping into a defensive stance. As she begins to advance, though, he drops to the ground and hurls a clod of mud at her face. Unprepared for such a dishonorable tactic, she yelps in the confused mewl of the mute and paws at her eyes, dropping the dagger to the groud. Dorin roars and advances forward, but Thenio whirls and slaps the flat of his blade across the already uneasy horse's backside. The horse starts and attempts to run forward, nearly trampling Dorin in its rush. The giant swears and pushes the beast with all his strength, altering its course to move down the street.

When Rannveig has cleared her eyes and Dorin gotten out of the fleeing animal's way, neither can see sign of Thenio in the crowd of the square. Dorin starts forward, but Rannveig whistles and points toward a clump of guards on the other side of the square, lazily moving in their general direction. Law in Shadizar may be lax, but they're unlikely to simply pass over two bleeding foreigners charging through the busy market looking to disrupt the flow of coin. Dorin growls, clearly not happy about letting an enemy escape to fight another day, but moves in the other direction - back toward the gate where Xanos and the others are making ready to leave. He stops suddenly, turns around, and with quick, precise strikes, strikes the chains from the two slaves. He nods to them and turns back around, leaving them, gaping, to their unexpected freedom. Rannveig smiles softly and lays a hand on his shoulder, beautiful despite her injury and the scuffle. Dorin grins back and nods. "Well done today, sister. Never let me doubt your blade again."

She chuckles and smacks his arm as they move off.

A good start to the day.

Soon, they catch up with the rest of the group, and the two Aesir settle onto the back of the wagon without a word, Dorin nodding to Bastich thankfully. They begin to bandage their wounds, Rannveig gently wrapping clean linen around her brother's chest.

Even for an Aesir, Dorin stands above the rest. Nearly seven feet tall and built like a glacier, he has yet to meet the man larger than himself, except perhaps his father Rogal in his prime. Thick, unkempt blond hair runs to his shoulders, usually held back with a simple leather thong. He has only seen 22 winters, but in that time, has seen much of the world, and some things from beyond it. It shows in his weatherbeaten features, and the look in his ice-blue eyes.

He carries little gear with him, only a simple sack with a few provisions, preferring to travel light. He wears thick leather boots and leggings, suitable for a man who has done more than his share of marching along long roads, and rough iron greaves to compliment them, as a souvenir of his time in a mercenary troupe. Aside from these, he wears only a simple vest, and slung over his shoulder is his father's hammer - a truly gigantic weapon, the head as big around as some men's chests.

Things he always does:
Swagger, in his walk and in his talk.
Uphold his given word.
Wreak inexorable vengeance on those who earn it.

Things he never does:
Turn tail from an earthly opponent.
Walk away from a good meal.
Leave a shieldbrother in need.

Goals:
Find his kidnapped family.
Earn the name of a hero worthy of fighting by the mighty Conan's side.
Repay his debt of honor to Xanos Doom.