20. Dwarves smell terrible like stinky arm pits.
http:\\www.whydwarvesaredubm.com\OneMillionReasons.html
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They see us strolling,never encumbered,they be hating.
21. Dwarves fighting with Battle Axes when they are underground miners, not Lumberjacks.
21. Dwarves fighting with Battle Axes when they are underground miners, not Lumberjacks.
hey! we have to chop down the wood to support our mines somehow. and have you tryed swinging one of your fancy curve blades in a small cave?
it doesnt really work.
22. Too damned 'pick'y.
23. The only way they like to get hot and sweaty is with miners.
24. They get cranky at 'shaft'ing innuendo.
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A thread by another jealous gnome eh? Well you and yer elf buddies need to let yer emotions out somehow, so by all means continue with yer pity party!
25. Solid as stone...and twice as thick.
26. ...and thrice as dense, but I repeat myself.
27. That whole low-fecundity thing hints at 'performance anxiety', if you know what I mean.
28. Dwarf children keep Rats as pets.
29. Beards
They still be going at it! Urist, pull the lever for the seal on the shaft down to the Adamantine vein after we seal the gates! We'll see how mouthy they are when they have to deal with the demons of hell!
. . . and >this<
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30. Dwarves are harder to toss than the superior Halfling.
29. Beards
You say that like its a bad thing. if it werent for usaf regulations id already have one.
31. Dwarves count in Base64.
32. Dwarves cancelled Firefly
32. Dwarves cancelled Firefly
WHAT??? No wonder I hate them.
. . . and >this<
Although Dwarves are one of my favourite races. This( the above link) is seriously scary!
33. Did I say Fighting with Battle Axes?? They're miners.
I was thinking about dwarves today, and I still hate them.
Is there anything you hate more than Dwarves?
Is there anything you hate more than Dwarves?
Oh, jeepers no.
34 (HEH): Evidently, they summon overprotective Mrs. Rev. Lovejoy sorts to start 'sanitizing' threads while wailing, 'THINK OF THE CHILDREN'.
I won't say it, but there's a Carlin quote that comes to mind...
34 (HEH): Evidently, they summon overprotective Mrs. Rev. Lovejoy sorts to start 'sanitizing' threads while wailing, 'THINK OF THE CHILDREN'.
I won't say it, but there's a Carlin quote that comes to mind...
** spoiler omitted **
They stole my bit!
I was thinking about dwarves today, and I still hate them.
No change there, but ...
I'm playing a Hill Dorf in my 5e test game (with sparkly cognitive dissonance.)
I'm making him do all the dumb stuff, and fittingly he is doing well
at it.
.
Now THAT be a boldfaced lie.WHAT??? No wonder I hate them.
32. Dwarves cancelled Firefly
Apparently, dorfs sold Lucas' the screen play for ep I.
Yer lyin' tongue'll get ya keelhauled, mate.Apparently, dorfs sold Lucas' the screen play for ep I.Now THAT be a boldfaced lie.WHAT??? No wonder I hate them.
32. Dwarves cancelled Firefly
It makes one wonder who is worse: Lucas for buying it, or Dorfs for writing it?
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35. I quote the Dwarf from Game of Thrones: All Dwarves are Bastards in their Father's Eyes.
If you didn't hate Dwarves - you will after I'm done with my current fiction...
MIRSA
Mirsa Sulescu ran through the mist, the wolves close behind her. Somewhere to her left the Lendheu pushed their wagons faster. These landless Traladarans would serve her needs perfectly.
Balkrin Vanagas had heard the tales of the child who ran with wolves. If the nicest of the rumours were to be believed they would lose at least one horse to that pack, and they didn’t have a horse to spare, but he could not bring himself to lose family or friends.
The shutter behind him slid open and his wife Zanthira whispered something barely audible.
“Yes. She is still out there with her wolves.” Would she attack if they failed to reach the safety of the next village? Balkrin shook his head and returned his attention to the road ahead. He had eight wagons to keep safe.
Then all at once the child and her wolves were gone. Balkrin’s mind exploded with curiosity. For a great many hours he had experienced a strange feeling that they were all being herded. The pack could have attacked fresh and overwhelmed them all, but now they had stopped chasing entirely.
Balkrin considered what that change might entail. They had found a point of weakness?
They were not going to make it.
Ezerina stared out at the road from the back of the last wagon. A child fleeing wolves appeared from nowhere. It was the first time anything strange had happened to her. The first time ever that she had needed to make a decision that affected the lives of her fellow clan.
There was a child, distressed and in need.
Ezerina Galynis had a feeling that this child could create change in the way the others treated her and her husband. Change was opportunity, and that was all she needed.
Ezerina unlocked the back door to the household wagon, looking over her shoulder to see if Trynkara Prusas might notice.
“Come inside quickly, before the wolves have you,” her concern almost motherly.
Mirsa smiled at the invitation and leaped into the arms of her waiting family. Ezerina stared into the eyes of the beautiful child and could only smile as she surrendered her breast to her new daughter.
Trynkara Prusas was on the verge of dozing off when the shutter behind her opened.
“Ezerina?” Hands grappled her forcibly and she lost the reigns. Trynkara Prusas could no longer manage a physical resistance as she was pulled backward into the Wagon that had been her house for so long. Everything she had been vanished into the darkness that now embraced her.
The rear wagon entered a terrible shadow and did not emerge. Rymvid Galynis waited a moment more to be sure it would not emerge. He turned to the boy next to him sitting amongst the goods bundled in this goods wagon.
“Dinmiel, Alert your father. We have lost the last wagon.” Rymvid opened the rear door to the wagon, his sword in hand, and stepped out as the Wagon stopped. Rymvid walked back alone toward the shadow of the old household wagon, Bronkar and his son stopped at the rear of the merchant wagon.
“What is it?” Bronkar was concerned as to why the wagon had vanished.
Movement stirred a fear in Rymvid Galynis. Rymvid had his sword out and then put it away laughing. He waved Bronkar and Dinmiel to move their wagon on.
“Bronkar! Your wife fell asleep at the reigns, and my wife tells me that she will drive the Wagon.” Bronkar Prusas turned the idea over in his mind. There was something wrong with this situation but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The Wolves were gone. Where were the wolves?
“Rymvid, ride with your wife.” They needed to get moving again.
“Dinmiel. Run to the front wagon and get them moving again. All is well. Then join me up on top.” The boy ran forward to signal the other wagons on. Bronkar paused for a moment and then walked down to the last Wagon to check on his wife.
LAIR OF THE BEAST
Mirsa awoke to the warmth of her parent’s bedchamber. The monstrous nightmare of something chasing her through a mansion filled with screams was quickly washed away with the morning sunlight. Her father was slumped at his desk, likely scribing some letter to the King.
“Papa?” her frail voice didn’t get his attention. Could he be asleep? Mirsa slipped out of the great bed and stalked her prey; a tug to his sleeve.
“Papa...Are you sleeping?” A terrible face filled with horror and ash and blood spoke to her in an unfamiliar voice.
“Mirsa. You must feed.” Her world became cold and dark but she could make out some beast shackled to a distant wall. She screamed at what happened next.
Mirsa woke in the warmth of her parent’s bedchambers. Despite the darkness and cold outside, she could feel the warmth of the bedpans. Had the servants warmed the bed just for her?
The door in the distant wall pushed open and a shadowy figure carrying something entered.
“Mirsa. I found you food.” Mirsa screamed at the sight of her brother Zemiros; Her brother who was dead and sealed away in the family crypt.
“Mirsa...Silence!” The effect was horrible. She felt nothing but compulsion in the commandment.
Zemiros approached with a plate of food and Mirsa retreated diving over the edge of the great bed putting as much cover between them as possible.
“Mirsa...come and eat.” The child wanted to resist but her body betrayed her.
She fell on the food like a hungry dog forcing the now foul tasting foods that had once been her favourites into her mouth. Zemiros reached out to stop her but she couldn’t.
“Stop...Stop that.” She halted mid chew and he fell back with some understanding of what was happening.
“Do what you want,” Mirsa spat out the food. She couldn’t fathom why it would taste horrible. It was the first time she had ever been offered wine. It tasted like blood but her body didn’t rebel against it. She could feel an overwhelming desire for more.
“It’s blood.” Zemiros spoiled everything. Mirsa hurled the glass across the room. She was angry with him now. He had forced her to drink blood and made her like it. He was a monster. Where were her parents?
“Go way!” Mirsa crawled back around behind the bed putting distance between them. Zemiros didn’t move.
“Mother and Father are dead.” It was like a hammer blow to Zemiros. For Mirsa it was just another Lie. She looked angrily at him. He was a Wizard. Her Papa never killed wizards. Wizards were bad. He had hung that Wizard Barble...Bargle? Barble, and his brother swore vengeance. They were bad for Stealing that wagon of Turnips. If they wanted turnips she would have gladly given them hers every dinner.
“Liar, you’re just like the other bad Wizards.” He was obviously lying. Zemiros moved toward her and she moved away in response. She didn’t have much choice. Mirsa ran for the door in an attempt to escape.
“Mirsa...STOP!” It was like a wall. Mirsa found her body paralysed; her hand just short of escape.
“I’m sorry Mirsa.” He scooped her up into his arms as he had done before he left, but this time she could not forgive him; would not forgive him.
Zemiros would have to show her. He carried her toward the door, and suddenly she wanted nothing more to remain in that bedroom. Mirsa screamed as he carried her out into the hall where she had been chased like prey, where her father had been impaled on his own sword, where her mother had been fed upon.
“Shush.” She reduced herself to a ball of fears in his arms and cried.
THRONE OF STONE
“Murderer;” Mirsa hurled the mirror at Zemiros stepping over the wine glass and spilled blood.
“Must I command you to drink it?” Mirsa snarled at her brother the beast of Sulescu.
“I will not have you feeding off the villagers when you finally succumb to hunger.” Zemiros approached the cornered child.
“You are no better, feeding off criminals.” Mirsa tensed. “I won’t be like you, Monster.” Zemiros drew up at the scornful word. That pause was all that Mirsa required. The child ran now at all haste, diving through the glass windows that looked out over the sea.
The bedchamber exploded with wind and glass shards sprayed across the floor.
Mirsa. Zemiros rushed forward to the shattered window at the thought of her injury and looked down. At the bottom the sea was smashing against the cliffs in the moonlight. She was gone.
Mirsa found herself clinging to a throne of rock no more than ten feet above the breaking waves. She felt soaked. Had she gone into the water? She had never learned how to swim and the water seemed very destructive. Her parents were dead; her brother an Undead beast that had murdered them; and she...? Mirsa curled up in a ball against the rock and tried not to think about it.
The Sun would rise soon.
Mirsa snuggled for warmth in the memory of her mother. A dream perhaps; she stirred for a moment in the warmth of her mother’s lap.
“Mama, I had a terrible dream.” Mirsa could feel the warmth of her.
“Shhh...The storm will pass Mirsa. You will be safe on my throne awhile.”
“Mama,” Mirsa awoke to a sunrise with a compulsion to rub away the moss on a rock. ‘Petra’ revealed itself scared into the stone to the depth of a dagger’s hilt.
“Mirsa!” the mother of her dreaming screamed the words in her ears and Mirsa fell from the Throne of Petra into the Sea. The churn of the muddy water and kelp dragged the child into the darkness of a forgotten bore in the cliff wall and the blow of a rock stole the moment from her.
Mirsa awoke in darkness. All around her she could hear the drip of water; the smell of salts, and feel of the wet of stone, and something else...
“How did you get in here?” The question was perfectly legitimate. Unfortunately it wasn’t hers to ask. Mirsa could see nothing, but she felt the rough hands lay themselves upon her small body, patting her down.
“Damn shame that...she’s pretty...you know...for a dead girl.” The hands had a friend. A hand in her mouth was suddenly checking for something.
“I’m not dead.” Mirsa struggled to speak out against the heavy handedness of her unseen interlopers.
“Halav’s Nipples, It’s an undead thing...a Vampire!” The hand jerked out of the mouth.
“Quick, kill it! Drive a stake through its chest afore it falls on us in a frenzy of feeding.” Mirsa screamed at the thought of anyone driving a stake through her anything, falling back into the water.
“I’m not a Vampire thingy you nasty monsters in the dark; Leave me alone!” Mirsa felt the gentle tug of a turning tide in the water around her legs.
“I don’t know Bartov, She could be just really cold. She might not be one of them Vampire things; Look out!” The bore jerked at Mirsa and a hand snatched her out of the Water before she could again be dragged away.
“Good enough for me...” Bartov liberated her from the raging water.
Mirsa found herself in powerful arms of something really hairy. The feeling reminded her of her father. The touch of it itched like a hair brush.
“Not going to eat me are you?” Mirsa felt uncertain at her prospects.
The darkness erupted with laughter of several voices.
“Nay little fish, you’re far too scrawny for a meal,” came the whisper from the Itchy beard of Bartov.
THE LOST FORGE
Mirsa could feel it at first; A terrible rhythm through the beating of her chest. Was that her heart? Then after a time a faint glow from the tunnel ahead and she could hear it; metal on metal – a great hammer, striking on a distant anvil.
Bartov carried Mirsa past the smithy’s forge. The opposite wall was decorated with a collection of large wooden buckler shields that seemed embedded into the wall of the long narrow tunnel.
Dwarves worked metal over a large anvil.
“Bartov...you didn’t just bring a Human into our...Forget it;” The voice admonishing the bulk that carried her. Bartov halted.
“Does it look like I’m in your precious forge Tarpov? No. I’m way over here in the corridor with my guest.” Bartov continued on toward the stairs cut in the stone that would take them up.
“Bartov,” Bartov halted at the voice of the little fish in his arms.
“Yes little Fish?” Bartov’s voice seemed a little more relaxed.
“I can walk if you like.”
“Let us see, shall we.” He touched her ankles. They still felt sore as his rough hands tested the bones until she made a noise of discomfort.
“All right, you seem to be healing.” He lowered her to the floor and she put some strength in her ankles.
“Up the stairs little fish;” Mirsa climbed the stairs, her head just below the stone of the ceiling. Bartov followed her.
“Bartov, My name is Mirsa.” He grunted at the whispered name as she climbed toward the sounds of an argument.
At the top of the hand carved stairs Mirsa found a great hall filled with more Dwarves than she could imagine leaning over a large table arguing. The chamber ceiling soared to twice Mirsa’s height at its domed centre. They halted, almost surprised at the sight of a Human child in rags.
“Fellow Dwarves, the plan progresses quicker than we’d hoped;” Bartov caught their attention with mention of their mutual problem.
“This is the Lady Mirsa Sulescu, My Hostage.” In that instance of betrayal Mirsa leapt at Bartov, Her hunger and anger taking control. She was instantly met with Strength.
“All Vampire, this one...” Strong, rough hands restraining her, her animal scream mixed with the outrage of a child’s betrayal, Mirsa was dragged toward a stairs leading up into the dark.
The chamber had one resident. The old dwarf, an iron throne against the wall coughed as the riotous struggle roused him from his rest.
“Bartov? How goes the search for a solution to the question?”
“Success, my King.” Bartov grappled with the ravenous child, a firm grip on her neck.
“Ah my hungry little fish, you get to feed to your heart’s content.” His King coughed.
“Good. Bring her forward. This will require some delicate manoeuvrings...” The decrepit form of a very ancient Dwarf was revealed to her.
“What is the creature’s name?” The old King waited for an answer from his most trusted friend.
“Her name is Mirsa Sulescu my Lord.” The Old Dwarf smiled through diseased teeth.
“I am King of all the Halfling Lands and you shall make me Immortal that I may reclaim my Kingdom.” A coughing fit wracked his old form.
Mirsa, held firmly by the Dwarf she had trusted as her father, fed on the blood of a Dwarven King.
“My Lord?” Bartov pulled Mirsa off the old Dwarf.
“Gurnvic, check him.” Dwarves went to the corpse of their old King slumped bloody on his Iron throne.
“He is without life.” Gurnvic Orc-smasher turned to face his brother Bartov.
“All is as it should be.” Bartov laughed.
Now you my little fish are going to return him to us...In due course. Gurnvic, fetch the others.” Bartov smiled at his brother.
“That wasn’t the plan Bartov.” Gurnvic smelled Treason.
“The plan has changed. Now get a move on, Sunset cometh.”
LAST CALL
Zemiros picked at the shattered glass. The windows that had been hand-poured by his great grandfather from molten beach sand were gone. He absently searched for a bell to summon a servant who would never come.
He would need the services of an Artisan from the village. The sunlight, indirect though it was, reminded him that it would not be during the day. They usually gathered at the village tavern around sunset. Zemiros contemplating an uncertain future stared out at the sea. Ale would be nice.
The Village was still. Zemiros approached the village Tavern just after sunset. The crowd, tenuous as it was in their sombre mood, conversed on the horrors in which they recently become participants.
The conversation froze in terrible silence when they noticed the entry of Zemiros once again into their once simple rural lives.
A few familiar faces caught Zemiros’s eye. Gregor and Johann didn’t seem all that keen on conversing, their grim faces stiff at the sight of him.
The Barkeep was the only one who smiled and spoke his name.
“Lord Sulescu, if you would care for a table...” Zemiros raised a hand and dropped a collection of gold coins on the makeshift bar top.
“Drinks for everyone...could you have someone who knows how to work in glass speak with me, I have a shattered window in need of repair.” Zemiros was already retreating for an empty seat against a wall.
“Of course my Lord...Drinks on Lord Sulescu!” The barkeep subtly indicated to one of the villagers that he needed to speak with him.
Armand, Village Warden, approached from the smoky side of the Tavern.
“My lord, a merchant named Alma Radu wishes to converse with you.”
Zemiros contemplated the fact he as yet had no drink. His brow furrowed at the prospect of giving over his gold to some travelling hawker.
“Send him over.” Armand waved the merchant forward.
“Lord Sulescu.” Let the sales pitch begin. Zemiros had experienced this sort of thing with the Traders of Darokin. He didn’t much care for it. He held up a hand to pause the merchant in his tracks.
“’Wares on the table good merchant.” Alma Radu was surprised by the comment. He had heard it from Darokin traders. He didn’t expect a backwoods Traladaran lord to be that well travelled.
“Of course;” The Cloth wrapped parcel in his arms was considerably weighty. He placed it gently on the table in front of Zemiros and began to remove the cloth wrapping that concealed his most valued prize.
It was an ancient clay pot with a large stone stopper in the shape of a dog’s head. A stele of strange symbols marked what must have been the front of the pot.
If there was anything that Zemiros enjoyed it was something new. His eyes opened wider at the lure of it.
“Where did you find it?” Alma Radu smiled. He would finally be rid of the wretched thing.
“I acquired it from a dealer in such rare artefacts in Selenica...” He could tell by Sulescu’s interest that he knew the community.
“He assured me that the Item was found during an excavation near some place called Surra-Man-Raa.” Zemiros knew of it. It was a coastal community of Ylari Sorcerers. He also knew the penalty for raiding tombs in the Nithian Highlands carried a death sentence. There were no legitimate dealers in such antiquities.
He still wanted it.
“How much do you desire for it?”
“It was purchased at considerable expense. A price may be beyond anyone’s means to estimate simply because it is as you see...unique.” Zemiros nodded.
“Indeed it is.” Zemiros reached within his fine Ochalean silk coat and fished out a Diamond. The Merchant choked at the sight of it. He reached out for it, incapable of resisting the first offer.
“Deal done;” Zemiros knew merchants. This one had been no different.
THE CURSE OF THE BLACK DOG
Zemiros scraped at the script on the old ceramic jar. Alma Radu had been truthful about one thing. It was real. The Trader had somehow acquired the artefact in distant Ylaraum, most likely on some raid by tomb robbers.
Although his tale of a purchase of it from some vendor at the now perpetual merchant’s fair at Selenica had the ring of truth, that nest having quickly become a market for looted grave-goods from Yalraum and Traladara, the trader’s sun tan implied that he had indeed spent considerable time in the sunlit desert searching for treasure.
There was still pigment around the eye of the dog headed Jar stopper.
<Read Languages> The spell revealed nothing of the pictograms. That instantly took Zemiros by surprise. Even he could see there was meaning in the symbols. The ship and the bird with its feet on the ground had meaning. How could the spell have failed?
<Detect Magic> Nothing. There was no Enchantment; Perhaps another spell.
<Read Magic> No result. They were not a spell. The pictograms were proving elusive.
<Dispel Magic>, the spell cast, Zemiros considered his options.
<Read Language> Still there was nothing. Again the symbols denied him. Was there some agent he could not detect?
<Detect Evil> Nothing. It was lifeless. He had squandered six spells on the damn thing and come away with nothing. It resisted him as though the script were the most powerful and resolute of all things.
Was that it? Was there some agent preventing the deciphering of the Symbols? The mere idea was insanity. Who could do such a thing?
Zemiros returned his attention to the eye of the dog and with an inked quill scribed the symbol on a scroll.
The eye meant ‘watchful guardian’. The dog was a guard dog of sorts.
Under it he attempted to scribe faithfully each of the seven symbols that had denied him. Then he artfully drew an exacting image of the Jar.
Zemiros considered opening the jar but put it from his mind. It would likely be trapped given its ability to resist the power of his magic.
“Now;” Bartov released his grip on the heavy iron spear held aloft by his fellow dwarves and it dropped a thousand feet, through the reinforced wooden ceiling of Sulescu Manor. They all flew in pursuit of it, the great cable crafted from a dozen ropes for the Spear descending toward the rooftop.
The explosion of shattering timbers instantly drew Zemiros from his work as the Black dog headed pottery was shattered casting ash across the wood floor.
Within moments Bartov and his Dwarf companions had gathered to collect up the great rope, their plan escalating rapidly.
Zemiros had gathered his wits enough to realize the core of his residence had been gutted. The ceiling had collapsed above the hallway and the hallway was now a broken shattered jumble of timbers up through which a huge rope cable was now being drawn taught via the hole in the ceiling.
Likely it was a siege weapon. Fury at the assault overcame logic and Zemiros ascended through the hole in the ceiling.
Where he had expected some Gnome-built aerostat a veritable clan of Dwarves flew from the ruination of his home, drawing the cable of their siege weapon; beneath him the roar of cable friction against shattered timber became louder.
Zemiros unleashed a torrent of fire balls into the midst of his retreating foes. They simply shook it off and then dove, descending with terrible haste, dragging the reinforced timber keep off its foundation stones, over the edge of the cliff, and into the raging sea.
HEIR TO A BROKEN HOME
The Dwarves and their siege weapon were gone, vanishing into the sea with their weapon of destruction. The shattered remains of Sulescu Manor, the waves breaking it against the cliffs, were still in the process of sinking into the sea. Eventually it would be gone.
Behind him in the distance, the horrible noise that had accompanied the destruction of the Mansion had roused the entire village.
Zemiros Sulescu descended toward the water. He might still have time to retrieve what he could.
The Reinforced box that the Sulescu had called a manor had seemed so invulnerable.
Zemiros shook his head at the sight of the carnage.
The darkness obscured everything.
“Light;” The spell gave everything an eerie glow. Around him the waters seemed to be filled with a murky taint. His room would be at the bottom of all this destruction, somewhere.
Zemiros oriented himself to the new reality. There. He spotted a number of his prized artefacts floating loose of their place on the shelf, his spell book amongst them.
Waving away the illusion he found nothing on the shelf that he had liberated from Braejr.
The Crystal and his spell book could be saved; the prospect that they were now the sum total of his personal possessions annoyed Zemiros greatly.
“Dimension Door” The spell returned him to the top of the Cliff and he turned away from the ruin. The cellar was intact beneath the stonework that had supported the weight of the Manor. At least he and the villagers would not go hungry.
The Villagers; they had amassed before now exposed stonework with what little they could grab. A few were naked except for a weapon.
“Sorry if the noise woke you...The building fell off the cliff; Rot-wood most likely.” They could see it was a lie. The building had lasted for over a century. It was indestructible. Some great force had destroyed it all and Lord Sulescu was keeping the how from them.
“Armand?” he couldn’t see his village Warden.
“Yes Lord Sulescu?” The voice came from the back of the gathered mob.
“Ah Armand, could you please post a guard on the Cellar Stores to make sure no one loots them. I will be popping off a while to see about getting it rebuilt. The Residence I mean.” Zemiros knew that was a lie as well but they didn’t need to have more horrors heaped upon them. He had some Dwarves to hunt down and interrogate. Where to start?
“I don’t suppose anyone would know where I might find some Dwarves about these parts?” It was worth the shot.
A voice in the crowd: “My lad Stephan mentioned spotting a few loitering about the King’s Barrow at the far edge of the grazing field while he was tending the goats.” The speaker cleared his throat and went silent.
“Oh well done; we will have the house rebuilt in no time.” Things were progressing rapidly. Zemiros wondered if it was the same dwarves.
“Off to bed the lot of you. Tavern-master, might I assail you for a moment?” The weary barkeep loitered with the Village Warden as the rest departed for their homes.
Zemiros handed the large crystal to the Barkeep.
“Be a good fellow; keep that on the bar for me; it’s not for sale but it took damage during the building collapse.” The Barkeep seemed confused. He could tell the huge crystal was fine.
“It will give travellers something to gawk at. Might put it on a shelf and start a collection of oddities.” Armand patted the barkeep on the back. He understood wizards to be capable of considerable vagabond behaviour. Zemiros Sulescu was no different.
“And now my Lord Sulescu let us see about putting you up for the night.” Zemiros sighed at the prospect of being put up in the tavern or in the bunk house where Armand resided and held up a hand in protest.
“Perhaps another time Armand; you need a good sleep and it is late enough to be morning so I will head off with an early start.” Zemiros left the ground and the departing villagers of Sulescu behind.
“See you when I see you...Oh and if anything washes up see if its furnishings.”
Zemiros was gone. The Village Warden looked about.
“Gregor! Where are you going? You have watch on the Stores till morning.” The Naked villager grumbled something about clothing.
THE BARROW WIGHT
The child cowered in the Dark, fearing the return of her captors. The old one had abandoned her and departed his throne room filled with a new vigour.
Mirsa preferred the blind darkness to the torment of her dreams. That way lay a nightmare about dead dwarves being roused from their slumber with a single command: arise.
Mirsa’s eyes snapped open at the word. She had awoken to it on a stone bier in the family mausoleum and fed on her first life. That command echoed across eternity. It was the commandment that bought with it hunger.
“Hold Her.” And they had held her down and forced her to feed. Mirsa screamed with rage and hunger at the betrayal, but she had fed.
She filled her belly as a thirsty wolf at a river, and each time Bartov had compelled her to arouse them from death with a single command: Arise.
Mirsa’s eyes opened to the darkness. Somewhere light spilled up a stone cut stairway and dripped like tallow-fat into the throne room of a once dead Dwarven King. She was alone; and her only bonds the fear of being betrayed by a Dwarf named Bartov. Her friend in the dark had betrayed her.
Mirsa forced herself forward to the light. The great rhythm of the Dwarven Forge was gone and it no longer beat in her chest with its life.
“Light;” Zemiros created the source on a large rock and tossed it down the tunnel into the crypt at the far end. The wizard stared down the now well lit postern tunnel at the stone. His explorations would be forced to a crawl down the low hanging tunnel of the Kings Barrow. The crypt was despoiled. The debris of an abandoned age, of little value to the looters seeking a pile of silver or gold, scattered. The low, domed ceiling still inconvenienced the uncannily tall wizard but he could see it was of a skilled craftsmanship. It was oddly well skilled for what was supposed to be a human Barrow. The style was most certainly Song of Halav, or supposed to be. The entrance was off alignment. Not by much but enough to miss the Solstice Star.
Perhaps it could have been a later period barrow.
Zemiros fished about on the floor for his light stone and a sample of the pottery. The Ceramic was fire-pit style pottery - Petra technique. Except that they never made the same piece twice.
Zemiros stared into two different pottery bases and turned them against one another until he could see something familiar. They were identical down to the scratches. These had been cast on a bronze die; no, the pores were wrong – a stone die. Somewhere an artisan had crafted a stone die with such perfection as to duplicate the real thing – Petra technique pottery. It was all Dwarven-craft.
Where was the way in? Somewhere in this chamber was a door that would take him down into the fortress that this Barrow was designed to conceal.
Zemiros stepped back from the stone bier and looked about for signs that it had moved. There were none.
Still that was deception in its own right. It was designed to look like it didn’t cover a secret stairway down into some secret dwarven fortress.
The floor didn’t show any signs of recent traffic and the walls of the burial chamber hid any sign that they might slide or pivot.
Zemiros stopped mid thought. It was now obvious he would never find the entrance so he would need to ignore it completely.
<Clairvoyance> the spell descended through the stone floor until it reached a chamber with a table.
<Dimension Door>; the portal exited below him about thirty feet perhaps into the secret hall.
Mirsa panicked at the sudden appearance of the tall shade in the dwarven hall. She slipped down the stairs to the Dwarven Forge by which the now hated Bartov had introduced her to its secret existence and looked back at the intruder.
“Well well...The little fish is loose.” Bartov took her by surprise.
35. I quote the Dwarf from Game of Thrones: All Dwarves are Bastards in their Father's Eyes.
If you didn't hate Dwarves - you will after I'm done with my current fiction...
** spoiler omitted **...
Cool! I needed this because I have a short story writing assignment due tomorrow, and I can't write.
POWER SOURCE: HATRED
FUEL CELLS AT 81% AND CHARGING
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35. I quote the Dwarf from Game of Thrones: All Dwarves are Bastards in their Father's Eyes.
If you didn't hate Dwarves - you will after I'm done with my current fiction...
** spoiler omitted **...
Cool! I needed this because I have a short story writing assignment due tomorrow, and I can't write.
Sounds like fun...hope you get an A - I wrote a book of short stories and someone on these forums was moaning that he needed money and I offered the book to him to sell on some download site for his own income - and he bailed. I mean really - Total cowardice - could have sold my e-book for a dollar a download and maybe translated it to chinese or something and sold it out there until he had a million dollars - but no - he bailed. I mean really...I'm offering. I'm serious. But no.
35. I quote the Dwarf from Game of Thrones: All Dwarves are Bastards in their Father's Eyes.
If you didn't hate Dwarves - you will after I'm done with my current fiction...
** spoiler omitted **...
Blasphemous but still funny.
42. Dorfs steal things from their neighbors
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42. Dorfs steal things from their neighbors
Pansy elves don't count!
43. Dorfs do not get and vote for presidents because they are lazy.
44. Dorfs do not have tentacles. nuf said?
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T'is alright, me lads. Elfies get angry all the time when they remember they're not dwarfs.
I'd be gettin' mighty angry too if I wasn't!
45. Dwarves do not take AA seriously.
T'is alright, me lads. Elfies get angry all the time when they remember they're not dwarfs.
I'd be gettin' mighty angry too if I wasn't!
.
No one cares about elves either.
Get out of my games you stupid f@#$ing dwarfs.
.
46. short fat people are NOT sexy
.
Sounds like fun...hope you get an A - I wrote a book of short stories and someone on these forums was moaning that he needed money and I offered the book to him to sell on some download site for his own income - and he bailed. I mean really - Total cowardice - could have sold my e-book for a dollar a download and maybe translated it to chinese or something and sold it out there until he had a million dollars - but no - he bailed. I mean really...I'm offering. I'm serious. But no.35. I quote the Dwarf from Game of Thrones: All Dwarves are Bastards in their Father's Eyes.
If you didn't hate Dwarves - you will after I'm done with my current fiction...
** spoiler omitted **...
Cool! I needed this because I have a short story writing assignment due tomorrow, and I can't write.
You still have that story of yours? I'm curious to reading it.
Though that part about selling it forward, I'm not 100% sure of. No offense.
Dwarves get on my nerves, even though they claim I'm the one getting on their nerves.
We have no nerves. We have beer.
And ye don't get a dwarf's beer. Ya get a dwarf beer.
If your beer tastes as good as Chelish wine, then I might just ask my sister to change her mind.
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I don't hate dwarves.
Hating another race is racism.
And racism is for dwarves.