Imagination is everything…
Alisttair
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Posts by Alisttair
Part 2
Apr 30th
The true lord of magic…what could this possibly mean, thought Ezmereth.
He thought back to his history lessons back in his earlier days. A hundred years ago, the most recent deity of magic was Mystra, Lady of Mysteries. She was the third incarnation of said deity, being a mortal formerly known as Midnight, who was murdered on her home plane of Dweomerheart by the deity Cyric, Prince of Lies and god of murder. This had caused the Spellplague, in which magic throughout the realms went crazy and ceased to function through the Weave, forcing spellcasters everywhere to re-learn how to use it.
A few decades before this event was the ascension of Midnight, replacing the second Mystra, who was killed by Helm, god of duty, during the Time of Troubles. This was an event in which all gods walked the lands as mortals. The Time of Troubles was caused by the theft of the Tablets of Fate. When these tablets were returned to the overgod, Ao, said overgod bestowed upon Midnight the divinity and portfolio of magic. In Mystra’s honor did she assume her old identity?
Thinking back on these two catastrophic events that both changed the face of Faerun, Ezmereth deduced that the ghastly sound could not be speaking of any of these deities. He had to think back to Netheril’s ancient history to try and figure this one out. So he thought back to how the second version of the deity of magic came to be.
Millenia before the Time of Troubles, the second version of Mystra was born. Her birth came as a contingent result of the destruction of the first, who was then known as Mystryl. Mystryl was the pre-eminent deity in the original kingdom of Netheril. Many more floating cities existed back then, Shade Enclave among them, but the most powerful of all the nation was Karsus enclave. Karsus was the most powerful of all the arcanists who ruled Netheril, and his folly was his undoing. He had concocted a power mad scheme, developing the most powerful spell in history. Upon its casting, he had stolen the divinity from Mystryl. This killed her outright, and the divine power entered Karsus all at once. But the strands of the Weave, that which controlled magic, were far too complex for him to understand immediately, resulting in a loss of control and magic everywhere stopping. All but a few of the floating netherese enclaves plummeted to the ground, resulting in the terrible fall of the great kingdom.
But Mystryl again was feminine, so that ruled her out as being the lord of magic referenced by the voice. Realization hit Ezmereth then, and he could see in his master’s eyes that he had come to the same conclusion.
This was temple dedicated to the worship of Karsus. How or why anyone would erect such a place was a question worth pondering in itself. Karsus was reputed to have been extremely hated by the survivors of Netheril because of his folly. His selfish quest for power caused the destruction of their homes. How could anyone worship a fool?
“The true lord of magic demands that you disbelievers vacate his holy temple,” said the ghastly voice. “It has no place for those who are steered wrongly by the shadows.”
The voice spoke of Shar, whom was the only deity allowed to be worshipped within Netheril. She who had saved Shade Enclave during the kingdom’s fall by bringing it into the Shadowfell, leading to its return to the Material Plane over a thousand years later.
“You are the one who is steered wrongly,” responded Ylormik, “for this true lord you speak of was naught but a fool who could not handle true power.”
The retort of the voice was again echoing through the chamber. “Is that what you were led to believe? I am afraid you are gravelly mistaken. Lord Karsus exists still in death in the Astral Sea. The divine spark has not left his essence and in time, he shall return.”
“You speak as foolishly as he thought,” yelled Ezmereth. “This temple shall be converted to the worship of a more appropriate deity and taken back to Shade Enclave.”
“It might not be wise to anger the spirit,” Ylormik scolded his pupil.
The scolding may have been for naught. A semi-transparent apparition appeared before them by the altar. The graying creature was humanoid in shape, but lacked any distinct features to be able to tell what sort of humanoid it was. It lacked both arms and legs, and no visage could be seen on its head. It looked like someone who had put a tattered blanket over himself to stay warm.
A voice came from it despite no mouth apparent for it to come from. “Your life essences shall then have to be used as fuel for the resurrection that is to come.”
The undead creature floated up into the air. Arms suddenly appeared at its sides. It brought them up, making bizarre gestures. With that, eight rotting corpses emerged from the ground, seemingly growing like plants out of the stone floor.
“I hope you are happy with yourself, Ezmereth,” said the master. “You will have yet another opportunity to hone your skill with that blade.”
Ezmereth merely winked at Ylormik, ready to unsheathe his sword and leap into battle.
Part 1
Apr 29th
“How do you expect to breach the defenses?”
The old man simply stared at his young pupil, his gaze cold and focused. The wind blew his long, night black hair into his face. He knew what he was doing. How could anyone dare question his capacities, least of all this young lad that he had been training not only in magic, but in the ways of Shar, Mistress of the Night?
It was quite simple really. The young lad was only training partly how to use magic like a true Netherese, and to Shar he gave but lip service. Rather, having spent the first twelve years of his life fighting with a blade, he blended all three into one deadly combination.
A Swordmage, one that combined spell with blade to harness magical might through a weapon as an extension of oneself.
Ezmereth Nemrin was training to become an Umbriri. Swordmages dedicated to the power of shadow – the power of Shar. He grew up in the city of Shade, capital of Netheril, a city floating miles in the air that looked down upon the landscape. To get there, one had to have powerful magic at their disposal or have access to an Airship.
The old man was teaching Ezmereth a ritual to open a sealed door in order to enter a ruined temple of a long forgotten deity, located below ground within an earth mote flying near Shade. These small pieces of land, similar to the great city but much, much smaller in size, came to be during the spellplague almost one hundred years past, when the weave shattered and the twin worlds of Abeir and Toril collided, each merging partially with the other.
The Netherese suspected that this piece of land, coming from the continent on the ground below, was once part of Old Netheril. Many secrets and treasures are said to remain hidden within its ancient ruins, many of which hold powerful magic that could one day bring Netheril back to its former glory. Thus did the Princes of Shade send one of their most trusted wizards, Ylormik Zjan to investigate this one mote that oddly magnetized itself to the city of Shade.
“Well master Ylormik,” said Ezemereth, “how will you do it?”
“Firstly,” began Ylormik, “I will disenchant the magical trap that disintegrates anything that tampers with the door. That will be the simple part. Afterwards, you will assist me in performing the ritual required to unlock it.”
With that, Ylormik reached into a pouch and drew a handful of a fine, powdery substance. The powder was purplish in color, and some of it smoked a bit as he blew it out of his hand onto the door, all while tracing arcane symbols within the smoke with his other hand. This was followed by a few words spoken in draconic. A small glow and a faint pop came from the door.
“Now time for the ritual, Ezmereth,” said the master wizard. “While I chant the arcane words necessary, you will draw three Xs on the door with a piece of orange chalk. Make sure the angles are all even. If even one is off by a degree, the ritual will not work.”
“As you wish, master!” replied the ever eager-to-learn student.
Now that his student was silent, Ylormik took out an old parchment which contained the words necessary. He began chanting them, and Ezmereth did as instructed, taking out an orange piece of chalk and carefully drawing the three Xs.
The Xs began to glow in a miasma of colors. Ezmereth stepped back, anticipating a large explosion to occur, or something with a loud boom. His master smirked as it simply ceased to glow and the Xs vanished.
“Excellent,” he said. “The door is unlocked.”
Ylormik pressed a hand on the door. It began to rumble gently and then opened inwards, revealing naught but darkness. The young student peered inside curiously. Upon doing so, a flame flicked itself to life on a sconce on the wall, revealing a set of spiral stairs leading downwards.
The two netherse took a few steps down and, as a result, another flame spontaneously combusted on another sconce. It would seem that they were enchanted to illuminate automatically for whoever descended the stairs as they were needed. So they descended slowly down the steps. Ezmereth feared they had gone quite a long way down, thinking that soon they would reach the bottom of the mote and plummet onto the land far below. But his fear was soon put to rest as the stairs ended, revealing a large chamber with all its sconces from one end to the other illuminating.
At the center of the chamber lied an altar. Lying on top of the altar was a large vellum open about midway. An unlit candle stood next to the tome, the wick dangling down and much wax hardened at its base.
“I believe we have found the interior of the temple, master.” said Ezmereth. “Which deity do you believe this once belonged to?”
“A good question, my pupil…I believe the answer might lie within the book there.”
Ylormik made his way to the altar, his fingers twitching in anticipation at the find he and his student had just made for Netheril. As he approached however, a ghastly voice spoke, echoing throughout the chamber.
“You shall not touch that which is belonging to the true lord of magic,” the voice said.
Lost in Hamlet Forest
Jan 8th
After a long trek through the mountains of their homeland, the group of six dwarves finally arrived in the wooded forest of Hamlet. The smell of pine and maple permeated the air. It was not something they much enjoyed, preferring the feel of being surrounded by dank stone.
The Karidig brothers, Hagdun and Pwint, argued most of the way. Their intense conversations caused them to lag behind the others, forcing them to double back and find the two shouting dwarves. With this back and forth, it wasn’t long before the group got lost among the large pine trees of the forest.
“I’m tellin’ ye, Pwint, yer sissy armor, with its flashy shine just canno’ take a hit from an axe or hammer the way mine can,” said Hagdun.
“Bah, yer rusted old thing is gonna break on its next hit, believe you me,” answered Pwint. “T’would be well enough, maybe it could smack some sense into yer dirty beard there.”
“Hah, your beard ain’t any cleaner, brother,” said Hagdun.
“Hey fellas,” chimed in Dugar, who had fallen back in order to bring Pwint and Hagdun back with the group. ”If yer done fightin’ amongst yerselves, how’s about coming over here an’ helpin’ us figure out jus’ where in the nine hells we are.”
Hagdun and Pwint scowled at Dugar in unison, that is until they realized they couldn’t see the other three dwarves. They picked up the pace and jogged back to the group.
***
“So Piknen,” said Ivel as he ruffled through some leaves, “d’ya got any clue on how to get to the village of Hamlet from here?”
“Nay, Ivel, I don’t think so,” Piknen answered, looking as far into the dark and wild forest as he could. “Anyone got any ideas? I canno’ find a durned thing in this mess.”
The trio heard ruffling foliage and turned to find Dugar, Hagdun and Pwint returning, all three slightly out of breath from their small jog. Belda’s gaze caught Dugar by surprised, and he looked away from her shyly.
“No ideas here,” said Belda, turning back towards Piknen, “but perhaps Dugar, Hagdun or Pwint have any ideas?”
“Sorry to say m’lady,” answered Hagdun, “but Pwint an’ I have been too busy discussing how best to cleave armor rather than paying attention on our whereabouts. Although Pwint thinks he knows best, I believe I know best, an’ Dugar here agreed with me, ain’t that right Dugar?”
Dugar had heard enough family cussing today to last him for a long time, and the last thing he wanted was to be thrown into the middle of it. He turned to slap Hagdun in the back of the head when he noticed something in the distance: a group of human soldiers bearing the symbol of the Kingdom of Tarra on their shields. This had to be a saving grace from Moradin himself.
“Up ahead, laddies. Some folk who can help us just up there,” Dugar pointed in their direction.
As he did, the group of soldiers stopped and turned towards the dwarves: they had obviously noticed their presence. Both groups made their way toward each other and met about halfway, next to a giant oak tree.
“Greetings Dwarves,” said the only the man in plate armor, obviously the leader of the group. He must be a great fighter, Dugar thought, looking at the giant sword sheathed at his back. A hint of purple radiance emanated from the blade – a magical blade it must be. The man coughed, turned away from the dwarves, put his hands to his face and turned back to face them once again.
“I am Lieutenant Bog, and this is my company from the Kingdom of Tarra, and we are currently on patrol in this forest. What brings you here?”
Dugar stepped in front of his comrades and took the leadership role among them at that instant.
“I be Dugar, and these are my companions from Adgad. Our village elder, Lacidin, has sent us on a mission to Tarra to aid in local troubles. To our dismay, we are lost.”
“Worry yourselves no longer then,” said Lieutenant Bog, “for we have been expecting you, just not quite as many of you. Nevertheless, we will gladly escort you to Fort Caspien, where a retinue awaits your presence.”
The six dwarves smiled at that. They simply hated the smell of trees and were glad that would soon end.
The group then began marching in a south-westerly direction. Ivel began to notice a few oddities about the soldiers. Other than the lieutenant, they all seemed very pale and weak, and did not converse among each other. They also marched in a very inhuman and monotonous way.
“Hey Piknen,” whispered Ivel, “d’ya notice the way these soldiers seem to gaze straight ahead and don’t speak much?”
“Why da ya ask?”
“I dunno, there’s just something unnatural about the way they are is all,” Ivel answered.
“Bah, yer worryin’ o’er nothin’. They’re just trained real good at soldierin’ is all.”
Piknen’s response did little to ease Ivel’s tension however, who began to study the human leader with greater detail. For all intents and purposes, the lieutenant appeared quite normal in comparison to his troops. He couldn’t make out much of him as he had a gleaming helmet that covered most of his face. He did notice, however, that every so often, he would face away from everyone else and rub his hands across his face – no, not just his face, but right to his eyes. Something was definitely strange about him. He decided it best to talk to Belda about this.
“Hey Belda,” he said, waiving her to the side , “can I talk ta ya bout somethin’?”
“Sure thing,” she responded.
The two dwarves ducked behind a bush, unnoticed by the human soldiers. Whispering, Ivel explained to Belda the minute details he had been noticing.
“Well it sounds like something might be up,” she said. “I will commune with Moradin and see if we can discover anything with his divine guidance.”
Ivel nodded and gave Belda a bit of room. She then proceeded to flip through a few pages of a tome she had been carrying on herself. The pages were filled with various holy texts about Moradin, but a portion of the book was reserved to holding divine rituals which she had mastered. She flipped over to the ritual that she had been seeking.
Belda took a few items from a pouch and sprinkled the magical components in the air. She intoned a few words, and made strange hand gestures in the air. She then took out a few more components – some of which were moving, Ivel noticed – and proceeded with more gestures and words that were incomprehensible, certainly not common or dwarvish.
Finally, a glint of light surrounded her, and her eyes opened wide in realization as she completed the ritual.
“What is it?” asked Ivel.
“They’re Undead!” she cringed.
Suddenly, Lieutenant Bog appeared before them, ripping the bush under which the dwarves had been hiding from the ground. In so doing, his right eye came right out of its socket, dangling before his face. Bog then scooped it up from where it hung at his cheek and shoved it back into its socket. As he grazed his cheek, the skin peeled right off: the early stages of decomposition were clearly evident on the lieutenant. Bog then took out and swung his great sword in one mighty motion.
Although Belda and Ivel were able to avoid the sword, it efficiently sliced through the bush, catching Hagdun off guard and separating his head from his neck. He would not have a chance to prove his brother right or wrong on his armor, as the blade cut just above it.
The rest of the dwarves took out their arms immediately after that, now fully aware of the situation they were in. Somehow, these undead soldiers from Tarra must have been waiting for them, but what vile servant of evil would have known they would be in the forest?
The undead soldiers began to swing their swords systematically at the dwarves. Dugar’s shield came right up to deflect a blow heading towards Piknen’s chest. He followed this by smashing his shield into the soldier’s face, with an immediate upward arc from his hammer, right between the legs. Although he heard a crunch, Dugar noticed the soldier didn’t react to the pain of the blow and instead continued to fight.
“Filthy undead scum,” he said, then brought the hammer back down, smashing its head into its body.
Seeing his brother decapitated, Pwint welled up in tears and suddenly went into a blinding rage. His axe was swinging wildly, cleaving undead soldier after undead soldier. In his madness, he nearly slashed Ivel as he finally entered the fray with Belda. He charged at Bog.
“I’ll kill you…I’ll re-kill you…bah just die!!” he screamed.
Each of Pwint’s swings were easily deflected by Bog’s immense blade. Each parry seemed to sent sparks of purple flying in every which way. The calmness in those parries was scary. It seemed way too easy for the lieutenant.
Pwint stopped swinging and took a few steps back. He then muscled up all his anger and courage, flexing all his bulging muscles, fueled with hate, anger and adrenaline. He charged the lieutenant with the intent of cleaving his head just as the lieutenant had cleaved the head of his brother. Just as he got near, however, a soldier planted itself in front of its leader and took the blow for him. Another one then stuck its blade in Pwint’s neck, also just above the armor line. Blood gushed forward as Pwint’s body dropped to the floor. He too, would not get the chance to prove to his brother the efficacy of his armor.
Piknen’s battle axe was active, chopping down soldiers’ limbs. Ivel helped him by smashing as much as was left with his hammer. One got its leg cut off while it got an arm smacked. Another lost a hand and had a foot smashed.
Belda, meanwhile, was deflecting sword thrusts with her fine mithril chain, all the while summoning the power of Moradin, presenting his hammer and anvil symbol and causing soldiers to cower away from her. These were then easy picking for Dugar, who hammered one after the other against the trees.
Her power now drained, though, Belda put her symbol away and took out a shield strapped to her back. More undead began rushing her with their swords. It was getting difficult to defend against those blows, even more difficult to counterattack them. Noticing her struggle, Dugar rushed in and assisted her in deflecting their attacks.
“Worry not, beautiful one,” he said, “I got ye covered.”
Belda smiled at that and kissed Dugar’s cheek while they were hidden behind their shields. Ivel and Piknen soon came to help them, cleaving away at the many soldiers, more than had originally accompanied them.
Blades then protruded through Ivel and Piknen’s shoulders. The blood gushed forth and hit Dugar and Belda’s shields.
“No!” they screamed in unison.
Ivel and Piknen used their still good arms to turn around and fight off the soldiers. The pain was excruciating.
Now with a less pressing attack on them, Belda and Dugar split up. Belda went to Ivel and Piknen and used healing prayers on them to ease the pain and mend the wounds. Meanwhile, Dugar noted Lieutenant Bog had wandered away from the battle, and made his way towards him, leaving the other dwarves on their own. As he approached him, the Lieutenant took out his giant sword in challenge.
“I was not expecting the son of Bagdin Gedoon to be among the group,” said Bog. “A pleasant surprise nonetheless.”
“I don’t know who ye are, ye vile scum, but know this, no pride shall be taken from bringing down Dugar ‘Shieldbearer’ on this day, cuz yer stinkin’ hide is the one that will be taken down!” Dugar said, getting his hammer and shield ready, goading the lieutenant toward him.
“Let that be what you think then, ‘Shieldbearer’.”
Bog then charged at Dugar with his blade, smacking right on the shield. The force of the swing was so mighty that it knocked the dwar back a couple of feet – something that didn’t happen too often to a dwarf. A feeling of evil energy could also be felt in that blow, Dugar didn’t like his chances.
The dwarf charged at the lieutenant with his hammer, his swing missing the lieutenant by a large margin, Dugar sliding passed Bog. Bog retaliated and hitting Dugar directly in the back of his head as slid passed.
As darkness grew around him, and consciousness slipped away, Dugar’s thoughts went to Ivel, Piknen and Belda. He wondered what their fates would be.
Then everything went black.
The Cleric
Dec 7th
The wind whistled directly onto the Old Stone that day at highsun. The zephyr that whistled its way down from the top of the Old Stone – a massive, ancient rock leaning on an angle on the edge of a mesa on the outskirts of Adgad – made a piercing sound in the ears of all those within thirty feet of it.
“Durn that blasted wail of a goblin’s fart,” cried Ivel.
“Ya need ta speak up laddy,” responded Dugar at the top of his lungs. It was difficult to hear anything else with the wind coming down from the Stone.
“I said, DURN THAT BLASTED WAIL OF A GOBLIN’S FART!” Ivel yelled this time. Dugar and Piknen merely scrunched up their faces in response to Ivel’s description of the wind.
Following their meeting with Lacidin, the three dwarves collected their rations, waterskins, and other adventuring peripherals, and then promptly made their way to the Old Stone. It hadn’t been quite highsun when they arrived, but they were content to wait a bit for the other adventuring company. Piknen, for one, was eager to find out who these other lads were. Perhaps his cousin Guud would be among them.
Piknen hadn’t spoken to Guud since they were young dwarves. Last he heard, Guud moved to Grabdek and fought in their army. Guud was known to have broken from typical dwarven tradition, fighting with a massive sword that was bigger than he. His skill with such a blade was great, and the power delivered in every swipe was grand.
Perhaps he moved back to Adgad where he belonged, Piknen thought – and hoped.
Soon enough, Piknen’s hopes were crushed as three dwarves, none of whom was Guud, finally arrived on scene. Two dwarves whose dark brown beards were caked with mud came forward first. Axes in hand, they approached Dugar.
“Har there, what’s this we hear about Goblin’s farts?” cried one of the dwarves approaching, well loud enough to be heard over the noise.
Dugar looked at Ivel, then looked back at the dwarves.
“We be Dugar, Piknen an’ Ivel, sent here by Lacidin. Who are we addressing?”
The dwarf on the left, wearing old, yet sturdy looking plate mail answered, “I be Hagdun Karidig. This be me brother Pwint,” he pointed to the other dwarf who was contrarily wearing plate mail polished to a silver sheen. “The two finest axe wielding, orc skull cleaving, dwarves this side of Claddigen. An’ behind us is the bravest cleric o’ Moradin in ALL of Claddigen.”
The lone dwarf at the back began his approach at that, getting into view. Or rather, she approached. Dugar’s eyes almost popped out of his head at the sight. Thick knees covered in fine Mithral Chain, which also covered the huge breasts…
“Belda!” Dugar couldn’t hold his amazement.
“Hey Dugar,” said Belda, a twinkle in her eye as Dugar stared at her. “It seems we’re going on the same quest you and I. Perhaps we can get to know each other a little better, away from the tavern and all. Should be lots of fun, don’t cha think?”
As always, Belda’s beauty captivated him in such a way that he could no longer process any thoughts properly, nor speak in a coherent manner.
“Err ahh…cleave skulls yeah…” he trailed off. He stared at the stubble on her chin.
Boy, to have that rub against me body…
“Ahem,” chimed in Ivel, “I believe what Dugar means to say is that we had no idea that you were more than merely a pretty serving wench in the fine establishment of the Foaming Froth. But we do welcome a lady of strong faith with healing prayers at her disposal, which will be invaluable in this quest.”
Piknen closed Dugar’s still open mouth and whiped the slight bit of drool trickling down his beard.
Belda gave the other dwarves a merry wink and said, “let’s get at it then, shall we? No time like the present to begin a treacherous trek through the lands.”
“A question first,” mentioned Piknen. “Why are your beards so dirty already?”
Hagdun, picking his nose, answered, “simple lad, we got ourselves prepped n’ dirty before goin’ on da road so that any dirt we get we canno’ complain about.”
The puzzled expression on the face of Piknen remained for hours after that.
Stone Legends
Nov 13th
Ivel, Piknen and Dugar walked down a large hallway, lined on each side by massive stone statues representing various dwarves of times past. The hall of Heroes, as it was called, was located within one of the deepest tunnels of Adgad. While the walls were naturally formed ages ago, the floor was a smooth and polished marble, tended to meticulously on a daily basis.
The hallway finally ended at a large doorway situated between the two legs of a giant, seated representation of a dwarf far more stunning than the many heroes – a representation of the dwarven god, Moradin.
Two stout, heavily armored dwarf guards stood with battleaxes crossed, guarding the door. Dugar walked in front of his companions and spoke, “We come seeking audience with the elder, Lacidin.”
“What be your reason to see the elder?” asked one of the guards, the one who’s helmet had a giant spike pointing straight up.
“We heard of the mission to Tarra. We got some heavy hammers and axes ready to cleave any nasties that need cleaving.” Dugar and his companions held up their respective weapons and smacked them on their shields at that.
“Very well,” said the guard, “you may enter.”
The two guards opened the door to reveal a large chamber that truly bespoke greatness. What was once the room reserved for the king of Claddigen upon his visits to Adgad was open before the three companions. Runes written in the dwarven tongue riddled the walls, accompanied by sculptures, speaking of great battles fought and won in times past. These sculptures were carved of the finest mithral mined within the deepest bowels of the kingdom. Luxurious tapestries depicting dwarven heroes cleaving the heads off of orcs, goblins and giants lined the back wall; before it stood a large throne of solid mithral – the throne of the king of Claddigen.
The room itself was a giant shrine to the dwarf god Moradin, for it was said that faith in him ran strongest in Adgad than in any of the other dwarven cities.
In front of the throne, however, was a simple chair made of stone, in which sat a gray bearded dwarf. Dressed in fine silk clothing colored bright yellow was the clan elder, Lacidin. Out of respect for the kings of old, he refused to sit on the throne. His chair was normally reserved for the King’s advisor upon his visit, and all other times for the High Priest of Moradin; but since the split between the clans, it now acted as the seat of the clan elder.
“Welcome, young ones,” said Lacidin in an old, withered voice, “what brings you here?”
At that, Ivel approached first, with a fist to his chest, “We come in answer to your request for hardy folks for the mission to Tarra.”
Piknen followed suit, with his fist to his chest, approaching the elder as well, “Our axes and hammers be itchin’ ta kill vile things ta aid the clan.”
“Ah…” the elder got up from his chair slowly. Although he appeared as strong as any dwarf with his large frame, his old bones had recently begun to wither with his old age, “it pleases me to see such vigor in the young, but I fear there are already some who have answered this call, and I cannot afford to send more than three of the clan to Tarra on this mission.”
Dugar opened his eyes wide at that, “but Lacidin, we have trained long and hard to serve the clan. Is there any way we could then join those who have already answered. There would be strength in numbers.”
“Ah young Gedoon,” started Lacidin, “your father helped us much in times past. He was a great friend of mine. Now he can’t even recognize me, with his memory gone as it is,” said Lacidin, gazing at the tapestries in the back, as if remembering times long gone. “I can sense the same fire and passion within you that he had about serving this clan. I think I can make this one exception and allow you to accompany the others. I will send a guard to inform them that you three will accompany them. You can meet them at the Old Stone just outside Adgad at highsun. They can explain the details of the mission to you then.”
“Thank you elder,” said Dugar, “we will join these fellows and serve Moradin well in this endeavor.”
With that, Piknen, Dugar and Ivel hit their chests with their fists, bowed, and made their way out.
***
The door to the throne room closed shut with a dry thud. Inside, Lucadin struggled to sit back in his small stone chair, breathing heavily as his many years weighed upon him.
His mind wandered for a second, lost in the legends written over every corner of the room, and then he began to think about what he had just done.
Stop it, he though to himself. There is no need to think of such things…
He looked back up at the statues of old, forcing his mind to think of better days, when a mysterious figure stepped out of the shadows behind him.
“Good work, Lacidin,” whispered the figure, “your clan might be spared after all.”
Lacidin could only sigh, his head down in shame.
