IoK Session 17-18

Norgart stood at Ironsbane’s bedside.  He watched in silence, counting the seconds between each breath.  He searched his face for signs… any clue that the mastersmith still inhabited the body of the broken old dwarf.  Each breath was labored, a struggle, as if the smith still worked the forge.  It was the breathing of exhaustion, of deep and unrelenting fatigue, and Norgart wondered how long his master could keep it up.

While his eyes watched, his fingers searched.  In Norgart’s hands was a pendent of silver and precious stone.  Absently, he ran his finger along the engraved ruins along the worn edge of the pendent.  A habit he repeated often during times of stress or deep thought.  The engravings had nearly been worn smooth, but enough remained to read.  Geonomic script etched with an artistic hand, the pendent told a short story of its orginal owner.  Family name, next of kin, profession… this one once belonged to a young apprentice.  Like Norgart, the young apprentice was learning from a master smith.  Learning the secrets of iron and fire, discovering a long and proud career held by many in his family.  That was all the engravings told, but Norgart new more of the story.  The owner of the pendent would never become a master, because he had died.  When Ironsbane gave it to Norgart, he had told him that it was a common charm for young Vernsfel dwarves.  I sort of marker which was given as to those leaving their families to make a name for themselves.  Like all dwarves, a name was a special gift.  Many would never have one, having never achieved a skill or achievement worth remembering.  Norgart came to these woods looking for his chance.  Hoping that the great Yurgrim Ironsbane would reward him with a great name. 

Today, Norgart feared that his name would never come and ‘Ironsbane’ would fade away.

Outside, the rest of the camp stood silent before the hearing being held for Fardal.  Norgart knew that Fardal had left the camp one night, but that was about all.  Curfew, as well as the prohibition on alcohol and distraction in general, was strictly enforced right now.  The fear of golyn attack had given Bolan Nine Hammers a mission, and he nor the rest of the camp would not rest until a fortress of wood and stone had been built around them.  Fardal was never the most self-disciplined young miner, but his cheer and penchant for stories had always been welcome merriment.   Norgart thought it unfair to whip such a youth for a minor indiscretion.  This seemed more a show of authority than an actual hearing.  The elder dwarves as well as the Srylian Jerule had already discussed the crime and decided the punishment.  Soon, Fardal would stand before them all and offer Shipworth a chance to practice his trade.  Seemed the younger Keymeister would also be taking a whipping… proving some point to the Nine Hammers.  Norgart wasn’t exactly a religious dwarf, but seeing such dedication to the camp would be encouraging.

 

‘They brought back weapons, Hardal, I just don’t know where they are!’

Standing in the shadows behind the cabin, Orgren whispered to Hardel.  The two had set out to recover some of the scavenged gear the scouts had returned with.  It was well past curfew, and they knew that the tower watch was sharp… they had seen one dwarf.  Easier to spot two. 

‘Doesn’t matter… what’s done is done.  What we need to understand is why he left the camp.  This elf he saw… we are miles from the Deltan woods and opposite side of the island from the Darmic.  What did he really see?’

Hardel was determined.  Within him beat a sense of family and duty which would not let Fardel’s beating go without meaning.  If he could find evidence of this elf and determine what was really happening, he could clear Fardel’s honor.  The whipping had gone poorly, and though most felt sorry for the dwarf, others saw him as a child who couldn’t follow the rules or handle the punishment.

‘Orgren… what if it’s one of hers?  What if your nephew was fooled by this Maji and her golyn?’

‘He’s not stupid, Orgren… he’s foolish.  There’s a difference.’

Orgren reached for a large stone near the stump of a tree.  The field around the camp had been cleared of trees, but many stumps remained.  Offered little cover to anything attempting to approach or leave the camp. 

‘Ready?’

With a nod from Hardal, Orgren launched the stone.  It flew far, hefted by the miner’s great arms… slamming into the side of a large crate near Eland’s kitchen station. 

As predicted, Volimak turned in his tower pearch and focused his gaze and rifle on the kitchen.  As the watchmen search intently for critters near the food supplies, Hardal and Orgren took their chance to run across the field and into the woodline to look for elves and other mysteries.