Return to Ironstorm Mountain

[-SIN-]

Many, many miles have passed underfoot since leaving the comforts of your homelands. League upon league you have marched, some of you for weeks, others for months, few of you have travelled longer still. Across burning deserts, barren wastelands, snow-capped mountains and rolling dales you have toiled, retracing the steps your ancestors left so long ago. Some of you were commissioned for this expedition, others felt a distant calling to a home long lost, whether for glory or redemption, you have trekked relentlessly onward. Few of you arrive alone. Fate, be it what it may, has seen many companions join your cause; like minded fellows who share a common goal. Together you shall venture into the ancient halls of Ironstorm Mountain....



Finally, upon reaching the crest of a steep rise in the road you lay your eyes upon your destination; the colossal Great Edge Mountain range far to the North. Pausing for breath you stretch your aching muscles, absorbing the sights around you. Behind you, now far to the south lay the fallen Kingdom of Turinnahd, a once proud and powerful Human empire, shattered centuries ago by war and famine. To the East stretches a hinterland of grassy plains, unmarred by the touch of civilisation, placid and tranquil. The west on the other hand sports a dark stain; overgrown marshland receding into waterlogged swamps. As you and your companions mill around waiting for the stragglers to catch up you turn your attention once more to the North. The dusty road that you travel upon disappears into the distance, swallowed up by the waning light of the setting sun, though there is still enough light to make out the remnants of a watchtower up ahead, another of which can be seen standing drunkenly on the summit of a small tor some distance to the North-West. A river, shining with the fiery brilliance emitted by the dipping sun, runs South-Westerly, just north of the closer tower. You press on, continuing your journey untill you arrive at the broken tower where you decide to halt for the night, lighting a small fire before bedding down for the night between the ancient, lichen covered stones.


You break camp before the rising of the Sun, eager to start the final leg of your journey. Accompanied by a hubbub of birdsong, and with the breaking sun peeking over the horizon to lay its warm touch upon your faces, you can't help but to have a feeling of achievement. In the distance you can already see dirty smudges of smoke denoting a settlement up ahead; the last there is in this undefiled frontier. Tommerast.


By the time you reach the outskirts of the town the sun is high overhead, the spring morning dew long since evaporated, and now you are finally here you find that sense of achievement evaporating too. From what looked like a formidable city sprawling across the countryside from afar, now looks more like a run down hovel. Dozens of unwoked fields and meadows hedged in by dilapidated dry stone walls, adorned with the remnants of abandoned ploughs and various other rusted and broken farming implements surround the settlement. Only the farms closest the city appear to be in use, teams of workmen and women tilling the earth stand testament to that. The cobble stoned avenues are uneven and deeply rutted, weeds and grass pushing up between the cobbles which remain. Dozens of houses and outbuildings lay in various states of disrepair; the ground courses of stone badly pitted, the upper wooden levels blackened, though not with the attributes associated with fire damage. Moving further into town it becomes apparent that this was once a great city; once elegant statues line the main streets, now no more than undefined, lichen covered sentinels standing guard over a city almost as bedraggled as themselves.


Continuing toward the town centre you find the streets becoming more and more lively; men and women going about their daily business, unwashed children playing with a stray dog in the streets, a few carts bearing trade goods preparing for long journeys to far away destinations, though compared to the other towns and cities you have visited on your travels, this place is hardly teeming with life, if anything, this tumble-down seems to be hanging onto the edge of civilisation; a city that was obviously once home to many thousands, now houses only a few hundred. Finally, after navigating your way into the city centre itself you come to a halt at once grand plaza; long ago it would have boasted the wealth of the settlement, but now it gives off a sorry air of destitution. Several establishments are visible from where you stand: The Pitons-to-Pint, obviously a tavern; Kresse's Goods, a general store; a blacksmiths; the town watch, and a garishly decorated building whose sign reads 'Silk & Velvet'.


Welcome to Tommerast...

[sblock]You may have to excuse my first few posts - I'm on tranquilizers at the mo', and maaaan do they scramble your brain!!

The marijuana only serves to exacerbate things even more.... [/sblock]

 

[Raylis]

Oskas Runehammer rode for months through the untamed hinterlands, his pony and his axe his only companions. Gazing at the great mountains he felt a pang of homesickness, not for the gully that his clan had carved out but for the great halls that lay within that mountain range.

The night in the watchman's tower only strengthened his resolve, to enter the halls reclaim them and earn his place among the Defenders, the Knights of the Dwarven Realm.

He rode slowly on the path to Tommerast breathing in the air and the history the land held, he adjusted his shield, strapping to his arm instead of wearing it on his back so the crest would be visible as he rode along the road and into town.

At the town's edge he dismounted, leading his pony by the bridle as he walked along the streets . o O {My clan can restore these buildings, rework the stone] he thought as he passed building after building until he reached the plaza.

He stood in the center, reading over the names of the establishments watching the people go about their everyday business, and seeing no place to stable his faithful steed.

 

[Scribbler]

Torgga Holderhek strides easily toward the town center, looking particularly light on her feet.

"Well, this is disappointing. An inn'll do better than a campsite, though. Does that tavern have rooms to rent? You wanna go in to see and get some if they do? I should stock up on some supplies, I think. Need some?"


(OoC: Anyone who wants to have met up with Torgga on the way before this point, that's fine with me)

 

[Ancient History]

Keirgan, dressed in fine light blue robes, looks around with a scowl on his face.

"Probably not a decent bed in the whole place. Och, well. Maybe they have some fine spirits. I think I'll give the tavern a try and see what lies on the road ahead. Anyonwe care to join me?"

 

[Scribbler]

"I'll join ya in just a bit. Wanna make sure my food store'll hold out. I'm sure we'll find some supplies to raid in the mountain, but it don't hurt to be a little prepared."

 

[Mellubb]

Brottor’s immense pride upon seeing the city from a distance is quickly turned to bitter disappointment upon reaching the broken farms. He dismounts and offers to pray with a family of farmers as he passes by and is not surprised when he was turned down. The people’s lack of faith does not deter him from his faith though. He grabs his beard with both hands and says “All Father please do not forget your children. Help them find their way back to your grace. I look upon these dwarves with pity. I can only pray they will one day find favor in your eyes again someday.” .
Upon reaching the city Brottor finds the inn awaits those who he sent for to accompany him. He tells the bartender to tell anyone looking him to be waiting there at dusk he will make an announcement.

 

[James Heard]

Adun snorts as the group enters the town.

Another fine bastion of "civilization" ready to be put out to pasture.

The blackening and pitting of the stones and upper levels strikes her curiosity though, and she breaks from the rest of the group to examine them.

 

[cheshire_grin]

Goren watches Brottor's eagerness turn to astonishment and then chagrin as they draw nearer the city; he's been travelling with the Rockhammer for some time now, and the other dwarf's excitement has been both obvious, and little infectious, and Goren is sorry now to see it go.

"It's been a long time since this land's seen hope. I've seen this sort before, so beaten down by life that they fear any change. Hope is dangerous, it's betrayed them before and they're afraid 'twill again." His face is grim, but there is a certain amount of understanding and sympathy to his voice. He stumps alongside Rockhammer's pony, his arms swinging easily at his side.

As they enter the town, Goren nods to himself, looking around. "What we take in with us will likely be all we can count on; we'll not be able to hope for rescue from this quarter."

 

[EvolutionKB]

Darmon

Darmon walks alone on his path to the city. Most would prefer that way. The sun glints off his fine armor and shield. He speaks as he walks, talking to Dorn, his ancestral sprit, the one that was his guide here, and the one that died near here long ago. "Not what you remember huh? Not what I was expecting either." A pair of farmers look up from their plow and give a strange look at the dwarf to seems to be talking to a tree stump.

Darmon walks on, stepping to pet a dog in which children are playing with in the street. The children laugh at him when he appears to speak to a signpost. "Aye at least some of the people seem in good cheer. Where do you suppose we should go? The bar? You are always ready for a drink aren't you? Very well."

Darmon walks into the tavern, seemingly holding the door for somebody behind him. He has a seat at the bar, saving a seat for his invisible companion, shooing those that would try and sit on his ancestor's lap. "A pint of ale and one of mead," he speaks to the bartender. When the man puts both in front of him, he pushes one down to the stool next to him. After drinking his mead, Darmon looks to the stool next to him, a look of bewilderment on his face. "Don't like it? Fine, I'll drink it," he says as he grasps the ale and downs it in one large gulp. "Now onto business." He looks around the bar, seeing a cleric of Moradin sitting by himself. He takes it upon himself to speak to his kin.

"I am Darmon, and that is Dern," he says nodding at a barstool. "We are going under the mountain to find Dern's body. We are only two, and one of Moradin's faithful would be welcome on our trip, when we find our resolve lacking."

 

[WarlockLord]

Zerul enters the tavern silently, sits down, and approaches the two dwarves. "Greetings. I gather from your large numbers and conversation that you are on a mission. I would like to volunteer my services. I am Zerul, a priest with some small arcane skill, the blond-haired man informs them.