Watch For Falling Meteors [4E KotS] Updated Weekdays!

[Xorn]

“Let none escape, or the battle is lost!” cried Daichot, furiously cleaving a kobold from neck to rib, sending a spray of dark blood into air above the felled beast. He pointed across the water to a kobold whirling a large sling about, “Oleaf, can you get him!?” If the elf could not make the long shot, there were far too many kobolds in the way for them to stop him.

Percy somersaulted out of the trees not far from the slinger, with impeccable timing—and placed a well aimed crossbow bolt through the kobold’s leg as his yipped in pain. Oleaf nodded calmly as four kobolds charged at her, their wicked spears leading the charge. She pulled two more arrows from the quiver across her back steadily, ignoring the approaching death.

Omar’s maul cascaded through the air with a menacing whoosh, crashing into one of the minion’s chest, launching the humanoid backwards through the stream—it was dead before landing. Continuing the momentum of his strike Omar let the maul torque his body around, and held out his gauntleted fist, catching another kobold across the throat and flipping it head over heels.

Daichot saw that one of the kobolds was going to reach Oleaf before she could release and roared a command of, “DOWN!” as he swung his great axe directly at her. Without hesitation she ducked and rolled towards the warlord, who brutally chopped his axe into the kobold who was nearly upon her, and buffeted the last assailant with a shoulder block that left the tiny humanoid reeling from the impact.

Oleaf rolled to standing in one motion and released both arrows, and they flew with a gentle arc across the expanse of the cliff side falls, thudding into the slinger with impossible precision, one arrow embedded a handwidth above the other in the falling kobold’s chest. Percy, surprised by the sudden appearance of arrows in his target, turned to see Omar and Daichot forming a deadly line of sweeping weapons barely holding off the advancing tide of kobolds.

“Oh man,” he mumbled to himself, “I think my head count was off.” The halfling sprinted across the rocky ground next to the falls and crashed into the back of the kobold swarm, stabbing the first one he reached three times in a deadly ribs-spine-throat flurry, and rolled away from the spear that one beside it thrust at him. “Don’t be mad, Omar!” he called out, as the dwarf smashed a kobold across the head, continuing the arc of his maul into the shield of the biggest kobold. “I probably should have clarified that sometimes I get numbers mixed up in my head, though.”

“Shuddup an’ fight!” screamed Omar over the cries of the furious kobolds and the crashing of the waterfall beyond the battle. Daichot kicked the last remaining kobold from the failed charge, sending the creature sprawling onto its back before he chopped into its leather armored chest with a dooming swing of his axe. Oleaf fired two more times in rapid succession, both shots landing true, as kobolds to either side of Percy fell dead.

Percy satisfied the dwarf’s order to great effect, sidestepping around another kobold’s attack, leaving the reptilian off balance and lunging forward awkwardly when the halfling thrust his dagger deep into the base of its neck, slipping past bone and hilt deep into the skull. As he pulled the blade free the slain kobold toppled to the ground, landing roughly face-first. Seeing the armored kobold ahead of him carrying a shield, the rogue leapt into air and landed on the dragonshield’s back, wrapping his arms around its head and slitting its throat as Omar crashed his maul into the creature full-force.

The halfling’s vision was a blur as he flipped end over end in the air, feeling hot liquid seep through his leggings before he landed roughly on the ground looking up at Omar. The sound of ringing armor and breaking bones was still echoing in his ears as the rogue tried to get to his senses. By the calm that was settling around them, and the fact that Omar was holding a calloused, thick hand towards him, Percy was pretty sure the fight was over.

“Blast ye, lad, are ye alright!?” asked Omar, a note of concern in his throat.

Percy took in the scenery about him; Daichot was extracting his axe from a dead kobold on the ground beside the dwarf, and Oleaf was sliding a short sword back into the sheath on her back with a practiced motion. Omar was breathing heavily, and looking at the rogue in alarm. Then the halfling noticed he was covered in blood, from the kobold head he was still holding to his chest, though the body was several feet behind him.

“Woah!” exclaimed Percy as fully realized what had just happened, “That was my kill!” An expression of shock and irritation washed over Omar’s face.

“Daichot, you saw it! That was my kill, right!?” pleaded the halfling.

 

[Xorn]

The sound of the water crashing into the pool at the base of the cliff made it almost impossible to hear a normal voice, so as the four adventurers crouched before the frothing water, close enough to see there was indeed a cave on the other side of the water flow, they used visual cues to communicate. The water was only a few feet deep, which Oleaf explained meant this was a relatively new fall, probably created by an earthquake, and it didn’t hamper their movement significantly. They were all soaking wet from the mist billowing away from the impact of the water and with a dripping, gloved hand, Omar signaled to move into the falls as one.

Daichot and Omar strode into the heavy weight of the waterfall first, and were on the other side faster than they expected, lunging slightly off balance at the unexpected lack of resistance. Percy came in right on Omar’s heels, and Oleaf slipped gently behind Daichot. The four of them stood inside the mouth of the cave, still shin-deep in the water, as their eyes adjusted to the dim light of the cave. Torches burned in sconces about thirty paces away, where the rocky, slick chamber they were in split into north and south tunnels.

As they got accustomed to the lighting, they realized that ten paces away, four kobolds were eating. Four more were near the exits from the chamber, and a still more were leaning against the far wall of the chamber. All of the kobolds were looking at the newcomers, all of them looking quite surprised. “No.” whispered Percy, adjusting his grip on the dagger he held at his side easily.

“No, what, lad?” asked Omar, eyeing the kobolds as he stood at the edge of the pool, water still dripping off his helmet and armor, making a trickling gurgle in the water.

“No, I don’t think they heard us outside,” finished Percy. “You asked me that earlier, I thought I’d update you now that I know the answer.”

“Thanks, laddie.” Omar replied. The kobolds were looking about each other, all holding their spears ready, waiting for the first one to charge.

“How many—“

“A dozen.” Oleaf interrupted Percy, and then the kobolds sprang at them.

As the kobolds rushed in a spreading swarm at them, and a dozen spear tips raced at them furiously. Daichot was the first one reached, and he roared mightily as he grabbed the first spear to reach him by the haft and twisted it away from his face, nearly toppling the wielder. In seconds they were completely surrounded, between a dozen kobolds screaming war yelps and a crashing wall of water behind them. Omar had been grazed by one spear, Daichot took a glancing blow to the leg, Percy across the shoulder, and Oleaf gasped as a spear found purchase on her side. The kobolds were yipping enthusiastically at the luck of their first strike, which they soon found to be premature celebration.

Percy let out a feral growl as he twisted away from the kobolds rushing at him, narrowly slapping away a spear thrust meant to block him in with one hand while he drove his dagger into the wielder’s eye socket. Pulling the blade out quickly and continuing the swing of his dagger into a second kobold, he clipped the meat of its throat out with a sickening tear of flesh, and parried away another spear lunge with the sudden appearance of a second dagger in his other hand.

Turning its back on the others to face Percy was the last mistake that kobold ever made. Oleaf lunged through the water to slide behind Omar, letting her bow fall across her shoulder as she pulled a pair of elegant, curved short swords from over her back, slicing upwards with both blades, cutting into the kobolds sides from below the ribs, and slicing it deep to the spine. She pushed off with one foot in a round-off the sent a spay of water from her long ponytail twinkling through the torch lit chamber, resheathing her swords in the motion and gripping her bow as it fell from her shoulders. As she came upright again she had two arrows resting atop the bow and released them with one draw of the string. Both arrows hissed at their targets, and five of the kobolds lay dead on the ground.

Omar swore an oath to Moradin as he crashed his maul into one of the larger kobolds, who was trying to take advantage of their rapidly dwindling numbers, and the crunch of bone and gasp of pain from the reptile gave credence to the might of the dwarf’s swing. Daichot’s own fury added to the carnage as he shifted through the dissolving ranks of the kobolds and ended another of the beasts.

Their attack was routed before it truly began, and the adventurers quickly put down the crumbling charge with only minor wounds to show for it, but the bleating of a war horn was echoing from further down the northern passage of the cave. More yapping voices could be heard from the south, as well.

“The fight is not done!” bellowed Daichot, “Prepare your selves, heroes!” He held his greataxe ready to cut down whatever was foolish enough to enter the chamber. Oleaf crouched low behind Omar, one arrow on the string and another held between her teeth—her long hair was draped across her stern face, as her braids were loosened in the struggle, and she noticed the water around her boot was tinged with a reddish cloud; blood from her wound. Percy withdrew his arms into the folds of his cloak and pressed up to the dark shadows of the north cave wall. Even those looking at him found his movements difficult to track. “Omar,” he called out, the mirth and joy from his voice replaced with calculation and menace, “trust me—I’ll be there when you need me.”

Omar turned to see what the rogue was talking about, when he realized the halfling was not in the chamber. Whether out the waterfall, or someplace else—he was gone.

“Damn him!” roared Daichot. “He’s fled!?”

Omar gripped his maul tightly as he caught sight of a lumbering shape coming from the northern hall. “No, lad,” the dwarf said calmly, “he just said to trust him.”

The shape that came into view was a goblin, which Omar knew. What surprised him was that a goblin could stand nearly the height of a human. A large metal jaw piece was bolted to the goblin’s mandible, and his ground thumping strides chewed up the distance remaining to the dwarf, and a wicked greataxe was trailing above his head, ready to chomp into Omar ferociously.

Omar was more prepared though, and strode forward to meet the charge, snapping his readied maul in a full revolution about his body before crashing it into the huge goblin’s shoulder. The crushing blow shattered the bones in his arm, and his axe swing faltered, missing the dwarf harmlessly. Oleaf stood and released her arrow, catching the goblin the other shoulder, and shot another arrow in the span of two seconds, catching the goblin through the belly. The huge goblin did not falter, only roaring in anger.

Two more kobolds charged into the chamber from the south, one carrying a dragonscale shield, and the other wearing robes and wielding a rod; a dragonshield and wyrmpriest. The dragonshield charged over to the goblin’s aid, shouting out Irontooth in the Common tongue, but his short sword never reached Omar’s back as Daichot hooked the swing with his axe and spun the kobold about with the momentum of his charge, then counter swung the weapon into the kobold viciously.

The wyrmpriest cried out an unknown name in draconic to spur on the dragonshield, and hurled an orb of conjured acid at the warlord, catching him fully in the chest with the attack. His armor sizzled in protest, but protected his flesh from the hungry substance, but not the force of the magical impact.

Somehow, from the passage Irontooth had just charged out of, Percy rolled out of the darkness, and plunged both of his daggers into the towering goblin’s back, and the raging humanoid staggered to one knee as his lungs filled with blood. Oleaf loosed another arrow, and it slammed home into the goblin’s chest, turning it’s roars of pain and fury into gurgles of blood and choking.

Daichot steadied himself from the impact of the priest’s attack and roared with wild rage thrusting his chest out as his war cry threatened to bring down the ceiling of the chamber from its power. He kicked the dragonshield away from the dwarf’s flank and charged across the chamber, clipping the retreating kobold priest across the side and spinning it about, leaving a trail of blood flaying away from it and splattering across the wall.

Ignoring the kobold behind him, Omar’s muscles rippled with the power of his swing. The maul crashed into Irontooth’s face with an audible crack splitting his skull and driving the hulking goblin into the ground with a horrible shriek of tearing metal and flesh. Stooped low from the force of his blow, Omar was a prime target for the kobold behind him, bearing down with his sword, ready to impale the vulnerable dwarf.

An arrow slammed into the creature’s side and two strides closer another arrow thudded into it only inches from the first, but its charge was not stopped. About to drive the wicked blade into Omar, a flurry of cloak and blades tumbled past the dwarf and sprang up before the kobold, catching it under the chin as Percy leapt into the air, burying his dagger to the hilt; the blade protruded from the top of the kobolds skull as it fell.

Omar spun about, exhausted with the strain of his swings, in time to see Daichot cut down the wyrmpriest as it belched a spray of acid like a tiny dragon breathing fire. While he was caught by some of the blast, he lopped the foul thing’s head off before the attack overcame him. As the tiefling’s fury subsided, the wounds he had suffered started to grab at his frame, and the slumped against the wall of the chamber.

“Is that…” he panted, trying to regain is breath, “all of… them?”

Oleaf was favoring her leg as she knelt down to take the weight off the injured limb, and listened intently. “I think so.”

Percy checked that the graze he had received was a minor one, and satisfied, turned to the dwarf, “I’m sorry about outside, Omar,” he apologized, “I should have counted better. But I’ve always got your backs, I promise.”

Omar didn’t answer. He was staring dumbfounded at the ground in front of him, but not at the mangled, crushed body of Irontooth, nor at the twitching kobold Percy had saved him from. He was looking down at his maul, the family weapon that had been passed from each Irontoe father in his family to their son when they came of age.

At least he was looking at the broken half, that wasn’t in his hands anymore.

 

[Xorn]

Is there any way that I can edit my first post to remove the "Updated on" part? Since the forums were redone I haven't been able to change it--and it's kind of annoying!

 

[Caldarion]

I swear, Xorn, my eyes didn't blink as I read the last 2 posts. Your descriptions of the battle were superb!! I almost cried when I realized Omar's maul had been broken. Now THAT'S story telling, mate!! Well done!

 

[Xorn]

Vrax sipped from his glass of wine impatiently, and looked over at the door to the Wrafton Inn again. The light from the skies outside had dwindled away and fallen to the night sky an hour ago, and there was no news of the adventurers that left the town walls right before the wizard had arrived, towing the makeshift plank stretcher with the wounded guards behind him on the magical porter disc. The halfling merchant, Piddleteet had made good on his promise of payment, even putting in a good word for the wizard with the local lord warden of the town, and seeing what he could find out from his contacts about the man Vrax was looking for, Douven.

The little man had returned quickly, confirming that the human ex-adventurer turned scholar that had raised Vrax from infancy had set off to the south of Winterhaven, convinced that he had found the burial site of an ancient dragon. He had been regularly stopping in the town every evening, claiming to be closer each time to his big find, and even spoke with the town sage, who lived in a dominating tower in the center of the walled village. That was how the summons had been delivered to his adopted son; an messaging ritual. But when Vrax sent a reply, he discovered that his father had not returned for several days.

While that wasn’t alarming in and of itself, as his father often went on expeditions, the fact that he had not at least checked to see if Vrax had replied had been a misgiving to the dragonborn. Upon arriving in Winterhaven, Piddleteet had gotten him an audience with the Lord Warden, a man everyone just called Padraig. He was a man with a great presence about him, and wore a sword belt with a sheathed longsword that had the wear and tear of a weapon that had seen use—not some ornamental bauble worn to impress. To oversee a frontier town like Winterhaven, blustering and bravado would not do much good against the encroaching darkness of the evil beyond their patrols.

Lord Padraig saw Vrax quickly, and told him what he knew of Douven, which was little. He was a friendly man with a good head about him, which definitely had the drive of a scholar to find the unknown. They had advised him to not venture alone, and he hired a porter to accompany him, and then three days ago, they didn’t return from the day’s activity. No one was terribly concerned on the first night, assuming that Douven had found what he was digging for, and likely camped there. After two nights, there were some questions, but the town could not spare a patrol to wander the wilderness looking for someone that might not be lost. With the kobold attacks increasing on the road, and getting closer to the city, one man unfortunately wasn’t worth the risk of weakening the town’s defenses.

Vrax had nodded complacently at the warden’s explanations—and had expected as much. Ready to set out immediately to find his adopted father, Lord Padraig had asked the wizard to stay. His reason was out of concern for his people—with the newcomers venturing out to attack the kobolds in their lair, the Lord betrayed his lack of faith in their ability as he feared retaliation by the kobolds should they fail. A wizard atop the walls of the town would be a mighty ally, after the stories the men Vrax had brought with him.

Admittedly, Vrax needed to rest before risking a journey into the blind wilderness as well—an open, patrolled road was much safer than the dark, untouched places of the wild, even when kobolds attacked the road with frequency. Additionally, descriptions of the heroes around the inn had intrigued the wizard. One of them had been described as a tiefling, wearing a suit of blood-red scale armor and holding a jagged greataxe in his thick arms like it was a walking stick. He had piercing silver eyes, and an icy blue mane of hair that stood out against his light red skin. He spoke for the assembled group more than the others, and had the confidence of a leader about him.

“That sure sounds like my old friend, Daichot.” Vrax had suggested to Padraig, and discovered he was right!

When they were young, both of them were often found together at the temple, for they both had a great interest in The Platinum Dragon. While the tiefling spent more of his time trying to reign in his anger and pursue the ideals of the god of justice and honor, Vrax’s own inclinations were more in line with paying homage to his origins, even if he held great resentment for his own people. But if Daichot were here, with the travelers that had preceded his arrival, then that meant his old friend was one of the Heroes of Fallcrest!

Indeed, Vrax would do better to rest until the heroes returned, then set out to find Douven with them. While Daichot was never as close to Vrax’s human father as the wizard was, much of the tiefling’s rage was directed into martial pursuits at the temple because of Douven’s subtle nudging and direction. There was a problem this evening though, as Vrax waited restlessly by the fireplace, warming his thin-skinned body on what most people would call a warm summer night: the heroes had not returned, yet.

The robed dragonborn was pulled from his reflection as a human wearing leather armor and a skullcap opened the front doors to the inn, leaning his spear outside against the exterior of the building and striding in, searching for Vrax. He was one of the guards on duty at the gate, with instructions to inform the wizard the moment the heroes returned to the town. Vrax rose from his seat uneasily, his joint protesting moving so abruptly after sitting still for hours, and aided the guard in finding him as he held one scaly hand up clear of his robes.

Seeing the dragonborn, the guard quietly strode over to him and spoke in a hushed tone; he didn’t want the rest of the customers to hear, Vrax noticed. “The adventurers you are waiting for, and your friend?” Vrax nodded, eager for news, “They…” the man did not know what words to used, and the wizard’s heart began to sink, “they have not returned, yet. We are closing the gates for the night.”

Vrax stood silently for a moment, rolling over the human’s words, deciding that regardless of what would happen to his plans now, it wouldn’t happen till morning. He nodded to the guard, and sat down, leaning on the shaft of his spear heavily as he slumped into the chair with disappointment.

The guard seeing the dismay on the wizard’s face, tried to offer some measure of hope. “Maybe—“ he stammered, “maybe they will return in the morning.”

Vrax considered the thought, and nodded acceptingly to the guard, though he didn’t feel any hope in the idea. Tomorrow, Vrax would see the old sage Valthrun one more time, then set out to find the remains of his father, then the remains of his friend.

 

[Xorn]

“Me father’s father’s father forged this hammer.” Explained the dwarf to the others.

They were gathered around a small fire that Percy had built in one of the deeper chambers of the cave, where Irontooth looked to have laired, judging by the amount of loot that was located in the corner. Percy was the only one that was really listening very intently; Daichot was half-asleep, laying against his pack, which was leaned up against the dank walls of the room. Oleaf was asleep on the far side of the fire, fighting off a terrible chill that had come over her in the few hours they had made camp in the cave. Omar had been too distracted to sleep yet, and Percy was busy making jokes about the fighter’s family weapon after he caught on that Omar wasn’t going to kill himself over the matter.

“So would you say that it was just too much weapon for you?”

Omar looked at the halfling, who half expected to see the dwarf scowling at him for the remark, but he wasn’t; he was actually holding a little grin from the side of his lips, making his wild beard look more lopsided than normal.

“Aye, ye know laddie,” Omar said, “I cinnae argue with that.” Omar leaned forward from his work on the handle of his broken weapon as if he were sharing a secret. “I never much cared fer tha’ blasted heavy thing, to tell truth on the subject.” He winked at Percy, who looked as though he had heard a priest break wind in temple. “Aye, I cin seeya weren’ ready fer that, was ya?”

“I loved me father,” he continued, “and I loved that he handed down me weapon when he felt I was ready ta take up my duty to me clan.” Omar held up his index finger to interrupt himself, “But—there was always somethin’ that felt off, fer me. I never knew what it was till today; not till I bashed ‘at chest open witha remains o’ me family legacy.” He held up the top half of the maul, a heavy, angular block of metal that interlocked with the metal handle inside the great hunk of steel. At the base of the now shorter handle, he was wrapping a long strip of leather around the shaft to make a woven grip. “The weight was off! This be a warhammer I been carryin’ all these years!”

“Wow,” added Percy, “because it looks like a maul with a short handle on it. But if that helps ya sleep at night.”

“Well, I would nay expec’ a flimsy armed halfling to understand the balance o’ dwarven weapons.”

Percy smiled, enjoying the banter, “Probably not. After all if you have to keep the weapon lighter than your head, us Halflings have a lot less material to work with!”

Omar laughed loudly at that remark, and Oleaf stirred restlessly. The hides she wore for armor and the clothes she wore under them were all spread out in front of the fire, drying, while she huddled in her bedroll for warmth. All of them had been embarrassed as they caught themselves staring at her more supple curves when she nonchalantly tore off her armor to inspect the wound in her side. With only drenched silks to cover her breasts, the cascading light coming through the waterfall had left very little to the imagination.

As she slumped to the floor pressing her hand over the puncture wound in her side, the slippery blood seeping between her slender fingers had snapped them out of their trance as they realized she was much more badly injured than she had shown during the fighting. Daichot had carried her into the back chamber while Omar and Percy inspected the caves for any other hostiles.

The warlord applied what care he had learned from the temple, using herbs that Percy located outside the falls. “I know herbs—not for healing,” he had admitted, “but I know them.” The more sinister reason was left unspoken as they collectively worried about the young elf. At that thought, Omar found himself perplexed.

“How old do you think she is?”

Percy took in the dwarf’s question like he’d almost nodded off, snapping his head up in realization. “You know… I… I have no idea. I don’t really know any elves. In human terms she doesn’t look to be in her twenties, but you’re right, she might be older than us!”

Omar nodded in agreement to that, and the rogue continued, “I mean, you’re what? Eighty? Eight-five?”

Omar ruffled for the first time since outside the falls. “I’m forty years young, thank you!”

Percy held up his hands in surrender, laughing. “I know you’re not eighty, I’m just making light of the situation.” He frowned then, “You sure you’re not fifty? You’ve got some grey…” he brushed his hands through his own brown curls at his temple, to show Omar where he was talking about.

Omar felt his blood rise, but caught himself before he reacted and smiled. He didn’t have any grey hair, and Percy laughed when Omar stopped himself from retorting. “Ye do that a lot, don’tcha lad?”

It was Percy’s turn to be confused. “Do what?”

“Make light o’ things.”

Percy shrugged, “If you can’t laugh at life, what’s the point? No sense in being an old sourpuss all the time—“

“Easy lad,” interrupted the dwarf, “I’m not judgin’ ya. At least, I’m not judgin’ ya anymore. When there’s fightin’ ta be done, I kin count on ye. I know that. Thanks fer savin’ me life tidday.”

Percy waved a dismissing hand, a tone of seriousness in his voice. “I didn’t do anything that you wouldn’t do for anyone around his fire.” Omar started to object to Percy dismissing his thanks, but the halfing talked louder to finish what he was saying. “You’re welcome, Omar—but I’m not much for keepin’ track of who saved who last—you’re becoming my friend, and just thank me for that once, if you want. I rely on you and you rely on me. Savin’ one another is a big part of being friends, where I grew up.”

Omar thought about what he had heard, and nodded. He stood up and offered a solemn thanks to the halfling, “Thanks for bein’ me friend then, Percy.”

Percy dipped his head in solemn acknowledgement, then took a swig from his wineskin and passed it to Omar.

“Ye know,” Omar belched quietly after taking a long draw, “fer a poor, stupid, bastard of a halfling—yer pretty good in a fight.”

“Thanks!” The halfling took the statement as a complete compliment.

“What did ya do ‘afore ye came ta Fallcrest? Ye said ye’s on vacation?”

“Visiting relatives,” he corrected. “I took a riverboat up from the southlands, came up to catch up with some old contacts, maybe find some work.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” Omar replied.

“What?” said the halfling.

“One thing I noticed, laddie, is ye ne’er shuddup. But ask about yer past, an’ you clam up. I ain’t ginna pry, but is jus’ somethin’ I noticed.”

Percy nodded in acceptance of the observation. “I’ve wondered about yer story too, of course. Not many dwarves leave Hammerfast that I know of, and fewer still shave their beard off. Did you sleep with another man’s wife or something?”

Omar chuckled at the suggestion. “No lad. Nothin’ like that.”

“What brought you to Fallcrest, then? If you show me yours then I’ll show you mine.”

Daichot moved over and knelt over the elf to inspect the dressing on her wound, lifting up the edge of the bedroll. From their side they could see the curve of her bare shoulder and a wild fount of silky hair matted to her back. Her lips were quivering with chill, but Daichot shook his head as he touched her flesh beneath the coverings. “She’s burning up; fever hasn’t broken.”

“What do we do then?”

Oleaf weakly spoke. “Keep talking, it helps me sleep.”

They were all looking at Omar.

 

[monboesen]

As far as I'm concerned this is currently the best story hour. Great writing, great characterisation and keep me wanting more.

Good job.

 

[Xorn]

Thank you very much for the compliment, though I'd disagree on the best--I think there's some really talented authors in this area. But reading that anyone is enjoying my scribbles is really great! (I really miss the journal of Erais Gunterson!)

 

[Abciximab]

Is there any way that I can edit my first post to remove the "Updated on" part? Since the forums were redone I haven't been able to change it--and it's kind of annoying!

When you click on "Edit" there's an option to "Go Advanced" that let's you edit the title.

 

[Xorn]

Catching the pain in Oleaf’s eyes as she looked at him, Omar sank his gaze to the fire and nodded in acceptance.

“A’ight then, lass, I’ll tell ye of me clan.” The dwarf procured a pouch of chew leaves from his pack and wadded up one of the strong flavored, gummy leaves into a ball and stuffed the pungent smelling plug into his left cheek, jabbing a bit of the stem into his mouth with a stubby finger. He made a long procession of folding up and stowing the pouch into his pack while working the chew with his gums and cheek, and finished his preparations by spitting a heavy brown syrup of juice into the fire; it sizzled angrily at him in protest, a noise that he looked to find comforting, possibly.

“Me clan was—is” he corrected, “is the Irontoes. Fer half a thousan’ years, we protected the halls of Hammerfast from attack, and ne’er a finer defender will ye meet than an Irontoe at one o’ the doors to tha city.” Having seen Omar’s prowess in battle, this was a point that didn’t need any more evidence to support it. “That was me life then, raised by me father to be a warrior and defender o’ me people, as noble a life as any dwarf may ever wish for.”

Omar’s brow thickened, and the fire seemed to lose some grip on his cheeks as the shadows grew with an emotion they had not seen from him before, and didn’t recognize. “’Bout one year past comin’ soon, orcs beset Hammerfast.”

“I remember that,” added Daichot, “I was part of a militia that was raised in Fallcrest to help.”

The dwarf nodded solemnly, “Aye. An’ help was needed after they overran the gates, an’ many dwarfs from my clan and not died that morn. But that was the day me clan ceased ta be.” Percy was listening intently. “We had fought off the orcs ‘afore, and though they numbers was greater than ours, ‘at was nothin’ new ta us. When they first charged the gate…” the dwarf trailed off for a moment, whether searching for words, or reliving the moment, it wasn’t apparent. “Me father… he sounded a retreat!” Omar was passive as he spoke, not angry or upset, but his face was ashen, and seemed to be unnaturally shadowed.

None of the others made eye contact; they didn’t need Omar to explain that the retreat was not what Omar thought was right, whether they were dwarves or not. “Some of me clan fell back with him—they thought we were falling back to a better position—but I knew there was none better place to stand and fight then right there. So I stayed. So did some of me clansmen. We held our line for a little while, but there were too many for us to stop them. Even though I survived the fightin’, I couldnae keep ‘em from getting past, and we was overrun.”

Omar spit at the fire, and to Percy it seemed like the fire didn’t sizzle as much this time, out of respect. “Of the four that stayed, two of us survived. Maybe we helped, maybe we didn’t—the orcs was past us then, so it dinnae felt like it mattered. We used passages the orcs couldn’ to flank ‘em, and we made ‘em pay heavy fer ev’ry step into tha halls they took, but tha fighting went on fer days…” he looked over at Diachot, “Till Fallcrest arrived with help.”

Omar was thinking about his story quietly, and as the others thought he might be finished, he started talking again, though it didn’t feel like he was talking to them anymore, just to himself. “I went to me father, when I found him, and I asked ‘im why he ran? Why didn’ he stand an’ fight, like he taught me? He clubbed me over tha head and tol’ me I wasn’ nae more ‘is son. His son would nae ‘ave disobeyed an order from ‘is own father. He took our family hammer and he cast it to tha floor of the Hall of Judgement, where the elders of all tha clans erased our clan name from the Book of Clans, fer tha dishonor me father brought upon me kin.”

The dwarf fell silent after that, just staring at the fire, jawing the wad of chew stuffed into his cheek.

“I thought your dad gave you that hammer? You stole it back!?” Percy was enthused at the prospect.

Omar thought about the question, putting himself in the halfling’s perspective to the story. “O’ he did gimme this hammer,” the dwarf confirmed, “but me mother gave it to me again—and if’n yer suggestin’ me mother was a thief, ye’ll be getting’ a taste o’ me fists. Takin’ somethin’ from a coward like me own father is not stealin’.”

Percy smiled wryly, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it as an insult. My mom’s a thief, damned good one, actually. But there’s still something that doesn’t make sense.”

Omar sighed, and Daichot spoke up, “Not everything has to make sense, tonight.”

The dwarf held up a hand to the tiefling, “Nah, I ain’t never bringin’ this up again, so let’s get it all out now. What doesn’t make sense?”

“You said you love your father, just a little while ago, but you think he’s a coward. I admit I don’t know dwarves that well, but in my family you don’t love someone who embodies what you hate.”

Omar shrugged, as if that seemed like a moot point. “I love me father. I love me mother, an’ me kinsmen. Difference is which of ‘em deserve it.”

“That kind of makes sense, I guess.” Percy seemed satisfied with the answer. “So disgraced by your father, you shaved off yer beard and set out to redeem your clan name?”

The dwarf actually chuckled at that idea. “More or less, but I actually just got really, really drunk first, and stayed that way for a few months. Till I remembered—“

“Dwarves don’t feel sorry for themselves.” Finished Daichot with a smile.

Omar pointed at the warlord and grinned. The shadows pulled away from his cheeks and the color spread through his skin as the fire welcomed him back. Oleaf seemed to have settled a little, her lips were no longer trembling, and she seemed to have gotten past the pain that was wracking her. “What about you, little Percy? Why did you suddenly come to Fallcrest?”

The short little rogue shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I slept with the wrong man’s wife.”

Oleaf smiled weakly, and Omar looked at the halfling blankly, as Daichot snickered at the simple motives that drove the rogue.

“What!? Where I come from, that’s a pretty common reason to pack up and leave.”