IoK Supplemental - Alchemy and Engineers
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"So... say that again?  I'm still not sure what you are trying to do here."


Eland shifted his weight from his left foot to his right.  Though he spent most days on his feet, he typically didn't have to reach this much.  The brass contraption that Jacob had hung above his work station was designed for Darians and as such, was just a foot or two higher than the Forgen cook cared to deal with.


"It's simple really... you produce an exceptional amount of heat when cooking.  The majority of which is being wasted.  Look here... these stones are radiating heat long after your bacon has been cooked.  We should be using this for something other than making a dwarf sweat."


As Eland held the brass high above his head, Jacob scuttled about the ground on his back.  A wheeled platform keeping him inches from the ground and allowing him to position additional piping beneath and around Eland's fire pit.  His white linen shirt sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows and his vest bore the stains from a few stray bacon drippings.  Around his waist was a wide leather belt, armored with an odd assortment of tools, pens, and protractors.  In contrast to Eland's slow and heavy shifting of weight, Jacob was a flurry of spindly arms and flitting fingers.  Like a well dressed spider preparing a nest.


"Almost finished here, then we'll need to fill the pressure chamber with water.  You should be able to let go now... it's bolted in place."


Eland carefully released the weight of the brass above him.  Bringing his hands back to his apron pockets, he found himself ducking his head in anticipation of the whole thing coming down on him.  When it didn't, he allowed himself to relax and take in the whole of Jacob's work. 


Coils of brass wound round the fire pit, giving the appearance of a metal ship rope set for storage.  In the center was his firepit.  Still functional for cooking, plus a chute for adding fuel.  This was Eland's part of the deal... no more bending over to shovel charcoal, he could load the bin once a day and it would feed itself as needed.  Clean out the back at dusk.  The rest was all for Jacob.


"Help me tip this upright... a little too heavy for me."


"Everything's too heavy for you.  How did you survive 3 years in Forgen and never gain any meat on you?"


The 'pressure vessel' that Jacob was ineffectively pushing on was a little smaller than a rain barrel, which was part of the point.  With Eland's assistance, the two were able to push it into an old wooden barrel that had been partially filled with sand.  Once it was upright, Jacob poured the rest of his sandbags into the barrel and around the vessel.


"The sand will help to hold heat and act as a barrier should... will lets just say there is a reason I didn't place this right next to your fire pit."


Eland eyed him suspiciously, but smiled along with the gaze.  This wasn't his first device the two had worked together on.  More than one had failed in catastrophic manner, usually resulting in a lot of noise and steam but nothing else.  Jacob was always careful to include fail-safes in his work.


"...and now the water.  Fill it to the line there and then seal it up.  It should begin working immediately."


Sure enough, as Eland closed the water hatch and spun the locking wheel he could see the water gauge rising.  It was always Jacob's favorite part and Eland's favorite to watch.  Every time, the two would gingerly step away from the pressure vessel.  As if their tiptoeing was the only thing convincing the brass barrel to behave.  Like sneaking away from a sleeping bear that you had just stumbled upon.  Jacob watched with anticipation as the little red float rose in the glass tube attached to the barrel.  It was this small vial that spelled success or failure.  As the float rose above Jacob's painted arrow and 'DANGER' wording, a hiss bellowed out from the barrel and thin jet of steam quietly vented from a brass fitting.


"See... the pressure release valve worked this time."


"Good... you can step out from behind me now and check to see if it works."


For a moment, Jacob looked ashamed of his actions, but the two had been here before and the embarrassment passed quickly.  Besides, Eland knew that Jacob couldn't take the heat like he could.


Following the brass tubing from the vessel to the firepit, Jacob checked for leaks and vents.  He held a white handkerchief on a stick, slowly tracing it around all the welded seams and fittings.  He raised his hands upward and followed the bends above the fire pit and then over to the wooden back of the camp's center lodge.


"Did it work?  Can you feel it yet?"


"This one can feel fire from the walls.  You have given us heat, Jacob."


Hsyrolno knelt before the brass tubing which ran along the lower half of the walls.  She held her hands before them and smiled as she could feel heat radiating from the steam within.


"Master Ironsbane will rest well at night, Jacob.  This one thanks you."


Jacob smiled, knowing that Hsyrolno will also appreciate the heat.  She would never complain about her own chill while Ironsbane was in such shape.  Admiring his work and holding his own hands to the walls, let out a calm sigh.  Come the fall, everyone will be wanting steam heating run through their lodge walls.  Too bad he used nearly all of the brass on this building and the officers housing.  Seemed unfair, but he wasn't the one providing the brass.

IoK Session 22

When you’re in a fight, time slows down.  It’s the old cliché that’s repeated by every warrior.  They could see the arrow in flight.  Every swing of the blade as it passed through the shower of sweat and blood.  Every heartbeat, including their opponent’s final one.  This is all bunk.  Time doesn’t slow down, it vanishes into a chaotic flurry of instinct and panic.

Orgren let loose a primal sound and charged the first golyn to enter the gray circle.  Muscled flexed and the pick axe struck true, ripping through the boiled leather and rubbery hide.  The slick sound from the pick’s withdraw was near as disgusting as the mess left by the creature as it fell.  For a miner, Orgren was a terrifyingly lethal opponent.

Hardel was less.  Age had traded his strength and speed for wisdom.  This did him little good in a physical struggle for survival.  The creature that had rushed him was half his size, but it was composed of nothing but sinew, teeth, and hate.  He had only enough time to raise the weapon before it was upon him, dodging beneath the haft and stabbing its spear into his midsection.  The broadhead cut through his tunic, but not much deeper.  A scratch, deep but clean and nothing he wasn’t used to.  He finished his swing but the golyn had already scurried clear of the downstroke.  Hardel spun on his heels and braced himself for another round.

‘Rush them… now.  These two won’t hold them off alone.”

The words from Veldamere were hushed, but the intent was clear.  Landralsine had been waiting for them.  Dropping his bow, he charged into the clearing.  Arrows would do him little good in this darkness.

The first golyn he encountered was caught unaware, which was the intention.  With a fluid stroke, he drew a thin tapered blade from his bracer and plunged it deep within the creature.  The strike was clean with little of the toxic mess remaining on the blade.  The deltan then sprung back to the trees and listened… without surprise to offer advantage, he was now dependent upon his companions to make the next move.

Regnit would not disappoint.  The sky erupted in a flash of daylight and blinding fire.  Less heat than flash, the elemental magicks  lingered in the air leaving an odor of reminiscent of cinnamon and hot copper… the signature of the dwarf’s training with the Rikians.  As the glare faded, Landralsine opened his eyes to see flickering white flares descending from the night sky, providing enough light to finally assess the full conflict.

As Landralsine repositioned, Veldamere cracked the silence of the night with sulfur and fire.  His rifle round ripped through branch and golyn flesh alike, spinning the surprised leechling round and dropping him. 

“In the clearing… move to me!”

Veldamere motioned to the misplaced miners while drawing another round from his vest.  He needed to get these two out of the way before Regnit got excited.  There had been ‘miscalculations’ in the past which he would prefer not see again.

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Hardel heard the strangers shouting, and searched through still blinded eyes for who was calling for them.  Two of the biters had been dropped within that same flash of light, and he believed only two remained.  One of them much larger than the others.

“Orgren, follow my voice.  The golyn are much blinder than we are right now.  No need to stay exposed.”

The big dwarf had looked straight into the light and now held his eyes.  Having dropped his pick axe in surprise, he was nothing more than a sinewy target should the biters recover first.

Hardel rushed ahead, continuing to call to Orgren who stumbled after.  For now, it didn’t matter who the others were.  That rifle shot could have ended him as easy as the leechling, meaning they didn’t want them dead.  This was enough reassurance as they would get for now.

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It was always difficult to run through these caves.  The humidity… everything was damp and covered with a thin sheen of fungus.  It was the boots that were ill suited for the task, but armor was beneficial at times like these.  The boiled leather flexed, but didn’t allow for his toes to grasp the rocks as he preferred.

As he maneuvered the tunnels, he thought of what went wrong.  Had they gotten sloppy?  No… she had pulled too many of them away from this entrance.  Hiding beneath the natural waterways was clever, but they had a Srylian… water doesn’t discourage them.  Now he was the only one left… what would he say to her when she heard?

There was no time to move the brood, and he decided that moving her pet would be equally difficult.  The damn thing had never liked him, and he wasn’t prepared to handle it anyways.  Maybe for the best, he needed to get to the gate and prepare himself.  Delivering the news of losing one of the Vernish Apprentice bands would be… unpleasant.  Still, he was the only one left.

He picked up his pace.

IoK Session 21

The flask was empty.  Hardel was sure that Orgren had drank more than his share, but he wasn’t going to argue with the meaty dwarf about it… this was the happiest he had seen him in weeks.  The Weekin had always believed that the spirits of distilled grains were a magic truth serum.  Hardel’s experience had been more of ‘magical belief’ serum.  As Orgren rambled on about impossible stories, the lick of whiskey on his tongue would lead you to believe that Orgren believed his own impossible stories.  This was the true magic of alcohol… not truth, but failure to see lies.

“…and then this lass comes tumbling down the stairs.  All 200lbs of jiggly bits and lace, and she lands right on top of me.  Well I just had to introduce myself after that.  So I set down the duck I was carrying…”

The story went on and Orgren laughed at his own incredible tale, and this continued well into the night.  The moon had risen and the forest around them faded to gray.  Despite the noise from the one-dwarf-show, the night time had come alive with forest animals.  Hardel half listened, half watched… his attention longing for something other than the third round of the same drunken stories.  Squirrels and rabbits moved through the underbrush.  At the edge of Hardel’s vision, he could see deer.  Their glowing green eyes watching his with curiosity.  They were far from the settlements of either dwarf or man and he was certain that this may have been the first time this creature had laid eyes on a kin-darian.  The two shared a moment before Orgren’s belly laugh spooked the deer back in to the woods and the shadows past Hardel’s sight.

“… and so I married her!”

Orgren laughed again, wiped a tear from his eye, and breathed the night air deeply.  The big dwarf simply wanted to laugh, and this time away from the camp had been sorely needed.

“That’s a great story, Orgren.  I never knew you had so many children back home.”

Hardel had none of his own.  It was his older brother who had settled down and made a life for himself.  Hardel had always been a wanderer.  Being the younger brother, he always found himself in the shadows.  Foldis was expected to pick up their father’s trade, leaving Hardel the luxury of ‘low expectations’.  Never needed to prove himself nor carry on their father’s quest for a strong name.  Instead, Hardel joined the Merchant Navy of Forgen.  Sailing from island to island, seeking nothing but strong drink, quick silver, and easy Fellerin girls.  He had an amazing story of a week with a Childe sorcerer while circling Daconis, but it was a story he kept to himself.  Plus, it was an old story and one left best for young dwarves to tell.

Orgren smiled and chewed on a bit of jerky.  He looked to the sky and watched the stars, enjoying the silence between friends. 

It was during the natural pause of their conversation that Hardel first noticed the change in the forest.  Orgren’s stories had ceased and the forest had returned to silence, but this was an unnatural silence.  The squirrels and rabbits had all left their gray circle, no animals to be seen within the limits of their dwarven vision.

Motioning to his pick, both Hardel and Orgren reached for their makeshift weapons and stood without further speaking.  They stood facing each other, but searching the woods behind one another.  Readying themselves for whatever may step out of the shadows.

The trio had been hunting all day and fatigue was beginning to set in.  Somewhere in these dark woods was a band of Golyn scouts, and they needed to be found before they returned to the pit entrance.

“Lan… how are you doing back there?  I want to avoid lanterns right now… we need to catch them unaware.”

Veldamere and Regnit had struggled to keep up with the young Deltan during the day, but now that twilight had past the elf had lost his lead.

“I’m fine, Vel.  The sky is clear and the moon lights my way.”

“I’m not fine… I’m tired.  Vel, I think we’ve gone too far away.  The golyn were following a small circular pattern and we’re past that now.  Let’s head back to the mudhole and wait for them.”

Regnit had been flagging for the past mile.  His nature as a bookworm now betraying him with every labored breath. 

“Another mile, no more.  I know I heard something up ahead.”

“If you can’t make it, Reg… I’m willing to carry you.  Like a little hairy baby.”

“So you are jealous of my moustache.  You’ll get yours eventually, Lan… you are a male right?  Can’t tell with you elves.”

Though the chatter was against his plan to sneak up on the golyn, Vel couldn’t help but smile as his two little brother’s bantered.  They had been bored in the woods for too long.

It was then that the moonlight caught something up ahead.  A flash of yellow which Vel recognized immediately.  Halting on his heels, he waved wildly to his rear… catching the attention of Reg and Lan.  They hunched, and laid silent.  Trying to catch another glimpse of the glowing yellow eyes.

Luck held out, and Vel saw the pale scalp of a leechling creep through a moonbeam.  It was hunting something as well, skulking through the forests towards a clearing.  As the three laid silent, they counted at least 4 more leechlings and a true golyn.  They had spread out in a circle and were all slowly encroaching on the forest’s edge.

A tap was heard and Vel spun his head to the rear.  Reg held a wide-eyed look of surprise as he pointed two fingers into the clearing.  Lan seemed unaware and with eyes closed appeared to be listening intently to the woods.  In his hands he held his bow ready and arrow notched.

Following Reg’s fingertips, Vel peered into the darkness beyond his under-sight.  Though difficult to make out, it appeared that two dwarves stood in the clearing.  They held picks, and waited.
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"I don't understand... how could you not have seen them leave?  We built a tower right above the barracks.  You were in it.  The only possible answer is that you weren't looking!"

Drauk's face was a deep crimson as he scolded Volimak.  The dwarven rifleman stood at attention during the entire verbal barrage, braced against the hot breath of the senior mercenary.

"I don't know how I missed them, Drauk.  I swear..."

"I don't want to hear another word.  Its a simple fact; Hardel and Orgren left under your watch.  Return to your post and we'll settle this later."

Volimak didn't drop his stance till Drauk had returned to the mess lodge.  Rolling his shoulders, he attempted to relax and chase away the cramp from his neck.  It had been only 5 minutes or so, but the tension felt like hours.  Glancing up to the tower's loft, Volimak felt the sun on his face and new the tower would be that much closer to the heat.  Slinging his rifle, he ponderously reached for the ladder's rungs.

From up here, he could see every bit of the camp.  The loggers had cleared several acres now, providing for open set backs of safety.  There was also a stone wall erected along the south, growing by feet every day as it encircled the freshly thatched cabins.  To his south, the primary mining crew spent their days gathering more logs and stone.  They toiled under this same sun as Volimak, but he swore he was warmer than they were.  The sweat soaking his boiled leather tunic, leaving a dark stain across the back.  Black and ringed with salt. 

Shielding his eyes, he searched the remaining woods for signs of the two runaways.  A sea of evergreens along the coast of the Vernfal Mountains.  It truly was a beautiful sight.  He understood why the Vernish had made their homes amongst these hills and peaks. 

Watching the wind stir a wave of across the treetops, Volimak let his mind wander freely while his eyes focused on the task of hunting wayward dwarves. 

If there was an elf in these woods, why would it ask Fardel for aid?  Of all dwarves in the camp... Fardel was a fool.  A storyteller with a loose grasp of the severity of their situation.  Golyn had infested the evergreen sea to the north, hiding beneath its pine scented waves.  The scouts had been sent to flush out this infestation and return with some 'McGuffin of Power' which supposedly held the master smith trapped in the dream world... who makes this crap up?  If the old dwarf hadn't recovered from a rusty knife to the belly, you don't need an elven shaman to trap him in a dream to explain his bed ridden situation.  He's an old dwarf, and they die from knife wounds... some slower than others.

But none of this explains the elf.  Fardel believed the elf was asking for help... that the other elf must be stopped or a family would be killed.  Who's family?  The elf's?  Is so, why should we care?  And if this was such a matter of monumental importance, why wouldn't the elf simply walk into camp right now and scream 'Help me you stupid dwarves!'

The sun was bright, and Volimak's mind returned to the green sea.  With a strange realization, it occurred to him how easy it was to lose track of yourself up here.  The ever present wave of the forest was hypnotic and for the last several minutes, he had been lost within his own day dream.  Looking to the south, he no longer saw the miners.  They hadn't moved far, but he needed to search for them again.

Perhaps being lost within a dream is not at all so difficult.

IoK Session 20

“Well, how many lashes do you think you’ll get?  I’m hoping for at least 25… need to be able to outdo the young Rikian.  Gotta admit, he took the lash well.  Would have thought him a disciple of Talivar the way he withstood Shipworth’s work.”

Hardel never really knew Orgren to be a chatterer, but since they’d left the camp he never ceased to express his thoughts.

“The way I see it, you’ll get more.”

“Why do you say that?  This was as much your idea as it was mine.” 

Hardel was half surprised and half flattered.  He would take a harsher count, being the senior miner amongst the crew.  Bolan would whip him to make a point, and then whip Orgren because he could.

It was nearly midday and the camp was sure to have noticed their absence by now. 

“Think they’ll send the scouts after us?  I hear that the hynid can damn near track anything.  What do you suppose is stranger, the beastlings or the flatlanders?  This ‘Mip’ is the first one I’ve actually met, and he appears as much a monster as the hynn.  More so… as he seems a new monster each morning.  How are the Northwinds supposed to know when to shoot?  What if a real monster comes into the camp and they think its Mip and it eats all the bacon?”

Orgren was just rambling now.

“No monster could eat all the bacon… Eland has enough to choke a wyvern.”

Hardel was sick of bacon, but sure enough his pack smelled of Applewood smoked pork bellies.  Some apples, a sack of nuts, and a flask of rye whiskey to round out their diet.  Since they were already breaking some rules, might as well break the best ones.  Besides, neither he nor Orgren really knew what to expect of this hike.  Might as well enjoy it.

Orgren continued to vent every thought and Hardel focused on the woods.  The larger miner was no scout, but his strength was ever useful when things went south.  A shame they didn’t find a suitable axe before leaving, but Orgren carried his pick in hand.  Hardel had seen him shatter boulders with a single strike and hoped he would never see the dwarf swing at something softer.

Hours went by and the two hiked south.  A straight line did not exist in these untamed woods, but Hardel had spent enough time with maps to understand how to navigate.  Besides, this wasn’t a long trip and it wasn’t a straight line they needed.  Fardel could not have traveled far from the camp during his nighttime expedition.  The plan was to head past where he claimed to have spoken with his mysterious elf and find a trail or camp.  Far enough that Bolan wouldn’t find them, yet close enough to find a clue and clear his nephew’s name. 

But the sun continued west and the shadows continued to lengthen.  Hardel and Orgren began to circle the camp in a wide arc, well beyond the eyes and ears of Volimak’s tower.  Orgren seemed to have run out of thoughts to share and the only question to be heard was the one the forest was not answering.  No camp, no tracks, no markings or signs.  Perhaps Hardel’s past hunting trips hadn’t prepared him to be a real tracker, or perhaps there was no elf to track. 

What if Fardel had made it up?  What if this was a fish story so big that even his nephew believed it? 

“Hardel… I was thinking…”

So that’s what the silence was.

“…this elf seems to have taken great care in only being seen by Fardel and only meeting with him after dark.  It obviously doesn’t want to be found.  Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way… let’s let the elf come to us.  It has a story to tell and it’s looking for help.  We’ll make ourselves available.”

With that, Orgren brushed away the foliage from a large stone and took a seat.  From his belt, he pulled a green apple.  Crunching the fruit and staring into the woods, Orgren looked every bit the visage of patience.

“Fair enough.  We wait to be seen.”

Hardel sat on a nearby log, pulled his flask, and took a long drink.  His knees fully agreed with Orgren’s plan, though his mind was at ill at ease with sitting still.  Sure, the elf could see them here in this clearing.  So could everything else.

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“Well… that was that.  Another 3 ravens in my pocket and all I need do is point a srylian towards a mudhole.  I’m not sure I trust this job, but it’s damn easy.”

Regnit smiled and pantomimed tossing three coins into a pouch.  Veldamere smiled while continuing to watch the bubbles of the watery cave entrance.

“Lan… how long can a srylian hold its breath?  They’re not amphibious, are they?  Just water lizards, right?”

The older brother was asking with the air of a concerned onlooker… Not part of the problem, but hesitant to let bad things happen to others.  It had always been Veldamere’s problem.  Couldn’t stay out of the business of others.

“They know what they’re doing.  If not, they’ll learn quickly.”

“The ancients can hold the breath of four men, and they swim better than they walk.”

Landralsine was young for a Deltan.  No more than 35, which put him at the same age as Regnit.  The two had known each other since they were children, and Veldamere had promised his mother that he would watch out for him.  Deltans matured slowly and though Regnit was now an adult Vern, Landralsine still had another inch or two of height and hopefully a few more pounds of muscle.  He was quick though, and still a good inch taller than Regnit.  Maybe two now.

“We never scouted the caves and I don’t know what they will face in there.” 

Veldamere’s forehead formed a wrinkled ‘V’.  It was a recurrent expression of concern that made him look older than his 40 years.  The lines of the older son, worn by most first born.

“I’d say they have…”

Regnit flipped through his journal, fingers tracing pages of text and numbers while silently mouthing the rest of his statement.  Then with a nod…

“1 big one, 5 tall ones, 10 regular ones, and 20 little ones… and that’s just what we’ve seen.”

“Don’t count the big one, I don’t think it’s aggressive.  Lan…”

“Dormaic Ogre… they’re found on the west coast.  Fishing tribes.”

“That would explain how he knows how to swim.  She must have brought him here.  Either way, we shouldn’t be seen.  There are still other golyn in the woods.”

Regnit paused, closing his journal and pointing to the pit.

“Vel… if they are still in there when the golyn scouts return, that would cut off their escape.  The Darian said they would be in and out… a retrieval job.  What if they can’t get out because the others are returning to the hole?”

The ‘V’ deepened.  Their employer had told them not to get involved, just keep an eye on the area.  This changed things though.  As big as that hynn was, nobody stands up well to a surprise at their backs.

“Change of plans then… Lan, start tracking the leechlings.  We can at least cover their rear.  If the Darian asks, we’ll say this band of misfits did it.”

IoK Session 19

“Heading South West, 5 miles.  7 stops to reset snares, spent an hour installing a blast gem, and then returned to the hole.”

Regnit penciled the words as Veldamere recited his report.  It was a nightly routine and provided a comforting order to the strange mission they were on.  Hired several weeks ago, the brothers had found themselves far from Justicar Keep’s roadside taverns.  They had grown bored of escorting merchant wagons across The Ambassador’s Way and had agreed to a short notice scouting job. 

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“It’s simple really… Stay in the woods at the coordinates provided.  Record any activity noticed in a 3 mile block, and stay low.  I’ll return once a week to the coordinates and retrieve the reports.  If we move, we’ll adjust your location.  Otherwise, you’re just living off the land and penning promissory notes with your names on them.”

The Darian never introduced himself, he just made the offer after purchasing a round and asking for a minute of time in return.  This first deal was honest, so Regnit and Veldamere provided their minute of attention.

“I’m not going to ask why we're in the woods, but what are we looking for?  Those coordinates are south west of Vernfelle and I really don’t feel like hiding from Dramic.”

Regnit feigned a concerned look into his empty mug, waiting for the stranger to take the hint.  A raven slid in the direction of the alehouse’s lady and he felt comfortable that the stranger wasn’t clueless… another good sign.

“No Dramic.  There is a hunting party of flatlanders nearby, but we’re not anticipating any problems.  Still, my buyer is concerned about security and would like some additional insurance.  This isn’t a merchant guard job, we already have a crew for that.  We also have a disposable scout party… created ones with a bit of sense, but you don’t want to put too much faith in talking animals.  We need professionals in the wings.”

Veldamere frowned, a common habit which shown on his otherwise young face.  Stirring another honeystick into his tea, the dwarf tediously pulled another question from his beard.

“If your employer is so concerned about security, why hire hynlings at all?  Justicar Keep is full of rangers looking for an extra coin between trainings.  Deltans and Darians make fine security.  Why us?”

“Because you’re Vernish.  We believe this is a job you may appreciate.”

____________________________

It was those words that sealed the deal and blackened their thumbs.  The stranger then rolled up the inked contracts and departed, leaving a small sack of ravens as a down payment on their loyalty. 

“Are you paying attention?  Reg… your smearing your ledger.”

Veldamere’s ‘big brother tone’ snapped Regnit back to the now.  Sure enough, his glove had brushed the still wet ink and left a black stain across the notebook.  The ink seemed heavy, blacker.  The gloves had been stained many times before, but this time he may have ruined today’s notes.

“I’m sorry Veld… let’s start again.  We have time”, letting the last few words roll out with a cynical smile.  Boredom had been their greatest enemy of late.  Watching golyn place traps and gather berries was not the most exciting work.  Their instructions did not allow for any ‘hunting’ of their own, so the simply watched as the vermin flowed from the watery pit near the mountains foot.

“At least we’re kinda home for a change, that should give you something to focus on.”  Veldamere kneeled a pulled an apple from his satchel.  “You never got to see the great smelters of Vern as a child.  Father would take me there sometimes… it was a sight.  The Darian smiths never built anything so grand.”

Years ago, Veldamere would finish this same story with an ‘I’ll show you one day’, but that part of the tale stopped about 5 years ago.  The Vernish elders had made no progress procuring aid in reclaiming the city.  The Merchant Kings were slow to move, especially for humans, and the Justicarians couldn’t afford to send troops.  Seemed the old monarchs of Covel were up to something and small raids had become a common event amongst the nation borders. 

“OK… heading south west, 5 miles.  What was the rest?”  Regnit held the pen ready.

“Never mind that… I believe our guests have arrived.  Retrieve Landralsine from watch and meet me near the pit.”

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.

IoK Session 16

‘No… that is not yours!’

Cranic pulled the now torn bedroll from the young bear.  He and his brother had gained at least 10 pounds in the last couple weeks, and their constant roughhousing was beginning to wear on the lone beastmaster.  He had separated them for the evening, which only seemed to make them frustrated. 

Rylon, the larger of the two cubs, had taken to chewing leather when upset.  Cranic had already gone to the quartermaster to replace a backpack and a quiver.  Seemed his next silver would be spent on a replacement bedroll.  Despite the inconvenience, Cranic smiled as he watched the bear paw and play at the loose batting.  He would sleep on the ground tonight.

Cranic and the cubs had set up their own small camp just north of the Nine Hammers expedition.  Still close enough to aid in the defense of the camp, but far enough away that he need not listen to the constant berating of Bolan.  The older brother had taken up the mantle of Ironsbane, though he knew nothing of leadership. 

Then again, Cranic had to admit that the camp was developing at an impressive pace.  Though he and the Srylian still slept under hides and makeshift shelters, the dwarves had moved from their tent city into several rough cabins.  Three log houses which offered protection from the elements as well as potential shelter from attack.  They were built with heavy log walls and wood flooring.  The windows and doors were also heavy construction, capable of barricading from the inside.  Standing high above them, a stilted tower offered excellent vantage over the clearing of the camp.  Bolan had saw to removing all of the trees near the camp in order to eliminate cover for any approaching golyn incursion.  Though defensible, the camp was also obvious.  Easily spotted by any scout, they would be able to hold their ground but never hide.  Not a tactic Cranic favored.

‘Hobok… your bear is eating your bedroll.’

Cranic smiled, knowing that Felsyrlus had a knack for stating the obvious.  The Syrlian Jerule was neither subtle nor tactful, and this was on purpose.  Felsyrlus intended to be seen and heard… and honest.  Cranic found him always to be honest, even when it was inconvenient.

‘I think he appreciates the flavor.  It was a well-seasoned bedroll.’

The Jerule didn’t return the smile.  He never did, but with few in the camp who spoke the Created tongue, Cranic took his opportunities to express himself when he could.

‘Jerule… How are the dwarves?’

With no knowledge of Darian or Geonomic languages, Cranic suffered from both a curse and a blessing.  Bolan had tried several times to command the beastmaster.  The elder son had come to him with the Northwinds, no doubt as a show of authority.  He bellowed in a stern timbre and pointed to the forest.  Cranic took this to mean he was not welcome in the camp and had moved his tent further north.  Felsyrlus informed him after that Bolan had wanted him to scavenge roots and berries from the woods.  Not wanting to be the dwarves kitchen servant, the two had agreed to ‘play dumb’ regarding their shared communications.  This seemed to pain the Srylian, but he seemed to also appreciate being able to confide in someone.

‘They work hard building the camp.  They clear trees and raise walls.  Bolan has denied them any drink but water till the camp construction is complete.  Seems he believes they are more productive sober.’

The nod from the Jerule suggested he felt the same about the productivity, but the concern still shown through his scaled grimace.

‘I watched the woodsman shouting at the tanner this morning.  They were legitimately angry this time.  I thought they may come to blows until Drauk stepped between them.  I also saw young one, Fardal, crying.  He hid over by those trees from the others.’

Cranic gestured to the eastern woodline, not that the dwarf was still there.  Stress was building in the camp, and he feared that it wouldn’t be long before that young dwarf decided to test his luck in the forest.

‘No one is to enter the woods alone.  If Fardel continues, Bolan may make an example of him.  I believe it is only a matter of time before he requires a scapegoat to display his authority.  This one will not be able to stop it if the Nine Hammers declare their judgement.’

It was an odd sort of law the Jerule adhered to.  The Srylian respected strength and lineage.  It was one of the reasons they worked well with the Covalian Nobles… lineage was everything to them.  As the Nine Hammers were the ‘aristocracy’ of this camp, and technically they funded everything, their will was the law.  Cranic feared that in time, Bolan would need to demonstrate his power.

‘If Bolan possesses this authority, why did he let Ironsbane run the camp for so long?  Why would this noble dwarf from a strong house not wish to wield power from the very beginning?  He seems to be enjoying it now.’

The Jerule stiffened, and Cranic observed what he believed to be a sense of pride.

‘Because Ironsbane comes from a greater house.  He is not the servant of Talanik Nine Hammers… he is Talanik’s uncle.’