Or maybe a bird.
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“Law career?” Sir Togril shakes his head, “I am no scholar or judge. I was gifted with a strong back and knack for the forge. Back home, none of my peers could match my endurance behind the anvil and kiln.” “Smithing is the highest praise to the Master Craftsman, but I was called into a path of Guardianship.” The young dwarf finds his words easily, as though the truth needed only speaking to clear his uncertainty. “And protect, I will.” “I know now that my assertion to confront this ‘Fen’ leader might have been foolhardy, like blindly marching into an ambush. Strategy is as high a tenant to Torag as Crafting...” he raises a bushy eyebrow to the traveling musician, “How long have you lingered in this city? What do you know of this man?”
A nudge of common sense prods the new knight to look about the tavern, in case a stranger was listening in on his intentions. If someone was, perhaps they too had information on Fen.
Smithing isn’t the job for you… The young dwarven blacksmith does not remember returning to the tavern, yet there he sat, with a tankard of ale in his hands. Smithing isn’t the job for you… The new knight blinks and then shakes his head, realizing he was lost in thought while in the company of this musician, Fizkin. Pushing the doubt from his mind, Sir Togril mumbles an apology for poor manners and takes one great gulp and turns his attention to the gnome. “So, wanderer, it looks like I am without work, and I am sure the other smithies will have heard of my failure. Perhaps one of ships at the docks are in need of a laborer...” The dwarf knight thinks aloud, before downing another gulp of his ale.
DO NOT LET THIS GAME GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT (bump)
I'll admit, I laughed.
The dwarf blacksmith raises a hand in protest when the gnome produces a coin. “I will take responsibility for my actions, thank you.” He turns to the blacksmith, “I was not aware that the citizens here endured corrupt lawmen, and acted as mice in the face of unjust thuggery. So, I stood up to these imposters of justice and peace-keeping, and tried to remove them from their station. Surely, it is better for your neighbors to live in peace and without fear than it is to rest with a heavier purse at day’s end. A man of your quality certainly understands, yes? I will repay you the coin I earned today, and I will no longer work for you, since I did not keep my promise to continue working.” Five silver coins and seven coppers drop from his labor-calloused hands onto the master blacksmith’s bench.
Wanderer. Singer. Beggarman. Drifter... I wonder if he's worked a day in his life... The Knight of Torag chuckles at Fizkin's enthusiasm as his stout dwarven legs carry him down the road.
Oh my. No wonder he found trouble so easily. "Fizkin," the knight mulls the name in his mind, "Well met. There is no mystery to my name or purpose. Apprentice Guardian Sir Togril Emberforge is what I am called at home, though 'Sir Emberforge' will be fine while I am out in the world." "I remember your music and merriment in the tavern last night. I am also new to this city, I found work in a smithy just over a week ago-" The young dwarf stops short, suddenly remembering his promise to the blacksmith. He stands abruptly, the wood chair scooting loudly behind him. "Damn the dross. I must return to the forge. My apologies, but I cannot share a drink with you right now." Sir Togril makes for the door of the tavern, to make a beeline to the forge.
Sir Togril sits down across the table from the gnome. "You did not answer my question earlier," he states, "What is your name?"
The blacksmith’s caterpillar eyebrows raise at the tirade, taken aback. Still bewildered, he follows the gnome, resolving to return when the justicar is feeling more reasonable. And quiet. As they exit the Hall of Justice, he leans and murmurs to wanderer. “You shouldn’t need to bribe officials, especially one such as he. Adjudicator Cumberbatch had no evil intent -unlike his two inferiors we encountered, who I hope will bear the brunt of the Adjudicator's wrath. Save your coin for better things.” Recognizing the amicable gesture, the knight quietly follows the musician to the establishment of his choosing.
The dwarf nods a bow in respect, “I am Sir Togril,” Sir Togril clears his throat uncomfortably, and uses the tone of one bearing bad news. “It pains me to say that some enforcers of the law abuse their power for amusement,” he indicates to the two thug escorts, “and the citizens of this fine city live in fear of that abuse. They goad the innocent to break laws, and those who resist, they falsely accuse. I am here to see that they are removed from their station, and serve the proper sentence.” The knight steels himself for the potential offense of the seated elder, muttering for Torag’s protection under his breath.
Despite the troubling unknown ahead, the gnome’s comment brings a smile and a low, brief chuckle from the knight. A chaser of stories. He may not be so bad after all...
Sir Togril purses his lip, thinking. “I know.” he whispers back, “But the smart thing to do is not always the right thing to do. The townsfolk were afraid to raise even a word against these dark-hearted brutes. But wanton violence against thugs is no improvement. I would like to meet this Fenn and determine his quality before making my decision.” “I do not know your place in this, and I see no wickedness in your heart. I will not begrudge you if you ran, but there is a wrong here I must right. These people do not deserve to live in fear,” the whispering blacksmith adds. He draws himself to full height as they enter the hall.
The young knight proceeds quietly, his brow furrowed into a puzzled expression.
He turns a sideways look to the gnome who seemed to be trying to distance himself from the two thugs. “What is your name, anyway?”
Casting an unsure glance at the rover, the knight of Torag answers the odd question with surety. "No. But any infraction he committed, if any, will be seen to after I see that you no longer corrupt the law with your thuggery." "Come. If you will not accompany me, then I will bring the officials to you." The young blacksmith takes a few steps toward the city hall.
This must be why the people were trying to avoid them! Sir Togril nods tersely at the Fizkin’s words, his suspicions on the two men confirmed. Hoping to bolster the courage of the commoners, he adds to the end of the announcement, “I can see the evil written on your hearts. I will not abide your bullying of the weak, and your abuse of the law will not protect you from it. I will report you to Fen himself,” he turns and points to the gnome, “and you’re coming with, so we can properly sort this out.” He hesitates, remembering the forge, but pushes it from his mind. Justice must be upheld. Crafting must wait.
The young knight tries to place the familiar boar’s head sigil as he weighs a reply to the apparent law-keepers in this town. From the mastermind to the pennythief, all wickedness must be held accountable. He wearily runs a smithy-blackened hand over his braided beard, not relishing the thought of disrupting the peace to purge the corruption from these officials. He does not break his quiet eye contact with the man that spoke.
...yeah...
The dwarf knight raises a hand to the small rover’s insistence. “Easy. Fighting in the city will get the both of us into trouble. Besides, I suspect this to be simple misunderstanding, these two fine men wouldn’t try stealing from a harmless wandering troubadour, am I right?” He smiles at the towering men in front of him. Sir Togril knew types like this excitable gnome –they throw their words around with little thought. Still, the young blacksmith preferred to err on the side of caution.
The dwarf knight raises thick eyebrows to form an “is this true?” expression at the two thuggish men.
Damn the dross! I’ll surely be working after sundown for this… Sir Togril steps back inside to retrieve his shield. He double-checks the warhammer hanging from his belt and buckles the shield straps before striding out of the work station and onto the street. Watching the two leathernecks chasing the one who shouted for help, the young blacksmith furrows his bushy brown eyebrows. Hmph, did the musician bet too high a wager? Why is everyone acting so strangely? The knight of Torag takes a few steps forward, separating himself from those that are trying to avoid the scene. He looks at the bigger of the two muscular men. “What’s going on here?” He resists the urge to rest a hand on his hammer, well aware of the city’s laws on civilian violence in the street. His shield arm hangs at his side. The dwarf looks over the three, muttering a prayer to the Master Craftsman to help him discern friend from foe.
Odd…
Sir Togril glances around for the forge master before peeking out of the shop to look down the road, curious of the cause of the strange behavior.
Oooh! I bet Bane-Edge is glad he has a RANGER by his side!
The young blacksmith smiles wistfully at the sound of the small groaning belly. He steps forward and drops the coins into the boy’s hand. “Very well, boy. Take these coppers, and come back once you’re fed if you want to earn a bit of honest coin.” Sir Togril straightens, “Now, I’m already behind on my work. Stay safe, child.” The dwarf knight scarcely resumes the rhythmic blows of his hammer when a familiar voice calls for a smith in the street. That colorful gnome from the inn. What in the blazes could he want from a blacksmith, so urgently? He hears the clanging of other smithies along the docks, and when he looks up from the anvil, does not see the master smith of the forge he works. I hope he did not get himself into trouble…
The dwarf knight pauses to wipe the sweat from his face. He sighs and smiles patiently at the beggar boy. He reaches into his coin purse and holds up three copper pieces for urchin to see. “Penny for your thoughts, son. What do you want to be when you grow up?” His beckoning gesture indicates that he wants a quick response. I ought to speak to a city councilor about these homeless children…
Togril calls out a word between each strike, eager to finish the order on time. “Can… I… help… you… son?”
Sir Togril spares a cheerful nod to the boy, but otherwise continues working. The three urchins must have friends. Surely, he knows not to disturb a tradesman? I already lost enough time this morning...
GALLONS
With a small fortune, I can craft some proper plate mail, perhaps feed a few more empty bellies. The dwarf knight nods with a final strike of his hammer.
Not me. Togril wants to forge nails and copper rings FOREVER.
Emberforge shrugs and continues working, somewhat embarrassed his mistake was noticed.
Ah, got it. A "Space" flavored terrain would be really cool, by the way.
I would prefer if we kept it medieval. An evil-smiting blacksmith wouldn't belong in the future with its confusing morality and whatnot.
I liked the maximum ridiculosity, though I was worried that Togril would suck a lot of ass in a sci-fi game. I definitely wasn’t expecting ALIENS. Good one, brah. As for super silly or no, I wouldn’t mind, at the very least, to keep it light. This wide world was just as fun before spacecrafts and lasers came crashing in.
The young knight hurries from the dockside wreckage to the market-place, warily coming up on the landed black ships.
He whirls his warhammer hard at the towering crab-hide.
The slow and steady mind of Sir Togril Emberforge has little time to consider the sudden chaos around him. What. The dwarf lunges, and narrowly escapes the collapsing building. His scale armor crunches as he rolls to a stop, and he stands. Damn these monsters, he looks over burning town, the unbidden carnage and violence steeling his resolve. His dwarven hands form fists, and he feels the weight of his warhammer, and misses the weight of his shield. Knowing he has only seconds to spare, he frantically kicks aside the nearby wreckage to find something, anything, to cover his shield arm. He mumbles a prayer for the soul of the kind blacksmith that hired the young wayward knight, and hopes he can protect others from a similar fate.
Sir Togril lets the hammer fall especially hard to punctuate his interest, and he meets the eye of the forgemaster, but does not break in his work.
Sir Togril Emberforge strides quickly to the forge, blinking through sleepy eyes with mild interest at the docks he passes to reach his workstation. He was relieved to see little or no damage from the night before, and wondered if Quaesitor Bane-Edge successfully deterred the water spirit.
The young knight relaxes behind his shield; a bit disappointed he could not keep the watery being away from the ships. He watches the creature bounce and bob playfully through the brine and timber, and shrugs. These ships would not be seaworthy if they could not withstand a bit of weather. Likewise, I will not be forge-worthy if I do not get my rest… Sir Togril turns to Tyro. “Sorry friend, but I am of little use here. I must call it a night.” And with that, the Paladin of Torag trundles back into the inn, safe from the thrashing storm. He removes his armor and fights to stay awake long enough to thoroughly clean it, softly chanting hymns as he does so. Not a moment too soon, the young dwarf goes to sleep.
The young knight’s frown is battered by the heavy rain. “Do not doubt yourself, Tyro. Find him, wake him, and bring him here. The captains and crews of these ships won’t have work at sunrise if we leave her be.”
Sir Togril nods in agreement. “True. I am reluctant to interfere with a force of nature, but she is a danger to everything dockside. You can try to find someone who knows more about these, and I’ll keep her occupied,” he shrugs, “maybe I can get the message across.” The young knight steps back to the water spirit, slowly lowering his arms, enunciating his words. “Calm… down. Play… else… where.”
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