Interludes: Wyrm Part II and Lost Part I
So...here's that 1500 word or so update...Enjoy!
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WYRM II
She climbed upward with another fierce beat of her wings and then barreled right, wing-over-wing-over-wing in endless repetition. The thin membrane of her wings was rigid and as solid as diamond for the maneuver—at least at the edges nearest her talons.
She could feel the slight jerks against the membrane as enemy after enemy was decimated. Her body slammed the monstrosities with enough force to leave the stumbling skeletons as nothing but piles of dust. The wind dragged across the ground, pulling snow and the dust of her foes into piles of inseparable white.
A spasm brought the barrel roll to an end and she jerked upright all over again. She clawed up into the skies above the storm, seeking a vantage point for the battlefield.
Once above the storm, she counted the sheer numbers of the undead. Hundreds crossed the fields slowly from all directions, heading toward a single indiscernible town. Unseen from this height, but the great wyrm knew its location well. And around it were hundreds of the creatures. Hundreds closed in on a slight village.
It must have fallen to the clergy, she decided. And if so, the town was truly lost; at least for the time being. For the dragon, while not tolerant to undead—especially those that had attacked those under her protection—had more important responsibilities. If ever she had a free moment, she would return to cleanse the taint.
For now, she had to clear a path toward the manor for the heroes that would be driving away from the village. Her orders were clear. Diving back to the earth, she veered north, cutting a solid line through the scattered undead; a safe path.
Her roars echoed across the vast plains. Below, unliving corpses fell, a permanent peace finally settling upon the rotting bodies.
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LOST I
Centuries ago. . .
Stul the Redbeard—originally of the Kronilk clan, true descendant of Bartor the Redbeard, and most recent to sit upon the throne of dwarven kings—cursed. He stomped his dense legs upon the stone tunnel and cursed loudly. When that would not alleviate his rage, the young dwarf jumped up and down, actually shattering some of the fine stonework beneath the layer of dust. Frantically, he pulled on his curling brown beard, highlighted with shades of red, actually managing to extract many hairs painfully.
“
Damn it all!” he shouted, his voice retorting sharply along the once-smooth passage. “
How dae this happen?!?! HOW!!” He snapped his arm out, grabbing the nearest passing dwarf by the beard. The King jerked the stonemason toward him, glaring at the shrinking dwarf.
“My liege, I dannae know. It will take time…” The mason grunted as the king shoved him away and into the wall.
Stul pivoted, grasping futilely at his beard hair, and tried to plow through the recent, tumultuous events of his life. Dwarves, at least since their arrival on Norum da Salaex, had been the most stable of the races. Rigid laws enforced every aspect of their lives, every aspect of decorum, every aspect of everything. Even with the reign of the Black Magus, the dwarves had prospered, safe within their mountain home that lied so near the black cathedral.
Two years. Two years Stul had ruled over his kin. Two years of pure, chaotic hell.
The raids from the surface had intensified, pushing Stul to enlist every dwarf in the defense of their home. Dozens of an originally small population of dwarves had perished in the raids. Two years of death, suffering, and being pushed ever deeper into their tunnels, ever deeper toward the heart of the world.
And when the human warrior Toq Arma Dunn had sent an emissary requesting aide against the Black Magus[1], Stul had acquiesced. The young—for a dwarf at least—king had instantly accepted the offer. Anything, he would do anything to be rid of the Black Magus and to once more have freedom.
Stul had organized the largest army in dwarven history consisting of every able man, woman and child. Then, the king had marched his soldiers to the exits; tunnels that were only recently occupied by orcs and other foul breeds of beast. Tunnels now abandoned, the orcs amassing for the war with the humans. There had been one or two beasts that had fallen behind their comrades; stragglers quickly dispatched in the march toward freedom.
And then the earth, the Spire had betrayed them. The earth fell upon their heads, the entire army crushed in those few black seconds. Not the entire army, the king reminisced. He had survived. Possibly a score more had lived with minor scrapes only. But the mass of the dwarven race was crushed. Not by orc, not by human, not even by the sly elves or the wicked deep dwarves; no the earth itself had decimated the populace.
Stul screamed in rage.
“King Redbeard?” The withered advisor, an older cousin, warily grasped the King’s shoulder. Stul nodded sadly, silencing his bellow. “There be naught ye can do, my King. Return to the throne room. We will find more of our king alive, I believe. And once we know wha happened, we’ll tell ye.”
Stul nodded again, agreeing to be lead in his moment of weakness toward his gilded throne.
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King Redbeard snapped awake, a stout dwarven hand grasping his shoulder. Stul raised his red-rimmed eyes and stared incredulously at the figure before him. A dwarf carved completely of rock stood ahead of him, its outstretched hand fiery hot against the King’s full-plate armor. Eyes of molten rock peered from within the gray, stone face. A beard of the same molten, red rock stretched down to the floor. Its curled tip cooled to pure, black obsidian against the floor. Sharp angles replaced the typical, solid curves of a true dwarf but the stoic expression carved upon the face held more truth than simple curves. A solid, sharp-edged battleaxe was wedged between the bare, stone flesh of the creature and a belt crafted of fine diamonds. Within the haft of the axe sat a black diamond with red swirls of energy, the gem of King Bartor.
Stul slipped from the throne and to his knees with a clang. Quickly he bowed his head with deference. “My Lord,” Stul squeaked.
“
Get up, child. You are the King, you should bow to no one.” The proclamation was laced with the gritty sound of stone rubbing against stone, the voice of a god. Stul quickly obliged, still keeping his head bowed in respect.
“My Lord, I never thought I’d see…”
“
O’ course not Stul the Redbeard. I only appear to the King of my kin. An’ e’en then I make ‘em swear on their lives to secrecy that they have ne’er seen me.” Stul waited for the demand of an oath but with none forthcoming, he raised his head. Ahead of him was naught by empty air. He turned, searching for Bartor and stopped as he noted the old king sitting upon the throne. “
I won’ lie to ye, my heir. I miss her. She’s a beautifully crafted chair. And the air up here is nae laced with the foul stench of below.”
“Ye 'ave gone below then, as some of the priests said?”
“
Aye. Every day I hunt Liln an’ her kin. Foul, dark beasts they be. But it is my duty, to protect my kin from the evil born in my time.” The king’s molten eyes glossed over, a thin film of obsidian as a tear somehow managed to slip past the lava and down the stone cheek. “Every day I protect ye arses. But tha’s not why I came.
“I came to alleviate the blame ye feel. The mountain killed our kin, nae you. And if ye would look beyond yer grief, ye might’n see wha’ happened. Ye were tricked, deceived. As sure as the foul scent always accompanying orcs, ye were made a fool of.” Stul grunted, turning away.
“Ach, boy. Listen to me words. The tunnels above were nae clear for the war amongst men. The tunnels were clear to crush ye and our kin. To kill our race. An’ they left just enough orcs to assure ye.
“Ye ‘ave to know the words I speak are true. Ye can feel it in your gut, I don’ doubt.
“I see much further than I used to, me boy. Much further. Forward and behind. This was a setup. But luckily for us all, some of our kin survived. An’ nae just here. Our race’ll survive or I’m the bastard son of an orcish b*tch.
“Now though, ye must tend our people. Rebuild our race. Rebuild our home. One day, when the passages up are clear again, ye shall collect the debt of life.” Bartor stood, grasping his axe and replacing it within his belt.
“We’ll talk again, Stul. But before I return to the deep, bring me some fine dwarven ale. My throat’s been parched for centuries.”
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[1] The Black Magus was the ruler before King Ara'kull over Norum da Salaex. I very possibly referred to this character prior as the Black Lord or the Dark Lord...which continues to confuse my players (who think the Dark Lord is Ara'kull or the King). So now...this ruler is called the Black Magus...and shall be called such forever.
I have to post Lost Part II...and then I'll probably return to the heroes (and the current timeline 
) Oh and for those of you that haven't read the dwarven pdf...now would be a good time to do so...to understand a bit more of this update. 
~Fune
