Vlanin

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin's back story.

[Script Wrecked]

"Wot!" Vlanin couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Laddie, ut's nay loike yer bein' banish'd, oo'r sumat," Agrim reproached. "Hoo e'er, aft'r yer wee mis-adventure un tha tunnels," Vlanin smarted, "we feel ut's best fer yoo ta go oot unto tha wid'r worl'd an' spread yer wings, so ta speak."

Vlanin sat there, dumb founded. Everything he cared for, everything he was working for, everyone he cared about, was here. His thoughts turned to Hoondin and Mischa, running the tunnels, facing unknown dangers. And of the other dwarves, who were risking their lives on a daily basis. And of Agrim and the chieftan, to whom it fell to keep the clan safe.

"Ut'll do yoo gude, laddie," the chieftan spoke. "Mast'r Agrim uz busy noo wid tha troobles. But we canna risk losin' yoo foightin' doon thar. Gude wiza'ds ar' hard tay foind." Agrim looked at the chieftan, hardly believing his ears.

Agrim turned back to Vlanin, "A'sides, when yer've prov'd yer madgicks, we ha'e a task fer yoo." There was more than a little menace in the old dwarf's words.

[Script Wrecked]

The sea spray whipped Vlanin's face as he looked out from the brow of the boat. He was actually beginning to enjoy sea travel and the wind in his hair. He wasn't feeling so sea sick either. However, the sea sickness had served to mask his feelings of isolation. There were times when he panged for the familiar surroundings of the hills of Taur'en. But alas...

Vlanin could see the line of the coast on the horizon.

"So," he spoke loudly above the wind, "hoo long a'fore we reach Fort Vehl?" Vlanin had been told of the dwarven kingdom of Ulgrid, on the isle of Mistone, and Fort Vehl was situated nearby at the base of the mountains.

"Fort Vehl?", the deck hand replied. "We're not going to Fort Vehl. We're headed for Port Hempstead."

"Booger."

[Script Wrecked]

"So, tha's hoo ay end'd oop un Port Hempstead," Vlanin banged the table and laughed loud, perhaps louder that he might have at any time previously. It felt good to be home, however briefly.

"Och, matey. Get lost un tunnels yoo woold," Hoondin slapped him on the shoulder.

"So," Vlanin spoke in more subdued tone, "hoo uz ut doon un tha tunnels?"

Hoondin considered his ale for a moment. "Nay gude, Vlanin, nay gude. Thar's hardly a week goes by wid oot sum fraca."

Vlanin's face turned severe. It troubled him to hear of the ongoing hardship of his kin.

"Any wor'd o' Mischa?"

Hoondin gave him a sideways glance. "Dinna be so worried aboot her, laddie. We can be away fer weeks, months sum toimes, runnin' tha tunnels. Och. We dinna even know yoo ha'e gone untul we return'd."

"Aye. Ay know." Vlanin recalled with a twinge of regret at having left with out saying good-bye. "Yoo got ma message, though?"

"Aye. Roight har." Hoodin patted a pouch on his belt. Vlanin was slightly disappointed that Mischa did not have it, but was still pleased that his friend kept it with him. "Yoo ha'e ta ha'e sumat when yer away ta remind yoo o' wot yer foightin' fer."

"Aye."

"Aye," Hoondin echoed back. The two dwarves sat there solemnly in their comradeship.

[Script Wrecked]

The crowd had steady grown as Vlanin recounted his story.

"... So, tha four o' uz were makin oo'r way though tha Brech Moontains. Ut were freezin' cold. At e'ery turn, we were beset by monstrous yeti. Tha lady wiza'd were layin' them low wid great balls o' foire."

"Lady Wiza'd?" a voice interupted. "Och, e'ery wun knows thar's nay such thing."

Vlanin frowned.

"So wot were tha name o' yer Lady Wiza'd, then?"

"Brunhilde," Vlanin replied sternly. "Tha fiercesome warrior were called Jacrum, an' tha Hamm'r'r o' Dorand, Kuguar. We fought hard fer every step o' tha way, but eventually got ta tha Ulgrid Fortress."

"So, ay suppose yoo met tha Kung an' Queen o' tha Ulgrids, then?" A laugh went around the crowd.

"Ay woold nay say 'met', but, yoo know, bow'd a'fore them." The crowd became silence, and then murmurred again.

"Well, ay though' they were jus' showin' me tha way ta Ulgrid, but thar were trooble at Brenuth, so back we went, ta lend axe an' hamm'r. Tha Lady Wiza'd ha'e ta leave, so tha' jus' left me ta look aft'r tha two warriors."

Vlanin paused, reflecting on his own actions that day.

"Thar were much foightin' un tha tunnels, an' we were nay lookin' gude. But Jacrim's broth'r Gothim foond uz, an' we were able ta press on."

"We enter'd tha lair of tha enemy, an' foond we were foightin' against tha deep kin." A wave of indignation went around the crowd. "Duergar," someone spat.

"Thar were a bug foight wid a champion o' tha Duergar, but tha three moighty warriors prov'd victorious." The crowd cheered.

"Hoo e'er, jus' when we though' ut were finish'd, we were beset by a daemon." The crowd hushed.

Vlanin became subdued. "Tha's when ay fell."

"YOO.. FELL?!" bellowed a voice from the back. Vlanin looked up to see the crowd part as Agrim pushed foward.

"Mast'r, ay dinna know yoo were back."

Agrim waved his hand to silence Vlanin's concern. "Yoo fell, lad?"

"Well, ay think so," he replied, sheepishly. "But ut seems ay were called back." Vlanin managed half a smile.

Agrim's face showed concern. Finally, he sighed. "Come wid me, lad."

...

Agrim paced up and down the room, in some sort of deliberation. Finally, he spoke.

"Lad..." Agrim started, then he stopped, trying once more to marshall his thoughts.

He began again, "When ay were lookin' fer an apprentuce, ut were nay jus' ta pass on ma skills as a wiza'd." He paused briefly to consider the sound of his own words.

"Durin' tha toime o' Milara tha Fell Hand'd, many dread things creat'd. Sum o' these things wreck'd havoc upon tha lan's. Sum o' these things were fough' an' vanquish'd. An' sum o' these these things were hidd'n away.

"Tha thing aboot hidd'n things uz tha', sum toimes, they ar' foond agin. Things tha' were best kept hidd'n, oo'r unmade, rise agin ta wreak thar forgott'n vengence."

Agrim paused, considering what he was about to say, and the consequences of speaking of such things.

"Thus uz tha burd'n ay bear, Vlanin, ta keep a dread thing hidd'n." He sighed, remembering his efforts in this task, and how he still had not reached the fruition of his goal. "Ifn ay ha'e tha means ta destroy ut, ay woold. But fer noo, ut has ellud'd me."

Agrim clasped Vlanin by the shoulders, and looked at him squarely in the eyes. "Thus us ma legacy ta yoo, lad." He looked deeply at Vlanin.

Agrim's tone lifted slightly. "So, yoo see, ay canna ha'e yoo goin' an' gettin' yerself kull'd while oot on yer travels. Noo'r can ay ha'e yoo fallin' foightin' tha enemy un tha tunnels. Thus uz moo're umportan' than tha'."

Vlanin sat here, trying to take all this in. His master had never been quite so candid with him, never quite so open. And now, Agrim was instilling in him his faith in a task that Agrim himself had not so far been able to carry to completion. At the same time, Vlanin was daunted by the responsibility of being in line for something that had not been able to be completed by someone more capable than himself.

Agrim smiled at Vlanin. "Dinna look so worried lad, ay ha'e a few moo're gude yars un me yet."

[Script Wrecked]

"So, thar ay were, standing on ma knees un front o' thus rowdy crood, pretendin' ta be sum human child." Vlanin wondered why he was telling Mischa this tale. Surely something more heroic would have been more impressive. After all, he was talking to a tunnel runner, one who faced peril most days of her life.

Vlanin was seated on Mischa's good side, from which she looked like any other dwarven maiden, fresh, and vital, and... She turned to speak to him, and there it was, a heavy patch across her eye, its strap tight against her skin. From behind the patch a wicked scar gouged her brow and ran down her cheek.

Vlanin lamented this loss, of something whole, of something beautiful, something that was forever broken and disfigured, and all the days would count its loss. She had called it her payment to the Soul Mother, the price to stay and fight the good fight. Such a small thing, she had said.

But it galled Vlanin, choking his throat, squeezing his heart. How many small prices had to be paid, how many good dwarves had to fall to this enemy that seemed to come and go unchecked...

"Och, Vlanin. Ay ne'er knew yoo were a dwarf o' such talents." Mischa smiled at him. Vlanin hoped she hadn't notice him flinch as she had turned. He smiled back at, catching her gaze briefly.

"Och, lassie, ay surprise ma self sum toimes," he gave her a knowing wink.

[Script Wrecked]

The torches were beginning to burn low in the open night air, raised high by tiring arms. The gathered dwarves had formed an honour guard that ran from the great doors of the hall.

From out of the Hall came six dwarves carrying a litter of shields, on which rested the body of their fallen comrade. He wore his helm for one final time, laid to rest under a heavy hide rug. Atop his legs rested his personal shield, and to his side a heavy spear, though its shaft was broken. Behind the pallbearers came a small entourage of his family, and those who had counted him as friend.

From amidst the crowd, an individual in a dark hooded robe watched in silence as the procession moved by. All those around him seemed to know who this fallen warrior was, had whispered anecdotes to share. It was to his shame that he realised this was another of his clan he did not recognise, did not know. Long years of study had kept him apart from his kin, and now he was banished to far aways places, keeping safe, separated from their struggle. He tilted his head so the hood would shadow his face, hoping to blend into the darkness.

The procession came to a great pyre. The warrior's body was carried to the top, and laid down beside the rest of his fallen comrades. A deep voice commended the fallen to the hallowed halls of their ancestors, but the words were lost to the wind for the hooded figure.

He watched as the torches slowly brought the pyre to life, to consume the bodies and release the spirits of these good dwarves. The power of the pyre entranced him. Surely there was some hope...

[Script Wrecked]

The sun was high in the sky, peering through the dust as best it could. Agrim's crow bobbed along the ground in front of them.

As they walked, Vlanin knew that this was going to be hard going with his master. There were many things that he just didn't talk about. Questions about sacred items, or the established order, he didn't seem to have the patience or inclination to discuss. However, Vlanin felt this was a question waiting to be asked, one that showed he was ready to know more.

"So, mast'r, ifn thus dread thing uz so poo'rful, why dinna we use ut aginst tha enemy?"

Agrim stopped, and closed his eyes, the weight of an old burden returning to him. He tipped his head to one side, stretching his neck to relieve the tension.

Vlanin immediately regretted asking the question. There were ways and means of approaching his master, and some things were best left unasked.

Agrim opened his eyes again, and spoke thoughtfully, "Ah, laddie, ifn ut were only tha' simple." He grinned to himself, almost malignly.

"Furstly, yoo assume ut can be used aginst tha enemy. Nay all things can be controll'd, oo'r lead un tha direction yoo wan' tae go.

"Secondly, yoo assume yoo can wield thus thing loike a craft'r does a tool, an' change tha wor'ld wid ut. Hoo e'er, tha tool also changes tha craft'r. An' nay always fer tha bett'r."

Agrim paused, remembering some hard learnt truth. "Tha great'r tha tool, tha great'r ut changes tha craft'r. Tha craft'r uz enabled by his tool, does things tha' tha tool enables him tae do, does things tha perhaps he woold nay ha'e done a'fore, but he does them because he noo can. An' un doin' these things, sum toimes he forgets hoo he was, an' wot he stood fer, an why he were usin' tha tool ta begin wid."

Agrim sighed, and slowly began walking again.

Vlanin stood there, slightly overwhelmed by the words of his master.

[Script Wrecked]

The peals of hammer against anvil rang out through the crafting hall. A group of armorers were gathered around one of their fellows, who was barely standing under the weight of the pieces of plate they kept attaching to the armor that he wore. They were too engrossed to notice Vlanin crouching down in front of a pile of armor that was waiting to be repaired.

There was something empowering about armor, that let a warrior stand before his adversary and bear his blows. How armor walked into battle with the warrior, sacrificed itself to protect him, and walked out again if he survived, witness to his courage.

Vlanin ran his hand over a chain shirt that lay top most, trying to sense it from its touch, listening for the inaudible echoes of its last battle, of how it had served its master. His hand found a rent in the links, a small hole, Vlanin could barely fit three fingers through it. In the broken links there were dark flecks that might have been dried blood.

Vlanin thoughts drifted, imagining what might have taken place. The flash of a silver blade in the darkness, striking from behind the protection of the warrior's shield, finding the gap between the plates of steel, pushed deep, the warrior barely turned to see his assailant as he fell to the floor.

A voice boomed above the noise of the hammering, snapping Vlanin's attention back. "An' wot ar' yoo doin' in tha Craftin' Hall o' tha Mast'r o' Crafts then, lad?"

Vlanin looked up to see the priest of Dorand peering down at him, his broad hands on his hips, his chest bare behind a thick leathern apron. The priest reached down and pulled Vlanin to his feet.

The priest shouted about the din of the hall, "Come ta see oo'r foin dwarvish arm'r, eh?"

The priest lead Vlanin closer to the group of armorers. "See har, thus uz the heavy armor whar makin'." He indicated the fellow now totally encased from head to foot in plate armor.

"Feel tha'," The priest dropped a piece of armor into Vlanin's hands. Vlanin struggled to hold on to it. "Heavy, aint ut," he grinned. "Dinna worry lad, we'll ha'e them beat yet."

[Script Wrecked]

The drinking hall was more lively than usual this night. A troupe of dwarven berserkers had arrived earlier that day, and were making the best of it before they moved on, or were moved on. Even more headstrong and fiery than their regular kin, berserkers were best appreciated in short stays, and so spent much of their time travelling between settlements. The strong arms and heavy axes they could bring to solve your little problem were always welcomed, but after they had busted up your furnishings, eaten you out of house and home, and chased your daughters once too many times around the halls, it was time for them to go.

Vlanin slowly pushed his way though the merry and somewhat inebriated crowd. He found Hoondin leaning against the bar, holding a young dwarven lass close at the waist, exchanging small talk.

"Hey, Vlanin." They gripped hands, pulling against the other. The dwarf lass cuddled closer into Hoondin.

"Hey, Hoondin." Vlanin smiled and raised a knowing brow, indicating the lass.

"Och, thus uz B..." There was a loud crash from the other end of the hall as one of the berserkers broke something. Her name was lost in the noise. The crowd roared with laughter.

Vlanin nodded to the lass. She smiled back briefly, before turning her attention to Hoondin again.

"Get yoo an ale, mate?"

Vlanin made his practised polite declination motion.

"Och, o' course..." Hoondin fumbled.

Hoondin and Vlanin made their own small talk for a while, but it was stilted and guarded, not quite as forthcoming in the presence of another. Eventually, the dwarven lass excused herself, though her hands lingering on Hoondin as she left.

Both of them relaxed a little in each others company.

"Och, Hoondin, ay though' yoo whar moo're, well, un fer tha long term."

Hoondin considered for a moment, "Well, yoo see, ay whar, but, yoo know, Vlanin, uts different doon un those tunnels. Luvin' from day ta day, nay knowin' ifn yoo wull see yer kin agin, see tha surface agin. All tha' future stuff uz foin, but when yoo dinna know ifn yer goin' ta see tha next day, well, yoo take a but o' companionship whar yoo foind ut."

Vlanin panged with compassion for his friend. "Fare eno'," he nodded.

As Hoondin drank from his tankard, something in the crowd caught his attention. Hurriedly, he finished his ale. "Och, got ta go. Noice talkin' wid yoo, Vlanin," and he was gone.

Vlanin laughed to himself.

He looked around the throng, studying the crowd, the small pockets of interaction amidst the mass of activity. His attention was drawn to the general commotion the berserkers were causing. There, in the sea of faces, he saw her. Mischa.

She was standing, talking with some warrior. It seemed they were struggling to hear each other above the crowd, leaning in to each other. Leaning a bit close, he thought. Were they...? Was she...? Vlanin was flummoxed. He had thought that he... Her patch... Who would... He felted humilated, and ashamed, and cross with himself.

They were whisked away from his view as the crowd suddenly surged, and rolled, and moved away. The berserkers had started brawling amongst themselves.

[Script Wrecked]

"So, then she took oot thus flamin' dagg'r, an' stabb'd tha book wid ut." Vlanin glanced at Agrim for his response. "Ay think tha warrior Jacrum were a but taken aback. But a'fore any wun coold do anything aboot ut, tha book had bur'nt ta ash."

"So, thus drow had had tha book?" Agrin placed his crow on its perch. The bird refolded its wings, and seemed to consider Vlanin through its good eye.

Vlanin nodded.

For a while, Agrim was the picture of contempation, carefully considering, almost inscrutable. Finally, he spoke.

"Ut's a funny thing aboot books," he began. "Folk ha'e all sorts o' ideas aboot books, an' hoo shoold ha'e them, an' hoo shoold nae."

"Why's tha', mast'r?"

"Vlanin!" Agrim turned sharply. "Yoo o' all folk shoold und'rstan' why."

Agrim looked for some reponse or recognition from his apprentice. Finally, he drew a breath. "As a wiza'd, whar do yoo get yer poo'r?"

"From ma spells," Vlanin replied, and then, perceiving what he had said to be too obvious or too brief, he thought quickly, and added hurriedly, "an' from ma knowledge o' tha Weave."

"Aye," Agrim nodded, "an' whar dud yoo get tha' knowledge?"

"From yoo, mast'r." Vlanin was pleased to pay hommage to his master, but again felt his answer was too shallow, failing to follow where Agrim was trying to lead him.

"An'?" Agrim couldn't help himself. He cast his eyes around the room, to the shelves, and to their contents.

"From tha scrolls an' tha tomes."

"Aye, laddie, from tha scrolls an' tha tomes," he echoed back the point he was trying to make.

"Ay ha'e read each an' e'ery wun o' these writin's many toimes, an' yet ay dinna rememb'r all o' ut. Hoo e'er, when ay need ta know sumat, ay foind tha roight book, an' read ut. When ay want yoo ta know sumat, ay tell yoo ta read thus scroll oo'r tha' parchment.

"A book uz a way o' rememb'rin' wid oot keepin' ut un yer head. When ay am gone, these writin's wull stull be har. All tha' ay ha'e learnt, wull still be har," Agrim repeated, emphasizing the last words.

Vlanin sat back in his chair. He was thinking that he was beginning to grasp what his master was saying. However, he found the effort in keeping up with his master's concepts could be quite wearying at times.

"So," Agrim continued, to Vlanin's dismay, "yoo say yer poo'r uz un yer spells. But ay say, ifn yoo dinna know hoo ta cast yer spells, yoo dinna ha'e any poo'r." Agrim paused before revealing his pearl. "Ut's tha knowin' hoo tha's yer poo'r, lad. Tha spell uz jus' tha final manifestation o' ut, see?"

It seemed that his master was quite eager for Vlanin to comprehend this. Vlanin nodded, hoping not to displease, hoping it would make more sense later.

"So, yer knowledge uz yer poo'r, an'," Agrim paused for emphasis, "tha book keeps tha knowledge." Agrim's eyes fairly sparkled with knowing and anticipation. "Wot does tha' make tha book?"

Vlanin thought for a moment, trying not to disappoint his master. "Poo'r."

"Aye, lad," Agrim grinned. "Poo'r. Oo'r stor'd poo'r. Poo'r waitin' ta be made manifest. An' nay fer jus' madgick, eith'r. Fer all things.

"So, laddie, yoo can see why folk can be so concern'd aboot books, an' whose readin' them."

Vlanin nodded, and sunk back in the chair again.

[Script Wrecked]

A few of the clan folk were gathered by the hearth, exchanging fireside stories. A young dwarven skald stood by the fire, looking on, listening. When they had noticed Vlanin sitting on the periphery, they coaxed him into telling them his latest tale.

"...Finally, we fough' oo'r way unto tha dark heart o' tha wood. Thar, un a clearin' by thus small lake were tha great shaft o' loight tha' we ha'e bin followin'. As we approach'd, we coold see thar were thus ulf maid'n standin' un tha loight."

The skald strummed a chord on his lute, and sung softly in rich baritones, "The heroes found their heavenly light..."

Vlanin looked at the skald, not sure if he was being interrupted. "We tried talkin' wid tha lass, but ut weren't untul sum wun stepp'd unto tha small'r loights tha' we were able ta converse."

The skald played the same chord, strumming at each line, "...shining on a maiden fair..."

Vlanin continued, "O' course, being an ulf, she spoke un ulvish. Fortunately, sum o' tha oth'rs translat'd fer tha rest o' us."

"...to talk with her so that they might..."

"Ut seem'd she were from far away, an' had come ta warn us."

"...learn of the message she did bare..."

"She said thar were dang'r comin', an' tha' we needin' ta prepare, an' ta be on oo'r guard."

"...warning them of strife to come..."

Someone interjected, "Pah, ulves. Trooble comin'? Dud yoo nay tell har uts already har?"

The skald continued, changing chord, "...but I say to you she did not know, of the dwarves and their woe, of their blood upon the stone." He changed chord again, "Who will stand into the light, bring dwarves aid in their fight, against the foe so dark and grim, to save the Hills of Taur'en."

The skald finished the tune to silence.

Vlanin caught a sob in his throat, touched by the skald's words. When he looked up, he noticed some of the other kin were avoiding eye contact as well.

The skald looked to Vlanin, bowed respectfully to him, and left.

[Script Wrecked]

"Qwuck, Vlanin, yer need'd."

"Wot?" Vlanin hurried after the messenger.

...

A small war host was assembled at the Under Gate.

"Ah, Vlanin," the Master of Arms clapped him on the shoulder. "A tunn'l runn'r ha'e brough' wor'd tha' thar ha'e bin trooble un tha tunn'ls. Wid Mast'r Agrim away, we want yoo to come wid us..."

"But ma mast'r ha'e said..."

"Thar's nay toime fer tha', lad. We need ta act qwuckly. Ut's e'ery-wun-to-tha-ready." The Master of Arms looked at him squarely, "We need yoo, lad."

Vlanin was uncertain, reluctant, mindful of what Master Agrim had said before. And yet his kin were asking for his help. "Foin. Lead on."

"Dinna worry, lad. We'll look aft'r yoo."

...

It occurred to Vlanin as the host exited the narrow Under Passage that he had not been in the tunnels since the time he had been rescued by Mischa and Hoondin. He was panged by doubt and fear. However, with the tight passage filled ahead and behind him by marching warriors, there was no turning back.

...

Vlanin puffed as the host quick-marched through the dark and winding tunnels. He watched the warriors in front of him marching in full plate and tower shields, while he struggled in his robe. Looking at their armour, he felt terribly vulnerable.

He wasn't sure he was going to be able to keep up the pace for much longer when they came to a stop. A hooded and cloaked tunnel runner had stepped out of the shadows and was speaking with the Master of Arms.

"Thus way, lads."

...

As the host approached the area ahead of them, Vlanin remembered his previous journey through dark passages. Warriors all around him, though less heavily armored. A commotion ahead, loud crashing and banging, shouting from the front. Glimpses as the darkness would briefly take form and strike with a flash and then be gone. More shouting, being knocked back as an warrior crashed into him, falling, then a brillant light and all was lost to him.

Vlanin inhaled sharply.

...

The host cautiously advanced into the area. From behind the wall of shields, from behind their armored forms, Vlanin saw the bodies strewn around the floor of the tunnel.

A disquieting murmur passed through the warrior host. "Steady, lads."

Vlanin saw them too. Amongst the fallen lay the lightly armored and exotically marked bodies of the berserkers. It was almost too much. The berserkers were champions to the dwarven people, a pillar to depend on. But now, but now they were lost, exposed to this scourge, and consumed. Vlanin's fear dissipated before his anger and resentment.

...

"Oi. Thus wun uz alive."

A dwarf propped his comrade up against the side of the tunnel. The bloodied warrior was obviously in some physical distress, seemed to have trouble breathing. Vlanin watched from where he stood, afraid coming any closer would disrupt his tenuous hold on life.

"Ay knew yoo woold come," the warrior smiled to the Master of Arms. He knelt down beside him.

"Conserve yer strength, lad."

The warrior ignored him. "They were magnificent." He indicated the fallen berserkers. "Tha enemy struck from tha shadows, appearin' almost un amongs' uz. But tha berserk'rs hit them back so hard," he paused, revelling in the memory, "ut threw them off."

"They came agin." He drew a gargled breath. "Tha berserk'rs were ferocious. Despite tha blows o' tha enemy, they kept on foightin', givin' as gude as they got. Punishmen' tha' woold ha'e kull'd an ordinary dwarf. They kept standin', blood runnin' doon thar legs."

The warrior fought to remain lucid. "Ay saw when they exchang'd grim glances between themselves. Ut seem'd they coold tell, but kept on foightin'," he paused, "even when they began ta fail, began ta fall."

"But wid wun las' heroic effort they threw themselves unto tha enemy, an' they drove them off," he spoke in awe, his eyes watching events past.

He choked on a sob. "But ut were too much fer them," he gasped on another breath, "they fell from thar woonds."

Exhaustion was taking hold of him, "Tha's why... ay had ta hold on... so tha' yoo woold know... oh thar val..." Looking into the eyes of the Master of Arms, he breathed his last.

The host had been transfixed as this brave soul had held on to tell them this tale of bravery and courage, and were transfixed now has he slipped away. Moments of deathly silent passed.

"K'A TZHAZHGATH WAAAZH RUR TAAZK'."
("the dwarves fear no death")

"ZHA POHARK TAAZK' KUR K'A ARALO," the host shouted in unison as they crashed shields.
("we bring death to the enemy")

Vlanin shouted out the cry with the host, moved by the loss of the berserkers, touched by the spirit of his fallen kin. He had been held in awe as the warrior had struggled to speak. Now he was was overwhelmed as his anger and grief rose. Tears filled his eyes, the magical energy surged within him, his face a grim mask.

Amidst the commotion, the Master of Arms closed the warrior's eyes, "They wull nay be forgott'n, lad. An' nay wull yoo."

[Script Wrecked]

The wake for the fallen berserkers and warriors had been long and loud. Plenty of ale had flowed, and more than a few dwarves were in touch with their berserker spirit that night.

Vlanin lurched into the wall. He wasn't feeling so good. He had drunk more than his usual, which wasn't much for a dwarf, caught up in the rowdy and exuberant behaviour. But now he wanted quiet from the ringing in his ears, and the floor to be a bit more steady.

He pushed open the heavy door to his master's hall. As he entered, he peered up past the heavy wooden cross beams into the darkness of the high rafters. The small hall felt empty in Agrim's absence.

Vlanin stood for a moment in the gloom. He spied the dark door leading down to the librarium. Had he left it open? He tottled across the hall and down the stairs, and found the door ajar.

"Helloo," he called as he peered around the door. "Any wun thar?"

After a moment's silence, Vlanin went inside, drawing the door closed behind him. He cast his spell of illumination, and sat down in one of the sitting chairs. For a moment, he was just glad to be still again.

He looked around the bookshelves, with their tomes and parchments haphazardly piled on top of one another. He sighed to himself. There must be an answer in there somewhere.

The light spell went out.

"Boog'r."

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin hauled himself up onto the reading lecturn that sat at the center of the librarium for the umpteenth time that morning with yet another parchment to peruse.

So long had he spent seated there as a young apprentice. When Agrim had first taken him on, he had had to be propped up on books and cushions just so that he could see above the edge. Many hours he had sat there, trying to absorb the strange and sometimes incomprehensible lessons Agrim had taught him, reading the estoric librams and scrolls. Wizards were highly intelligent, but often they seemed reticent about commiting too much information to writing, or made varying and inconsistent assumptions about their readers' ability or understanding. Still, with Agrim's instruction, all the effort and tedium had paid off. He was a wizard.

Vlanin remembered when Agrim had given him his own key to the librarium to mark the end of his apprenticeship, and how proud he had felt. The irony being, now that he had his own key, he spent less time in the librarium than before. Until now.

Now he was taking the next step, instead of being taught, being given facts and direction, he was seeking information for his own end, seeking information that may not be there, or, that being read, might not be recognised for the solution it presented.

Vlanin was in admiration of the wizards who had come first, that had broken new ground, expanded the greater understanding, that others might take and use and carry further. Despite their greatness, very little was known of them personnally, usually only their own works testament to their labors. And what of those unnamed wizards who spent as much effort as any but had made no headway, had no grand revelation, and were lost forever in obscurity.

Vlanin jumped down from the lecturn, and pulled out another parchment.

[Script Wrecked]

"So thar were thus lass on top o' tha temple, threat'nin' ta jump off 'coz o' wot she though' har husband ha'e bin oop to." Vlanin was talking with some dwarves in the drinking hall.

"As ut turn'd oot, ut were all false implications, an' folk jumpin' ta wrong conclusions."

Vlanin thought of Mischa, and that night in the drinking hall, and what he thought had been going on between her and that warrior fellow. What did he know? Maybe it was all innocent.

Doubt cast its shadow across his mind. He remembered what Hoondin had said about seeking company. His heart plunged as he considered that maybe it was the same for Mischa. Vlanin sighed deeply at his own predicament, and perhaps learnt a bit of compassion for the lady on the temple roof.

"Anyhoo," he grinned bravely to the dwarves. "Back ta ma readin'."

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin had been working through the various librams and tomes, scrolls and parchments, that were strewn around the librarium in a seemingly haphazard fashion. He was surprised at how many he had not read during his apprenticeship.

He was also feeling overwhelmed. There was years worth of study here. He wondered how Master Agrim had managed to read them all.

Vlanin held his head in his hands, and absentmindedly looked up from the lecturn. His gaze drifted to the empty perch where his Master's crow would sit while he was studying. He remembered the bird's baleful glare whenever he had got fed up and began to fidget. Or how the crow would peck at young fingers if you tried to pick it off its perch or shoo it away. And of course, there was always the menace that it might go for one of your eyes.

When Vlanin had first learnt of familiars, he had been certain the bird was some daemonic agent, and had given it a wide berth. Agrim had explained the different types of familiars to Vlanin, and how a wizard benefitted by having one, but this had not dispelled his young concerns.

"An' wot benefit does tha familiar get from rend'rin' thus service?" Vlanin had asked. "Wun o' them," Agrim had replied, "uz long life."

Vlanin turned his attention back to the tome he was reading. He had not taken a familiar.

[Script Wrecked]

// This scene takes place in the librariam with Vlanin having discovered a casket. For the moment, I haven't been able to satisfactorily conceal and discover the casket within the librariam. However, its holding up the story progression, so, in the interim, I'm skipping that part. My apologies. Also, I can't provide a description in the text without having placed it. So, for the moment, caskets are small, some 2' by 3', made of stone, heavy, used to hold the bones of the dead after their bodies have been burnt. //

Vlanin opened the casket lid. To his relief he found not bones, but something flat and rectangular wrapped in a heavy shroud. After a moment considering what it might be, he reached in and took it out of the casket, and unwrapped the shroud on the floor. Inside was a large, dark leather bound book, heavily embossed, edged in iron. A heavy clasp held it closed.

Why would anyone bury a book, he thought, as his hand moved to open the clasp.

Almost in answer he recalled, "Wot does tha' make tha book?"

Vlanin remembered. Power.

Why would you keep such a thing hidden, he puzzled.

"...ta keep a dread thing hidd'n..." echoed back.

His hand recoiled from the book. Was this Agrim's legacy? He was taken by a cold sweat.

What was he doing? Vlanin panicked, looking around to see who might have witnessed him, but he was still alone in the librariam. Carefully, he re-wrapped the book in the shroud. As he placed it back into the casket, he noticed some rune markings inside the casket, but didn't stop to inspect them. Hurridly, he checked over the wrapped book and casket, and then lifted the heavy lid back in place. As it ground close, he exhaled in relief.

[Script Wrecked]

Not a few days ago, Vlanin had laid at the foot of the bindstone in Port Hempstead. He had lain there looking up into the dusty sky. Death. Death was always so close, no matter how careful you were.

He and the warrior Jacrum had been on the moors of Battlehelm fighting the swampfolk. Deeper and deeper they had ventured until they had been ambushed. Master Agrim had warned him about chasing warriors to their glorious deaths, and so he had paid a price for his foolishness.

It seemed good folk were dying just holding the line. Not making any headway, just trying to preserve what they had. And still they died. What use was it being careful and cautious if you were going to die anyway? Why not, why not take some risk that you might succeed, instead of waiting for certain death?

Those thoughts returned to him now as Vlanin eyed up the cold, pale stone of the casket.

Vlanin remembered the berserkers, and the sacrifice they had made. A sacrifice that, in the end, was not to hold any ground, or protect their kin, but a sacrifice to die fighting. A sacrifice to do all they could in that moment to prevail, even, even after they had realised they would fall. Vlanin's eyes welled up.

Slowly, Vlanin lifted the lid of the casket. Slowly, he took out the wrapped book and placed it on the reading lecturn. Slowly, he took his seat in front of it.

In that moment, all there was was him and the book.

Gently, he unwrapped it. Gently, his hand traced over the singed embossing until it found the metal clasp. Gently, he squeezed the clasp until the strap sprung open.

He opened the cover, and laid his eyes across the vellum pages.

[Script Wrecked]

Vlanin looked across the far horizon from the wind swept hills of Taur'en. The dust always seemed thickest on the horizon, an ominous dark band at the edge of the sky. He breathed in deeply as the wind buffeted him, roaring softly in his ears. It was as though the swirling air held him in its embrace.

He had walked for hours, walked until his feet were sore and his legs ached, walked as far away as he could from that book. He had read the book in earnest, read the dread thing in some honest hope that it would hold a solution. After all, this was Agrim's legacy, the thing that Master Agrim strove to keep hidden. Surely, in such a book, there would be an answer.

But the more he had read, the more he found that it dealt with death, the more he found it dealt with the dead, the more he found it dealt with the undead; it was a book of necromancy.

Vlanin shuddered. He didn't want to be a blasted necromancer, co-opting the dead to do his will, defiling the bodies of the departed for his own means. He was not this.

He closed his eyes, lifted out his arms, caught in the breath of the wind, briefly forgotten of all things.