Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
Author's Note: This story hour explores some decidedly mature themes. The following posts recount the exploits of a group of characters played by a handful of thirtysomething players. This is a "low fantasy" campaign, rife with moral ambiguities. I want to entertain, not offend. If I inadvertently accomplish the latter, please accept my apologies.
"I am Loroth the Godless, where shall I find my equal? Bow down unto me, weak-willed worms and spineless pretenders. You hide your heads behind the skirts of your priests - today the petty people have become lord and master. They all preach submission and acquiesance and prudence and diligence and consideration and the long list of petty virtues.
"They look up when they desire to be exalted, and I look down because I am exalted! Your priests - they make a virtue of what is modest and tame: with it they make the wolf into a dog and man into a domestic animal. That is not moderation, it is mediocrity! Never will I bow to man, nor to their gods, for if gods exist - how could I endure not becoming one?!"
- Loroth Witchking, Lamia Imperator, 42 B.E.
The Gathering
The dwarf hooked both thumbs in his belt and stared at the skeleton. The bones of the dragon had been scoured smooth by the winds of the central Valusian plains, but were still mottled with shades of darkness and horror. The rib cage resembled the stone buttresses of Axemarch Hall, and certainly were just as large and sweeping. The sight was enough to inspire a sense of dreadful awe, even now.
“Ul’Daegol,” whispered the bent man at the dwarf’s side as he, too, drank in the view. His manner was almost reverent. “The Doom Lizard, it is called, in the common tongue of this land. Slain by the soldiers of the Elfking Gryfane some one thousand years past.” The man pushed the cowl back from his face and wobbled forward to extend a bony finger toward one of the ribs. He stretched onto the bawls of his feet. “You can still see the death scar – right there – if the light is good.”
The dwarf nodded noncommittally after glancing at the setting sun. It would already be dark within the ravines and gullies of Axemarch, he knew. Night came early there. As a dwarf-child Baden could remember summer days wherein he and his fellows would count their heartbeats as sunlight struck the floor of the deepest chasms. Sixty-four. That was the longest. He had been eighteen years old, then.
Yet he was not in the Halls of his fathers; he was upon the Cormick plains next to an old man from the Rorn. Baden stared at the man’s features – leathery skin stretched tightly across a wind-burned face, a prominent nose that made him appear like some vulture of the red wastelands across the water. The man was all furs, leathers, and melancholy.
One of the dwarf’s companions – the troubadour John of Pell – had a way with words. After their group had first met the Rornman who named himself Aramin, John had shared his thoughts with the party later that night in the privacy of a tavern’s booth. “The Rornman is akin to a harlot, methinks. He has a pleasing enough proposition, but I have a feeling after we’ve spent our gold crowns, we’ll feel the losers in the arrangement.”
The Larren clansman had laughed at that. “But it’s not us spending the coins, Pellman. He offers to pay us well.”
Baden pushed those memories aside. They had accepted the Rornman’s offer to travel eastward from Ciddry to these old dragon bones. The nights of doubt, spent huddled on the back of some sway-backed mare, would soon be ending. Aramin would name his task, offer his payment, and the group could decide whether to accept or not. Simple, really. Much simpler than life had been at Axemarch.
Aramin showed broken teeth. “So, Baden of Axemarch, are you ready to hear what I have to offer?”
Baden nodded. He watched the Rornman saunter across the yellowing weeds and disappear into a hide-skin tent. He turned to follow, but stopped. Once again Baden allowed his gaze to linger upon the bones of the Doom Lizard. He knew the tale. His people knew history, even the histories of the other races. Fifty elves had died slaying that dragon; fifty of the greatest spellsingers and swordsons the Elfking had under his standard.
To Baden, it seemed too high a price to pay in order to kill an oversized lizard.
“Ul’Daegol,” the dwarf murmured into the winds. “I suppose you thought you’d be tearin’ about these plains for all the Ages, eh? I bet you never thought you’d be a bag o’ old bones sticking up through the dirt like so many dead trees.
“Look at ye now, lizard.” Baden rapped his knuckles softly against the shadowy ribs. The dwarf’s face was hidden within the cowl of his hood. “You should have stayed in the mountains, Ul’Daegol. Your bones should be in them mountains. Not here.”
Then, without a backward glance, Baden turned and followed the Rornman into the tent, passing through a darkness grown as black as the forgotten chasms of childhood Axemarch.
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Sins of Our Fathers II
The Sins of Our Fathers Rogues Galley - Fiends & Friends
"I am Loroth the Godless, where shall I find my equal? Bow down unto me, weak-willed worms and spineless pretenders. You hide your heads behind the skirts of your priests - today the petty people have become lord and master. They all preach submission and acquiesance and prudence and diligence and consideration and the long list of petty virtues.
"They look up when they desire to be exalted, and I look down because I am exalted! Your priests - they make a virtue of what is modest and tame: with it they make the wolf into a dog and man into a domestic animal. That is not moderation, it is mediocrity! Never will I bow to man, nor to their gods, for if gods exist - how could I endure not becoming one?!"
- Loroth Witchking, Lamia Imperator, 42 B.E.
The Gathering
The dwarf hooked both thumbs in his belt and stared at the skeleton. The bones of the dragon had been scoured smooth by the winds of the central Valusian plains, but were still mottled with shades of darkness and horror. The rib cage resembled the stone buttresses of Axemarch Hall, and certainly were just as large and sweeping. The sight was enough to inspire a sense of dreadful awe, even now.
“Ul’Daegol,” whispered the bent man at the dwarf’s side as he, too, drank in the view. His manner was almost reverent. “The Doom Lizard, it is called, in the common tongue of this land. Slain by the soldiers of the Elfking Gryfane some one thousand years past.” The man pushed the cowl back from his face and wobbled forward to extend a bony finger toward one of the ribs. He stretched onto the bawls of his feet. “You can still see the death scar – right there – if the light is good.”
The dwarf nodded noncommittally after glancing at the setting sun. It would already be dark within the ravines and gullies of Axemarch, he knew. Night came early there. As a dwarf-child Baden could remember summer days wherein he and his fellows would count their heartbeats as sunlight struck the floor of the deepest chasms. Sixty-four. That was the longest. He had been eighteen years old, then.
Yet he was not in the Halls of his fathers; he was upon the Cormick plains next to an old man from the Rorn. Baden stared at the man’s features – leathery skin stretched tightly across a wind-burned face, a prominent nose that made him appear like some vulture of the red wastelands across the water. The man was all furs, leathers, and melancholy.
One of the dwarf’s companions – the troubadour John of Pell – had a way with words. After their group had first met the Rornman who named himself Aramin, John had shared his thoughts with the party later that night in the privacy of a tavern’s booth. “The Rornman is akin to a harlot, methinks. He has a pleasing enough proposition, but I have a feeling after we’ve spent our gold crowns, we’ll feel the losers in the arrangement.”
The Larren clansman had laughed at that. “But it’s not us spending the coins, Pellman. He offers to pay us well.”
Baden pushed those memories aside. They had accepted the Rornman’s offer to travel eastward from Ciddry to these old dragon bones. The nights of doubt, spent huddled on the back of some sway-backed mare, would soon be ending. Aramin would name his task, offer his payment, and the group could decide whether to accept or not. Simple, really. Much simpler than life had been at Axemarch.
Aramin showed broken teeth. “So, Baden of Axemarch, are you ready to hear what I have to offer?”
Baden nodded. He watched the Rornman saunter across the yellowing weeds and disappear into a hide-skin tent. He turned to follow, but stopped. Once again Baden allowed his gaze to linger upon the bones of the Doom Lizard. He knew the tale. His people knew history, even the histories of the other races. Fifty elves had died slaying that dragon; fifty of the greatest spellsingers and swordsons the Elfking had under his standard.
To Baden, it seemed too high a price to pay in order to kill an oversized lizard.
“Ul’Daegol,” the dwarf murmured into the winds. “I suppose you thought you’d be tearin’ about these plains for all the Ages, eh? I bet you never thought you’d be a bag o’ old bones sticking up through the dirt like so many dead trees.
“Look at ye now, lizard.” Baden rapped his knuckles softly against the shadowy ribs. The dwarf’s face was hidden within the cowl of his hood. “You should have stayed in the mountains, Ul’Daegol. Your bones should be in them mountains. Not here.”
Then, without a backward glance, Baden turned and followed the Rornman into the tent, passing through a darkness grown as black as the forgotten chasms of childhood Axemarch.
----------------------------
Sins of Our Fathers II
The Sins of Our Fathers Rogues Galley - Fiends & Friends
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