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Wulf's Collected Story Hour -- FINAL UPDATE 12/25
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<blockquote data-quote="Wulf Ratbane" data-source="post: 1252" data-attributes="member: 94"><p><strong>THE HEART OF NIGHTFANG SPIRE -- Epilogue</strong></p><p></p><p>Wulf sat in the small, spartan room he'd secured for himself at the Forge, turning the crown over and over in his hands. It was obviously worth a small fortune-- he pegged it at about five-thousand gold pieces, not bad for a single bit o' flash. No doubt he could head down the mountain into the nearby town and trade it for something a little more worthwhile. Maybe use it as a downpayment on that <em>Ring of Blinking</em> he'd had his eye on for so long. </p><p></p><p>Wulf leaned over the small table beside his bed where the letter still lay, the stark dwarven runes criss-crossing the page like battle scars and worry-lines. He smiled, playing over the words in his head, instinctively filling in the familiar dialect:</p><p></p><p><em>"We're comin', cousin-- heard the news of yer fortunes, good an' bad. Rounded up a few o' the lads, a likely bunch, an' Bala Saka to boot. Aye, that one's lookin' forward to crossin' blades with yer again, though yer might be surprised to hear he's given up his blades fer a stout length of oak. If tales be true o' yer flamin' axe, keep it well away from him-- got a bit of a thing fer fire these days, he has..."</em></p><p></p><p>The few coins he'd spread among the bards back in town had paid off, it seemed. </p><p></p><p><em>"... though he's as bloodthirsty as ever yer were, yerself. Had any luck with that forge? Seem to recall yer were a fair hand with the hammer. Never ye mind, some clansmiths on the way, an' yer can keep to what yer do best. Cleanin' house."</em></p><p></p><p>Truth be told, since coming back from Nightfang Spire, Wulf had spent most of his time in the forge. With very little else to occupy his time, pounding out his frustrations on the anvil was the closest he'd get to battle. Just to pass the time, he'd been working on a custom buckler. Oh, it was a masterwork, all right-- but it hadn't proved itself to be particularly nasty, nor even as wieldy as he'd intended. He held out hope that one of the bloody elves could enchant the damn thing. Just in case, he'd spread a little gold amongst the apprentices. Somebody would figure it out and finish it off.</p><p></p><p><em>"Heard summat about yer wastin' yer money on temples an' priests. Yer goin' soft, or yer just take one too many knocks in the head? Gonna have to hope it's the latter-- otherwise yer due for one more knock when I see yer meself."</em></p><p></p><p>Oh, aye? Wulf told himself he was just hedging his bets. Hoarding money was never his style-- spread it around where it would do some good. Pay the apprentices, pay the local thieves' guild, even pay the bards for a song or two. But above all, pay the priests and keep the gods happy. That's all there was to it, and that's a fact.</p><p></p><p>Of course, he had to admit he'd spent a fair bit of time with Dorn, who was always on about the blessings of Haela Brightaxe; and way too much time with the Old Man, who, if he was any more a direct representative of the All-Father, was seriously due for a good one across the chops. Wulf didn't care much for Haela or Moradin, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being called all the same. </p><p></p><p>Wulf's hand had unconsciously curled into a tight fist, and it took him some time to unknot his fingers and pick up the letter. His eyes hastily scanned the remaining text.</p><p></p><p><em>"Yer father, not surprisin', doesn't send his love. Seems a fair bit surprised to hear tales o' heroism an' insists the tale must be gettin' stretched in the tellin'. Don't half believe it meself-- have to get the real story out when I see yer, soon enough. </em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Till then, may yer beard be bathed in bloody battle, </em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>yer cousin,</em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em>Naïl Ashfist</em></p><p></p><p>Wulf stood and tossed the crown onto his hard bed. It hit the thick quilt with the slightest metallic ringing-- the muted sound of a dagger being drawn out of a boot. It was sweet, that sound, and he smiled for a moment, before dark thoughts got the better of him.</p><p></p><p><em>Will you smile so when you're too old to draw steel and your daggers cease their singing? Will it ring as sweetly in your ears when crown falls from weary brow to soft blankets?</em></p><p></p><p>"Blast me to hell an' back! Been spendin' too much time with goddamn bards!"</p><p></p><p>Wulf stomped out of his room, scooping up <em>Taranak</em> from beside the door. </p><p></p><p>Time to talk to the Old Man about the next fool's errand.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Wulf Ratbane, post: 1252, member: 94"] [b]THE HEART OF NIGHTFANG SPIRE -- Epilogue[/b] Wulf sat in the small, spartan room he'd secured for himself at the Forge, turning the crown over and over in his hands. It was obviously worth a small fortune-- he pegged it at about five-thousand gold pieces, not bad for a single bit o' flash. No doubt he could head down the mountain into the nearby town and trade it for something a little more worthwhile. Maybe use it as a downpayment on that [i]Ring of Blinking[/i] he'd had his eye on for so long. Wulf leaned over the small table beside his bed where the letter still lay, the stark dwarven runes criss-crossing the page like battle scars and worry-lines. He smiled, playing over the words in his head, instinctively filling in the familiar dialect: [i]"We're comin', cousin-- heard the news of yer fortunes, good an' bad. Rounded up a few o' the lads, a likely bunch, an' Bala Saka to boot. Aye, that one's lookin' forward to crossin' blades with yer again, though yer might be surprised to hear he's given up his blades fer a stout length of oak. If tales be true o' yer flamin' axe, keep it well away from him-- got a bit of a thing fer fire these days, he has..."[/i] The few coins he'd spread among the bards back in town had paid off, it seemed. [i]"... though he's as bloodthirsty as ever yer were, yerself. Had any luck with that forge? Seem to recall yer were a fair hand with the hammer. Never ye mind, some clansmiths on the way, an' yer can keep to what yer do best. Cleanin' house."[/i] Truth be told, since coming back from Nightfang Spire, Wulf had spent most of his time in the forge. With very little else to occupy his time, pounding out his frustrations on the anvil was the closest he'd get to battle. Just to pass the time, he'd been working on a custom buckler. Oh, it was a masterwork, all right-- but it hadn't proved itself to be particularly nasty, nor even as wieldy as he'd intended. He held out hope that one of the bloody elves could enchant the damn thing. Just in case, he'd spread a little gold amongst the apprentices. Somebody would figure it out and finish it off. [i]"Heard summat about yer wastin' yer money on temples an' priests. Yer goin' soft, or yer just take one too many knocks in the head? Gonna have to hope it's the latter-- otherwise yer due for one more knock when I see yer meself."[/i] Oh, aye? Wulf told himself he was just hedging his bets. Hoarding money was never his style-- spread it around where it would do some good. Pay the apprentices, pay the local thieves' guild, even pay the bards for a song or two. But above all, pay the priests and keep the gods happy. That's all there was to it, and that's a fact. Of course, he had to admit he'd spent a fair bit of time with Dorn, who was always on about the blessings of Haela Brightaxe; and way too much time with the Old Man, who, if he was any more a direct representative of the All-Father, was seriously due for a good one across the chops. Wulf didn't care much for Haela or Moradin, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being called all the same. Wulf's hand had unconsciously curled into a tight fist, and it took him some time to unknot his fingers and pick up the letter. His eyes hastily scanned the remaining text. [i]"Yer father, not surprisin', doesn't send his love. Seems a fair bit surprised to hear tales o' heroism an' insists the tale must be gettin' stretched in the tellin'. Don't half believe it meself-- have to get the real story out when I see yer, soon enough. Till then, may yer beard be bathed in bloody battle, yer cousin, Naïl Ashfist[/i] Wulf stood and tossed the crown onto his hard bed. It hit the thick quilt with the slightest metallic ringing-- the muted sound of a dagger being drawn out of a boot. It was sweet, that sound, and he smiled for a moment, before dark thoughts got the better of him. [i]Will you smile so when you're too old to draw steel and your daggers cease their singing? Will it ring as sweetly in your ears when crown falls from weary brow to soft blankets?[/i] "Blast me to hell an' back! Been spendin' too much time with goddamn bards!" Wulf stomped out of his room, scooping up [i]Taranak[/i] from beside the door. Time to talk to the Old Man about the next fool's errand. [/QUOTE]
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