The Forges of the Mountain King Chapter 1- Bottom's Up!

Intro:

“Too often we are forgotten, too often we are passed over, too often...”

Master Ignatius Earwax fell silent, the assembled Dwarven host press closer still, straining to hear- around the great hall, clustered in groups, are representatives of many of the lesser known Dwarven Guilds- the Riveters Union, the Ancient Shifters (Porters), the Fungi Farmers Collective, the Nightsoil Champions, the Plumbers & Water Closet Guild, the Accountants and Totalisers Forum, the Royal Ratcatchers, and nearly two dozen others.

Master Ignatius tries a new tack-

“Since the dawn of time Dwarven Lords of martial clans have ruled the roost, they have monopolised the positions of power and glory- they have claimed for their own great riches, and the fruits of our labour, they have had it all!”

A murmur of agreement from the masses, nods and gruff barks of assent.

“For too long!”

Master Ignatius cries, and then finds his stride.

“Too often have we been passed over, deemed unworthy or else made to feel that our trades are mundane or else unfit for praise- well, no longer, we are the very foundations of Dwarven society, the bedrock- the building blocks, the stone...”

The last word is delivered in a hushed tone, the word echoes through the great hall.

“And so, on this day, we say no more.”

Cries of 'no more' punctuate Master Ignatius' point.

“We, The Honourable Council of the Bottom Worker's Guilds, have discovered a great prize, a prize worth fighting for, a prize worth dying for- we have discovered the long forgotten location of the Lost Hold...”

The great hall falls in to hushed silence, the Lost Hold- home to the Tannheim, a fabled clan of Dwarves of unmatched power. The hush is followed by frenzied whispered chatter.

“On this day, we, The Honourable Council of the Bottom Worker's Guild, call for Champions to come forth- for this is our secret, this is our chance, to humble our mighty martial Lords. This is our time. Our champions will investigate the Lost Hold, secure the great treasures and powers within, and we will re-forge our station in Dwarven society- we, the Workers, will at last RISE UP!”

The hall is in uproar, a cacophony- screams and shout, profane and profound, a susurrus, a dirge, a drone, a chant-

“Bottom's Up! Bottom's Up! Bottom's Up”

A little while later, when the chanting has finally run its course (actually nearly fifty minutes later- Dwarves are fond of chanting, and drinking, and chanting about drinking). Anyway... nearly an hour later Master Ignatius once more calls for silence.

“I'll be brief...”

A crude Dwarf in the crowd makes a joke about underpants, it gets a few laughs. Master Ignatius frowns and then continues-

“Each of the great clans and unions here assembled has provided the council with the name of their glorious volunteers (including you guys) who will lay down their lives in the service of this assembly. By dint of lottery we will, over the next few hours, draw forth the the names of those brave Dwarves who will be lucky enough to venture forth in to the no-doubt trap and monster-filled Lost Hold of the Tannheim- there to meet sudden death...”

A hush falls over the Great Hall- the Dwarves look a little worried.

Ignatius fumbles with the piece of parchment he is reading from- looks flustered, and then turns it over, he smiles- and adds-

“... or victory!”

The crowd go wild.

Slowly the noise subsides, and Master Ignatius continues- in a sonorous voice.

“I, Master Ignatius Earwax shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But those selected shall be remembered-
These few, these happy few, this band of brothers... ahem and/or, ahem... sisters;
For he, or ahem... she, that sheds his, or her, blood for us
Shall be our brother, or- as I say- sister; be he, or she, ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his, or her, condition:
And Lordly Dwarves, of either persuasion, in their fortresses now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods, or womanhoods- for that matter, cheap while any speak
That fought for us in The Lost Hold of the Tannheim"

The assembled masses, snuffle and with their beards wipe away salty tears.

“But until then... we drink!”

Ignatius raises his flagon, sloshing much of its contents down his tabard, and salutes the crowd- the assembly goes crazy.



Dwarves everywhere, of all shapes and sizes- stout, fat, big-boned, obese, a-little-on-the-heavy-side, and over-weight; several of them towering giants (height in excess of 4ft 6), here and there miniature versions (height less than 4ft 2). The chamber is packed with merry Dwarves- Bottom-dwellers convinced their world will someday very soon be turned upside down- that they will once and for all get their just rewards.

Joy abounds- in Dwarven form.

There are several bars here, and the ale is cheap, and free for those who have volunteered to serve this cause (that's you guys). There's also food aplenty- meaty haunches and stewed and steamed vegetables, heaving platters- free again for those for whom this may be their last supper (you lot again).

Dwarves dance, tell bawdy tales, swap tall stories about the size and number of Orcs, Giants and/or Dragons that got away, they measure their beards, feel the heft of each others mighty weapons (axes & hammers, for those with a smutty mind), they whisper dark secrets about the Tannheim and the Lost Hold, they drink and spew and cavort, and in the shadier corners do shadier things...

The heads of every one of the Bottom Worker's Guilds are present, as are all of the Council members, however the later are engrossed with the aforementioned lottery.

Important Dwarves that you can see include-

“They call me” Mister Rivet- head of the Riveters Guild, and wearing his million-rivet suit of armour- alas so impractical is the suit that Mister Rivet is forced to stand as still as a statue and watch the proceedings. It is almost impossible to move more than an inch at any time- so heavy is the suit of armour. Actually movement of any kind is not recommended, itching ones nose while wearing the suit produces a sound not unlike several kitchens being thrown downstairs.

Master 'Bob' Dung- head of the Nightsoil Champions stands alone- for obvious reasons, his aroma is breath-taking (not in a good way), and also eye-watering.

Rita Bigchippings- Miss Mineshaft 2011 is surrounded, wherever she goes, by a coterie of leering Dwarves, she's wearing nothing more than a chainmail bikini (spiked in all the right places), although it is rumoured that she always keeps two-or-three concealed mauls, mallets, greataxes and other two-handed weapons hidden about her person.

Lars Ulrik- from the Panelbeater's Union plays syncopated beats on the helms of passing Dwarves, Lars also plays drums for the latest underground sensation 'Metallico', who seek to combine the disparate elements of Dwarven musical tradition- Rock and Metal! At present he is engaged in replicating the thirty-minute drum solo from “Hit the Trolls”.

Other lesser known luminaries you spy in the crowd include-

Dick Gloom- from the Fire Beetle Wranglers.

Cog Robbins- covered in bandages, the inventor of the first fire burst flush toilet, his burns are almost healed now.

Rancid Al- a lowlife Dwarf, hated by many, head of the Barbers Guild- in general Dwarves never cut their hair, Barbers are therefore held in very low-esteem.

Lenny Stook- head of The Lumpers- they carry rocks from A to B, rumour has it that Stook is not even a real Dwarf, if he could straighten his back he would, it is whispered, stand over five feet tall. Alas carrying two-hundred weight sacks of stone every day has left him with a distinct stoop.

Granite Pete- Head of the Ornamental Rockeries Guild.

Flint Naybob- an impressionist of almost no merit.

And a myriad others...



Slightly nervous, still on tenterhooks- waiting to see if your name will be called (it will of course, but that's for later), you head off in to the Great Hall to... well, that's up to you.

Not one to ignore free food Len fills his plate, careful to ensure that there's as many of Egstein's favourites as his own. He pulls up a bench next to his friend and seconds later Egstein's purchased small loaf has plenty of delicious accompaniments. No-one watching would have seen the exchange, Egstein's speed of hand being what it was.

"So, do ya think they'll pick ya?" Eg enquires around the large mushroom he's stuffing into his mouth.

"Course, tis obvious" is Len's taciturn response.

"Why 'course?"

"Cause of these" Len flexes a bicep, "and 'cause of this." holding forth the back of his right hand to show the symbol of Marthammor Duin. "Marthammor protects those of us who go abroad, just like Dugmaren has watched over me whilst I've lived in the Hold. I was meant for this."

"We both know yer Pa put those on ya when you were born" Eg is less convinced.

"Well no matter, here they are, and I'll get picked. No doubt." Len was clearly certain. "Til then lets get a pint or three, and maybe see how the ladies feel 'bout a fella that's heading off to certain death on his Clan's behalf."

The pair of them wipe their plates clean of the last food juices, grab themselves a couple of tankards and head over to a group of girls that Len noticed looking at them when he was flexing his muscles. Every girl likes a strong Dwarf, or so Len hoped.

OOC: Len's hoping to impress with adventures he's not yet had. I'll add a dice roll for his general charm, partially just to see how the dice rolling works.

And who's that heading in Len's direction, none other than Rita Bigchippings- her chainmail bikini makes an alluring swishing rattle as she sashays towards the flexing Len.

Her right hand- grip as tight as a vice, clamps onto Len's right bicep, she siddles around Len, till she stands before him.

In Dwarven terms Rita is amazonian, by which I mean tall, she's wearing high heeled orcskin climbing boots- bringing a whole new meaning to the phrase 'walking on your fallen enemies'. Her cleavage- which is at eye level reminds Len of snow-capped mountains.

She licks he lips alluringly and relights her pipe.

"And who might you be? You must be someone big in the bottoms?"

Len gets a mouthful of her tobacco- it's not rough shag...

...but I hear Rita is, Len. You might wanna steer clear of that one. Rumor is she eats her mates. Filthy habit with that pipe, too; she should stick to chaw like most cultured women. But I digress.

Ignoring the damnable cacophany of Lars and company (Cinara never liked Metallico's sound since they kicked Drake Mustang from the band [though he's seen similar fame with Megabreath] and the madness that followed that show 10 years ago that awakened some primordial's avatar during Call of Lulu), Cinara makes her way over to Rancid Al.

"Well, Al, looks like you and I have one more date before I head off to the Hold. This could be my big break...and big deals need big change. Tonight, I go BLONDE."

"For Phelan's Daughter, my chair is always available. Well, given that yer just 'bout my only client, of course it is. But that's neither here nor there. What do you think you'll find there, lass?" <History check to see what sort of childhood/school memories I can drudge up>

"Well, Al, regardless what's there, once we get back, we'll be the Top O' the Bottom, eh? Turn the whole world upside down. And Wastewater will finally be a name worthy of the pipes that carry the Toppers' filth."

"Do ya really expect to be chosen?"

"Al, if I didn't know better, I'd wager a flash of my funbags to a free dye-job that Old Earwax's already picked his team." <Insight roll to see if I'm on the mark and if I owe Al the best 3 seconds of his life>

"Yer on, lass!!"

"For Phelan's Daughter, my chair is always available. Well, given that yer just 'bout my only client, of course it is. But that's neither here nor there. What do you think you'll find there, lass?" <History check to see what sort of childhood/school memories I can drudge up>

Click to expand...

Cinara blinks once and is instantaneously transported to a foreign land- the past, the glowing hearth, the shuffle of slippered fleet as Nanna Slag hoves in to view- complete with knitted chainmail and ‘dem-chewers’ (metal-replacement teeth), Nanna puts her battleaxe aside and sits on the edge of your bed. You are only six years old, you pummel your shale and limestone pillow into shape and settle into it- Nanna Slag has a gleam in her eye. Tonight’s promised story, about a clan of ‘bad Dwarves’ called the Tannheim is going to be a exciting, your certain... it seems Nanna really has forgiven you for killing ‘King Morris’, her favourite pet Toad.

Yet you remember little of the story; only the cold sweat and terrible screams (your own) hours later when you awake for the first time from the nightmare, you remember the nightmare of course, or at least the end of it, you have been there so often. Great leering Dwarves, with misshapen faces, each forty feet tall and made of solid stone chasing you around your room, only your room is much bigger and there are puddles on the floor. Thankfully, you are too quick for the ponderous beasts and manage to dodge, duck and dive to avoid their great clashing; smashing weapons-, you spot your escape, squeeze through a set of gleaming metal bars and rush headlong down a natural cavern passage too small for your tormentors to access.

Safe, you exit into a larger chamber, you remember smiling as you come to a stop, smiling as you steady the beat of your thunderous heart...

That’s when the great serpent grabs you.

Your last memory being crushed in the creature’s ever-tightening grasp.

That is when you awake- screaming, and spot just in time a glint of light in the corner of your room- the glint of Nanna Slag’s dem-chewers.

"Al, if I didn't know better, I'd wager a flash of my funbags to a free dye-job that Old Earwax's already picked his team." <Insight roll to see if I'm on the mark and if I owe Al the best 3 seconds of his life>

Click to expand...

Rumour has it that several of the unions and/or guilds have paid considerable amounts of coin and/or other trade-ables in order to avoid being on Earwax’s list, the honour of venturing forth to the Lost Hold of the Tannheim it seems for those undertaking said venture may be short-lived.

There are other rumours however, connected to the above, more terrible- one such is that the location of the Lost Hold has been known for some considerable time- it has never been ‘lost’, other groups from other Holds have been sent to investigate...

Not one to take heed of a warning, Len decides to try his luck with the lovely Rita.

"I'm Leonard D Apricot" Len says in the hope that his full name sounds more sophisticated, and he was sure that it would take some sophisticated Dwarf to hook up with the likes of Miss Mineshaft. "And I'm gonna go and clear out this Lost Hold for the glory of the Bottom Workers. Why don't ya take my arm?" offering same, "And we'll mingle like the King n Queen of the carnival. Then when I's return in glory, everyone will 'member this night."

hairychin said:

"I'm Leonard D Apricot"

Click to expand...

So is it pronounced French-style too? "Day-pri-coh" ?

Awesome roll...just make sure she's not hungry............

Not one to take heed of a warning, Len decides to try his luck with the lovely Rita.

"I'm Leonard D Apricot" Len says in the hope that his full name sounds more sophisticated, and he was sure that it would take some sophisticated Dwarf to hook up with the likes of Miss Mineshaft. "And I'm gonna go and clear out this Lost Hold for the glory of the Bottom Workers. Why don't ya take my arm?" offering same, "And we'll mingle like the King n Queen of the carnival. Then when I's return in glory, everyone will 'member this night."

Click to expand...

"Oh charmed, I'm sure- you're quite a hunk, although..."

Rita draws Len close-

"Not much to look at... but that's no bad thing- you see these fools..."

Rita indicates the slavish Dwarves that follow her everywhere, that are even now crowding around Len and Rita, looking daggers (and Mauls, and Greataxes, and... etc.) at Len.

"These fools just want me for my body", at this point Rita makes it clear to everyone within a hundred yards that her body is indeed an object to be desired.

"But that's not all there is to me... Len." She whispers. "I read books, I like art, and music... and ten-pin bowling. I want a Dwarf who can see beyond my undulating curves..."

Rita undulates to make certain Len and the crowd are keeping up to date with events- several older Dwarves feint away and have to be passed over the head of the slavish crowd, it's like a drooling mosh pit- caught in the eye of the storm a slowly circling Len and Rita.

"Do you know any...", Rita laughs- coquettish, "poetry... Len", she lingers over that last word- your name, its almost a whisper- and it promises... everything.