Proving myself - Fenrir the Defender

[s0ulz]

The feeling of liberation has overcome me, as if a rock has been lifted from my burdened shoulders. Naturally the people of faith can sense something different about me and several Voraxites have drilled their gaze in the back of my head as I walk past them. I only grin and move on.

I've been called Fallen, Unfaithful and Deceiver. I've been called a fool for thinking that Vorax was stopping me. What do they all know? Have they ever challenged the Order with innovation? Have they -ever- tried to stand out from the grey masses? No. Only do they slanter the one's who dare step out against the Faith. Exactly that is what I despise. They think they foresee failure or danger to their precious beliefs, without any insight of the possible advantages innovation may have.

Fools.

[s0ulz]

I have worked further on my path. Despite my quarrel with the Faith, I've taken an apprentice. A female kin, who strives to became a Defender. The only reason I agreed was because of her gender. She has promise and how sweet would it be for me to rub into councils wounds, that a female with -my- training will be the best in their ranks. I've stayed mysterious in my ways and only reveal my intentions to the closest of friends.

I've began to widen the range of my skills. I've learned about camouflage and stealth, when out of armor. I've started to learn a language of the Deep, to have yet another edge infront of my kin and enemies. I've consulted with Runelords to begin to understand the ways of magical artifacts and possibly someday unleashing their runic and magical properties.

My stances have improved, especially the offensive counterpart. I calculate every move and step with pinpoint accuracy. I shrug and dodge as much as necessary, not an inch more. Clad in mithril armor and weaponry, this -fallen- dwarf is the future of kin. They'll see.

[s0ulz]

It once again seeped into my memories, how blatanly I was ignored and left out of the dwarven council. Me, the greatest kin Bloody Gate has and will ever see, left out of the council due to some foolish thought of jealousy and just to try.. and stop me from reaching a higher spot than them.

It only made sweeter the moment, when I set on the path to intercept assassins from capturing Snowtooth, a great white dragon. All the Voraxites fell in the battle, the outcome certainly seemed grim, yet I used every bit of my abilities and opportunities to rise abouve the odds and eventually aside the dreaded Dragon himself, slay the perpetrators. I was granted life when approaching the White and left with a contempt soul.

Where the Faithful fall, the -fallen- remains and overcomes. How bittersweet that must have felt. We'll see whether they dare to insult me again, after I saved their hides and claimed the head of a poisoned Green Dragon. My feats of fury have far overcome their lesser thoughts of me.

Fools.

[s0ulz]

A while has passed and reading my last entries I now see what Kobal meant when he told me, that my biggest mistake was growling in the faces of Voraxians. I was so caught up with my joy of freedom and unrestricted training that just -had- to let it out. I do not regret a single thing I did or said, but the feud has to end. I'll just let my actions speak for my past decisions and then they'll all see it was not the wrong path to choose.

I've had several encounter with various Voraxians and larger confrontations have so far remained peaceful. Though I admit, I still occasionally see their blindness and the way they act so obliviously regarding the future. Yet my power still grows, my technique improves and ever step I land with my heavy foot of dwarven destruction, I can feel the earth rumble under it.

I've also pushed into action the future building of my academy. Where and when is still in the open, yet it will happen. It must. Then everyone can see what I've been showing thus far in the Arena. I've yet to find a match and only once have I been forced to my knees in the past months.

It was when I was on a raid into the Arc tower, their general trapped me and forced me to fight for my life against a neverending flow of ferocious arcs. I stood long until eventually was brought to my knees and spared only for my possible assistance in the future. They want me to help put down the elven spirits on the nearby island. Deaders I can handle.

[s0ulz]

Despite being out of the public eye, trouble does not seem to avoid me. If there's one kinsman I look up to even more than my long gone father, it is Kobal. Yet despite my efforts to be worthy in his eyes, all I get is critique and comments.

I am bound by my word to the Arc general and I will keep to my word - I will cleanse the elven tomb of undead. That's all I said I would do, that is all I will do. Now Kobal, in his own righteousness, has decided to step against me. He is certain that I'm on the wrong side of the tide and he said it out loud - he will fight me if it comes to that. Have I really given him too much credit? Am I still nothing but a young inexperienced beard in his eyes? I don't understand.

I hope it will not come to this, but when push comes to shove, idols fall.

*Fenrir closes his journal with a deep sigh, as he gazes to the stars and mumbles*

You just cannae give meh peace now can ye?

[s0ulz]

How many of my kind can say that they've seen their soul wither away with them still enbodying it? Such sacrifice was asked of me to redeem my ancestral past and save the Peaks from Essrantor. An experience different from any other I can't believe I lived through it - from life to death and back again... barely.

The Losthammers' demise was put to my fault and a spiritual sacrifice was demanded to allow any chance of success in the campaign against Essrantor. It being my only chance of redemption I went ahead with it and time began to pass faster than any living soul could imagine. I was truly undead, seconds seeming like hours, minutes like days and with every blink of the eye I could see a part of my living essence fade away into the cold brisk air of the elven tomb. I could literally see my skin be chewed by the relentless teeth of time, my breath turn into dust and my thoughts wander into damnation.

I urged my companions to hurry and race to the bottom of this damned tomb, but their efforts were in vain, I was degrading and sinking between the pages of history. I can only thank my rigorous training in the past decades, which could have strengthened my resolve and will to last through this horror. Eventually, I was restored to my present and former glory - only the scars of the time passed in my mind, remained. The Losthammer Thane had mercy on the treachery of my ancestors and redeemed me of my past. I can only say that I gained from this whole ordeal.

I gained a glorious ancestry, even though now in ruins, it might be restorable, like Kobal's was. I gained a precious lesson in life's hardships, which no other living soul will ever have a chance to live through. I saw who were my true companions in matters of life and death and most importantly, I didn't have to kill Kobal.

With Essrantor silenced, Kobal and I can remain to be friends and perhaps with my newfound past, he can assist me in making the best out of my lost clan as well. Together our pasts could determine the future.

[s0ulz]

I need to do some soulsearching. What I lived through is something that can change anyone's perspective on life, death and everything between. I feel I need to get out of the chaotic kettle that's been boiling ever since the fall of Blood and the Dark times that befell us. The Dark times were a simpler time for me, I could focus on my goals and survival, the primary needs of any proper dwarf.

To do this, I must cut myself off from everything I know and find something new. Release myself from my shackles that bind me to my relentless duties and tasks. Look for a chance to let my newfound past flourish and benefit from my neutrality and independance from gods and want-to-be-gods.

What better way than to begin finding connections for my academy and, at first, in secrecy, begin to plan its building. One night I pulled a loyal kinsman builder of Stort aside and explained to him my motives and plans. I made certain he knew the gravity and importance of my plans and how important this was to me and why it must be kept secret. I know I've talked about my academy to several of my companions and even rather unknown people, but time tends to make people forgetful.
I've also contacted a few of my fathers old friends back at the Gate, who are curious to hear what I have to say. It's essential that once my academy is built, that it would be used for the right reasons. I haVe plenty to teach and I can incorporate the teaching of other skills through my connections. I will need however bodies to train. To keep Stort safe I need to train the guards, then once I handpick a group of more capable hands, I'll train a unit fiercer, stronger and more resilient than any before.

These men will run under my command and do tasks appointed by me. They'll be the rogue group of unseen fury that follows no god or ruler. We'll be the swift hand of the law and deliver justice no matter if it's for good or evil. This is my vision. Of course to keep things right, I'll lend my services to training of anyone who wants and I deem worthy. Why not help kingdoms and stalwart adventurers gain finesse under my hand.

Glorious years await.

[s0ulz]

Time passes relentlessly away. I see it gnaw at my companions, humans especially. No year goes past for them, without it taking its toll on their appearance, form and spirit.

It is a sad thing to overlook, as humans posess many great values that would prove useful in the peaceful stabilization of Layonara, yet once human leaders approach their most wise and capable age, they soon wither away in to the cold embrace of the earth. Those who fight death, often become corrupt with the negative and evil powers of the land, their soul torn into pieces in the meantime.

Never-the-less, I manage to keep my mind fresh, despite the years passing. I'm but a young dwarf, yet, even though many think of a battlescarred and bearded dwarf as old and fragile as humans are. It seems inevitable and written into the writs of destiny for Layonara, to be constantly threatened by forces who crave supreme power and domination. I truely fear that past days of glory and peace are behind us, behind Layonara.

I believe a key to this restoration is my very own kin. We've fallen from the pinnacle of our technological, cultural and magical peak. Though I'm just one beard, I know and I will try to make the best in restoring this long lost glory. Kobal managed his piece, I can not be any worse now can I?

---

In the meanwhile, I grow agitated by the general fumble surrounding this so-called Dragon Cult. Despite constant attempts of many of my closer and farther friends and acquintances, they grow in power and I fear they'll soon threaten the relative peace blanketing Layonara. Smaller kingdoms and fortified grounds have already slowly fallen to their domain.

Rumours of dragons and halfbloods rising in numbers, readying themselves to march against any who stand in their way. How they manage to get the common folk behind this ordeal astounds me. Are they threatened by force, or perhaps given incentive through protection and wealth of other nearby kingdoms? Whatever it is, I know and have seen it myself, humans often allow themselves to be eluded by promises of wealth and prosperity, power and glory. Even though they'll most likely never see what they were promised. By then it'll be too late.

I've thought much of this and tried to stay on the sidelines for as long as possible. Now, however, I fear that I can spare no more time, I have to get involved, give advice and guidance to the less experienced and younger adventurers who have tried so hard to overcome the Cult.

It's gone on too long, even quarrels between our own sides have arised, regarding outcomes of artifacts important to the security of the lands. Far too much blood has been shed and rumours fall into truth - they march against us, sail the seas to head for the Kingdoms beyond the oceans. The birds have warned us. We must prepare...

[s0ulz]

//After I came back from a hiatus last year, Fenrir always said he had a happening in the Deep that took that long. I thought I'd treat those interested with a story of what really happened. It'll be several chapters long, so bear with me.

The Welcoming Party

Adventurers. Short-lived fools who hunt treasure and fame. There are only two types of people who end up on the path down into the Deep – lunatics and adventurers. Never stopping to settle for the ordinary, these trailblazers push into the unknown until the unknown is what succumbs them. Small rocks break off the cavern’s walls as a lone figure descends into the dark, the glowing spot of light behind him, shrinking into nothingness.

The winds are strong in the cavern, as the very essence of the air you breath changes as you go deeper and deeper. The refreshing scent of life and movement changes into a rotting stench of death and stagnant moisture. The cavern is wide enough for a small party pass, evidently widened through decades of travel – both in and out. The walls are covered with sharp edges of rock and crystal, the ground covered by a faint coat of dust. It’s obvious that someone has passed through here rather recently.

The figure marches towards the seemingly never-ending abyss infront of him. His steps are steadfast and certain, no sense of misdirection or fearful uncertainty. The figure’s worn boots glow with a dim red light as the Al’noth preserves their quality. Moderate squeels of light metal rubbing against metal and leather emits as the figure goes on. Donned in glorious armor of rune-etched mithril, the colors of blue, black and silver glimmer in the few thin rays of light still reaching this hole. A dark flowing cloak, slightly torn from its edges, but still beautifully adorned by runic writings, protects the figure’s back. Handles of finely crafted axes reach out from beneath the cloak, while their blades are covered by a large shield. Seemingly ready for war, the figure marches on, as quietly as his outfit enables him to.

Small forms of fog begin to form infront of the figure as he breathes deeper and heavier. The air gets colder as the surroundings grow darker, soon enough, only the figure’s magical cowl and amulet glow enough to show the way. He moves with prowess, avoiding obstacles in the cavern, which has now grown much more hostile in build. The figure’s eyes hidden under his cowl, it’s clear nothing avoids his vision in this pitch black darkness, his eyes are accustomed to it.

As the path winds down deeper, suddenly, sounds begin to reach the figure. Promptly he slows his stride to deny anything from hearing his approach. The cavern’s path peaks upwards slightly, as a bigger cavern of stone and crystal reveals itself. The warm hum of torchfire gliding softly off the walls and ceiling, the figure peaks his head over the cliffside. His beard scratching on the rocky floor, his face catches some of the light present in the cave, the dwarf appraises the situation.

The cavern is split into two sides, split only by a wide crack in the ground, a seemingly bottomless steep ridge only crossable over a rocky, half-metallic bridge, with gates the height of giants locked in between. A few holes are visible in the outer edges of either side of the bridge, clearly pathways deeper down, but unmarked, dark and damp none-the-less.

It is now clear what was making the sounds that warned the dwarf on his descent – dark elves and large spiders inhabit the cavern, set in camps on both sides of the bridge, in defense of entrances further down and a proper welcoming party to anyone foolish enough to have wondered this far down.

The dark elves are visibly ready to intercept anyone coming to their attention, their elven armors equipped and polished, magical swords sharpened and at hand, they form a group consisting of warriors of many types. Some wear leather with only a few metallic ornaments, but daggers sharper than tiger’s teeth, others are clad in heavy adamantine plate armors, longswords at their sides and helms on nearby rocks. Few wear curious robes of intricate design, thick tomes of scrolls and notes hanging on golden chains by their sides, while some march around, talking their dastardly tongue, declaring statements and symbols of their divines. The spiders are dormant, waiting for their pray, completely tamed by the dark elves.

Counting his adversaries from afar, the dwarf looks for a pathway to the ground floor, trying to avoid any sound or exposure. His heart begins to pound harder and faster, adrenaline rising from the possibility of being seen. Slow and steady he crawls down the cliff to the ground, crouched behind a large enough rock, looking for a way through. He appraises the elves, counts his foes and lets out a small sigh as he swallows hard.

Slowly he reaches for his axe on his back. The glorious work of warfare art releases itself from the dwarf’s back, a razor-sharp mithril axe with a long handle and dwarven design, etched in runes bound in a deep red glow. He leans on the rock with his axe, blade resting on it, while grabbing the second axe’s handle under his cloak. He freezes, waiting for the moment of best assault, on axe head down on the rock, the other ready to set loose on its way to bloody massacre. He crouches deeper.

As his boots dig down in the rocky ground under him, the dwarf pulls the other axe and strikes both axes into the rock infront of him, blades down, and pounces over the rock, leaping as he gets foothold on the rock. Wildly the dwarf’s short feet move as he runs towards the startled elves, caught off-guard by the seemingly foolish attempt of a single dwarf. Clerics begin to cast blessings on the troops, wizards apply their spells, warriors unsheathe their swords and daggers.

The dwarf runs forward, calculating his next move, he spits out a single line of dwarven to declare his war to the dark elves: “Yer time here has passed!”

He reaches the first line of elves and slashes both of his axes apart in a show of power and fury, clearly surprising to the dark elves. Two elves fall to the left, grabbing their stomachs, one to the right, holding his slit arm, the dark elves bark out sentences of command and disdain to bring the dwarf down. Having broken through the first line of defense, the dwarf hunts down the robed and less-armored dark elves, subduing them with little effort.

The dwarf spots a warrior pull the chains attached to the bells near the spiders in an attempt to wake them from their slumber and quickly runs after him. With a quick dash the dwarf runs towards the elf, turning his shoulder in to knock the elf down. As the elf falls towards the ground the dwarf prepares for the final blow, beheading the dark elf with a swift cleave.

Slowly the spiders awaken, one larger than the other, squeeling and scratching the caverns walls and floor. The dwarf turns his back to the spiders, focusing on the remaining dark elves. Most of the elves go down with just a few calculated moves, which block their first attack, forces them on a parry and then overwhelms them with pure might of the axe over the sword. As the dark elves fall one by one, failing to even get blood out of the furious dwarf, the spiders slide and crawl down the cliffside, clearly angered by their awakening, rushing towards the dwarf.

With the last few dark elves put to the ground the dwarf turns to face the rapidly approaching spiders. He quickly decides to switch his offhand axe for a wide shield, settling his pace to resist the incoming blows of the arachnids. The spiders vary in size and ability, obviously of different species. Some smaller ones that have harder exoskeletons and sharp legs, rush straight for dwarf. Some stay afar and launch volleys of spikes towards the dwarf, each sharper and faster than the before. Towering between the smaller spiders is a monstrous spider, thumping in big slow steps, clearly angry and bloodthirsty for the intruder.

The dwarf kneels deeper behind his shield, only the tip of his cowl slightly exposed. A second later the spikes fall down with whining ferocity around him, some bounce off the shield, others just miss him. As the volley ends, the dwarf has barely a moment to get into his battle stance, before having to block the first thrusts from the smaller warrior spiders. The spiders hop around, coordinating with each other to trap the dwarf against the wall, but the dwarf is steadfast. He stands his ground, tumbling from side to side and back to front to avoid the sharp legs.

Once he feels comfortable with his situation, he blocks a strike and goes to work, retaliating without remorse. Heavily armored chitin legs fall off as the axe cuts through them perfectly and without a hitch. Fluids and parts of the spiders’ shells fall down to the ground, making the spot a mess of a battleground. The spiders squeal in obvious pain as they die, until the dwarf clears enough space to lunge forward towards the giant spider and its accompanying spike throwers.

As he runs towards his next targets the dwarf throws his shield at the bigger spider’s head, hoping to distract its vision for long enough to go after the spike throwers. It works, the big one turns away for a moment as its head gets stunned by the blow of the shield. Not wasting any time, the dwarf quickly dispatches the smaller spiders, through swift moves with his remaining axe, while once again reaching for the second. Spikes flying towards him, he dodges as many as he can, but some come straight at him, though surprisingly, causing no harm to the dwarf at all. The spikes deflect off the dwarf as if he was made of metal or rock, no blood is shed.

The second spike thrower falls to the ground lifelessly as the angry giant lumbers over the dwarf, thrusting its feet at him, relentlessly. Rolling around and under the spider, the dwarf spills first blood as one of the spiders feet cuts through his arm. As the leg lodges itself in the ground the dwarf quickly chops it off, freeing his bleeding hand. There’s no time to tend the wound, as the dwarf methodically keeps the spider moving around itself, retaliating to its missed attacks. Minutes pass, the spider falls to the ground lifelessly. Making sure that the spider is dead, the dwarf picks up his shield, wipes it and himself clean with a cloth and prepares to move down through one of pathways. "Worthless..." he mumbles.

[s0ulz]

Betrayers

Numerous caverns follow each other, connected by various pathways. Some are longer and narrower, some shorter and wider. As hours pass the dwarf finds a nook that seems secure and breaks camp. He doesn’t make a fire, but does set down a cloth roll to sleep on and sets a perimeter he can glance on even from his sleeping position. As he drinks and eats, he looks around collectedly, frowning as he remembers why he came down here: “I know I’m close.”

After a nourishing meal, he rolls over to catch some sleep, as a dream of events of the past week quickly begins to haunt his mind.

A week earlier the dwarf in question was near Hilm Castle, recovering from a recent venture in the hostile territory west of the castle. As he starts to clear his camp alongside the lake, he spots a shorter and stockier figure some distance away, approaching from the glens that shield the Fort from the north. As the figure nears him, he sees that it is a dwarf, armored and most likely a mercenary or member of some military organization from around here.

As the mysterious dwarf got even closer it was obvious that he was limping, injured from some skirmish in the recent past. Our dwarf dropped his bag where it was and rushed to aid the newcomer, seeing with every step closer that the older, injured dwarf was on the brink of death, clearly hanging on just to tell his tale of what happened.

“They came... bandits... with skin as dark as the night, their tongue similar but very different... they were dwarves... they took him.” the dwarf muttered, with desperate gasps of breath divided between the words, clearly speaking from his final few breaths.

The dying dwarf’s head resting on our dwarf’s arms, he inquires: “How many? And who did they take?” he wipes blood off the dwarf’s face as he awaits an answer, clearly both saddened and angered by the suffering of the apparently innocent.

“Eight. They raided us... took everything... burned the rest... they took... my son...” he once again clenched his stomach in pain and let out a sigh, evidently close to his untimely demise. “Great Forest, North-North-east... hurry...” as he lets out a final sigh of breath and lifelessly drops his head on the dwarf’s hands.

Without a moment to waste, the dwarf ran back to his belongings, packed up quick and headed for the settlement, the body of his dead kinsman over his shoulder. He quickly gave the body to the lawmakers nearby and headed out north, in search of the smoke emitting from the house.

“They’re dwarves, but with pitch black skin? There’s no mistaking that, betrayers! And if I know those cowards proper, they’ll be running scared back to the deep pit they came from. I’ve got to intercept.” the dwarf thought to himself as he headed straight for one of the more known entrances to the Deep. “Trading young kin now, eh? I am going to kill every last one of you scum!” he agreed with himself as the dream fades away into a nightmarish spiral of different graphic images of the battles that ensued.

The dwarf startles up as he hears his tripwire trigger. Someone’s there! Without any excessive motions he unsheathes his axe and with his nostrils flaring from the adrenaline he warily glares at the shades, waiting for a potential assailant. Words of surprising similarity to dwarven sound from nearby darkness, likely declaring death and demise to our dwarf.

Not understanding, the dwarf waits until suddenly, behind him, a dark dwarf leaps out of the shadows, striking his daggers into the dwarf’s back. The dwarf lets out a sudden yell of pain as the daggers intrude his back, but quickly, with his teeth grinding together grabs the attacker’s neck with his left arm and tosses him over his shoulder, smashing into the wall. Wincing from pain, the dwarf pulls the daggers out of his back and throws them aside, stating in crisp furious dwarven: “You will wish you had never been born, once I’m done with you... Betrayer...”.

Unseen to the eye, the dwarf’s wounds began to close the moment the daggers were pulled out, the pain lessening. The dwarf was unarmored at the time, but the daggers lying on the ground show great wear, as if they’d been used for decades and had not been cleaned once, or maybe they were just pushed through an inch of metal, which ever more likely.

Several feet away from the daggers the dark dwarf collected himself, trying to get back up on his feet, staggering from the concussive blow from the cavern wall. He quickly reveals another dagger from somewhere inside his boot and waves it aggressively towards our dwarf, barking obvious insults and taunting sentences of deep dwarven tongue. The dwarf makes a few quicker steps and suddenly stands right infront of the dark dwarf, deflecting his futile attempt of stabbing the dwarf.

The dwarf painfully twists the dagger out of the dark dwarf’s hand and pushes him against the wall, squeezing the culprit’s neck he asks in dwarven: “The boy. Where is the boy?” The dark dwarf grins and begins to speak in taunting and slithering dwarven: “You stand no chance, you pale excuse of an overgrown Halfling.” The dwarf tightens his clench over the victim’s throat, grinding his teeth, he punches the dark dwarf in the stomach several times and makes pauses to hear a more satisfying answer.

Eventually, feeling that the dwarf means business, the dark dwarf slowly wore down and revealed their destination, but also confirmed the dwarf’s fears – the boy was to be traded as a slave in the Deep. The dwarf tied the dark dwarf up and pushed him off the cavern slope nearby, unaware and uncaring of the dark dwarf’s destiny in the dark. He gathered his things and began to chase the dark dwarven party some distance ahead of him, feeling satisfied he would soon get his chance of vengeance on the betrayers.