A Dwarf's Story

[Diamondedge]

A leatherbound cover enveloping several dozen sheets of parchment, brought together in form of book, perhaps a diary of sorts at one point, turned into a first person story. The pages have yellowed, declaring the age of the documents.

Opening the book's cover, you find yourself staring at a near blank title page.

"A DWARF'S TALE"
"HOW IT STARTED"

And so the tale begins.

---------------------

Turor opened his eyes. The drumming had not ceased for the previous weeks all throughout the subterranean siege. The many, many goblins in the honeycomb caverns surrounding Fortress Strongstone, home of the clan Sunderstone, would not let the dwarves sleep.

The siege had truly lasted for nearly a year, making it difficult for the dwarves to sufficiently mine the wondrous ore the dwarven kingdom was famous for. Economy was stagnating, and each press against the goblins to mine more ore stressed military resources infinitely more than the last expedition had. All dwarves were called to military posts from the age of thirty even up to the venerable three hundred year old elder Garald. The lower gates had been reinforced time and time again, until there was a veritable wall of steel between the dwarves and the goblins, and yet fear continued to wash through the dwarven populace like dirt in a bad ale.

Turor was one hundred and sixty eight years old today, though last year this was not how he pictured spending his birthday. Hand tightened around his longsword, shield emblazoned with the black and gold foursquare pattern of the Sunderstone dwarves tightly strapped to his left forearm. He longed to be smithing as he had been for the century before this bloody war, practicing and perfecting his craft. But it was not to be. Today was the day he, his father Trunur, two of his brothers, Duror and Demler and about fourty other stout dwarves from various clans within Strongstone were to sweep out, kill some surrounding goblins to lessen the strain of them, and slip back inside.

It should have gone as planned. It should have. Indeed, the fourty dwarves filed out in pairs, carrying their axes and swords, shields high and displaying various clan colors. None of them were prepared for the counter-strike team the goblins had ingeniously formed. Twenty goblins assailed the ranks of the dwarves with finely crafted crossbows, bolts quickly thinning the fourty dwarves to just over twenty. The great gate behind them had almost groaned shut, but for the cries of the fallen. The batallion of dwarves working the gate ran to and fro turning the cranks, trying to open the gate in time, but it took too long.

Fortunately, after the chaos came strict military discipline as Trunor barked out orders to his comrades. "Form up! Get that flank closed, we'll make an wedge formation with me at the head! Spears down, get your axes out, and follow me!" A resounding, echoing "Aye!" blasted from the lungs of all other dwarves, some with crossbow bolts sticking out of plates of armor, or embedded deep into shields. The living were barely wounded, and they would soon let the goblins know this.

Swinging about in a windmill pattern, the wedge quickly came to order. The goblins readied themselves in even ranks of five, shoulder by shoulder, in a deft phalanx, but they were no match for the sheer onslaught of the dwarves. Goblin limbs flew this way and that, as the fierce, hardened warriors made short work of the underarmored and now underlimbed "little green bastards".

The dwarves let out a cheer as another team of dwarves came out quickly to drag the dead and heavily wounded back into the gate. The remaining dwarves grouped in close, shoulder to shoulder, stepping between their partners' legs as they walked, far more cautious, with shields forming a protective shell around the whole group. Trunor had become the unofficial leader of the raiding party, and called for immediate and complete silence. And so the dwarves answered.

Winding down the tunnel they liked to call 'Mithril Way', the dwarves would soon find the first stalwart barricade, a heavy guard of goblins tougher than most they had yet seen, and Turor, with his black beard speckled with grey hairs and globs of goblin guts fraying out before him, would witness the horror from the very most front line.

[Diamondedge]

"THE BATTLE OF MITHRIL WAY"

-----------------

Turor sidestepped a spear aimed for his heart, and knocked away the next attempt with his wide shield. Seeing an opening, he quickly filled it with a mighty thrust of his broadsword, dropping a goblin lifeless to the floor. Two more took it's place, beady little eyes spelling certain doom for the twenty some stalwart dwarves holding a surprisingly sturdy defensive line.

The toughest hadn't even arrived, and the fodder being sent forth were already taxing the dwarves to their utmost limits. This much was certain to the white bearded Trunor when he ordered a "Shuffle Back" retreat; a practiced maneuver where the dwarves hold their line tightly and move back about a foot every dozen seconds or so.

The mighty Sunderstone cut through two goblins in a single swing and stabbed the third through the chest, ripping it wide open. Even covered in blood, however, the clan's namesake sword glinted with purity in the eyes of all that would see the ancient Trunor cut savagely into the goblins advancing on him.

Slowly, the dwarves made their way up the passage, drenching the stoney floor in puddles of goblin blood, though the frenzied vermin climbed over the bodies of their dead companions to strike at the dwarves, goaded by larger goblinoids snapping whips at the heels of the onslaught.

Turor parried a lunged spear, turning it asside with his sword. He swung the blade over to block an incoming axe, bead of sweat dropping from his brow. His shield swung up in front of him, the loud ringing of a sword clattering off it's edge echoing loudly in his poor dwarven ears.

Turor made a swing for a goblin's head but to no avail, the thing slipped under the wide swing. An axe nearby took the creature's head before it could even stand back up. Turor's sword blocked another incoming sword as the dwarves retreated a step, and he manged to slip in a quick stab as the goblin moved to attack again. The old dwarf grumbled under his breath, "That's another one for the belt," and brought his shield into the path of two more spears, which he batted away.

The dwarves were not taking many hits, thankfully, and at the same time were making good headway back to the Great Gate. Trunor squinted while blocking two more swords with his grand, huge broadsword. He shook his head immediately, thinking he couldn't possibly be seeing right. A glint of red here, a swooshing shadow there, the dwarf was boggled. Unsure of what to make of it, he looked to the two large goblins before him, grinned wickedly and spat at their feet. "Ye want to tumble, too, eh?"

Turor briefly saw a hobgoblin's head flit off into the crowd of goblins, followed by what looked like a hand, and then another head. He didn't pay it much attention, focusing more on cutting down the tough goblin before him.

The hobgoblin swung the axe it held in it's off hand to the right, and Turor knocked it away with a turn of his sword. The club the ugly thing swung decimated his shield, however, splintering it into hundreds of wooden slivers and bruising the dwarf's forearm.

The dwarves took a step back and Turor swung his sword up, pumping it hard into the goblin's shoulder, given greater power by his strining off hand at the pommel.

The hobgoblin let out a foul shriek and swung with the club again, unable to use it's axe any longer. The club smashed Turor in the shoulder and sent him staggering back a few feet, his sword still embedded in the shoulder of the brute that refused to die.

The dwarf slowly clambered up to his feet, picking up a hefty stone as he went. Pausing only briefly, he hurled the stone at hte goblin, knocking it between the eyes. In it's dazed state, it couldn't defend itself when tTuror tugged his sword free and drove it into the thing's throat. "And there's another one fer the belt."

Holding his sword with both hands, he kept the next big goblin, holding a sword in a similar fashion, from taking his head. The goblin swung high, going for the Turor's head. He swung his heavy sword up and knocked the greature's sword away. Spitting in the goblin's face, Turor took a swing of his own, lopping off the recoiling goblin's head.

Trunor proved more effective in his actions, parrying the head of a mace. He flipped his sword around it and sent the object hurtling behind him, out of the goblin's grasp. He then smashed the thing in the face with his shield, before driving the magnificent sword into the vile brute's gullet, tearing the goblin open from the belly to the throat.

Sneering, he peered over his shoulder. His face blanced and jaw dropped when he saw a very decimated iron portal, the famed 'Great Gate' utterly destroyed. The old dwarf thought he could hear screams echoing from within.

Letting out a roar that seemed to shake the very cavern walls, he started forward, plowing his way through goblins, throwing the line off balance. As disciplined as ever, the dwarves immediately fell into line in a similar fashion. The goblins, put far off guard, were horribly slaughtered before the utter fury of the dwarves, Trunor at the lead. He sliced to one side, taking an arm off of one goblin, then to the other, sword carving a head in half like an ugly, gorey melon. Spears bounced off his plate mail, swords rang off his shield, and goblins screamed as his sword bit into them with deadly accuracy and overwhelming power.

Turor tried his best to keep up with his father's enraged advance. Somehow through the thick of it, he ended up beside his two brothers. All in a line, the four Sunderstones cut a complex path through the beasts. Duror knocked a spear away with his flail, and Turor stabbed the thing in the chest. Demlar cut the arms off another goblin with his mighty greataxe, and Trunor decapitated it with a flick of his sword.

Turor slashed downward with his sword, tearing open another greenie's chest. Giving it a kick to send it away, he whirled the sword over his head and took the life of another goblin by lopping off it's head. However, the sword snapped with a loud, bitter sound that filled Turor's mouth with bile. The shards of the sword flew off into the distance, embedding themselves in oncoming goblins, sending them screaming to the ground.

Duror whirled his flail over his head and flicked it forward, smashing a goblin in the face, keeping his younger brother Turor alive and well. The flail whipped across to catch an oncoming spear in it's chain. The spear bounced down at the feet of Turor, who immediately took the thing and put it into the chest of another goblin, charging forward in a screaming rampage.

Duror, the gray bearded, crusty old dwarf gave a nod to Turor, and set about smashing another few goblins away, Turor keeping them at a distance with his spear, giving all four dwarves time to ready themselves for another advance.

Trunor showed no sign of slowing up, nor did Demlar, the pair carving a fast path through the goblins. Heads flew this way and that, Demlar in a battle fury of his own. He chopped downward, slicing a goblin clean in half from the top of it's head straight downward through the thing. Letting out a loud cry, he charged forward, the other three barely keeping up.

Trunor stabbed and slashed with a lot more finesse than any of his sons. Goblins cowered at the right flank of the four dwarves whom were now isolated, rather willing to risk their lives against the less furious pair, Duror and Turor.

"Form a box, boys! We'll cut our way through 'em all back ter back!" came Trunor's decisive cry. The line of four closed immediately. They stopped moving and let the goblins charge into them.

Turor's spear found it's way into a few more goblin's chests and throats. A large goblinoid stepped before him, in plate armor rivalling his own, with a heavy shield and a large broadsword. It let out some kind of war cry, pounding it's fists on it's chest, a deafening roar filling the cavern. The goblins seemed to come on in even more of a fury at this.

Not willing to lose the ability to take any kind of advantage, Turor growled and stuck the spear into the wild thing's throat as it let out this huge roar. "Shaddup," was Turor's reply to the roar. The other dwarves gave a chuckle to the simple solution to the problem.

The goblins seemed to stop in horror as they watched the big goblin leader type die off. Almost immediately, the pestulant greenies took off, retreating into the depths of the cavern. The dwarves started to run after them, cutting them down until they could no longer run.

The three dwarves looked to Trunor, obviously confused and skeptical about the huge advance down Mithril Way. Trunor looked to them each, face very grimset. "It's the fortress, lads. Our home's been invaded while we were out."

Almost immediately, all four sped their way down the corridor, filled with a renewed vigor. Turor paused, however, and picked up the heavy shield and the large broadsword. His eye was keen; they appeared dwarven made. With a growl, he sped off down the corridor to catch up with the others.

[Diamondedge]

"TRAGEDY IN FORTRESS STRONGSTONE"
-----------------

The goblins had obviously had some amount of help. Strongstone was in flames; anything wooden at all was burning, and even much of the stone. Turor looked on in sheer terror at it all through his hard, sullen eyes; all four of the Sunderstone boys did. They looked from one end to the other, brows raised in abject fear for their homeland. Duror and Demlar sped off in one direction immediately, cleaving a bloody mess of a way through a band of goblins. Trunor, too, sped off in some way, and the decidedly young Turor wandered off straight forward, heading down the cobbled path towards the great hall of Strongstone.

Strongstone was a four level complex, chiseled deep into the great Mount Ponaazgzhart. The highest level was where the great furnaces were kept, in all their glory. Massive things, they were, built in such a way that the chimneys did not have to be terribly long to get the smoke from the massive coalfires out of the fortress. The second level was the Great Hall, with the only exit to the outside world, Agah'urnt Gate. The Great Hall was the most open area of all of them, with an impossibly high ceiling, great massive pillars hoisting it up. The stone floor was smooth, but a mosaic of gold, silver, adamantine and iron tiles making up the great standard of Strongstone, before a plush red carpet rolled itself right up towards the throne. The throne was defensible, of course, with several short breaking walls narrowing the path towards the grand throne, as well as a high dais of stairs.

Below this was the City of Strongstone, a plateaued realm of stairs and cramped homes, twisting, turning corridors that were called 'streets', and a vast array of pubs. And below this layer, of course, was the mining level, home to the Great Gate, and now, to rampant, utter chaos.

Turor dashed forth towards the corridor that would lead to the stairs upwards, slashing left and right as he hustled. "Happeh birthdeh, Turor," he muttered to himself, cleaving an especially gore-filled swing that coated his fine sword in a great deal of black goblin life-juice.

He heard all around him the screams of anguish, and he knew for certain that the City of Strongstone would be in utter disarray. A particularly ugly bugbear, missing half a face and seeming happy about it, blocked his path, of course. With a swing of it's spear, it nearly felled Turor right then and there, but his shield bore most of the blow, splintering into pieces thanks to the sheer power of the swing. A second swing came in high, and Turor flicked his sword up, carving the tip of the spear from the rest of it, sending it flitting away harmlessly, before Turor stepped in. Now he faced an opponent with a quarterstaff, which was considerably less deadly.

The bugbear came in low, looking to trip the dwarf, but though the blow connected solidly with the dwarf's calf, he didn't budge an inch. "Ye'll hafta troy harder'n that ter bring down a Sunderstone, laddeh," came Turor's explaination, before the bugbear was suddenly missing the other half of it's face, as well, a clean cleave from Turor's sword effectively - and garrishly - ending the creature's life.

Turor wasted no time in flitting up the stairs, grabbing a torch as he ran to light the passage before him just a bit better. He climbed the spiraling, wide staircase, and reached the top in short order. Smoke hit his lungs and brought a sting to his eyes as he looked left and right, dark bushy brows furrowing deeply, causing a terrible crease in the dwarf's forehead. The screams were louder, and the cries of battle echoed hard in the ore-carter's ears. He flashed his sword left to right before him, knees going weak for a moment. Strongstone was sacked; there was no doubting it. Of course, Turor forged ahead, unabated.

He met little resistance in his path, of course, most of the goblins fleeing at the sight of the enraged dwarf. Several stood their ground, though whether through bloodlust or fear, Turor couldn't tell. He didn't care, either, flashing his sword through them with a possessed ease.

Then he saw it in his eyes, and a tear openly fell down his grisled, gore-covered cheek. His house, door splintered open, light shining through into the street. He dashed forward and rushed inside, sword at the ready, murder in his eyes.

And there was his mother, the dear thing, covered head to toe in goblin guts, wearing a housedress and hefting a big axe over her shoulder. She offered Turor a cheeky smile and a wink, and Turor calmed down almost immediately.

"Ello, me son. Been gone a while, left poor lil' ol' me t'fend fer meself!" She giggled quietly, almost madly, and Turor's mind was set at ease. Then he saw it; a deep gash in the dress, near the collar-bone, that was seeping a fair amount of blood. Obviously not all the gore she was covered in was goblin-guts. Turor rushed forward but his mother, Durga by name, waved him away almost before he started. "Don' ye dare. I'll be fine, an' we've got an infestation in our lands wot needs t'be cleansed, aye?"

They didn't share many words, of course. Durga was to stay home and await the return of Trunor, and together they'd go out and clear the streets, to find more dwarven families, perhaps put together a contingent to deal with the problem once and for all. Turor, on the other hand, was to rush up and gather some dwarves to clear a path through the City to Agah'urnt Gate, a retreat line, in case the dwarves needed one.

And Turor set off immediately, sword in hand; he picked up a shield from home, Duror's, no less, and waded into the street. He had a task now, and he was going to see to it that the task was a success. A great deal depended on him.