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Sins of Our Fathers - 2/10 - Final Update
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<blockquote data-quote="Destan" data-source="post: 919094" data-attributes="member: 12157"><p><strong>Climbing Borbidon's Rest</strong></p><p></p><p>Just the smell of the wyvern was enough to nearly overwhelm Baden with thoughts of terror, followed by loss. Dreadful loss. Unbidden memories rushed upon him like a Deepearth cataract. Aye, he recalled the childhood morning, long ago, when he first smelled such a stench. <em>How could he not?</em> A child does not easily forget the death of his father.</p><p></p><p>And the death was slow in coming. It started with the battle by the pools, certainly. But then it took the form of simple things: an empty hammock strung forlornly between two stone columns, a wayward rucksack lying forgotten near the door in his family’s den, a basted and boiled cave crab set upon the feasting trestle, a half-moon axe returned by grim-faced Axemarch warriors. A shining axe, mind you, with nary a trace of gore.</p><p> </p><p>The first few patches of whiskers had appeared, nearly overnight, on Baden’s chin and upper lip. He was but ten years old, very young to be sprouting a beard so soon. Runwan Dost ran the tips of her thick fingers along his jaw then pushed him gently toward the exit of their family’s den. “Fetch your sire, young Baden, and let him see the mark of Moradin on you cheeks with his own eyes. Tell him, too, that we shall crack a cave crab tonight in celebration.”</p><p></p><p>Baden grinned with the confidence of a favored, only child. The dwarf-child skipped down the spiral staircase outside his den and dashed across the flagstones of the central halls. Adults of his clan stepped aside with knowing smiles as the young boy ran past, eyes alight. Banidon Dost was well-liked by worker and warrior alike, and his son shared in the affection the clan held for the father.</p><p></p><p>Yet, before Baden knew it, he was lost – or, rather, as lost a dwarf could be while traversing the underground corridors so near his clanlands. In his excitement he had made a wrong turn somewhere in the Far-Warrens. Dwarf-sized tunnels, twisting in all directions like a chasm spider’s legs, skittered in every direction. The dwarf-child could certainly find his way back to the central Halls…</p><p></p><p>But Baden was ten. He had sprouted the beginnings of a beard. Now was not the time to be timid. His father must learn of their good fortune.</p><p> </p><p>The dwarf-child slipped through a narrow cleft in the rock and trotted in the direction of his father’s mining shaft. The cave’s walls leaned closer to one another, even as the floor climbed to meet the ceiling. Soon he was crawling and, shortly thereafter, sliding forward on his stomach. Baden’s new goathide tunic, a mother’s Naming Day gift, was ruined. He pulled himself forward with the tips of his fingers, pushed himself with the toes of his boots. His chin – his <em>whiskered</em> chin – was sliced by a particularly sharp rock. Baden cursed as deftly as a ten-year old could hope.</p><p></p><p>After the better part of an hour, Baden’s euphoria faded. He never was fearful – he was comfortable within the tunnels and had a general idea of his location. Yet the goathide tunic was heavy – thicker than his normal clothes. Doubtless it would bunch upon itself should he try to slide backward out of the tunnel. Suddenly Baden felt very much like a wooden cork in a bottle of his father’s mead.</p><p></p><p>Yet, if he could not go back, then he would go forward. </p><p></p><p>There was no longer enough room to bend his arms in the constricting shaft. Baden found himself on his back, face pressed against the ceiling. The tunnel began to slope downward. Slightly at first, then more steeply. The dwarf-child felt his face grow hot as blood rushed to his head.</p><p></p><p>Then, with a suddenness that took his breath away, the stone was…<em>gone</em>. Baden’s hands touched only air for the briefest of moments before he slid outward into air. He fell. With a mixture of childhood desperation and innocence, Baden covered his whiskers with both arms in order to protect them from the impending impact.</p><p></p><p>He need not have worried. Only a few dizzying heartbeats passed before he plunged into cool water. Then, of course, did Baden first feel terror. <em>Dwarves do not swim.</em>* He sunk like a stone, felt his boots hit rock, and then the current gripped him. Baden shot forward in a cocoon of frothing bubbles.</p><p></p><p>The dwarf-child was losing the battle to hold his breath. His small chest burned for air. He clawed at the passing rocks to no avail; the current was remorseless. Finally, when he could no longer control his own body, Baden opened his mouth as wide as an infant cave sparrow and swallowed only more water. </p><p></p><p>His boots caught on the stony ground one last time. He somersaulted forward and slammed his forehead onto jumbled rock. He reached out, found stone, and pulled. He thought of his mother, his father - his new beard - as he clung to the rock beneath the rushing water. Slowly, ever so slowly, he crawled. The current pressed him against the streambed, the weight of the entire mountain seemed to be upon his back.</p><p></p><p>His head broke the surface. He breathed. The dwarf-child, panicked and nearly drowned, gasped huge mouthfuls of air. Long moments passed wherein Baden could do nothing but simply lay shuddering from the exertion. Slowly he regained his composure, opened his eyes. </p><p></p><p>And found he was not alone.</p><p></p><p>There was a stench about the small, rocky beech. He had never smelled it before, but it was a cloying scent – like an unwashed dwarf too long in the mud of a live cave.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p><em>Serpent scent.</em> He knew that now. And here, forty years and more later, fatherless, he smelled it again. The aroma reeked of tragedy. Baden clung to the windswept crags of the mountain known as Borbidon’s Rest, just as he had clung to those smooth underwater stones as a child.</p><p> </p><p>A stone’s throw above him was the clansman Raylin, his black cloak flapping in the evening winds like a dying crow. And above the ranger was the ledge. The same ledge that Amelyssan, with his exceptional twilight vision, had seen the winged shadow land upon in the pre-dawn hours.</p><p></p><p>The party had spent the better part of the day picking their way among the rocky folds at the base of Borbidon’s Rest. The great summit appeared to have a robe of pure rock thrown over it, bunching in masses near its base. Not until early afternoon had they located a fissure to begin the painstaking climb.</p><p></p><p>Amelyssan had utilized his magic – the elf nimbly darted upward like a Balantir ram, his feet and hands sticking to the rock from arcane power. But the other members of the party were not so fortunate. Certainly not Baden, who was having the hardest time of it. He could not stretch to reach handholds as well as his companions, could not contort his body like the half-troll. Even Kellus, in the heavy breastplate of his own dead father, seemed more capable than the dwarf during the arduous ascent.</p><p></p><p>Yet men will press ever forward with folly. They had reached the wyvern’s nesting ledge even as the sun disappeared behind the flat horizon of the Cormick plains so incredibly far below them. Shadows began to crawl along the rock. The wyvern would exit his hole soon - very soon. To hunt. </p><p></p><p><em>The bastard need not fly far to locate his meal this night,</em> Baden thought, grimacing as he braced himself against the mountain for a short respite. <em>We climbed all this way to let ye eat us all the more quickly, you barb-tailed lizard. Come and do your work, ‘lest I be forced to climb all the way back down.</em></p><p></p><p>Baden caught movement in the corner of his eye and craned his neck upward to better see Raylin. The ranger had a finger pressed to his lips. A sword was in his other hand, the dwarf noted with surprise, and the ranger gestured above his position with the tip of his blade. </p><p></p><p>“It comes,” Raylin mouthed soundlessly.</p><p></p><p>Baden meant only to think it, but the words issued from his mouth nonetheless, “About damned time.” The dwarf pulled forth his axe, gave but a fleeting moment of thought to the impossibility of hoisting his shield, and began the final few paces of the climb.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>* Dwarves within Ostia Prim suffer a -10 Swim check penalty in addition to any normal modifiers due to their incredibly dense composition.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Destan, post: 919094, member: 12157"] [b]Climbing Borbidon's Rest[/b] Just the smell of the wyvern was enough to nearly overwhelm Baden with thoughts of terror, followed by loss. Dreadful loss. Unbidden memories rushed upon him like a Deepearth cataract. Aye, he recalled the childhood morning, long ago, when he first smelled such a stench. [i]How could he not?[/i] A child does not easily forget the death of his father. And the death was slow in coming. It started with the battle by the pools, certainly. But then it took the form of simple things: an empty hammock strung forlornly between two stone columns, a wayward rucksack lying forgotten near the door in his family’s den, a basted and boiled cave crab set upon the feasting trestle, a half-moon axe returned by grim-faced Axemarch warriors. A shining axe, mind you, with nary a trace of gore. The first few patches of whiskers had appeared, nearly overnight, on Baden’s chin and upper lip. He was but ten years old, very young to be sprouting a beard so soon. Runwan Dost ran the tips of her thick fingers along his jaw then pushed him gently toward the exit of their family’s den. “Fetch your sire, young Baden, and let him see the mark of Moradin on you cheeks with his own eyes. Tell him, too, that we shall crack a cave crab tonight in celebration.” Baden grinned with the confidence of a favored, only child. The dwarf-child skipped down the spiral staircase outside his den and dashed across the flagstones of the central halls. Adults of his clan stepped aside with knowing smiles as the young boy ran past, eyes alight. Banidon Dost was well-liked by worker and warrior alike, and his son shared in the affection the clan held for the father. Yet, before Baden knew it, he was lost – or, rather, as lost a dwarf could be while traversing the underground corridors so near his clanlands. In his excitement he had made a wrong turn somewhere in the Far-Warrens. Dwarf-sized tunnels, twisting in all directions like a chasm spider’s legs, skittered in every direction. The dwarf-child could certainly find his way back to the central Halls… But Baden was ten. He had sprouted the beginnings of a beard. Now was not the time to be timid. His father must learn of their good fortune. The dwarf-child slipped through a narrow cleft in the rock and trotted in the direction of his father’s mining shaft. The cave’s walls leaned closer to one another, even as the floor climbed to meet the ceiling. Soon he was crawling and, shortly thereafter, sliding forward on his stomach. Baden’s new goathide tunic, a mother’s Naming Day gift, was ruined. He pulled himself forward with the tips of his fingers, pushed himself with the toes of his boots. His chin – his [i]whiskered[/i] chin – was sliced by a particularly sharp rock. Baden cursed as deftly as a ten-year old could hope. After the better part of an hour, Baden’s euphoria faded. He never was fearful – he was comfortable within the tunnels and had a general idea of his location. Yet the goathide tunic was heavy – thicker than his normal clothes. Doubtless it would bunch upon itself should he try to slide backward out of the tunnel. Suddenly Baden felt very much like a wooden cork in a bottle of his father’s mead. Yet, if he could not go back, then he would go forward. There was no longer enough room to bend his arms in the constricting shaft. Baden found himself on his back, face pressed against the ceiling. The tunnel began to slope downward. Slightly at first, then more steeply. The dwarf-child felt his face grow hot as blood rushed to his head. Then, with a suddenness that took his breath away, the stone was…[i]gone[/i]. Baden’s hands touched only air for the briefest of moments before he slid outward into air. He fell. With a mixture of childhood desperation and innocence, Baden covered his whiskers with both arms in order to protect them from the impending impact. He need not have worried. Only a few dizzying heartbeats passed before he plunged into cool water. Then, of course, did Baden first feel terror. [i]Dwarves do not swim.[/i]* He sunk like a stone, felt his boots hit rock, and then the current gripped him. Baden shot forward in a cocoon of frothing bubbles. The dwarf-child was losing the battle to hold his breath. His small chest burned for air. He clawed at the passing rocks to no avail; the current was remorseless. Finally, when he could no longer control his own body, Baden opened his mouth as wide as an infant cave sparrow and swallowed only more water. His boots caught on the stony ground one last time. He somersaulted forward and slammed his forehead onto jumbled rock. He reached out, found stone, and pulled. He thought of his mother, his father - his new beard - as he clung to the rock beneath the rushing water. Slowly, ever so slowly, he crawled. The current pressed him against the streambed, the weight of the entire mountain seemed to be upon his back. His head broke the surface. He breathed. The dwarf-child, panicked and nearly drowned, gasped huge mouthfuls of air. Long moments passed wherein Baden could do nothing but simply lay shuddering from the exertion. Slowly he regained his composure, opened his eyes. And found he was not alone. There was a stench about the small, rocky beech. He had never smelled it before, but it was a cloying scent – like an unwashed dwarf too long in the mud of a live cave. *** [i]Serpent scent.[/i] He knew that now. And here, forty years and more later, fatherless, he smelled it again. The aroma reeked of tragedy. Baden clung to the windswept crags of the mountain known as Borbidon’s Rest, just as he had clung to those smooth underwater stones as a child. A stone’s throw above him was the clansman Raylin, his black cloak flapping in the evening winds like a dying crow. And above the ranger was the ledge. The same ledge that Amelyssan, with his exceptional twilight vision, had seen the winged shadow land upon in the pre-dawn hours. The party had spent the better part of the day picking their way among the rocky folds at the base of Borbidon’s Rest. The great summit appeared to have a robe of pure rock thrown over it, bunching in masses near its base. Not until early afternoon had they located a fissure to begin the painstaking climb. Amelyssan had utilized his magic – the elf nimbly darted upward like a Balantir ram, his feet and hands sticking to the rock from arcane power. But the other members of the party were not so fortunate. Certainly not Baden, who was having the hardest time of it. He could not stretch to reach handholds as well as his companions, could not contort his body like the half-troll. Even Kellus, in the heavy breastplate of his own dead father, seemed more capable than the dwarf during the arduous ascent. Yet men will press ever forward with folly. They had reached the wyvern’s nesting ledge even as the sun disappeared behind the flat horizon of the Cormick plains so incredibly far below them. Shadows began to crawl along the rock. The wyvern would exit his hole soon - very soon. To hunt. [i]The bastard need not fly far to locate his meal this night,[/i] Baden thought, grimacing as he braced himself against the mountain for a short respite. [i]We climbed all this way to let ye eat us all the more quickly, you barb-tailed lizard. Come and do your work, ‘lest I be forced to climb all the way back down.[/i] Baden caught movement in the corner of his eye and craned his neck upward to better see Raylin. The ranger had a finger pressed to his lips. A sword was in his other hand, the dwarf noted with surprise, and the ranger gestured above his position with the tip of his blade. “It comes,” Raylin mouthed soundlessly. Baden meant only to think it, but the words issued from his mouth nonetheless, “About damned time.” The dwarf pulled forth his axe, gave but a fleeting moment of thought to the impossibility of hoisting his shield, and began the final few paces of the climb. * Dwarves within Ostia Prim suffer a -10 Swim check penalty in addition to any normal modifiers due to their incredibly dense composition. [/QUOTE]
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