One of the Deeping

[Fian Bearsark]

Mimir sits at a table near the back of the Wild Surge Inn and drains a tankard of ale. After an obigatory belch, he digs out a battered, stained journal and fishes out a stylus.

"I've found myself holed up in Hlint for a while. Its a quiet enough town, though the areas around hold some danger to them. I can't find enough coin to get better armor. I'm left with the flimsy leather I left the Peaks in.

Many elves and humans about. It makes me more than a little unsettled. An elf lass spoke in the Father Tongue to me, I almost fell in the campfire at the sight and sound of that. I need to be more careful about what I say around these strangers.. i...a....bl....(*ale stain blots out the writing here*)

I saw a wee little man no more than 4 handspans high or so. He was cooking fish! He was well-spoken and polite enough. Called himself some gibber in Bird Chatter, then said he was also called Bumblebee.

Magic is borne by several from what I have seen, and it makes me even less trustworthy. Only thing worse than an elf chirping and casting is an elf chirping and casting behind me.

I have fought well so far, though my weapons are lacking. Me shield is better used to sift for gold than defend my left. Ah, well. I need coin, By Stone! I fought skeletons who hit hard, abominations who do not see the light of day. They hold some coin, though I wish it was more. I have bled alot since coming here, though I care little. I will kill just about anything I can get gold from at this point, regardless of the risk.

You know you have nothing    (* the rest is smeared roughly out, almost in anger*)

[Fian Bearsark]

I am at it again. I can't shake my depende-      (*this part is marred and erased*)

I met a strange man a little while ago. He spoke only in that blasted bird chatter of the elves and such, though this one was different. He could change or transmute into animals and seemed to be able to hold an animal's Will by his own. He held a deer and made it move as if a toy. This is not like the miners in the tunnels who made friends of rats with offers of food. No, far from it. This deer did as he willed and would no doubt run off a cliff for him. It was a bit unsettling. He said his name was something like "Wmev" or somesuch, I can't say for sure. I told him mine and I think he understood.

He came upon me when I was in a mood. I just had drunk my last drop and I was foul! He offered food and drink (water ! Ha! if only he knew) and showed me where to get honey. My poverty must be a millstone around my neck for all to see. I must wait even longer to buy decent armor, though I did manage to get a better shield. I smelled kobolds nearby and together we cleaned them out. (*the hand is shaky and heavy here*). O, how they squealed and fell under my hammer! A scourge they are, the lot of them. I felt the old rush again - senses blurred to one foe, my body shook with rage. We made made quick work of them and I grabbed their gold from their carcasses too fast . I felt him watching me in my eagerness. He often only watches without speaking. A trait to be admired in one of the Elf folk since they normally chatter insessantly. I asked if he wanted any. He declined.

I missed that feeling of fighting with a comrade at my side. We cleared the lot of them in a blaze. He was quick, in the skin of a big cat, though I can not say which. His wordless aid was more than I have received since I left....

I have found Orcs to the north of the town and I have fought hard against them. Armed with axes and light armor, they would not present to great a challenge if I had better equipment. I have dropped several, but suffered deep wounds. It matters not.

I need to learn to make mead. Then I'll be truly independent, eh? (*a heavy blunt mark ends this*)

[Fian Bearsark]

Mimir lifted his head from the tavern table and looked about. He did not know which tavern he was in, nor how long he had been there. It had happened again, and the usual feelings of frustration and bewilderment coursed through him. His watery eyes gleamed beneath heavy brows as he glanced about suspiciously, searching for anyone who might have been watching him. Running his hands through his hair, he sat up and pulled down on his rumpled tunic. Noticing the open journal on the table before him and the neglected stylus lying on its pages, he pushed an empty glass aside and began to write.

My hammer's been singing. I felled many goblins in the Red Light Caverns and Bones in the crypts. Met two Men who were good traveling companions - Mandolar and Balazar. Each is a godly type, One of Rofierin and the other of Toran (I think). It makes no matter - gods are only for those about to die most times.

We traveled north along a trade road, and wiped out warrens of kobolds. How it pleases my ears to hear them yelp as they are struck down! Their dirty habits haven't changed from the times I fought them in the tunnels. Further along we met and defeated some wierd creatures, great long noses like a stork's, evil eyes and magics to conceal themselves. My hammer found them regardless.

Ogres! Ogres we felled. Mandolarian and Balazar fought well for Men, I spent some time with them. Mandolar saw me digging in my bag, he offered me ale. I took it. Of course I took it. I took it and drank it down, like I was taking a breath. It makes no matter. I am too far gone. My ill-temper fuels my attack, I should be fearless and unstoppable inside of a year, if it doesn't kill me first. It makes no matter. I am first at the enemy and my hammer sings.

Next into the swamp for lizards, great scaled beasts of foul breath and evil intent. The swamp was difficult to move in, but my hammer and I sang along with the two Men and all the vermin sunk into the mud. We claimed coin, coin for food and coin for drink. It makes no matter. All else pales in comparison. A glowing Essence was won as well, and taken to a fool of a mage in Llast. He paid well for it, no doubt for some wicked and cowardly spell. Mages -  good for use as ship anchors and tunnel posts.

*He begins to scribble a line here, heavy and repetitive*

Of course - almost forgot. A dragon I saw! Yes, a great red dragon who spoke, who spoke ill words playfully, who spoke of consuming and chasing little folk like me. I told him I would poison his gut if he swallowed me. Another man was there too, then I ran to town and got others to come and look for it, but it had vanished. Some say it was a mad Mage bent on evil tricks. I am not so convinced. There is much rumor of dragons having returned to dismiss it as a prank.

[Fian Bearsark]

Mimir crept forward slowly, searching the rocks ahead. The trail of blood he was following clearly passed
between two big rocks ahead, a narrow defile especially for a wounded Ogre. He paused and sniffed the light
mountain breeze. Nothing. Normally the reek of an Ogre was plain to even his dull sense of smell. Shifting his
weight from his left leg to his right, he grimaced in pain and looked down. His calf was deeply cut from the
Ogre's ax, and the hastily wrapped bandages were little help at the moment. Worse yet, his kilt was frayed a
little at the hem. It would need stitching as well.He needed to sit and use a few Healing Kits and possibly a
potion of curing to stem the blood and repair the injury.

Instead, he grunted and slipped his free hand into his belt pouch. Withdrawing a steel flask of cheap ale, he
took a long drink and coughed hard. Then another drink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, he
looked ahead, trying to guess which way his prey had fled. It was only a matter of time. The brute would fall to
his hammer sooner or later, despite his own leg wound. It meant little to him. He thought of the looks he got
sometimes in Hlint as he wandered in wounded. It was no matter. The pain was of little consequence. Others may
think him a fool. Let them. All that mattered was ending this melee, cornering this last Ogre of the hunting
group he had stalked today in the Greypeaks. He needed to hear the song of his hammer one more time before
healing mattered.

Suddenly he heard rock sliding on rock - behind him. Mimir froze, shifting his warhammer over to his right hand
and readying his shield. He crept forward, sliding his compact form into a niche in the rocks. Then he waited.
Another shift of rocks could be heard closer, something was approaching on foot. As it grew near enough for a
swing, he leapt out and swung his hammer. Surprisingly, it met with a shield, a shield bearing the markings of
his own clan.

"What in the ...?!" Mimir drew back in shock and looked behind the shield.

"Mim, is that you?" A sandy-haired dwarf showed himself, slinging his axe and looking about in surprise.

"Aye, it is me.....Bilskir? What brings you this far out?" Mimir slowly smiled, clapping a hand on the dwarf's
shoulder.

Bilskir nodded and looked Mimir up and down. "Its good to see you alive, old man. I was out scouting the Ogre
Clans and the last thing I expected to see was you." He took a critical assesment of Mimir's wounds. "Looks like
you need a cleric. As I recall, you never knew when to say 'enough.' "

"Nay, tis nothing. I can fix myself up well enough." Mimir coughed and his hand moved to his belt pouch. With a
self-conscious pause, he turned the movement into rubbing his left leg.

Bilskir pretended not to notice. " Mimir, you are missed in the Deeping Halls. I hope whatever keeps you away is
worth it." He reached for his axe, preparing to set off on his scouting again. Mimir wiped his face with a
handkerchief and nodded slowly. "I need to -I need to test myself. And this new hammer of course!" He raised it
and let out a laugh.

Bilskir nodded silently and forced a smile. "Heal yourself. No shame in it." He gestured to Mimir's leg wound.
"Take a potion or two during battle if you can. No sense in enduring it and endng up laid out on a mountaintop
somewhere. Aye?"

Mimir looked off toward the trail of blood, toward his next foe. He said nothing. Bilskir moved off, pausing a
moment and looking back. "May Dorand smile on you Mimir Deeping." The wounded dwarf continued to stare in the
direction of his next foe.

[Fian Bearsark]

"Wake up already!" The Innkeeper shook Mimir harder this time, almost pushing him off the becnh. " I got paying customers who want te rest their feet!" He hurried off, muttering about dwarves as Mimir looked about him, dazed.

He was in a corner booth in the Scamp's Mug Inn, his backpack and weapons strewn across the worn and stained surface of the table. Gathering them slowly, he scowled in the direction of the Innkeep. Fool human, he thought. They think they run everything.

Standing slowly, he moved off toward the door, unsteadily picking his way through the noontime crowd of sailors, merchantmen and craftsmen. He pushed a man aside near the door, eliciting an expletive from the startled patron. Once outside, blinking at the bright light, Mimir moved off toward the nearby halfling Temple to whatever god it was the little ones worshipped. He needed to restock his healing kits, didn't matter what god it came from. He recalled a few days before, when he had used many kits and potions. The clammy, sterile smell of Storan's Tomb jumped immediately to his thoughts. Underground and cut stone was usually a relief to his kind, but this place was different. It smelled of lost things and misery, it reeked of anger and hate and confusion. Those that dwelt there were beyond description. He counted himself doubly fortunate in retrospect that he was in the company of stalwart men in that hole. Balazar, Mandalorian, a cleric called Tha', a monk who fought weaponless named Silver, and a few mages of elfkind he thought. They spoke of Bodaks with Death's Touch and Mummies exuding Fear. It was a horror to remain there and in his heart of hearts Mimir knew he was outclassed there.

The kilted dwarf paused at the entrance to the halfling temple, thinking just how unprepared he was to set foot in that Tomb. They were all stronger or more - more protected by their gods he realized. Everyone discussed the fear and the risk of the Bodak's Death curse. Yet for Mimir it mattered not. Sometimes he recieved protections from the clerics, sometimes not. It didn't stop him from entering and fighting. Against the mummies he grew cold with an unresoning fear, gripped to immobility at times. It was beyond shaming. He also found that his iron hammer dealt little or no damage against this foe. Yet still he went in and fought, like a fool, like one himself possessed by some otherworldliness. On reflection, it was absurd that he even was there, amongst men stronger and more skilled than he. But there he was, swinging away, with a weapon that did not always damage the Deaders. Somehow it didn't matter anymore. A divine fool perhaps he was. Finally they broke into the room of Storan himself, a room of dread and fear and anger etched in its cold stone. They were victorious and clambered out toward sun and fresh air.

He had heard the tales of kuldjargh - axe idiots- and had known one in his youth. Mimir laughed out loud, catching the eye of the pawn shop halfing nearby. He scowled at her and set his pack on the ground near a fountain. Reaching in with both hands, he drew water out and dumped it on his head, coughing hard. Kuldjargh. A term of respect and folly and trepidation all in one. But what was it to him? Nothing of course. He was a simple unemployed tunnel guard.

If only that drive had been there on that day, all those months ago. Or has it been a year now since he clawed his way out of the rubble and bodies? He glanced up at the sun, beating down on his head, cooking his brain and his thoughts. He muttered a dwarven swear word and picked up his pack. It was then he noticed he had left drops of blood behind him from a wound on his arm. They probably went all the way back to the Inn. Analysing the cut emotionlessly, he spit and turned to go buy more healing kits.

[Fian Bearsark]

A dwarf lies asleep on the grass in Hlint. A thin journal, worn and beaten, lies next to him, its pages perused by a light breeze:


Was mining again. Can be a bit boring at times, but reminds me of the Clan Halls. I am getting better at copper smelting, for whatever that will be worth.

The clay by the lake I despise. Takes forever to dig it.

I can't believe I asked somebody for drink. Some elf by the lake. I just walked up like a beggar and asked him. He didn't have any, but must have told a dwarf I - *illegible part* - and needed it bad. This dwarf comes over and just hands me a bottle. I took it.

*marks made across the page here, a series of x's, as if incising the page*

I was looking for more sand and I went over near those yelping kobolds. I knew I was too close to dig there. I knew they would come.

A whole band of them, I think 8. Blasted spellsters too, they hit me with cold again and again. But I didn't run. I laughed. I could hear the laughter ringing in my ears like it was somebody else. I swung hard over and over. They surrounded me, stabbing with their short blades. I took many a cut and my eyes grew blurry. But I didn't run nor heal myself. I felt the potion in my pocket and there it stayed. More blows and some fell, but they kept up with arrows and spells. The Song of Battle was sung in chorus. That infernal cold and those arrows burned. I pulled one arrow out that hit me high in the chest.The point remained in. But   I    didn't      leave.... *smudges here*

Then everything was quiet. My laughter echoed in my ears. All around lay kobolds smashed and broken. HA! My hammer hung at my side, humming with the blows. Blood rushed in my head, my eyes were blurred and my body cut and bloodied. My body was wracked with pain and I was close to death.

Why didn't I run? Why didn't I heal myself? What was I trying to prove?!

You are a fool among fools. *heavy marks here, as if something was scratched out*

I met a dwarven lass. I spoke to her as kind as I could and gave here the coin I had on me.

You are a fool among fools, but it matters not.

[Fian Bearsark]

journeyed into Haven mines last night. It was good to be in the company of kin again. I was in the company of Orwynn, Turor and another dwarf, a mage surprisingly. I can't remember his name. There were also Elves and some Men, though I knew few of their names.

We went all the way in, crushing the Brutes as we went. Nothing withstood our party. I managed to mine some coal and a little iron, to test my new skills in the smithy. My hammer performed well, though I was injured repeatedly and did not know it. I was healed at least 4 times by others, who seemed aghast at the extent of my wounds. Even Turor, a dwarf easily accustomed to the fury of battle and the pain of wounds, chastised me several times for the extent of my injuries.

I was  *a word is scratched out* surprised by his reaction and more by the wounds themselves. Some were debilitating and my leg was stiff like it has gotten in the past. Yet I  found myself in a fog most of the time in those tunnels and the exact cause of the wounds is a mystery.  My memory is unclear on some points, though those mine passages reminded me more than once of my old job in the Halls of the Deeping Clan.

I took the drink only a few times while in Haven. The fighting and strange comfort of the passages might have helped. I am not sure what to think. But I do know that the power and rush in battle grows. I care little for anything in the moment. I fought at the lowest level with blood in my eyes and a large cut across my hammer arm. I was near death to be sure, yet I chased a Berserker Brute about as if I was at full health. I did not stop until he fell. The song of blood and pain and laughter filled my ears.

It matters not.

*a series of lines drawn across the page here*

I went mining for copper with Orwynn and Mandalorian after Haven. I wanted to help her. *several words are scratched out here* I was happy to do so.

[Fian Bearsark]

Mimir stooped to grab a few more coins form the pocket of a dead goblin. Tossing them in the air and catching
them, he grunted and stepped over another body. Ten others lay about him, each dropped with one blow from his
hammer as they stalked him in the tunnels of the Red Light. The screeching fools will never learn, he thought.
So much the better; it provided him with coin if nothing else. His trips to dig copper here and tin in the
Sielwood had become routine; most things offered little challenge now. He looked over to his ox tethered to a
rock, staring placidly back at him. That beast had been his constant companion these past weeks, hauling ore out
of the twisting tunnels and occasionally kicking at goblins who chased after them.  

His skills had improved at the forge. With some luck he could smelt bronze, but working it into weapons was
still beyond his talents. It was frustrating and boring work, but it kept him focused. Yet ultimately it was not
what drove him on. What drove him on was battle and the promise of defeat of anything that stood against him. In
that he could be satisfied.

The Dwarf pulled on the reins and moved deeper into the caverns, approaching yet another copper vein. He thought
of how recently he and the cleric Mandalorian had penetrated to the upper veins of iron in Haven, just the two
of them. He was surprised at how well they fared and how far they were able to get. The cleric's protections
complemented Mimir's hammer well, and he was a staunch comrade at his side in the face of the Brutes. Once they
had reached the room with iron, they beheld at least 7 Ogres, some of them berserks by the look of their wild
eyes and tattered armor. Mimir smiled in fond memory of the battle, his howling and Mandolarian's cursing at the
sight of the Brutes as they charged them. The dim cavern stank of sweat and heat and the Ogres were none too
happy to see the two of them intruding in their territory. Taking them two at a time, the Dwarf and the Man cut
through them, empowered by Mandal's touch of blessed fire upon their weapons, which flashed angerly with each
strike. Soon the Brutes lay all about and the two stood for a moment peering into the dim recesses of the
cavern. Another lurked nearby and they charged him, though he turned out to be tougher than any of the others.
From behind, another plowed into Mandal, wounding him. Mimir cried out a warning too late, and as both Berserks
fell on Mimir, Mandal dodged to the side to heal himself quickly. The Dwarf held his ground, laughing and
taunting the two brutes, until Mandal returned to help finish them both. Mimir's wounds were extensive as usual,
though he did not notice. What he did notice was the quiet in the cavern afterwards, except for the heavy
breathing of both Dwarf and Man as they looked about them in silent pride.

That was better than any smelted copper could ever be.

[Fian Bearsark]

A fiery-haired dwarf stooped low over the smelting forge, peering into the yellow-orange embers critically. The bronze ingot was almost ready to be removed. Mimir had learned a great many things since arriving in Hlint, notably the working of metals and the trials of forging copper on the anvil. The swinging of the blacksmith's hammer came naturally to him, as his arm responded instinctively to the rhythm of the blows. His own warhammer was a constant companion at his belt.

Withdrawing the ingot, he quenched it in a basin of water and turned to his ox to stow some tools. He re-arranged some molds, another skill he had aquired in his pursuit of weapon-making. His progress was slow but steady, and some day he hoped to be able to make a hammer for himself, rather than relying on others' skills to outfit his equipment. He glanced behind him, to find himself alone in the dim smithy, and quickly withdrew a small metal flask. He took a quick swig of the fiery liquid then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and replacing the flask in his belt pouch. Glancing to his ox, who met his eyes with equally impassive ones, he pushed open the door to get some fresh air.

Outside, the day was bright and the sullen dwarf blinked and scowled in the bath of daylight. He looked up and down the main road of Hlint and immediately saw a large figure looming in the road. Another scum of giant blood, he thought, scowling at the brute shape as it ambled down toward the well. This town should be cleared of all such foul blooded ones. If it wasn't for the town guard he would attack them on sight, crushing their skulls as his kin before had done and always would do. He spit and examined others in the town. They seemed unaware of the half-giant, the fools. How could they so easily accept such a beast in their midst? Had they not seen the damage and terror such things had commited upon Men and Dwarves?!

Just as bad as those mages and finger-wigglers, with their unnatural forms prowling about the streets. Just the other day he saw a full giant, at least 12 feet high standing outside the Smithy, as if he owned the place. Mimir had charged the Brute, only to have it dissolve into the form of a human, obviously a mage out for some fun. He should have continued to attack. Would have served him right the grandstanding fool. He had the nerve to argue with Mimir and Bjorri and Relyt abou the matter, as if he had a right to appear like that, scaring womenfolk and children in town.

Mimir paused and thought of the dwarves he had met here. Bjorri was the newest, a cleric it seemed of a faith barely known to him. Beryl was the goddess' name, a patron of stones and gems of the Earth. He rememberd a gnome coming to the Deeping Halls to give advice in the lay of gem veins. He had spoken of this Beryl, but that was his only memory of such a goddess. No matter, he was kin, even if he followed a goddess not know nto his clan. Bjorri seemed suspiciouf of others, Men and Elves, perhaps even more suspicious than Mimir himself was. It was understandable though. This town was in need of some dwarven discipline.

Relyt was a woodworker of a sort and a solid comrade in battle. He would no doubt be a friend to rely on in the future. Countless hours in the copper mines had superseded friendships and alliances for Mimir. This I must remedy he mused, or else other things--He stopped short of following the thought through. He coughed hard, deep from in his chest, a familiar cough not even of concern anymore. His troubles would be his own, no one else's. It matters not. Only battle mattered in the end. Turning, he disappeared into the smithy again, to continue forging and practicing , to someday forge a hammer his kin would be envious of and his enemies would truly fear.

[Fian Bearsark]

Mimir slid the weathered steel flask from its comfortable place in his belt pouch and sipped quickly, like a calf at the teat. Wiping his mouth with a calloused hand, he set to writing:

Its been a great while such I put actions into words. Perhaps that has been my problem. Deeds speak truer to my soul than words. Words are troublesome, worming their way about in one's head, staying one's hand from the acts it craves.

I have spent a good while in solitude and now I travel again. The denizens of Mistone have changed since last I journeyed, Hlint is a town of suspicion and fear. They hide behind their curtains like fishmonger's wives. I have settled near Center and use that as my base of operations now. My skill with the forge has slowly gained and I yearn for better materials to ply my trade. Copper and bronze are more easily worked and iron will challenge me. But it is in veins treacherous to reach. I may have to put out coin to buy nuggets as they are sold rather than seek it out myself.

I wandered far and wide the other day and encountered a lone Orc who approached me as a fellow member of right and true Society. At first I was simply going to crease his ugly skull, but an intelligence in his eyes stayed my hand. He crowed his name as Rak or some such creaking, I remember not. But we traveled well together, seeking trouble in the Ire mountains. Many Dog faces lay at our feet where ever we went.

At one point, I lost my head. As always now. I leapt into a group of 10 of these dog men, swinging my hammer and  (here the writing is scratched out)     I began to laugh. Why I do not know. But I could not stop as blows landed on me from all sides. My knee buckled under a well-aimed sword blow, splitting my calf. A haze of blood and anger surrounded me, drowning my senses. Then, a healing touch. Such a surprise! This Rak fellow suddenly appeared out of thin air it seemed, driving back a few dog men with his axe and forcing an elixir of healing into my bloodied shaking hand. At its cold touch suddenly I realized the extent of my wounds. Mortal they were, I only had seconds to live before the earth would take me.

The fog passed and the pile of dead was all around. I asked what happened. He croaked " You jumped into them, all around you." I did not remember this. As always it was the Song and Joy in me that I remembered.

The red-haired dwarf sat back, looking down at the words. He furrowed his brow, then, a slow smile crept across his lips.

[Fian Bearsark]

A while back now I came upon a strange group. Two humans -a woman by the name of Ytsim and a man whose name escapes me were in close talk with a fellow who was of a dark temperament. I believed him to be a gnome, but his mannerisms were such I could not be sure. He spoke mostly in riddles, daring the pair to find hidden boxes, black things buried in the ground and buried in the worst of places. I listened in and he asked me to join in this fell game. I did not trust him as far as I could toss him. But I said yes.

We searched for things guessed at by his damnable riddles, and he took great delight in pitting one against another for the prizes, hoping to cause us to come to blows. The other two were honorable enough and we each received our due reward. One box was buried in the Silkwood, that place of roots to trip one and branches to pull a helm off and spoil one's aim. There ahead, coming for us was a pack of hideous, fiendish beasts, with owl's heads and the bodies of bears. Without a thought I leapt at them, excited at their ferocity. I laughed like a madman and their rage seemed to buoy my spirits. It is the strangest feeling to be glad of others' desire to run you through.

The other two fought well enough and held their own. I kept leaping ahead, heedless of a few blows to me. I heard laughter and realized it was my own voice, sounding strange as if from a distance, or long ago. More beasts lay ahead, giant beetles dripping with spit. One the size of a tree charged toward me. I was happy for it. What glory it is to fight, what peace to be found in the mortal contest. Only a feast with Dorand Himself could sate my sorrows and pains like this battle does.

When it was over we found the box and returned it to the evil gnome, and along the way found some stray wolf cub I only wished to slay. The others showed it mercy, not realizing once it ate more and got big enough it would return to eat them in all likelihood. Fools.

I only wished for that place again. The place of joy when all else falls away and my hammer hums in my grip. A foe before me brings that place with thier rage. Not even the bottle can console me like that.

[Fian Bearsark]

Mimir tipped back his helm to get a better look below. From his vantage point on a spur of lichen-covered black rock he could see the hairy forms moving about below. With a curse and a puff of frosty breath he shouldered his pack and began his descent, picking his way carefully so as not to dislodge any rocks and give away his position.

His pack held hard-fought minerals and metals, chiseled from the roots of the Brech Mountains. His way had been a demanding one, full of the creature he now kept track of below as he descended the cliff - the white furred wild things some called Yeti. They were fast and fought ferociously anything that dared to draw near to them and what was worse, they exuded a wave of cold damaging to one's skin. Mimir glanced down at his new boots that staved off the deathly chill of these godless beasts and thanked The Maker Himself for the luck in finding them.

These heights were wild and forbidding but held treasures to be grasped if one had the fortitude to see it through. Mimir had tested himself again and again against these mountains. He had spent a week or more here, occasionally stopping by his kinfolk in the Ulgrid Fortress to rest and have a drink or three. Then he heard some miners talk of minerals and such to be found, so he pushed further on. At one point he came across a shining ring held in the grasp of one of the Wild Men, a ring of very fine workmanship and marked with runes he could not decipher. Some time later, clawed and bloody as usual, he encountered a dwarven lass by the name of Rugs. It seems she had lost this ring and sought its return. Mimir gladly parted with it and was rewarded with an amulet of her own making, gently worked with fine tools and set with gems to lend strength to his arm.

What a gift it was. With it Mimir redoubled his efforts at battle, driven on by the enhanced strength. He now commonly faced three of the Yeti at a time, their animal rage at his mere existence in their hunting grounds a music to his ears. Again and again he hurtled himself at these beasts, almost with the goal of irradicating them all together from the Snowy Brech. Heedless of wounds, he at last came upon an entrance to a cave system.

There he found his glory. Not only minerals that glittered, but giants. Giants! The foul brutes came at him from all sides, pounding him with boulders and clubs. One after another they fell to the clang of his hammer. No one fought at the dwarf's side, no comrades watched his back. He was alone. Always alone. No one would speak of his passing if the giants became too thick upon this lone dwarf. His bones ground to make their gruel, nothing would mark his fall, no songs sung in his name.

No matter. Alone he will be. A kuldjargh's life it seemed beckoning to this fiery-haired dwarf. His hammersong and laughter he danced to, fueled by the burning drink always at his side. Dorand blessed Mimir with some skill in His Craft it was true. His expertise at forging weapons had slowly, quietly progressed of late. Yet it seemed a new path had been fashioned from the sinew and pain of this simple dwarf's existence. The forge's hammer became the hammer of dominance on the field of foes.

All the giants lay strewn about the massive cave, silent and mangled. Ten. It matters not. There will be more. And One of the Deeping will be there to face them. Alone.

[Fian Bearsark]

The sentry squinted into the mist of rain, trying to make out what made the clattering sound of stone over stone. As he focused his sharp eyes down the hillside, he gestured silently with a raised arm to the other sentry, who reflexively interpreted the hand motion to mean "someone approaches". Readying his ax, the other dwarf inwardly cursed the steady drizzle and cautiously moved over to a better vantage point.
Within moments, both saw a dark figure resolutely picking its way over tumbled rocks toward them. Too small to be an Ogre or giant, the plodding figure seemed closer to their own height and build - dwarven. After a few more minutes, the figure drew near enough to show a shock of fiery hair and beard, as well as a shield slung over his back and a hammer swinging from a lanyard around his thick wrist.
Kili, the elder of the two sentries stepped forward, revealing himself to the red dwarf.

"Hail to you. I am a sentry of Lyn. Who goes there?" He rested his weight on a stout oaken spear.

The figure stopped and looked up, considering each sentry in turn. He slowly withdrew a small flask from his belt pouch and took a quick, sharp drink. A loud barking cough followed, shaking the solid dwarf for a moment. He replaced the flask and said simply:

"Mimir. Of the Deeping."

An exchange of greetings ensued as well as collective commiserating about the cold and rain.

Kili's companion looked past Mimir down the path to the valley below. "Where are your companions?" Mimir shook his head and a slow smile tugged at his weathered lips. "My whole Company stands before you."

The sentries glanced between them. Kili raised a brow. "Tis a brutal path ye walk cousin Deeping. There are many giantkin 'twixt us and the road to Llast. Most travel in groups to survive, those blue mages summon Death in their foul spells. How - how did you make it past mages and skillful rock-tossers?" He seemed almost unsettled at this fire-bearded dwarf dismissing such mortal danger.

Mimir paused, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth to stifle another bone-rattling cough. "One at a time lad. One at a time."

Olir the ax-sentry laughed in surprise. Few came this way from the southern towns with only their own fortitude to protrect them. Still laughing, Olir retorted "Mimir me lad, ye must be daft or ye jest don' care aboot yer own life!"

Mimir paused in thought. "Tis the latter that hits closest to the mark. Tho the former hit the target as well." He adjusted his shield across his back and looked past the two toward the steps leading upward to the village of Lyn. " If you will pardon my hast lads, I have a cousin greet and a statue of Dorand to contemplate."

'Good day' was exchanged and as the sentries watched the lone dwarf picking his way up the rock-hewn steps, Kili leaned toward his younger comrade.

"Berserker. Got all the marks of that cursed life upon him." He shook his head almost in sympathy. Olir scratched his beard and muttered, turning away from the solitary dark spot on the steps above.