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Message: <blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 957395" data-attributes="member: 2785">-Garlok-By dawn, no attack had materialized. Garlok awoke with a sharp pain in his back; he rolled over, cursing sleepily, to find a fist-sized rock lodged under him. How’d he miss that? Thirsty, he reached for his wineskin only to remember that he was dry. Dry.A dry wind blew across the battle-plain, swirling up dust and carrion stench. He lay under the body of an orc, pinned by the savagery of his own killing blow. Weak from blood loss and spent fury, he had given up on trying to move. The dagger in his bowels throbbed distantly as a slow coldness crept up his limbs, stalking his heart like a predator. He knew he would die soon.Some men, it is said, feel peace in their final moments. Instead, he felt hate, a vast cold rage that screamed against the irony of dying trapped under the bodies of his enemies. He prayed to the Allfather, the Soul Forger, to give him the strength to live a bit longer, to defeat them by not following them into death. To spit in the face of evil. He felt the rustle of hot wind; in his ears he heard the flapping of vultures’ wings. Harbingers of inevitability. Surely someone would come. Reverend Falco clumsily dropped his darkwood shield on a rock, startling Garlok from his trance. He smacked his lips and looked around. Ah, yes. This is a different place.With renewed purpose, he dug into his pack for his special reserve of dwarven ale. Just for emergencies, you know? Deep within the Vesve, hundreds of miles away from civilization and pursued by savages - this qualified. From the bottom of his backpack he produced a small cask of Old Trout’s finest, stoppered with a wax-sealed cork. He peeled away the wax with his knife, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and drank like a man dying of thirst. Ahh, that’s the stuff. Dark ale rushed over his lips and dribbled down his beard. After a long pull his set the cask down on his lap and let out a thunderous belch that caused songbirds in a nearby tree to take flight in sudden panic. From across camp, the boy Erak shot him a look.“What?” growled Garlok. Erak shrugged and held up his hands as if to say “nothing, sir, nothing at all.” By the time dawn ended and morning was officially underway, so were they. Gloomy clouds hung low, which could be of concern: depending on how determined the giants were, they could make the orcs march in such weather despite their aversion to sunlight. After an hour, Mordecai stopped them and did the wiggly-finger thing to turn them into druids again. No tracks; nifty. Once done, they turned west until the spell wore off, then back to north. The druid, obviously, knew what he was doing. That was fine with Garlok. After several pulls on the cask he didn’t think he could find north if it pissed in his face. He hummed merrily to himself, a rowdy dwarvish fighting song.Thim Thelbar’s son lay an axe’s throw away with an orcish spear pinning him to the earth through his belly. His hands had clawed helplessly as the vultures had gone to work on his eyes, but now he lay still, fleshless face grinning like a lunatic, blood hardening in the warm breeze.Thim had taught Garlok a tune once, how did it go?Dwazkar khazad-zum di lar-Moradin nostrum zummer-Ahglak-nozum larc’ te non-Lao zonh erkatz mundgun drun.Dwarvish stone from earth below,Allfather’s gift that fires the soul;Teach us now the ways of steel,That we may show our enemies Your mercy.Garlok squinted and rubbed his eyes. He grabbed the cask, paused and upturned it again. When he opened his eyes, the world looked very similar to the way it looks through the bottom of a glass beer mug. Perfect. Satisfied, he staggered onward. The priest was staring at him with a grave expression, but Garlok looked away. Not now, he thought, you’ll ruin the moment. They walked like druids for three more days, changing course erratically but always back to north. Then the forest floor began to slope uphill, as old stones poked through the dense growth like the bristles of Moradin’s beard. The greenery became lush and abundant, which smacked of elves. They wrought life like dwarves worked stone. From time to time Garlok heard birdcall – suspiciously robust and complicated birdcall.He slurred, “Why don’ they just show themselves an’ have done?”“They will,” replied Mordecai, “Once they’ve determined our purpose. Walk easily and keep your hands off your weapons.”Garlok let go of his axes. An hour passed, and then a figure dropped out of a tree ahead of them, elegant and lithe. Making a show of it. The elf was short and skinny with silver hair that matched her ashwood recurve bow. She wore simple leather armor and carried a long knife tucked in her belt. To Garlok, she looked like a tall child. She spoke rapidly and low in, he presumed, elvish. Mordecai responded, and they chirped back and forth. The druid turned and gestured at each of his companions. When he pointed at Garlok and spoke, the elf raised an eyebrow and regarded him coolly. Yeah yeah, he thought, get it all out. In Sterich, the age-old rivalries had been set aside for the sake of survival. Out here in the boondocks, he guessed that his people were still treated with suspicion. But the elf shrugged and pointed behind her, up the slope, speaking rapidly. Then she disappeared into the brush. “They know of the band hunting us,” Mordecai said. “They’ve chased them off from Verbeeg Hill several times this month.”“Are we close to Verbog Hill?” asked Erak.“Verbeeg,” answered the druid, “And yes, we’re here.” They continued up the incline toward a patch of dense trees. Garlok saw nothing, no signs of civilization. Just foliage. He had hoped the place would have a tavern. He imagined himself squatting in an elf hut up in a tree and sighed. The truth was somewhat more grandiose. As they followed Mordecai Garlok picked up the distinct ring of a smith’s hammer from somewhere beyond the wall of green ahead. They approached a dense thicket of oak through which he could discern no passage. Right as Garlok opened his mouth to say something, the trees began to creak mightily. They shuddered, they groaned, and they blinked with great, sad eyes.Eyes?The wall of oak split down the middle, parting to reveal a cunningly hidden community nestled amidst a gigantic grove. What Garlok had at first mistaken for trees were actually tree-creatures, vast and tall, with long mossy beards that swung low as they separated to allow the adventurers to pass. “Gooooooooooooooooooooood afternooooooooooooooooooooooooon,” one of them said in passable Common. “Welcoooooooooooooome to Veeeeeeeerbeeeeeeeeeeeeg Hillllllllllllllllllllllll,” intoned the other somberly. “Thank you,” replied Mordecai.“….hi,” squeaked Erak. The tree-creature on the right, forty feet tall, nodded at him as they strode within. “Wow,” exclaimed Falco. Garlok had to agree. Self-consciously, he wrapped his cloak around him to cover up the pair of hand axes at his sides.Verbeeg Hill writhed with elves, a bustling community ensconced within the green. Tree branches entwined to form a barrier around the entire village, and here and there Garlok could see half-hidden elven archers huddled down in the boles of trees, looking outward through the leafy wall. All around the group, smaller dogwoods had been cleverly shaped to form the framework of dome-like homes, with carved wooden panels secured between them into cozy, rounded walls. In a very real sense, each home was a living creature painstakingly groomed by beings with patience that can only come with the long lives of elves. Garlok had to admire the artisanship. An elf approached, a middle-aged man with clothing that seemed at once practical, hardy and fine-spun. He spoke in elvish and the druid replied. His voice reminded Garlok of a harpsichord. Finally, the man nodded, unsmiling, and led them into the village. As they walked Garlok noticed the smithy: similar in design to the houses, but open at the front to allow for a smith’s profession. He caught the eye of the blacksmith himself and nodded, but the elf only returned his gesture with a noncommittal gaze. Friendly, grumbled Garlok to himself.The middle-aged man led them to a small, bulbous home with a fence and a yard full of ferns. As they approached a woman exited the house and studied them dispassionately after favoring Mordecai with a nod. The man and his wife spoke in fluid elvish, then she waved them inside where she assigned them places to sleep. A tiny green-furred cat wove its way in and around her skirts wherever she walked, meowing musically. Mordecai addressed the others. “Ertan and his wife Lorielle will let us stay with them as long as we need. I told them it would be a matter of days at most. Find me if you have to talk to someone, most of the villagers here don’t speak the Common tongue.”“Days?” inquired Falco, “That long?”“I want to make contact with my circle before we move on. We keep in touch with the elves here as we have mutual interests; I suspect it won’t be long before one of my brethren passes through. I’m going to go talk to some of the rangers about that right now. Stay out of trouble, and be respectful of these peoples’ way of life.” And he left.Erak dropped his kit into a corner and said, “I saw a smith on the way in. I need some work done.”“I’ll come with ya,” offered Garlok. Why not? This burg was dead. Not a good supplier of ale within fifty leagues. And he wasn’t going to sit here and watch the elf-wife do little magical things to food. Right now she was in the kitchen chopping up vegetables with both hands, while some sort of tome floated in front of her face, held aloft by an invisible third hand. You’d think that with the lifespan these elves had she could stand to do one thing at a time. The woman paused in her cookery, spoke a brief word and gestured, and the dim room became lit in a warm white light. Then she went back to chopping vegetables. The freakish green cat sat on a stool and purred loudly.Okay, I’m outta here, thought Garlok. He followed Erak through the door. The woman said something to their backs.“You betcha!” he replied. Erak looked at him quizzically. “You speak elvish?”“Nope.”--That evening as they enjoyed the tasty meal the elf-wife had prepared there came a knock on the door. The man Ertan answered, then stepped aside to allow entry to a hulking creature that caused Garlok to leap instinctively from the table – knocking over his stool – as he dove for his axes. Images flashed furiously through his mind.An orc lying in the dirt near him, right side hewn through by dwarvish steel, stirred. Numb from the neck down and pinned beneath a filthy corpse, he could only watch helplessly as the monster began to claw around itself with its remaining hand. The orc flip-flopped onto its back with extreme effort, and snarled in soundless agony as its innards squelched audibly. It lay there panting for a while, eyes closed, then began to look around. Garlok tried to squirm, to move an arm, anything, but his body rebuked him. He lay in utter helplessness. Perhaps the subtle movement alerted the dying orc, for it looked in Garlok’s direction, and he could watch as its dull face marched through phases of awareness: movement, life, dwarf, enemy, kill.The orc opened its mouth in inarticulate hatred, and its swollen tongue fell out to lap in the dust as it rolled back onto its belly and toward him. In despair-fueled rage, Garlok cursed the orc, his worthless body and the gods. He could not move. His enemy pulled itself closer, a mere four feet away.The orc dragged itself over an intervening body and the rocky ground with its one good arm. Along the way it produced a long, serrated dagger of black steel, which it placed in its mouth. The wound in its side lay open now, exposed, and black blood seeped out to mingle with the dirt. If it noticed, it did not care.Death crawled slowly toward him.A guttural growl escaped Garlok’s lips as he rolled to his feet in a defensive stance. Everyone was staring at him like he was an idiot. Mordecai, especially, did not look pleased. “Garlok,” he seethed, “how dare you draw steel while we are guests in an elf-home!”He could do nothing but watch as the creature grasped his leg, and in a moment of cruel irony, used the dwarf’s trapped body to haul itself up next to him. Its breath was fetid, sick with decay and tangy with blood, and it leered in silent cruelty, allowing him a moment to stare into the face of his murderer. The orc pulled the dagger across its lips, smiling as it savagely shredded them with the serrated edge. It gripped the blade awkwardly, balancing on its severed shoulder. It placed the point of the knife under his chin and pushed upward, apparently intent on watching him die slowly and in maddening pain.Suddenly he heard feathers whistling through the air, then the orc jerked rigid, eyes wide with surprise. The light died in them, and it sunk into an obscene parody of intimacy as its head came to rest on his cheek. Moments later he heard voices shouting in the elf-tongue, and many dark winged forms took to the sky, squawking in irritation. A shadow blocked the sun from his eyes, and in the dazzling shade he discerned the silhouette of an elf-lord wielding a mighty bow. The noble stared at him for a moment, then called over his shoulder, “tenelrath dal-lothos.”Much later, he found out what that meant. “This one still lives.”  Panting with excitement and barely suppressed rage, not to mention profound confusion, he swung his gaze to the newcomer: tall, physically imposing, he had the squinty orcish features that haunted Garlok’s nightmares. But he also stood straight, like a human, and his skin was the color of dusk, not midnight. Small, intelligent eyes regarded him with amusement. Not an orc. A half-orc.“This is Den,” Mordecai continued angrily, “a member of my order. Put the damn axes away.”A druid, Garlok thought thickly as realization dawned. Dumbfounded and chastised, he muttered a useless apology to his hosts and stuffed his axes back into his kit. Red-faced, he sat down and tried to master his emotions as the others looked at him in astonishment. Unsatisfied bloodlust roared through his body; he gripped his cup tightly and stared at his plate. Behind him, Mordecai spoke at length to the elves, no doubt apologizing for him. Then the druid excused himself and walked outside with Den. Long, uncomfortable minutes later, Mordecai returned. He remained tight-lipped about his discussion with the other druid, except to say that it could be very difficult to traverse the Vesve to the foothills of the northern Clatspurs. Many humanoid tribes stalked the woodlands between here and there. They absorbed that information quietly. The following morning there came another knock at the door, which awoke Garlok from his ale-induced slumber. Hair of the dog ravaged the inside of his mouth. Parched, he began to scrabble for his cask when he noticed a pair of small elven feet next to his head.“Quanalos,” said the elf-wife Lorielle. Drink this. She thrust a warm cup of herbal tea into his hand, then sat at the table and watched him. Hazily, he propped himself up and downed the liquid, careful not to leak any of it on his chest. For some reason he didn’t want to disappoint her by seeming uncouth. Over the rim of the cup she appeared serene, a lovely elf woman approaching her middle years. Which meant, of course, that she was something like five times Garlok’s age. He grimaced as the tart brew passed his throat. “Quanalos,” she urged with a wave of her hand. Finish it. He did, coughing as the cleansing warmth spread throughout his chest. Within moments his hangover had disappeared. “Par’l obalath,” she smiled demurely. He nodded and said, “Thanks.” Her silly-looking cat trotted up to him, tail high, purring. While she had force-fed him the tea, Ertan had answered the door. He’d spoken for a few moments with the visitor, bowed reverently, then stood aside as Mordecai stepped out to speak to whoever it was. A few minutes later the druid came back in.“Get your things together,” he told everyone, “we’re going today.”Dera looked alarmed. She quipped, “Through woods infested with orcs and giants?”“No,” replied Mordecai, “over them.”</blockquote>

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