| | This blog is a narrative outline (a literary embelishemnt if you will) of a campaign and setting that I created for 2E when I was in college. I adapted to 4E and am currently playing out with my son, who has followed in his father's love of the game. Rioc Parvel This is the story of Hankel Mast Gimlord, Lars Hallmaster, Firebyrne, and Shear Aelion  | Posted 4th October 2009 at 04:14 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 6th October 2009 at 03:50 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Added chapter number to the title) The darkness of night gave way to the darkness of the sewers where not even the flashes of lightning could penetrate. Rain dripping from pipes replaced rain dripping from clouds, and an eerie, echoing silence settled in between Smoc and Lars as they made their way to the secret door. Despite the darkness, Smoc new the way, and quickly found the catch. Once inside he set to work even while Lars was shaking the rain from his cloak. “OK, boy. Let’s see if this treasure was worth the price.” Smoc placed the chest gently on the table in the middle of the common room so he could feel around for flint and tinder. His face took on a demonic appearance behind a glowing taper as he walked over to the table and lit a lamp. “What secrets do you hold, little box?” He noticed, right away, that the box was too light to contain anything like gold or jewels. Even as he lifted it from its hiding place back in old Bard’s house, he felt his heart sink. His eyes scanned the outside of the box. Light filled the common room one burst at time as Lars lit the wall sconces, after which he, full of impatience and excitement, joined Smoc at the table, “Why don’t you just open it?” “Fool boy!” Smoc turned one eye toward Lars, not taking the other off the box, “A dwarf made this box. That much is plain to see. I can’t read Dwarf, but I know enough not to go opening strange boxes hidden away in some crafty dwarf’s house.” Smoc was an experienced thief. He was aware that strange boxes, even small ones, could contain dangerous traps or mechanisms that render their contents useless. He recalled several years ago a time when he was careless with an old seaman’s trunk. A vial of caustic poison was attached to the lock. When he opened the chest, it broke and loosed its contents all over the gold inside. By the time Smoc noticed, it was too late. It took him months to recover from the burns. He still thought the gold was worth it, but he vowed that, next time, this time, he would be more careful. “You’re the linguist, boy. Here. Have a look at this.” Smoc beckoned Lars closer with a serious, warning experession that said Look, but don’t touch. It didn’t take much time for Lars to see that the chest was covered in Dwarven runes. The name GIMLORD was featured prominently on the lid, while various messages were inscribed around the side. “It says here that the box is, ‘For Hankel Mast Gimlord.’ It’s like you would address a birthday present or something.” Lars rotated the box, to expose more block-like runes, “Over here are more names, ‘Bard Mast Gimlord, Arkus Mast Gimlord, Mardor Gatehammer Gimlord, …’ They wrap around the box in a list. It reads like some kind of family lineage. Guess old Bard had another last name after all.” Lars’ eyes darted back and forth over the container’s exterior, “It says ‘Herein lies my heart. It is your history, as is your right to one day sit in Rioc Parvel.’” “Rioc Parvel? What’s that?” Smoc seemed confused and uninterested. “Dunno. I just read it phonetically. The word doesn’t make any sense.” Lars shrugged apologetically, and continued looking at the chest. “There’s nothing else. The rest is just a jumble of geometric patterns.” Smoc didn’t seem satisfied, “Any warnings or signs of danger?” “Nope.” Lars had looked all over the top and sides of the box, “Mind if I look underneath?” Smoc lifted the box and Lars craned his head to look up from beneath it. “This is strange.” Lars rubbed his fingers over some scratches in the bottom of the box with a frown of confusion, “These markings are different than the others. They’re not Dwarven.” “What are they?” Now Smoc was getting impatient. “Dunno.” Lars squinted in concentration, but to no avail. He had never seen anything like this in the library, “They seem to be gouges that somebody made with a knife, as if some monster had clawed the bottom of the box. It’s too systematic to be random scratches, but if it’s supposed to mean something, I’m stumped.” “OK, boy. My turn.” Smoc handed Lars the box and took a look underneath. “This is dragon language. Not usual for a dwarf to have dragon scrawl on the bottom of his box.” “Dragons?” Lars stifled a patronizing laugh, “Are you pulling my chain? You can’t be serious! I never took you for being superstitious.” Smoc glared at Lars across the table, “Some things your mother tells you to scare you into behaving aren’t entirely fantasy, boy. I can’t read it, but I know it when I see it. It’s too small to be written by a dragon, and too neat to be written by dragonspawn, but It’s dragon speech to be sure.” Smoc eyed the chest more suspiciously now, and placed it carefully on the table. “Oh, Smoc. Just open it!” Lars reached for the chest, but Smoc slapped his hand away. “We’ll open it when I say it’s safe.” The minutes passed, and Smoc studied the chest in vain for some sign of warning. It seemed nothing more than a simple chest. There wasn’t even a lock on the lid. Finally, he gave in. There seemed nothing else he could do. He produced a knife from his belt and slipped it under the lid at the front, “Stand back boy.” The box flipped open with a turn of Smoc’s knife, but the moment was anticlimactic. No broken vials of poison, no blades, no alchemical explosions, and certainly no magic. Lars was spitting in a poor attempt to contain his laughter. “You should have seen yourself.” Lars contorted his body and squinted his eyes in mock anxiety as he mimicked Smoc’s movements in opening the box. “Laugh all you want boy.” The halfling peered carefully into the opened chest and found, “Nothing!” “What!?” Lars stood up from his dramatic pose and rushed to Smoc’s side staring down into the chest. It wasn’t exactly empty, but it may as well have been. It only contained sheets of rag paper on which course notes had been scraped using some kind of berry ink, and likely a burned stick for a quill. Thirty-some pages in all, all written in Dwarven, and Each with a date at the top, but not dates that Lars understood. “It’ll take a while to translate this.” “Translate all you want bookfool!” Smoc was livid. “You sacrificed the old man for this!” Smoc held his knife up and slashed the air in front of Lars’ face. “Get out! And don’t you ever come back! I’ll not be staying here either. The Nightwatch’ll be looking all over for us and for what? Papers!? A stinking birthday present!?” The look on Lars’ face was one of stunned shock, “You can’t be serious. This stuff might tell us where other blue stones are.” “Oh yeah. Right. Like the ones that we didn’t find in old Bard’s house? Forget it boy. You and I are through! The old man’s dead along with that Dwarf, and we’re as good as jailbirds now for this!” Smoc reached into the chest and grabbed a handful of the notes shaking them in his hand. With clenched teeth, he threw them on the floor and stomped out the back door into the sewer, leaving Lars dumbfounded in the middle of the empty common room, his prize scattered all about him. | Registered User | | Views 192
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 | | Posted 23rd March 2009 at 04:54 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 4th October 2009 at 02:00 PM by H.M.Gimlord The door to Bard’s house finally closed, and Smoc crawled from his grimy hiding place under the foundation, behind the stoop. With a careful glance, he hoisted his prize over his shoulder and ran to the back of the house. The box, was small, about a forearm’s length long and half as deep and tall. It was more of a strongbox than a chest, and as Smoc hefted it, he lost all hope of gold or jewelry.
At the back of the house, a sooty Lars Hallmaster was scampering down the exterior wall of the Bard’s chimney. When he lighted on the ground Smoc glared up at him with eyes that drilled into Lars’ skull.
“Bradon’s dead! And thanks for nothing, boy!” Smoc sneered through the pounding rain, “We sure could have used your help!”
The two began their careful walk back to the bank of the Ulmar. Lars was becoming annoyed at Smoc who, though only four years his senior, was in the habit of calling him ‘Boy.’ “What do you mean? I think my exit route was actually the best, considering you were knocked headlong into the road. Thanks to your diversion, neither one of them noticed me.”
“Oh, so that’s how it is eh? Smoc and Bradon draw the blades, and Lars escapes undetected.”
“You’re forgetting. The chimney was you’re idea.” Lars reminded.
“And a good one too. Dwarves make unbeatable locks for their own houses, but they also like large fireplaces with wide flues.” Smoc tapped his temple as if to emphasize the importance of his intelligence.
They reached the grate that barred the mouth of the Ulmar, and Smoc set to picking lock on the metal door.
Lars laughed, “You forgot to mention that dwarves sometimes keep their fires going through the night. You have the rain to thank that you only landed on smoldering coals instead of a roaring fire.” Lars kicked Smoc lightly in the rear end to indicate the patch of singed cloth on the seat of his pants. “I suppose Dwarven locks are easier to break from the inside.”
“Much!” Smoc grumbled, as he turned an annoyed look at Lars. “Now let’s see if this chest is worth the price we paid for it. Funny. For a minute you’d think we didn’t steal it.” The door silently rotated open, and Smoc ran it home behind them, refastening the lock. “This thing’s too light for money, boy. I’m not too hopeful. Trust me. I’m not going back there. There’s nothing else in that house to get.”
“Oh yes there is.” Lars gasped slamming the thumb-side of his fist into his forehead, “Bradon had the crystal. It’s back in the old dwarf’s house.” | Registered User | | | Views 226
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| | Posted 23rd March 2009 at 02:51 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 4th October 2009 at 02:01 PM by H.M.Gimlord “Hankel” Bard’s voice was barely a ghost’s whisper over the sound of the rain.
“Papa.” Hankel held Bards head up so that their eyes met and pressed his forehead against his father’s forehead – an expression of respect and concern among dwarves.
“Hankel. You.. have.. always… been… my… prince. Bradon says… he… doesn’t believe… in dragons. I’m… afraid… that they are… all… too…” he coughed as blood issued from his mouth and nose, “real. My chest... You must… They… got my… chest….”
Hankel examined shurikens in Bard’s chest, each buried at least quarter-way into his flesh. Hankel moaned in despair, “Papa. There’s nothing I can do about that now.”
“No… You… don’t…”Bard simply had no more strength to continue. His eyes lost focus, and Hankel quickly realized that the Raven Queen had his soul now.
Hankel cried. He cried for the first time since he was a child. When his mother died, he made a point to shed no tears. He forced himself to be thankful for the time that was given to him to share with his mother. She being gone, there had always been Bard. He threw himself into his work, and the team of father and son soon became a team of peer artisans. Bard was the master of art, and Hankel was the master of strength. Together, they could do anything. Apart, they were incomplete. The rain pounded its mourning tears on the roof of their house as if even Nature knew that it had lost a great king.
Hankel’s anger burned toward Bradon. The betrayer. Bradon was a calm farm boy growing up. He was brash and arrogant, but Hankel never suspected that Bradon was capable of this. What had driven him to break into their house and cause such harm. They kept nothing of value in the house.
Hankel closed his father’s eyes and stomped over to Bradon’s lifeless body. “What were you after you mindless beast!” Hankel gave the body a shuddering kick. Over and over, he beat on the dead ribs until his foot hurt from the effort.
Hankel lifted the body, “Into the gutter with you, where you belong.” Hankel rose with Bradon’s body over his shoulder and turned toward the door when he heard the sound of something falling on the floor. He turned again and saw a small, blue, oblong gem the size of a door pivot lying on the floor. The gem pulsed with white-light as if it contained a frightening storm.
“Hello! What have we here?” Hankel put Bradon’s body down and examined the gem. “Is this what you were after?" Hankel reached down to pick it up, but before his skin touched the gem, blue fire leapt from the crystal's surface and burned into his calloused palms.
“Oooww!” Hankel stood up, rubbing his hands now throbbing as though they had been pinched under a cudgel in a bar-room fight. “I guess I’d better be more careful with you.” Hankel tore a patch from Bradon’s robe and wrapped the gem tightly. After placing it on the mantel, he returned to the work of ousting his gamey visitor. | Registered User | | | Views 217
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| | Posted 22nd March 2009 at 12:54 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 23rd March 2009 at 04:41 AM by H.M.Gimlord “Nyxie. You had better check on Hankel. He’s woken up again. I can hear him running around in the loft. Nyxie? Nyxie?” Bard awoke, eyes immediately adjusting to the lack of light. The rain was louder than usual and the house felt of damp, open air as if someone had left the door open. The sound that woke him, however, was not the rain. It was the sound of light footsteps and creaking wood. Bard looked across the loft at Hankel’s bed. In it, Hankel lay fast asleep.
Not bothering to dress, he hurried silently to the edge of the loft and peeked over. As his eyes cleared the rail where the loft dropped off into the main room of the house below, he spied a small figure moving about, carefully replacing floor planks by the fireplace. Next to him, on the floor, there was a small chest about the size of a well bucket. The little thief! How did he know that was there? The intruder was masked with a rag over his face and a bandana over his head. It was a halfling, but Bard couldn’t make out whether it was a man or a woman. The figure seemed not to notice Bard, but Bard could tell that things needed to change fast.
Quickly deciding that, man or woman, this creature was a thief, and the contents of that chest were too important to lose. Bard leapt from the loft. The thief, however, proved too quick. With surprising speed, the halfling dodged the attack, hoisted the chest, and made for the door.
Bard recovered from the fall and sent the fireplace poker sailing after the prowler. The broad side of the poker caught the halfling in the back and knocked him to the floor rolling out the open door and into the rain.
Bard pursued the halfling out the door, but didn’t get far. As soon as he cleared the door frame, three spinning blades buried themselves in his chest. The impact knocked him on his back. No halfling threw those blades. I’m a dead man! Bard struggled against pain and shock. He managed to slide his body to the middle of the main room.
A hooded, human figure towered in the open doorway. Bard scooted back into a dark corner by his fireplace, observing the shape as it entered the house. The blades burned Bard’s upper body, and every breath he took moved the serrated edges of a shuriken against his aorta with more pain than any normal man would be able to stand.
“You have something I want.” The figure hissed through the rain with a hoarse whisper, as he slowly strutted into the house. His boots shed puddles of cool rain on the floor that quickly soaked into the wooden planks, leaving a trail of damp stains as he slowly walked over to the reclining dwarf.
Kneeling down in front of Bard, so that he and the dwarf were eye to eye, he produced the prism from a thick leather pouch on his belt, letting it’s pulsating blue light fill the room and reveal his face.
“Bradon! Hruktgir’s Beard!” Bard’s jaw dropped; the pain seemed secondary to the shock of seeing Hankel’s childhood friend grown to become a thief, coupled with his possession of a blue-fire crystal. “Where in blazes did you get that!?” The taste of blood was in his open mouth. He sputtered. “You… you have no idea what… you’re holding.”
“Ah, but I know enough. I was hoping that I’d find more here.”
“I don’t… don’t know what … gave … you that idea, but you’d … be better to forget about it. And in… Kord’s name, hide … that thing!” Every movement, no matter how small, tore into Bard’s ribcage with searing pain. He could feel his consciousness slipping.
“Tell me where the others are.” Bradon doused the light of the blue crystal, putting it back in his pouch. He tried to sound more interested than impatient, but he was obviously racing against Bard’s fading vitality.
“They’re… not… here…. Don’t go… looking. It’ll… only lead… to… your death.” Bard was barely holding onto life, the pool of blood underneath him was now running along the grains of wood in the floor, around Bradon’s boots, and soaking in to mix with the man’s footprints.
“I suppose, I’ll just have to verify your claim and have a longer look around.” Bradon rose to stand, but he never made it fully to his feet. Hankel’s hammer caught Bradon in the chest halfway through the movement, and sent him flying across the room and into the wall.
“Murderer!” Hankel was enraged, and vengeance burned at the end of his hammer.
Bradon rose to his feet and reached under his coat.
Hankel, anticipating the next move, dove behind a chair as four spinning blades buried themselves in the wooden frame.
Bradon’s ribs ached, his chest heaving with effort, “You should have stayed in bed, Hankel.” Bradon cracked a grin, “Where are the jewels?”
“What are you babbling about Bradon?” Hankel vaulted over the chair, hammer at the ready. “There’s nothing here!” Hankel lunged at Bradon, who sidestepped the hammer, but too slowly. Hankel corrected mid charge and caught him by the ankle. Bradon fell on his side, his arm crumpling underneath his ribs, which gave way with a sickening crack. Hankle spun around and stepped carefully back until he was standing over Bradon. “I hate to disappoint you, but all we have of value is in the shop. There is no jewelry here or there.”
Bradon lifted his head to look Hankel in the eye, “You’re… papa’s been… holding out… on you.” That was all he had strength left to say. His head lolled back, and death was all that was left.
Hankel ran over to his father’s side, but it was too late. Nothing was left, but to weep. | Registered User | | | Views 195
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| | Posted 28th February 2009 at 11:07 PM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Bradon crossed the room to get a closer look at the living gem. “By the lighthouse glass! What is that?”
Lars looked up and shrugged, “I haven’t the foggiest. All I know that when the crystal is inside the knife, it can cut through just about anything, and when it’s not in the knife, the blade is as ordinary as a kitchen tool.”
Bradon reached down to pick up the prism, but only got within a hand’s breadth of the crystal. Fire, in a thin blue stream arced from within the pulsating stone and struck Bradon on the hand. “What the devil…” he trailed off rubbing his sore hand. The hair on his fingers was singed, and spasms wracked the muscles in his forearms.
“Yeah. I forgot to tell you.” Lars’ warning came a little late. “You’ve got to wear gloves if you want to hold it.” Lars slipped a thin leather glove over his hand and returned the crystal to its receptacle. “Even a glove like this is enough.”
Bradon was still massaging his hand. “Are there more of these things.”
“I don’t know.” Lars replied. “This is the first I’ve ever seen, but my guess is that there are more of them. Bard’s knife suggests that the design was common enough to pass along, although I suppose that since he felt comfortable enough to sell his own that he didn’t plan on anyone finding an original.”
“What are you getting at.” Bradon knew that Lars was not telling him all he knew.
“Bard doesn’t have a crystal, but he may know where one is.” Lars tapped his temple as the revelation left his lips. “I would ask him outright, but that would be admitting my theft. I think we’re going to need a more subtle form of investigation.”
Smoc and Bradon looked at each other with smug, knowing grins.
“When.” Bradon was practically drooling
“Tonight. The rain will be our cover.” | Registered User | | | Views 190
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| | Posted 15th February 2009 at 06:48 PM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 17th February 2009 at 02:11 AM by H.M.Gimlord Havar lingered for a few days, but the poison eventually did its work. It was a beautiful brew that Bradon found while hiking through the forests to the south of the farm where he grew up. The berries were edible, but if one dried them, and dissolved them in an alcoholic drink, the result was a chemical that destroyed one’s ability to recover from any disease, no matter how trifling. It left no telltale signs, and its affect was immediate. Havar had gotten into an annoyingly persistant habit of raising their “rent” repeatedly, at every opportunity. It was a poor form and risky, Bradon thought, for Havar to blackmail them when he was the only one who knew what they were up to and where they had decided to hide. Havar was just setting himself up as a target, and Bradon did what comes naturally when all animals are cornered. He fought back. Bradon knew that Blagarm would take over business at the inn, and this posed some serious problems, Havar having kept the basement cask a secret all the way up to the end. That entrance was no longer safe. No telling what kind of suspicion it would arouse to see Bradon going down there as regularly as he used to without the cover of the inn’s proprietor. In anticipation of this, Bradon had Smoc and Lars spend the days of Havar’s sickness carving out the remainder of a passage leading out to where the Ulmar flowed under Fortress Wall Street, providing an entrance secretive enough such that the cask could be locked up and never used again. Smoc, being a natural burrower, even threw in a couple touches like coating the door in layers of dust and mortar in order to blend it in with the surrounding stratified sandstone. The door to the passage was virtually invisible from the outside, but swung open easily if one knew where to push. The Ulmar may have once been a beautiful river cutting though the sandstone bedrock that formed the foundation of the city, but it now served as the city’s sewer and refuse management system. Its waters were born in the mountains to the south, springing forth and flowing down through dale valleys formed by plateaus that extended like fingers into the plains below. Continuing west, it passed through the fertile fields that at this time made up the farmlands of the Southshire until the higher ground along the coast caused it to turn sharply northward behind an outcropping on which the Hallmasters had constructed a lighthouse to guide ships to port. It was at this bend where the Ulmar lost its beauty. From here it ran up to the very southern edge of Rioc Alair’s port district and slammed into a natural, thirty-foot wall of sandstone that redirected its waters eastward carving a ravine into the rock, sinking as land rose around it. A single bridge spanned the ravine connecting the port district with the manufacturing sector. After this, the Ulmar turned northward again and disappeared underground, tunneling beneath the city until it emptied into the ocean a mile, or so, later. Coupled with its proximity to the city, and its steady, swift current the Ulmar was ideal for disposing of trash and excrement, but speed alone did not prevent the water from taking on an acrid smell. Because of this, most people in the port district avoided its banks. Upstream, however, its waters were fresh, and an aqueduct of considerable size was constructed to divert fountain water to both the port and manufacturing districts of the city. Every city block of the port district was outfitted with four fountains that found themselves in common use. Ale was, for the time being, no longer a necessary beverage when it came to potable drink. In fact, several wealthy business and government officials had plumbing directly linked to their residences. Over the course of the city’s history, a system of grates, runoff drains, and dump chutes was added to handle the needs of the growing population, and the result was that the city was able to build on an extremely close-quartered street plan without suffering the infirmities of pestilence that resulted from exposure to the filth of every-day life. Unfortunately, it was into this every-day filth that Lars was now forced to delve on a regular basis. Bradon’s new door was functionally brilliant but lacked the sophistication and comfort of its predecessor. This day was particularly annoying on account of the rain. Beads of water streamed of the end of Lars’ nose as fumbled in his tunic for the picks that Smoc had given him. Long ago, the city had placed a large grate over the cave-like hole where the Ulmar plunged below the city. On the bank of the stream, a crumbling sandstone path wound its way up to a metal door in the grate that was secured by a large, steel padlock. The grate was not necessarily for security so much as it was to serve two purposes. On the one hand, it kept unscrupulous people from being exposed to the choleric environment within, and on the other, it gave anyone who fell in the river a last chance to save themselves before beings swept out to ocean. Lars was still not used to the art of picking a lock, but he could tell he was getting better at it every day. This time it only took him a quarter of an hour to spring the lock allowing the metal door to open. Smock had also been careful to grease the hinges daily to keep the door quiet. Lars gagged as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him, being sure to replace the lock before continuing. He wiped matted tendrils of hair from his eyes, and tried to inhale only when necessary. The drumming of rain quickly faded into the sound of trickling streams of water flowing through the sewer system underneath the city echoing off the walls of the cavern where brick-lined holes unendingly vomited jets of mucked water into the Ulmar. It had been a little over two weeks since Lars had won Smoc’s curious hunting knife, and in every second of that time, it occupied his thoughts. Shear, the city librarian, had become weary of finding him books on the subjects of Dwarven language, smith craft, and metallurgy. In his studies, he discovered that his initial assessment of the similarity of the knives was not entirely accurate. For one thing, Lars’ knife couldn’t cut through a dagger blade. That was the first thing he tried. Secondly, while it was true enough that the knives appeared to be made by the same hand, following the same design, the runes on the blade hilts were not identical. He quickly deciphered this riddle. Dwarves, he learned, were rather vain in constructing weapons and hunting tools. They often raised their initials like hallmark dies in strategic places so that their victims, if they survived, would bear scars to remind them from whom they had received their wound. Lars’ deduced from this that his own knife bore Bard’s initials in the Davek equivalent of “B.M.” But there was a problem. Bard’s knife had three initials. Throughout his entire life, so far, he had only heard the name Bard Mast. No third name was ever used to refer to the old dwarf. Smoc’s knife also bore three initials, two of which were the same as those on Bard’s knife. Lars couldn’t tell whether they were the first two initials or the last, but the similarity in design suggested that the shared initials indicated a family relationship at the very least. In addition to the hilts, the pommels also bore a noteworthy difference. Though they were the same shape, a Davek inscription completely encircled the pommel of Smoc’s knife. It was this inscription that compelled Lars to devote every spare moment of the last sixteen days in the city library until his skin grew pale from a lack of sunlight. Lars pushed back the panel of faux sandstone and stepped into Bradon’s hidden common room. Light flooded his eyes, and the dry, sweet air contrasted heavily with the damp stench outside. “Where have you been!?” Bradon bellowed from across the room. “If it weren’t for the fact that your father seemed unconcerned with your disappearance, I would have had the town guard out looking for you myself.” “I’ve been in the library, Bradon. Perhaps you should try it.” Lars knew about Bradon’s attitude toward education, and it showed in his lifestyle. Smoc cracked a smile from his chair at the table. Bradon frowned at the challenge to his intelligence. “I thought you’d be a solid addition to our group, but you haven’t turned a copper since the day you arrived.” “I think,” Lars replied “that you’ll find my studies profitable, if you’d care to listen.” Lars pulled the two knives from his belt. “Do you remember these?” “That’s my knife.” Smoc stood from his chair, suddenly interested. “Where’d you get the other one?” “It’s my knife,” Lars corrected, “and yes I have two of them now. This one, however,” Lars wagged one of the knives, “was made by our own Bard Mast. It’s not as impressive, but its similarity to this one, “Lars wagged the other, “is too close to be ignored. In fact I’ll wager that Bard would recognize both blades if he saw them.” Lars continued, “Look down here.” He pointed out the inscription on the pommel of Smoc’s knife. “It says, ‘When it is my turn, I will show you my power.’” Lars looked Bradon and Smoc in the eye as he grasped the pommel and rotated it. As he did, the pommel screwed out of the handle to reveal a cylindrical chamber from which emanated a brilliant blue light. Lars righted the knife, and out slid a beautiful sapphire prism the size of a finger. The prism pulsated with white light that shown blue through the sapphire in which it was contained. “It appears that you were right, Smoc. This knife is worth more than either of us suspected, and I imagine that our friend Mr. Mast may be hiding a few secrets of his own.” | Registered User | | | Views 160
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| | Posted 8th February 2009 at 07:11 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 15th February 2009 at 06:42 PM by H.M.Gimlord Havar Barblacken stood up after having been bent down on one knee installing the last of twenty-three brand new locks that Hankel delivered from the forge this morning. Havar rubbed his back and kneaded the skin on his knee which was worn raw under his hose from having born his massive weight for hours. The new locks, bolts, and hinges gave the hallway a handsome look as the light from the candle sconces glittered off of the well-oiled iron. What’s more, the silent locks and hinges were good for “business.” Ol’ Bard didn’ even charge m’ mar‘an normal price. Th’ fool. Well, now. Time ta check on m’ favrit tenan’.
The bag of 46 iron keys clinked like gold coins as Havar hefted the bag over his shoulder and descended the stairs into the common room where his son Blagarm was pounding pegs into a board with a mallet. Before squeezing behind the bar and disappearing through door to the cellar, Havar slung the bag of keys onto the floor next to his son. “Hang ‘em up when yar done.”
Havar continued down into the cellar letting the damp cool air tell his nostrils a story of aging wine, moldy ale, and strong whiskey, the sound of Blagarm’s pounding mallet growing softer as he went. Havar paced back and forth several times in front of the five large, six-foot diameter casks that lined the back wall of the cellar. When he passed the third cask from the right for the fourth time, he stopped and reached for the tap as if to sample the contents, but as he turned the handle nothing issued from the tap. Instead there was a quiet click, and the sound of creaking wood as the entire front of the cask swung forward to reveal an empty wine barrel. Havar looked back up the stairs as if he feared he was being watched, climbed inside the wine barrel, and closed the front of the cask behind him. Once inside, he walked to the back of the wine barrel, and knocked gently three times. After waiting for a moment, he followed with two more knocks in rapid succession.
The back of the cask swung open, and Bradon Handmill stood in the opening silhouetted against the bright lamplight of a spacious room, holding a half-full mug of ale in his hand. The handsome gentleman of thirty-seven years greeted Havar with a broad grin.
“Havar, old man. So glad that you’ve come to call. Sit down and have a mug.” Behind Bradon, a child-sized man and man-sized child were playing dice at a table. “Allow me to introduce to you the expansion of my business.” Bradon nodded toward the two at the table, “The halfling’s name is Smoc Lem. I found him stowed away on a ship about a week ago, and offered him a job.” Bradon, next indicated the adolescent youth at the table, whose long blonde hair hung over his eyes as he peeked at the dice that lay under his tumbler. “The boy, you may recognize. He’s old man Hallmaster’s son.”
Staying close to Bradon as he made his way to the table, he spoke in a low voice. “Mar people, mar trouble. Mar trouble, mar risk. Mar risk, mar ren’.” Havar sat down at the table. “So ya’ve fell in wiv common thieves ‘ave ya Mr. ‘allmaster? The rich life gettin’ ‘little borin’ fer ya’ eh?” Havar’s cynicism, however, was an attempt to veil his deep concern. “Yar ol’ man wouldn’ ‘prove o’ ya stoopin’ ta this now, would ’e?”
Lars stared at his dice, “Father couldn’t care less, as long as I keep up with studies, and stay away when he entertains clients. – So Smoc, what’ll it be. You in?”
The halfling threw a silver coin on the table, “There’s my ante. Let’s see the power of your roll.”
Lars pulled four gold coins out of a pocket in his tunic and placed them on the table. “I don’t play for pennies. Have you any confidence in your luck?”
“Luck follows a halfling like his shadow boy.” Smoc pulled a purse out and emptied 12 gold pieces onto the table.
Havar turned to Bradon, “I thin’ I’ll be havin’ tha’ ale now.” Bradon nodded and strode off to a nearby table that held a pitcher and several mugs.
Lars smiled, “You think you’re something don’t you.” From the same pocket as before, Lars produced two platinum coins stamped with the Cotton and Wheat.
Havar’s eyes popped, “Where’d ya get tha’ piece o’ prize I migh’ like ta know.” He nearly missed the mug as it was handed to him.
Lars’ grin deepened, “Let’s just say that Father only keeps his money safe from the guests. Besides,” Lars continued shrugging, “He’s not going to miss it for long.” He smiled at Smoc, “It’ll be safe in his coffer before tomorrow morning, and he won’t be the wiser.”
“Well,” continued Havar with a laugh, taking a long draught from the mug, “I’d ‘ate ta see th’ cola o’ yer hide when yer ol’ man comes up wantin’ fer cash.” He winked at Smoc.
Smoc gave a low whistle as he peeked once more under his tumbler. “OK, boy. You’ve run me out of my stash, but I still think my dice are a better set, so here’s my offer to stay in the game.” Smoc reached at his belt, and pulled a hunting knife from a sheath that was obviously not made to fit. In the halfling’s hands, the knife looked like a small sword. Lars, however, seemed unimpressed. “Don’t look so calm, boy, “ spat Smoc, “You know what this is? It’s a dwarven antique. More than one hundred years old this is. “
“Hardly! You probably just lifted it from old Bard’s shop.” Lars nearly lost his temper. This guy’s probably been cheating me blind the whole time. I’ve got a knife just like that on my own belt.
“You doubt my word boy?” Smoc grabbed another dagger from his belt. Lars pushed his chair back. “Sit down boy! No one’s trying to hurt you.” Smoc lay the dagger down on the table, holding the hilt. With his free hand, he brought the hunting knife down and sliced through the blade of the dagger as if it were whittling off the end of a piece of wood. The shard of steel flipped across the room and tumbled end over end into the corner.”
Lars’ brain was bursting with questions, but he decided to keep them to himself. “OK. It’s a call. What’s your roll.”
Smoc lifted his tumbler. “Three Fives, two fours”
Lars said nothing. He just grinned from ear to ear, and lifted his own tumbler. There on the table were five dice. Four sixes, one five. “Looks like I’ve got myself an antique hunting knife, and a father who won’t be missing his treasure.”
Smoc was crestfallen. “I thought sure I had you beat boy. Take the lot.”
“No,” The story was worth it. You can have the gold back, but I’ll keep the knife.
“Pah! That’s like saying offering a dock hand’s job to a king after you’ve taken his castle. That knife’s worth more than you think.”
“We’ll see, but my offer still stands.”
Smoc had his pride, but he wasn’t stupid. He scooped the twelve gold coins and the silver back into his purse and sat down.
“Well done young man.” Bradon walked over to the table and patted Lars on the back, “It seems that luck follows you around like a shadow. Why I knew from the moment I laid eyes on – Why Havar. You don’t look so good.”
“I don’ feel sa’ goo’ nietha.” Havar’s face had lost color, and his hands were shaking so much that he could barely hold onto his mug, “If ya don’ min’ I’ll b’ takin’ m’leave o’ ya now.”
“Of course. Please. Take care of yourself, and we’ll see you in the morning.” Bradon put his arm around Havar and led him back to the cask-door. When it closed behind the innkeeper, Bradon turned around and shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll need to worry about the rent anymore.”
| Registered User | | | Views 151
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| | Posted 28th January 2009 at 05:39 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 8th February 2009 at 02:29 PM by H.M.Gimlord (Changing the title numbers to fit the chronology of the story) The unpredictable spring weather had been kind this day with a brief blessing of warmth. The sun shown down through cotton-like clouds, causing shadows to come on abruptly, darkening the sky, only to yield to the light once more without warning. Lars whistled as his boots scraped the cobbles on the city road, his blonde, shoulder-length hair catching the breeze from the wharf. The ringing of hammers sounded out from within the forge as he passed by the corner where Bard Mast and his son Hankel had their shop. The old dwarves had been the premiere blacksmiths of Rioc Alair since before Lars was born. Voices joined in with the clanging of metal, and Lars began to catch the conversation being shared between the two artisans as they pounded away at the anvils.
“…So old Havar says to me, ‘I’m wantn’ these locks an’ hinges made good as ya can make’m. ya hear me? I don’ want no catchin’ or scrapin’ noises comin’ out o’em.’ The old fool has no idea what he is asking for.” Bard shook his head as his hammer fell on the cherry hot metal, “He must know that he is doubling his cost of the inn’s room doors.” He shrugged, and the hammer fell again, “But he is the one placing the order. Anyway, I will not charge him for the – Oh hello Lars.” Bard plunged his tongs into the quenching trough. The water hissed and bubbled as if in pain. Bard wiped the sweat from his forehead and smoothed his singed beard with sooty hands. Hankel continued to pound away. “How are the studies going?”
“Father won’t let me rest. If it’s not chores, it’s letters.”
“Oh come now.” Hankel called out, without turning from his work to look, “Tell me you would have it any other way. You are in that moldy library from sun-up to sun-down. Do you think I do not notice?” Hankel’s hammer fell several times, making it hard to hear. “I would be willing to wager that you are the smartest youth in all of Rioc Alair.”
Lars gave Hankel an annoyed look behind his back that made Bard snicker. “Scrolls and scraps of vellum naming kings, countries, and the price of dry goods are not exactly the best use of a sunny afternoon.”
“So tell me boy.” Bard pulled his apron over his head and draped it over the anvil. “What brings you to the forge on a sunny afternoon?”
“Father wanted me to see if you’ve got the hearth façade finished.” Lars looked around as if he might find it lying propped up against the walls of the forge.
“Tell your father that his decoration will be finished on time.” Bard plunged his hands into a bucket of water standing by the coal bin and cupped water onto his face. Grabbing the sides of the bucket, he shook his long hair and beard dry.
Lars guarded his eyes from the flying drops of water. “Can I see it?”
“Of course.” Bard dried his hands on his hose and reached for his tunic as he strode over to the shop motioning for Lars to follow. “Mind you, it is not finished yet, so do not be alarmed by its appearance.” He pulled back the door to the shop and stepped inside. Compared with the forge just outside, the shop posed a nearly unbelievable contrast. Here, the sweaty dwarf looked almost out of place as he passed through an elegant array of metalwork. Shining steel tools and decorations hung from the walls and the ceiling so thickly, that they gave one the feeling that a false move would bring it all crashing down.
Standing in a corner, as promised, was the work piece, half finished, of ornately embossed metal depicting various maritime and academic symbols and scenes of the Hallmaster family history. The surfaces were still dented and dull, but the condition of the other items in the shop put to rest any fear that this was its completed condition.
“Look as much as you want. I must rescue Artur from my other, less well-to-do customers.” Bard disappeared amid much clanking and shimmering of steel into an invisible sea of commerce.
Lars looked at the hearth façade, but quickly lost interest. His eyes drifted from item to item in the shop until they landed on a small hunting knife. The handle was of hard, solid steel, but it looked as though it had been carved from wood. The blade joined with the handle seamlessly, and the hilt bore dwarven runes that Lars did not recognize. Interesting. They won’t know it’s gone until they take inventory tonight. And so they didn’t. | Registered User | | | Views 158
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| | Posted 27th December 2008 at 07:15 PM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 1st January 2009 at 04:43 AM by H.M.Gimlord V- A Thief in the Night By this time, the sun had long gone down, and the light in the room had taken on the look of dock-side nightlife. A fire was blazing on the common room hearth and customers were nodding off in their ale. Conversations in the room took on a low and fanciful drone. Firebyrne drained what remained of his drink and once again shouldered the chest that carried his possessions. “Innkeeper. I’d like to see my room.” “O’course Mr. Firebyrne. This way.” The innkeeper pulled a key off of a pegboard behind the bar, lit a taper with a nearby lamp, and squeezed through the half door once more to lead Firebyrne upstairs. As they ascended from sight, the common room adjusted itself in a vain attempt to return to normal. The drone grew louder, but there were no songs or stories left to tell tonight. “Here’s th’room. Numba Six.” The innkeeper fitted the key into a lock of blackened iron which was so well oiled that the bolt drew back without a catch. The door and swung open on greased hinges with surprising ease to reveal a small, dark room, sparsely furnished, with no windows, and just big enough in which to turn around. The bed was waist-high with room underneath for storage. A little table stood at the head of the bed with an oil lamp, a basin, and a stool. At the foot of the bed, a chamber pot was placed, discreetly just inside the frame. Firebyrne was not accustomed to inns and taverns, but he knew enough to be impressed with the cleanliness, and care with which the room had been prepared. The innkeeper scurried in ahead of Firebyrne and held his taper to the oil lamp. Light filled the room, and gave it a cozy glow. “It’s a small’n, but I’magin you won’t be needn’ a palace. M’name’s Blagarm Barblacken. Call it if y’eva need anythin’.” Blagarm handed Firebyrne the key to the room, hanging the key ring on one of his claws. “The keys’re a silva’ an’two coppas a’piece if ya lose’em. Cost me a day‘n’a room to get a new’un. I’ll be serven’ brekfust at five bells. Three coppas fa food. Two coppas fa drink.” Before Firebyrne could say “Thank you,” Blagarm bounded back down the stairs to make sure that the folk in the common room were behaving themselves. Firebyrne closed and locked the door. Pocketing the key in his tunic, he made his way wearily to the bed and dropped his oak chest on the floor with a dull, but loud, thud. Until now, he had not realized how tired he was, and he could think of nothing better than sleep to prepare him for his first day of work in the morning. Without bothering to remove his clothes, he kicked the chest under the high bed, sat on top of the blanket, and fell backward. He was asleep before his head lit. Unconsciousness set in on him so quickly and so completely that he didn’t notice the visitor who entered his room four hours later. Blagarm had snuffed out the hall lamps for the night, so no light fell into Firebyrne’s room when the door silently swung open and a small creature slipped through the gap. Casting no shadows and unhindered by the darkness, he padded on bare feet across the room to the bed where Firebyrne lay asleep. The intruder found Firebyrne’s chest as though the dragonborn himself had told him where to look, and slid it out from under the bed making no sound all the while. He drew two small, metal tools out of his tunic and, with the hand of a trained engineer, set to work at the lock on the chest. In seconds, the lock fell open making no sound as it came to rest in the palm of his hand. As the chest lid was slowly raised, a small, blue spark issued from the hinge. The little fellow started for a moment but, hearing no sounds, resumed his task and crouched behind the vertical lid to inspect the contents of the chest. The reward was disappointing. The chest had nothing except some clothes, a sword (which was too heavy for him to lift), and a hauberk that would make too much noise if he tried to remove it from the chest. It seemed that the weight of the trunk lay more in its structure than in its holdings. Swearing to himself he reached up to shut the lid. It was fortunate that Firebyrne had not taken the time to undress before he fell asleep. Otherwise, his purse might well have become a consolation prize for the thief. It was also fortunate that he regularly took the time to place a paste of quartz powder on the hinges of his chest. The resulting electric spark had silently awakened him with the smell of ozone. When the lid came down, the burglar had only enough time to see two bright blue eyes staring through the darkness directly into his own. After that it was too late to act. Electricity arced from between Firebyrne’s bared teeth, through the air, and into the thief’s chest stopping his heart momentarily. Firebyrne casually made his way across the room toward the halfling who was slowly regaining consciousness. As the thief’s eyelids lifted, Firebyrne dug his claws into the thief’s shoulder, and lifted him up until they were eye to eye. Firebyrne’s voice took on an intimidating tone. “Tell me, hobbit: did your mother not tell you that the dragonborn can see in the dark? Where I am from, the penalty for burglary is death. You are lucky that we are not there.” Firebyrne moved to the open door and shouted down the hallway, “Blagarm! It appears that we have another Freak at the inn today! Call the night watchman!” There was a stir of people coming out of their rooms into the hall, but when they saw the dragonborn holding the squirming halfling by the shoulder, they quickly shut themselves in their rooms. Blagarm came stumbling up the stairs in nightclothes and cap, fumbling a hand-lamp as he tried not to trip over his skirts. In his other hand, he held a makeshift nightstick fashioned out of a broom handle. “ What’s all th’fuss ‘bout!? – Smoc! I might’ve known.” Blagarm brandished the broom handle in the halfling’s face. “Much thanks, Mr. Firebyrne. W’ve been lookin’ fa this’un ‘long time now. Did’ee take anythin’? ” “Luckily, I got to him first, but I’d be willing to testify against him for charges of unlawful entry.” Blagarm drilled his eyes into the halfling’s – an act that looked more comical than intimidating, but the claw in the halfling’s shoulder kept him from laughing. “Y’ll rot’n th’stocks fa this. An’if yer’eva tried fa pilferin’ m’shipments o’mead las’month, y’ll see the inside of’a dungeon sureas ya’can blink.” Smoc blinked defiantly, but the gesture did not go unnoticed by Firebyrne. The dragonborn tightened his grip, and blood blossomed from beneath his foreclaw much like ink stains a shirt when a quill is misplaced upon it. Taking no care to be gentle, Firebyrne carried Smoc downstairs, through the dark common room, and out the door. Blagarm followed behind, still in his night clothes. Blagarm lit the lamp outside the front door of the inn with the wick of his hand lamp and called for the night watch, “Jahred! W’ve got us a thief! Jahred!” A few seconds later, a tall, stalky human appeared in the glow of the inn’s lamp light. He was dressed in a mail shirt with leather bracers, and a long sword, hung from a scabbard at his waist. The crest of Rioc Alair was embroidered on the chest of his tunic which hung over the mail shirt. “Jahred! Ya tell tha’ captain o’yers ta take better care o’his charges. This’un’s given us trouble a’fore, an’I can’t afford loosin’ more customers. Mr. Firebyrne, here, caught’im thievin’ in’is room. Jahred’s eyes widened at the sight of the dragonborn, but he maintained his composure. “Don’t worry Mr. Barblacken. We’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you anymore.” “Ya better! Chain this thief an’hold’m in th’geol ‘till we try’m. I’m willin’ t’test’fy I’the’mornin’, and so’s Mr. Firebyrne.” Jahred turned to address Smoc as he pulled out irons and chains from a hook on his belt. “All right then. What’ve you got to say for yourself.” “Oh go stick it in your eye!” Smoc wiggled defiantly within Firebyrne’s grasp and kicked at Jahred, the blood now saturating the coarse fibers of his shirt. Firebyrne, with his free hand, restrained Smoc’s legs while Jahred clamped the irons over his wrists. When Firebyrne was satisfied that Smoc wouldn’t get away, he released his grip and let Jahred take him away. “Thank you Mr. Jahred. It is good to know that men like you stand ready to do what you must.” “Don’ ‘spect n’thanks fro’me Jahred! Ya should o’had'im locked up months ago!” Blagarm turned to Firebyrne with a sheepish look. “Welcome ta Rioc Alair Mr. Firebyrne. Thieves’a like rats here. Once ya think ya got’em all, tha’s anotha’ comin’ out from behin' th’wall.” | Registered User | | | Views 201
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| | Posted 13th December 2008 at 06:35 PM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 13th February 2009 at 02:49 AM by H.M.Gimlord After sliding his chest under the table, Firebyrne hunched with his back to the corner and contemplated his mug. Instead of trying not to draw attention to himself, which was, of course, impossible, he settled for just staying quiet. Staring down at the white head of his drink, he searched his insight for why The Oracle had sent him here. Where was he going to go? He couldn’t hide his face forever, and it would take a long time to establish himself as a familiar citizen of this town. “wux re ti de zahae tenpiswo. re wux?” The sound of his native language jarred Firebyrne from his reverie. He raised his eyes above the amber foam at the top of his mug just high enough to see a short squat dwarf with a singed, gray beard extending a leathery hand toward him. Firebyrne was so stunned that he immediately accepted the handshake, though, for him, it was an awkward form of greeting. He had seen it done among humans and dwarves before, but until now, he had never done it himself. Firebyrne met the dwarf’s gaze once more, “It would appear that you’re quite a foreigner here as well.” Firebyrne nodded sideways toward the others in the common room, calling attention to the demographic majority in the room, though he never took his eyes off of the dwarf. “Ah. You are wrong there, my scaled companion. I have lived in Rioc Alair all fifty-six years of my life, though, until now, I have never seen one of the dragonborn. My father would tell me stories aplenty, but I never believed them. He even carved them out of stone to show me. It certainly is good to see a face more different than mine in this city. Blasting fires! How legends come to life!” The dwarf pulled back the stool opposite Firebyrne and invited himself to have a seat. “As long as you’re talking, you might as well have something to drink.” Firebyrne signaled the innkeeper. “A mug for the dwarf! A reward for being the only other freak in the city!” The common room erupted in laughter, and the innkeeper quickly placed a mug on their table. “Found y’self a friend now have ya Mr. Mast?” The mug was quickly followed by an outstretched hand toward Firebyrne. This one did not want to be shaken. Firebyrne deposited two coppers in the innkeepers hand and turned his attention back to the dwarf. “Mast?” he mused, “That’s an odd name for a dwarf. “ “His father came in sailin’ a boat” interrupted the innkeeper. “Jus’ he an’ his wife. Bard was his name.” The innkeeper pocketed the coppers in his apron, “None ever got a sir-name outa him, just called himself th’Man o’the Mast on accounta his means of transport, bein’ odd for his type, that is.” “So tell me Mr. Mast“, Firebyrne continued, looking around as the innkeeper resumed his place at the bar, “Is everyone here human? And if so, where can a monster such as me find work in a place like this.” “Please. Call me Hankel.” The dwarf waved his hand as if to parry the blow of formality. “It just so happens that you and I, different as we are, are two of a kind, and since this is the case, your prospects are slim for employment. That is, of course, unless you’d be willing to work for me.” “I love the sea, but I’m not much of a sailor, if that’s what you mean.” “Not at all. I’ve pursued the true dwarven art. I am the Master Armorer for Rioc Alair and, in my spare time, I’m a mender of fences.” Hankel chuckled to himself, musing as if the statement was some kind of inside joke. “If you’re offering me a job at the forge, I accept, though I will require training.” “Fair enough. You can mend the fences” replied Hankel. “And may I call you Scorch?” “How did you arrive at that?” Firebyrne was surprised and slightly offended. “It’s written on your trunk.” Hankel tapped the trunk under the table with the tip of his boot right under the groves that formed Firebyrne’s name. “I just figured it’s easier for me than saying Ixenvalignat.” “I prefer ‘Firebyrne’ when my name is used in the common tongue.” “Firebyrne it is! I’ll give you until six bells from the temple to find the forge in town. I’ll see you then. If you are late, you will be given twice as much work to do.” The dwarf turned toward the door, “Thank you kindly for the drink Firebyrne” he called back as he strode out into the street. Firebyrne’s eyes followed him out the door until he was gone from sight. So much for questions about the future. You’ve got work to do in the morning. | Registered User | | | Views 608
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| | Posted 30th November 2008 at 11:42 PM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 28th January 2009 at 05:48 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Changing the title numbers to fit the chronology of the story) The old man looked up over his book long enough to see that his six-year-old son was not getting into any trouble. “Hankel! My boy!”
“Yes Papa?”
“Crawl up here on your old man’s lap.” Bard put the book down and beckoned the way an old man might ask for another drink across the bar, “Have I ever told you a story about the great Arkus Lightning Hammer?”
“No papa. Who is he?”
Bard shot his eyebrows up pretending to be surprised, “Who is Arkus Lightning Hammer!? Why he’s the greatest dwarf ever to dig the earth! ”
Long ago, in a time that has forgotten many deeds, and even more names, there lived a dwarf whose name was Arkus. He was king of a great fortress on an island right here in the middle of Avenroc. He had discovered a magic that could cut the rock open as well as defeat the largest of foes in battle with lightning and thunder. He wielded the power justly, ruling over the island in both mountain and forest.
He had two sons: Hemrec and Bardir –“
“That’s your name, Papa.”
“Oh. So it is. Maybe I’m mistaken about his name.” He winked, “Anyway, wealth flowed from the forges underneath Arkus’ keep in the form of steel the like of which no country, here or abroad, had ever seen, but it was not to last. A great blue dragon came from over the sea, breathing storms and hearing of the magic that splits the rocks apart. He descended on Arkus’ mountain keep and claimed it for his own – “
“Bradon tells me that there’s no such thing as dragons.”
“What!? No such thing as dragons!? Why there most certainly are dragons in this world. You may go through your entire life and never see a dragon (and I hope that you never do), but I assure you that they do exist, and you would be wise to remember that.
Now where was I? Ah yes. The dragon descended on Arkus’ mountain keep, and drove the dwarves before him. Arkus himself fell in the battle. The lightning magic was of no use. You see, blue dragons can’t be hurt by lightning. It flows in their blood. It’s what they are made of. Arkus didn’t know this, and it was his undoing. Even Hemrec fell in the battle. Eight hundred forty-three dead in all. Only five of them survived by hiding in a small prison keep that was too deep for the wyrm to find.”
“What about Bardir?”
“Well, Bardir wasn’t there. He was off delivering a shipment of steel to the mainland, far away. When he returned, he found that the keep had been taken. He took his men, and tried to get it back, but he died in the attempt.”
“That’s a sad story.”
“You expect all stories to have a happy ending?”
“Sure. Why shouldn’t I?”
“It’s not always that way my son.”
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Is the dragon still there?”
Bard’s face momentarily lost expression but quickly composed itself, “It’s time for you to get to bed, Hankel. Onyxia! This boy looks tired doesn’t he?”
“Well I’m sure he’ll sleep well after a story like that.” A stout, but charming dwarf lady of elder years dusted her hands as she strode into the room from the kitchen, swept Hankel up into her arms, and kissed him on the cheek, “Come child. To bed with you. Don’t let Papa’s stories keep you from a good night’s rest. He’s got to work in town early tomorrow, and, if you want, you can help around the forge.” Onyxia rounded on Bard, “For heaven’s sake Bard. Don’t scare the boy!”
Bard looked back with an expression of mock innocence that hid a serious desperation, “He must know one way or the other my wife.” | Registered User | | | Views 463
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| | Posted 29th November 2008 at 05:01 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 28th January 2009 at 05:47 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Changing the title numbers to fit the chronology of the story) The setting sun sent scintillating wisps of blue and indigo though Firebyrne’s scales as he stepped from the weather-worn gangplank onto the wharf. The evening breeze subsided long enough, allowing the taste of salty air to stir his memories. His time at sea had cleared his mind and strengthened his body as if to prepare him for the life he was to begin. The wharf was packed with seamen, nets, rigging, block-and-tackle, luggage, and the noise of business. Every face was pail, hairy, and smooth. What a strange place. The people here are all the same – human. No one dared to make eye-contact with him, and it dawned on him that his first lesson in this strange town would be one of social humility. “D-d-does this belong to you?” The stammering voice belonged to a dock hand who was pointing to an enormous oak chest that had just been lowered onto the wharf. “Ixenvalignat! That’s me,” thundered Firebyrne, not that he expected the dock hand to recognize his name, scratched on the front of the chest in large Draconic script. Nor did he expect the boy to be pleasantly surprised to see its owner. The dock hand’s jaw gaped and quivered a little, “A-a-are you going to need help with it?” “No. I’ve got it.” Firebyrne hoisted the trunk to his shoulder with one clawed talon, pressed a copper into the hand of the boy with the other. The boy was already running away in terror when Firebyrne looked around to get his bearings. An inn stood just opposite the wharf as if to say, “Here’s the most expensive place to stay, if you’re lost or new to Rioc Alair.” But what was he going to do, walk forever until he found a better place? He ducked his head to clear the door frame as he stepped slowly into the smoky, bustling common room which quickly bustled less and less. Songs and tales stopped mid-verse. Mugs lighted softly onto tables. Eye’s widened and quickly turned back to their ales to avoid his gaze, pretending to be thinking about something else. An aura of discomfort five strides wide seemed to encircle Firebyrne as he moved toward the bar. People cleared the way to make room or made for the door, suddenly remembering their families and homes. Firebyrne would have thought it comical if he didn’t know that this suspicion could quickly lead to violence if he made a wrong move, so he let the thought be replaced by head-held-high draconic confidence. Only the innkeeper seemed bold enough to ask him what he wanted. “Needn’ a room futha night?” He queried, pouring him a tall mug of ale without waiting for an order. This guy’s so outa place he’s gotta have money. “You’re good at what you do!” Why are innkeepers always fat? “A room, and a table in the corner where I won’t scare away your customers.” He swept his eyes across the room, smiling at the patrons who quickly avoided his gaze. “Fair’nuff. One silva every night, and two coppa’s a mug.” Firebyrne left the drink money on the table, “I’ll settle my lodgings when I leave.” “Beggin ya pahdon, but I’ll be needn’ the pay now, and to know how long ya intend ta stay.” I’m not gonna let this guy fly-by-night on me. “Have it your way. One night.” And with that, Firebyrne placed his silver piece on the table and took his place in the darkest corner he could find. | Registered User | | | Views 492
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| | Posted 9th November 2008 at 06:58 AM by H.M.Gimlord (Avenroc)
Updated 26th October 2009 at 05:13 AM by H.M.Gimlord This is the story of the shame of Walryn as it was handed down from Bardir, King of Rioc Parvel: The Elder Blue Wyrm craved the lightening crystal that grows beneath Avenroc. He heard of it when dwarves from the mainland began mining into the belly of the island. Arkus Mast Gimlord was their king, and the only dwarf in history known not to fear the ocean. The dwarves first landed on their tiny-island-within-an-island lured by the presence of an active volcano. Unable to resist this natural forge, they established the stronghold of Rioc Parvel within its roots, and set to work. They found little iron, and no gold, but what they did find surpassed even their wildest dreams. Now, when a dwarf finds iron, he will fight for it. If he finds gold, he will die for it. The Lightening Crystal, however, was as precious to these dwarves as their eternal soul. Arkus was actually the one who first found the stone, and understood its worth. He was leading a patrol on the rim of the mountain, when his foot struck a small blue stone embedded in the path. Curious, he examined it, and found that it appeared to be a blue fire trapped inside a clear crystal. Mistaking it for sapphire, he fashioned it into a jewel to adorn his axe and thought no more of it than a beautiful thing to look at. All dwarven strongholds have their share of adversaries, and Rioc Parvel was no different. When storm giants threatened to destroy the dwarves’ work, a brutal war ensued. Arkus led the dwarves to battle and discovered that his axe was blessed with the gift of thunder. The very air shook with every blow, and blue light glistened off of the blade. It didn’t take long for Arkus to realize that he had fashioned a relic by accident. The axe came alive, almost sentient, and his followers began to fear him. Giants fell before the axe, and soon the dwarves’ supremacy was established. Arkus wasted no time in taking advantage of his find. He ordered the mining of the mountain to increase in earnest. The largest single gem measured 7 hands wide by 1 hand, 1 span deep. This, they named the Moonstone. Cut with geometric facets, it was fashioned into a steel setting, and positioned at the summit of the mountain. From there it harnessed the power of lightening storms, and channeled the energy to smaller stones for use in mining the rock below. Pressurizing these smaller crystals would release the energy collected by the Moonstone, and shatter the bedrock with more precision and power than any dwarven machine. Other weapons were also fashioned using the crystal until all of Arkus’ personal guard held powerful weapons capable of slaying any natural creature, or so they thought. Bardir was born to Arkus shortly after the war of the storm giants, and, when he was grown, it was he who had both the shame, and fortune to be trading with the mainland when the Elder Blue Wyrm descended on the dwarves of Rioc Parvel. Believing their weapons to be invulnerable, the dwarves engaged the Wyrm but quickly realized that they had been mistaken. The Elder Blue Wyrm feared no lightening, and using his own, he tore into the dwarves, stamping them out like so many beetles. Even the Moonstone itself was useless against him, and it did not take long for the Wyrm to lay waste to Rioc Parvel and claim it for his own. Long he lay in the forges of the mountain, mourning his mate, and guarding his scion, an egg that he had carried with him. The storm giants returned but kept their distance. As a gesture of tribute, they forged for the Wyrm a helm that harnessed the power of his breath, but though he accepted the gift, he refused to form an alliance with them. The island, on which Rioc Parvel stood, was no stranger to dragons. The sisters, Sylvantex and Methanine, lived in the forest to the west and seized an opportunity. They feared the power of the dwarves because of their numbers, but the Elder Blue Wyrm, though powerful, was alone. The breath of a green dragon is death, even to the Blue Wyrm, and soon the sisters inherited the dwarven plunder. The egg, however, escaped notice. It hatched in a remote corner of the forge, and the baby wyrm, being exposed to the poisonous breath from within his egg, had unknowingly become immune. Craving food, and being small, he escaped the mountain, and notice. The creatures of the forest called him Walryn or “Trickster,” and as fate would have it, he moved into the forest lair that the sisters had left behind. | Registered User | | | Views 603
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Rioc Parvel 
