A snippit of the thoughts of Gard Ironjaw

[Pseudonym]

-- what now here in Hlint no money need money why need money what am I going to do need money to eat hungry should of bought food but needed weapon nice axe maybe food look that man wearing a dress might be wizard funny why wizards wear dress maybe they learn magic cos they get bullied maybe bullied cos they wear dress what came first chicken or egg gonna rain looks cold need food still hungry here comes man whats he want looks important maybe i’m in trouble uh oh should I run maybe just wait is he coming to me don’t know just wait does he seem happy not really *listen* wants me to get goblin ears reward good money for food ok I can do that north of town not far ok start walking past tall people more dresses hehehe through gates keep walking maybe get shield out goblins sneaky little buggers is that one over there never just one be careful might be others hiding looking theres another one with bow only goblin little bodies break easy rush forward don’t give them time get first between me and archer he’s seen me run look out sword stabbing cut me not bad i’ll live stings like blazes there’s opening too slow goblin dead run to next pain in thigh hit again close quickly legs not working bright blood not good vision clouding swing hard killed him quick get ear more goblins coming i hear em get other ear go keep walking keep walking don’t fall weak dwarf bad dwarf don’t fall gates aah made it many humans keep walking not weak human comes not weak human smiling go away human human saying strange words no human no need help pain going away pain gone human smiling here gold human human shakes head no want my gold here human that better Gard owe human nothing *listen* yes human getting ears *nods* help Gard need no help human look tough maybe ok Gard get human help oher man wants five ears get five ears human happy give money buy food show paper with name human not get it my name is Gard silly human not guard Gard no guard no me Gard *sighs* human name Sindor funny name kill orcs why not human help Gard Gard help human walk walk look pretty flower human see no lucky flower pretty maybe pick flower human looking maybe later quiet orcs in distance where through tress four orcs axe out quiet quiet human shoot arrow all orcs running get ready too many sword cut me pain one down where human another orc ducktake out knee ha orc slow oww what that where’d he come from too much blood don’t fall keep swinging human voice singing feel better less pain one orc left orc dead out of breath alive fresh air orc stink walk more orcs dead good kill orcs still hungry how far maybe hour back got gold enough for food axe blunt need to sharpen getting dark soon cold look funny furry animal Sindor run huh maybe pat looks friendly stink dizzy animal biting stink can’t think Sindor gone kill animal biting hard miss now hit animal dead sad why Sindor look happy wanna eat yes Hlint good idea soft bed walk walk forest nice like night all dark farewll Sindor much money enough for inn walk bright in here innkeep maybe him no maybe him yes room hold out coins food more coins ale more coins money gone *sighs* which room this one sit body sore sharpen axe first sleepy inn noisy maybe more ale enough money couple more outside lots of people too many people laughing no pain here have drink smiling people no want to close my eyes stay in bright room --

[Pseudonym]

A memory . . .


I remember the accidental drowning of Rebeck-son-of-Akray. I was perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age and it had been, for that morning at least, one of the best days of my short life. Although the day had begun with fierce winds and a hard, driving rain that hurt a child’s uncovered, bare skin when it struck, around mid-morning the heavy clouds had broken and the sun’s pale rays were shining through. I was playing with swords fashioned from sticks with a couple of the children of my clan who were of a similar age to myself.

My clan-brother Olaf, five years my senior, and his friend Rebeck were preparing to launch their small skiff into the choppy waters of the bay near our home. Rebeck was of much the same mould as my brother, still children, yet already possessing much of the potential size and strength they could reach as grown dwarves. Indeed, both would be attending the passage into manhood ceremonies next summer, a full two years before most would attempt the trials. The two friends would often head off for an afternoon in the bay, fishing the silver cod and herring that school in the depths of the cold waters, learning the sailor’s skills and hopefully earning a meal for themselves and their families. Although our clan lived adjoining a deep bay and fish were an important part of our staple diet, fishing was deemed beneath a grown man’s dignity and was often the province of boys and women.

Such it was this day, when sun and storm clouds battled for supremacy in the skies above, that my elder clan-brother, who rarely noticed or even acknowledged my existence, invited me along on their fishing excursion. Although I knew I was invited for the sole purpose of being the one to bail water from the continuously leaking boat, I still recall the surge of pride that swelled my thin chest near to bursting at that moment, My clan-brother, whom I had always hero-worshipped, had deemed me worthy of a task aboard his skiff. The small boat was his pride and joy and never before had I been allowed to even approach it too closely. I felt enormously priveleged and pausing only for a disdainful sniff in their direction, abandoned my young playmates to their childish games.

The next few hours were among the happiest of my short life. Although my thin arms ached from the continual toil of filling and emptying the bucket and I feared I would be literally frozen solid from the icy wind and spray of sea water, it was the grandest adventure on which I had ever been. The boys had soon caught four fat fish, a feast enough to feed the entire clan, but more importantly, I was able to witness and participate in what I thought to be the very grown-up conversation between my clan-brothers.

So caught up were we in their wild tales and implausible boasts of great deeds, present and future, that all failed to notice that the sun had finally given up in it’s battle with the stormy sky and slunk away in defeat. The wind, which had been blowing steadily all day, increased in intensity, causing the small vessel to pitch and roll dangerously. Realising we were still an hour or so of hard rowing from the safety of our village, we began our way back. The struggle back to shore was a nightmare. Waves swelled into small mountains and the small boat was almost swamped on numerous occasion. I bailed the frigid water without a second’s pause, knowing that our very lives depended on my efforts. My numb fingers, blue with the cold, desperately clutched the small wooden bailing bucket against the insistent pull of the waves crashing over us.

Although our ordeal seemed to last an age, before long we were in sight of the shoreline. It was then, when a safe berth and a warm fire (and probably a fierce tongue lashing from one of my clan-mothers) were so close, that disaster struck. A wall of water crashed into the side of the boat, flipping it like a child’s toy. All three of us were plunged into the depths. Although I was a relatively strong swimmer - all children of my clan knew how to swim from an early age - the shock of the cold, my exhaustion from the bailing and the weight of my winter clothes meant I was quickly overcome. Panicking, I thrashed my arms and legs, trying to reach the surface of the water, however I had already lost all sense of up or down. I was just as likely to be swimming deeper into the water as I was striving for the surface. I was in the embrace of the pummelling, churning sea and it did not wish to relinquish it’s hold. I did not know which direction in which to direct my efforts in order to breach the surface, let alone having any clue as to which direction the boat, Olaf or Rebeck may be found.

The cold having stolen the strength from my limbs, my movements slowed, the last of my hurried breath was exhausted, my impending death certain.

It was then that my clan-brother, having gained the purchase of the upturned boat, sighted my still and near lifeless body floating underneath the surface of the turbulent waters near to his position. Although his strength was also severely taxed by his own battle to stay afloat and reach the relative safety of his small boat, Olaf risked his life again to swim out and drag me back and up onto the exposed hull.

I do not remember much that occurred after this rescue until I awoke some few hours later, swathed in furs, the heat from the blazing hearth fire returning life to my frail body.

I thought about this day, the day when Rebeck-son-of-Akray’s life was cut short, often during my imprisonment in the caverns of the ogres. It was my first experience with death and changed my life considerably. I had already regarded my elder clan-brother as a figure to be admired, admittedly perhaps sometimes envied, but someone whose deeds I had always tried to mirror with my own. That day strengthened and deepened the bond with my fellow dwarf to an entirely new level. In that sense it was both the best of, yet at the same time, the worst of days.

[Pseudonym]

*a piece of parchment, tightly screwed into a ball, is found near a trashcan in Hlint*
*in shaky, crude handwriting, perhaps that of an infant?*

A  a
B  b
C  c
D  d
E  e
F  f
G  g
H  h
I  i
J  j
K  k
L  l
M  m ...

*and so on*

[Pseudonym]

The red mist is a gauzy veil before my eyes.

My arms ache from weilding the heavy bladed axe . . . the creatures are without number. One falls and another takes it’s place. A nailed club hammers into my side, my armour holds but I feel the splintering of ribs. Gritting my teeth against the flaring pain, I return the blow, my axe bites deep in the creatures skull. I wrench the weapon loose, just in time to parry yet another thrust aimed in my direction.

A shout of encouragement from behind is accompanied by the warmth of a curative spell from one of my sword-brothers. I spare a brief glance, it is the priest named Sipher. He nods. I turn back to the enemy before me.

An eternity later, the way before me is clear. Broken bodies litter the cavern floor. Blood and gore is knee deep. I hear Alandric and Revone swapping a jest as they loot the corpses of their no-longer needed valuables.

Here, with these sword brothers, I have a place. Here, I have a purpose. With these sword brothers by my side I will never be shackled again. I do not care of the motives of these servants of the grim God beyond Death. They point, I kill. I will never be shackled again.

[Pseudonym]

Sipher has taken to teaching me letters. Today he was most pleased when I completed the writing exercise he had set for me.

*in careful blocky script upon a piece of fine parchment*

Arms of darkness, open wide, wrap thyselves around me
Shower thy infernal blessings upon my being
Set the good churches aflame, only ruins shall remain

A warrior of the dark
I shall be the instrument of your reign
With my axe blessed with your fire
All shall die by my hand


// Just a note, as much to remind myself for future reference as anything else!

Gard, as per his bio, started as a LN dwarf with a bit of an unfortunate background. In his bio it was mentioned that his deity was Vorax, reflecting his pre-imprisonment childhood devotions. For the next 50 years, any belief in and reverence held for this God was burned and purged away in an seeming eternity of torture and pain. As such, the deity field in his LORE profile was purposely left blank.
Upon his rescue and arrival in Hlint, the first group of people he encountered just happened to be a group of Corathites.
Fate?
Since he first met these people they have been at work on his psyche. They see in him a tool, a weapon to be shaped for their own ends. They constantly whisper. The manipulations are at work on him 24/7. They exploit his fears and weaknesses (given his background, an almost incapacitating fear of imprisonment) and seek to bend him to their will. Only through obeying their instruction will he be free. Their path is the only path to freedom.

[Pseudonym]

For the first time I was invited to devotions at the Temple.

To be completely honest most of what was said was lost on me. The one thing I remember was when the priestess started talking about raining unholy retribution and the Mad One’s wrathful vengeance upon the Church of Turan . . Taran . . T something.

Beside me, Sipher’s and Alandric’s eyes were aflame with fervour. I knew then it was likely that my strength and my axe would be called on soon. Until now my friends have directed me to kill monstrous beings, ogres, giants, goblins, orcs, kobolds and the like. Would I soon be called upon to slay humans, elves . . . fellow dwarves . . . for a cause that was not my own? Then again, did I care? What had any of these races ever done for me over and above the so called monstrous ones? Any kinship I might have once felt to my clan-brothers and sisters was long dead. If my strength and skill were called upon to bring low some paladins and priests . . . if that is what is necessary to ensure my freedom . . . then that is what I will do.

[Pseudonym]

Death.

I do not particularly enjoy dealing in this trade as I am told I should by my sword-brothers.
I take no great pleasure in being the instrument of death for so many.
I know I am supposed to feel hate and malice in my soul, but . . . I feel nothing. The enemy before me is merely an obstacle. Does the woodcutter feel pity or mercy towards the tree? I am called the wolf worker. I am called the raven feaster. Yet I feel no malice, just an infinte emptiness.

I am becoming unparalled in my ability to deal death and reap the bloody harvest. No foe can stand before me. Today I stood in the Grey Peaks surrounded by a dozen ogre berserkers and minutes later I emerged unharmed, covered in the blood of my enemy. Why have I been given this gift if not to use it? Today, Sipher addressed me as 'Axe of Corath'. It is a mantle that suits me. Fear and failure are weaknesses and I shall suffer from neither.

When I have my axe in hand I know that I will never be imprisoned again.

[Pseudonym]

I was a prisoner for decades. For an eternity I suffered immeasurable torture, humiliation and degradation without surcease. Today, I am offered a role in the Church of Corath. To become the torturer, to become humiliator, to deliver the degradation onto others.

There is a void within me. Where others feel compassion, hate, remorse, pity, anger, warmth, mercy, sorrow ... love ... the ogres have left me with nothing. The seeds of these emotions find barren ground within my soul.

Today, I am offered a role.

I am at a crossroads. In one direction there is a great unknown. There is light. Friendship. A chance to be a ‘better’ person. Is this me? Am I capable of these things? In the other direction there is Corath. There is hate, there is blood ... there is darkness. It is both repellent and irresistable. Am I capable of these things of which they ask?

What can fill the emptiness within?
Which path shall I walk?
Will it be the path of darkness or the path of light?

The whispers grow louder.

[Pseudonym]

For the last few days I have travelled into the Ajari swamps with a group of ‘kinsmen’ to kill the lizardmen that dwell there. A Dwarf by the name of Thorgist organised a war party into the area after one of his friends was killed in a lizardman ambush a couple of days earlier.

It was the first time I had travelled with a group of so-called “Children of the Earth’ for any length of time. There was much drinking, eating, laughing, singing, jesting and carousing as we journeyed. These Dwarves - these warriors, priests and wizards - took joy in every moment of their existence. Life was full of promise and potential.

Although I had never met many of these folk previously, they tried to include me in their rejoicing and frivolity. Little did they know. I cannot taste the ale and meats they enjoyed. The ogres robbed me of my ability to enjoy these sensations. I cannot join in the singing. I cannot swap jests to make others laugh. What can I do? I can kill.

To these companions life was a great blessing. What do they know of life? Life is pain. There is naught else.

[Pseudonym]

*Evening in Hlint. Dusk falls, the heat of the day is a quickly fading memory.*

*Gard sits by the small pond behind the shop fronts of the main street. He appears deep in thought, his normally grave face seemingly carved of stone. Nearby, the squeal of a child's laughter rings out, for a moment interrupting the serenity of his musings.*

*Gard turns his head slowly and sees a human girl child, perhaps six or seven chasing the small kitten that frequents the banks of the pond. She is chasing the kitten playfully, perhaps seeking to steal just a few more moments of innocent play before she is summoned inside by her mother or father for the evening. Without expression, Gard watches her a for a little while. Eventually, with the night approaching full dark, a woman's voice rings out and the girl gives up her game and runs off to the warmth and safety of home and hearth.*

*Gard heaves a heavy sigh. His task is known. His duty clear. Silently, he hopes that the little girl will be able to run and play in whatever heaven to which she ascends after the imminent cleansing. Her playing days in Layonara are almost done.*

*Gard stands. Time to go. Sipher and the others will be waiting.*

[Pseudonym]

*Gard stands statue-still and silent at his post near the altar. He has been told to stand vigilant, strange things are afoot in the Temple and he must be ready to deal with any possible ... irregularities. He has time to think. Time to think and plan.*

If I could laugh I do believe I would.

The high, the mighty, those who possess power beyond compare. They rarely even notice silent little Gard. Those that do ... ‘Look’ they say, ‘there goes a mute dwarf, must be on his way to the forges to do some crafting’ ... It used to upset me. It used to make me wish I had voice to shout at the arrogant fools. It used to make me wish I could grow a new tongue and participate in a debate of princes and kings. Not any more.

He’s a dwarf they think ... what dwarf possesses any cunning or intellect?
He’s a mute they think ... aren’t all mutes as lacking in wits as they are in their ability to speak?
He’s a dwarf they think ... what dwarf possesses any subtlety or inclination towards subterfuge?
He is strong of body they think ... aren’t strength and guile mutually exclusive?
He’s a dwarf they think ...  dwarves like ale and gems and endless toil, aren’t those things their sole motivation?
He doesn’t participate in the conversations of archmages and high priests ... he is beneath our notice.

The high, the mighty, those who possess power beyond compare ... they will learn. Gard, the mute shall become Gard the teacher ... and their lesson shall be written in the blood of millions.

If I could laugh I do believe I would.

[Pseudonym]

*The small chamber is dark and shadowy. The only illumination is provided by a feeble flame struggling for life in the fireplace.  It hisses and splutters, it’s warmth and light somehow out of place in this barren cell.*

*Gard, seated upon his simple cot, holds a parchment in his thick, blunt fingers. The fragile paper looks out of place in his hands ... hands more suited for working the raven feast than for any scholarly pursuit.*

*His fingers trace absently across the seal at the bottom of the parchment, a stylised crossed maul and greataxe. A scream of tortured pain echoes through the cold stone corridors of the temple. It is a sound to which he has become accustomed and no longer warrants even the slightest diversion of his attention.*

The dwarves are rebuilding Bloody Gate. Aid and assistance is requested. It is time for all Dwarves to come together ... in the name of Vorax.

*A Raven guard, simultaneously resplendent yet ominous in his black full plate armour, approaches with a heavy tread. In a moment the doorway to Gard’s cell is filled with the bulk of no less a figure than the day-captain of the dread blackguards. An arrogant sneer crosses the man’s face as he regards the hunched figure of the dwarf. His voice, heavy with anger, hatred and contempt, forces it’s way into Gard’s contemplations.*

Dwarf, you are summoned. The Dread Priestess calls and all must obey.

*Gard’s gaze does not leave the parchment. He gives no indication that he has heard the man’s words. The blackguard, unconcerned, moves along to the next cell, knowing that despite the lack of acknowledgement, the summons would be obeyed. The dwarf was, if nothing else, an obedient dog.*

*For a moment longer Gard looks at the parchment before slowly, purposefully, significantly ... he crumples it into a small ball. He places the ball of paper reverently into the small fire before him. The flames claw their way higher for a moment as the parchment burns. The shadows of the room depart, briefly banished by the flare of flame. Gard is not there to witness this. The obedient dog has already left.*

[Pseudonym]

*Gard stands a silent vigil outside the Dread Priestess’ audience chamber. The occassional scream and whimper from within prompt not the smallest flicker of his interest or attention. His eyes scan the corridors of approach, his gaze unblinking. His thumb rubs back and forth across the rough surfaces of a small stylised skull, partly carved from basalt, that he holds in his left hand. He has been working on the carving for days now, holding it is a comfort and a reminder.*

*Urchuk, one of the day sergeants of the Raven Guard approaches. The reek of stale sweat and cruelty reach Gard whilst the warrior is still ten paces away. Urchuk’s voice is low and raspy, it is as if the man is more used to shouting than talking in a conversational tone.*

Yer shift is over ###### maggot. Hope you weren’t none too comfor’ble, Hezzak will be back tomorra and you’ll be back to scrubbin’ floors. All that you are ####### good fer ya’ #####.

*Gard eyes slowly focus on the man’s unshaven face before he nods his head in silent acknowledgement of the man’s words. This assignment was known to only be a temporary one. Relieved of his watch, Gard starts to walk off towards his cell.*

Maggot!

*Gard pauses mid-stride and turns, just in time to catch a spray of the man’s spittle across his scarred face.*

Don’ you ever look at me ####, you hear me? You ain’t worthy, ya unnerstand?

*Eyes now firmly locked to the flag-stoned floor before him, Gard nods his head again, very slowly. The whitening of his knuckles is hidden by his mailed gauntlets. The bunching of his muscles is hidden by his heavy suit of plate.*

Now #### off. Get ou’ of my ###### sight.

*Gard slowly walks off, his footsteps accompanied by the harsh bark of the Raven Guard’s laughter.*

*It is not until hours later that Urchuk, hours in to his own watch, happens to glance at the floor of the corridor near him and notices a sprinkling of fine basalt dust. Glancing at the door he guards nervously, Urchuk dares to stoop down and inspect the dust. He wonders for a moment where it has originated ... before dismissing it from his thoughts with a shrug.*

[Pseudonym]

*The sky, as always, grey. The colour of ashes. Without hope. The colour of despair and broken dreams. Although it is close to the middle of the day, shadow has already gained the upper hand in its battle against the eternal foe. Light and warmth are a dim memory to the inhabitants of these lands.*

*The small covey of fortune seekers that cross the plateau provide the only sign of life and movement. Gard surveys his companions.*

I see Alandric, his voice sharp with the arrogance of youth, ambition and ability. His arrogance means he underestimates his enemies ... and his friends.

I see Sipher, hunched, scarred, tormented. As grey as the Godless skies above. Possessed of powerful magic and without mercy, yet physically weak and already a proven failure.

At his side, I see Muireann, the Priestess of Mist. Her revealing garments, bold stride and sensual manner all arrows in a well provisioned quiver of ways to manipulate fools. I am no fool.

I see, striding purposefully and menacingly behind Muireann, Dalbaeth, the hulking fool. His youth and inexperience manifests as a constant need to intimidate and assert physical dominance. He is of no consequence.

I see Revone, his easy smile and ready wit obvious masks for his own motives and agenda. One to watch but his time, if it ever comes, will be far in the future.

What do they see when they look at me?
They see Gard, the tool, the weapon. The Axe.
They see Gard the sturdy and tough dwarf whom for their profit and gain will shed his blood and spill that of those who stand in their way. Reliable. Solid. Trustworthy.

Do any suspect?
Do any see the Gard that, even now, has begun the slide into the pit?
Do any see the dark and twisted thing growing in my soul, sprung from the seed of Corath?

My companions have been good teachers in the ways of Corath. I believe none see how well the pupil has learned his lessons.

*Alandric, tall and resplendent in his robes despite the grime of travel glances at the warrior Gard. The dwarf paces onwards towards the horizon, his expression blank.*

[Pseudonym]

Edit: Character put in for deletion