Brondalorm Brightflame the Legend of the Battlefield

Role

Chapter 9

A dwarf sat quietly, praying softly under his breath near a patch of
bloodstained ground. A blade seemingly made of pure, shimmering water
was laid down upon the ground, as well as other pieces of battered
armors. As the dwarf came into better focus, you noticed a few tears
had fallen from his eyes into a deep and luxurious beard, and as the
dwarf finished his prayer he wiped what looked like a dangerous
gauntlet of spikes across his face, amazingly not hurting himself in
the process. As he rose to leave, a resolute voice seemed to rise
in tenor from deep within the dwarves lungs.

"Ah'll git'm fer yer lad. Ah'll make sure yer git yer retribution
an' ken go ter yer rest in tha' fields."

Much later, the dwarf was near death, slowly funneling a large sack
of coins towards what looked like a robed priest. Slowly but surely
the dwarf seemed to gain color back into his skin, his wounds began
to miraculously heal, and he stood straighter, and with dogmatic
purpose. Glancing around the small chapel, he nodded softly towards
the priest, and reached for a potion in his hand, drinking its'
contents with one massive gulp. His skin instantly hardened into what
looked like pure granite, the magical transformation quite amazing
to behold in the brief seconds since he had finished the last of the
magical brew.

Later you see the dwarf speaking to a large giant wielding two
massive blades, the dwarf's tone indicating a teaching lesson may be
at hand. The giant himself was nearly as battered as the dwarf,
though stood with the same stoic determination as he quietly nodded
along with several of the dwarf's points. Finishing his "lesson",
the dwarf tossed a bulging sack of gold coins towards the giant,
mentioning 'Yer goin' ter need tha' as he did so. The dwarf turned
to leave, but not before briefly mentioning something about a beard
as he surrounded himself with the glowing flames of the Phoenix.

Role

Chapter 8

A battered dwarf was slowly making his way down the road, two blazing
maces in either hand. Every so often he would stop to stare at a
patch of random shadows on the road, tugging on his beard and muttering
a few dwarven curses. His eyes seemed to glow with brilliant, golden
flames, and while his clothing was relativley non-descript, a glowing
mark with the symbols of the dwarven pantheon seemed to hum softly
with each step that he took. He smiled softly to himself at a random
part of the road, as if he had heard something that made him extremely
wary.

The same dwarf now is in a shop of many magical oddities, arguing
with the purveyor over a large bundle of potions that had been set
aside for purchase. Tugging angrily on his beard, he tossed a thick
sack of gold towards the shopkeeper, mentioning something about
"Bein' gouged in tha' arse" by prices, and placed the bundle of potions
into a magical, floating chest that seemed to trail quietly behind him.

The dwarf now was in a dark and forboding keep, wielding a lance blazing
with divine energies. As he fought through the legions of undead within
he stopped momentarily to pick up a key that the last of the foul
undead had dropped. Opening an ancient coffin, he snorted, cursing his
luck. He picked an ancient spell book from within its' depths,
muttering to himself about "Me friends migh' need this" before trudging
back up through the Keep.

Now the dwarf was speaking with a fairly interesting porcupine. His
voice turned emotional and animated at times, gesticulating wildly as
the porcupine seemed to quietly nod in the dwarves direction. As he
finished his story he stiffened, and reached for a pair of elvish
steel maces looped around his waste. Just then a pair of angry
barbarians lept upon the porcupine, dodging its' quills while trying to
smash the stony flesh of the creatures. The dwarf cursed under his
breath and pushed the porcupine out of the way, attempting to dodge
its' spiny quills himself as he took the the brutal beating of the
barbarians upon himself. With a grunt he mentioned for the porcupine
to leave, furiously attempting to block as many strikes as he could.

Role

Chapter 7

Perhaps that's why he's upset, the barkeep thought. Several failed squires
had ended up in his tavern, traumatized beyond recognition from the wars
they had fought and lost, telling tales of great evil and Shadowy forces.
Even worse were the ones who sat with stoic calmness, eyeing the other
customers with dangerous eyes, hands fidgeting towards blades that were
concealed or openly carried.

He refilled the mug once more, telling himself this would be the last time
and vowed to see the dwarf safely to his upstairs guest room after, for
surely he was in no condition to leave the comfort of the tavern this night.

"Ah tol' yer about tha' time wit' tha' farg'n rampaging Orc chief yet? Or
tha' Werewolf tha' be terrorizin' tha' Redhorn?"

The dwarf seemed fairly animated during this story, gesticulating wildly at
times, throwing his hands in vague battle-like motions, howling in
perceived pain and anger.

"Well, as much as I would love to hear the rest of the stories, I'm afraid
it's time for me to close up, master Bron. I do appreciate your generous
payment so please allow me to offer my upstairs guest room as a place to
stay the night, for there are all manners of cut-throats and brigands who
would see a drunken...ahem...a tipsy customer as a fine target."

"Ah kinnae take tha' offer yer see," the dwarf replied, sighing softly to
himself as he reattached some loosened armor across his sizable midriff.
He went about standing to his full height with surprising ability, showing
no ill affects from the near tankard of ale he drank, tossing a second
sack of coins towards the barkeep (who looked on rather incredulously).

"Ah appreciate tha' time. Sometime it be better ter git all dis nonsense
out me head den ter dwell on me failures all tha' time. An dinnae worry
bout me gettin' rolled by no brigand. Dey may desire tha' beard, but
ah only an easy target ter one man. Damn 'is black heart."

And with that, he left, a pair of glistening maces dangling behind his
back on an ingeniously crafted loop to his belt.

Role

Chapter 6

"So yer see, ah were fightin' dese bloody Nightwalkers wit' me mate Kleiran,
yer know, tha' poor dwarf tha' los' 'is beard ah be tellin' yer about
earlier...en this farg'n black elf jumps out tha' farg'n wilds, stabbin'
us both en tryin' ter make us 'is own personal pincushion!"

The dwarf motioned for the barkeep to refill his mug, which had been
downed at frankly a frightening rate (though one could argue with half the
ale winding up in the dwarves beard he couldn't be that drunk after all).
By this point it was well past closing, but the stories the dwarf had told
were quite vivid and full of such emotion and bloody action that the
barkeep himself was slightly entranced with his visitor, and motioned for
the dwarf to continue as he set the foaming mug back down in front of him.

"And den da farg'n Emperor," and with this the dwarf snorted loudly, tugging
on his beard with such ferocity the barkeep thought he might topple himself
over.

"Da farg'n Emperor jus' pop out tha' bloody shadows, tossing me around like
ah bale o' bloody hay! Kickin' me tha' face or snappin' me shoulder as 'e
did't. Like ah'm ah bloody lad witout no beard, jus' got hair on 'is
man-parts! Ain' nuthin ah could do. Make me wonder if'n ah picked tha'
wrong guild ter train under, durn me soul fer disrespectin Dregga fer
sayin such."

With that last bit the dwarf sighed softly, whispering something the barkeep
could not hear, but he sensed great regret on the dwarf's part, as if he
had failed some divine mission in some of these stories. The tales
involving the death of his companions surely turned somewhat morose, as the
dwarf took these things very hard. He seemed to grab his chest at these
moments, almost as if such a story opened an old wound of sorts. As the
barkeep looked closer he noticed inlaid designs of old dwarven gods on
much of the dwarf's armor, and a small insignia seemed on his cloak
seemed to indicate that he was a soldier for those Knight in the Redhorn
that often battled great evils in the land.

Role

Chapter 5

It was quiet in the tavern, much of the talk was in hushed tones about the
ominous portents in the skies and the feeling of unease amongst the
populace. The bartender was preparing to close for the night, actually,
when a strong breeze pushed open the doors of the establishment, bringing
with it a battered, blood-stained dwarf. He was a slightly comical sight
with a shining lance in one hand and the other stroking his massive,
matted-down beard. As he pulled up to the bar, several of the remaining
patrons snickered under their breath at the disheveled sight of such a
dwarf, before filing out themselves.

"What can I get you fair traveller, for we close shortly", asked the
barkeep, taking careful notice of several body wounds on the dwarf
that leaked constantly onto his clothing and battered armor.

"Ale, en lot's o' 't. If'n yer please," said the dwarf, throwing down
a sack of what looked like golden coins with some silver. As this would
represent a full weeks revenue, the barkeep hustled to fill a large mug
of his best ale, placing it in front of the dwarf with a wide smile.

"Anything to eat for the fine sir tonight?"

"Nar, ah be fine...'ad me a slab o' beef night before last, ah'll be
alright. Just keep tha' ale in me mug and lissen ter me tale, if'n yer
would?"

"But of course. If you don't mind, I'll see to cleaning up the place while
you no doubt regail me of tales of valor and battling against terrible and
wonderous creatures."

The dwarf snorted at this last bit, fixing the barkeep with a cock-eyed
stare, whether from the effects of the drink or a bit of madness, it was
unclear.

"Where do ah begin..."

Role

Chapter 4

A stocky dwarf (some might say fat, even) sat at a table near the corner of
the tavern, a mug of ale constantly moving between the table and his mouth.
A raucous crowd was in the tavern that night, for word out of Imperial lands
mentioned the ascension of a new emperor. However, the dwarf did not seem
pleased with the crowd, his eyes warily scanning the assorted mercenaries
and duergar cut-throats as he continued to drink.

A slim woman slowly approached the table, looking at the dwarf with slightly
downcast eyes, as she asked if he needed a refill on his ale. The dwarf
nodded almost imperceptably, but as she grabbed the mug his hand grasped
hers, pressing into it a small silver phoenix. A mischievous wink followed,
and the dwarf pressed two gold coins right on top of the phoenix

"Yer make sure yer stay 'way from tha' duergar filth, lass. En make sure yer
younguns git somethin fine ter eat. Yer be done when yer return ter tha'
bar, an dinnae worry 'bout this filth. Yer jus' make sure yer younguns see
their ma tonight in one piece. If'n yer boss nah like't, well, tha's why
yer got tha' gold".

The dwarf stood slowly, making sure not to dislodge the table, as he pulled
his cloak tightly around his body, flashing the barest hint of mithril
chainmail. Better not to give any of the thieves and mercenaries any ideas.
As the blushing serving girl offered him thanks he brushed her comments
aside, and strode towards the door.

As he left, a shadow seemed to melt from one of the other corners of the
tavern, and began following his exit...

As the dwarf stood over the corpse of the goblin who had tried to rob him,
a grim smile splayed across his face (what little that wasn't covered by
his now luxuriously bushy beard).

"Ah knew one dem scum woulda' taken tha' bait. Only wish't been tha' fat
duergar priest," he said with a snort, tugging on his beard as he continued
down the road.

Role

Chapter 3

A young, relatively fat dwarf sat reading a faded scroll, tears falling softly
into a large, bushy beard. Occasionally he would wipe the back of his gloves
across his eyes, but he kept repeating the words within the scroll over and over.


==============================================================================
| To Dregga Dorgong, my old friend |

| Please see that these items reach the son of Ragbrun Brightflame as |
| they are his birthright. As his father was kin to me through my |
| my wife's sister, it is a matter of family pride that his son |
| should be compensated for his father's service to the King, and |
| his mother's untimely death. His parents were proper dwarves, and |
| he should wear this soft leather vest and practice mace with pride |
| as they were his father's when he set off to learn how to better |
| protect our town against the foul orcs that continue to raid our |
| lands with their duergar and fire giant mercenaries. |
| |
| Tordelik the Armorer of Akan |
| |
==============================================================================


Dregga Dorgong nodded softly to himself as he watched the young dwarf try to
compose himself. He slowly turned over his own scroll, one he himself had
penned, asking a priest of Avderlain if there was room in the Fortress for
any squires.

"Aye, he be ready now. It's going to be a hard path for him, but he's got
the spirit for it, that's for sure."

Role

Chapter 2

The stocky dwarf swung the mace at the dummy with a snarl, putting so much of
his weight into the blows that he would nearly topple with each one. The dwarf
continued to wail away on the dummy for hours, his hands chafed and broken by
the end, barely able to continue hold his wooden practice weapon. With a final
grunt, he dropped his weapon and began to walk towards a back hall of the
training ground, where a stout dwarf sat, drapped in animal furs and rough cut
leathers.

"You did well, Bron. But strength and desire alone will not win you every
fight. There will be a time when even your dwarven will cannot overcome the
obstacles in battle you will meet."

The stocky dwarf nodded towards the stout dwarf, tugging softly on what looked
like the start of a very full beard. A faint smile crept across his lips as he
noticed his tutor had twin mugs of ale set upon a table, as well as a plate of
roast chicken.

"Dregga, 'ow long yer thin' before ah'm ready fer tha' Academy? When ah ken
finally be ah member o' yer guild?"

The stout dwarf simply grunted, hoisting his mug of ale with casual ease. He
looked closely at the stocky dwarf, seeming to judge him with his eyes, running
a hand through his massive beard, occasionally pausing on a piece of lapis set
within its' gnarled depths.

"Well, that's up to you Bron. Are you ready to protect yourself, and your
companions? To protect those dwarves who aren't able as you with a hammer?
Bron? Are you listening to me?"

The young, stocky dwarf had gulped down his ale before the first sentence had
left his tutor's lips, and now his head drifted dangerously close to the
table's hard wooden surface.

"Young ones...."

Role

Chapter 1

The dwarves had started their trek from Akan, fending off an orcish raiding
party before reaching the shining buildings of Voralian City. They had come
a long way in a short time, and we weary from the road. One dwarf sat off
to the side as the rest broke bread with Erenthell and Jolinar, slowly whittling
away at a piece of wood. A small dwarf meandered up to him with a large bowl
of food and an overflowing mug of ale, making contented squeals of noise as
he tried to stuff another dumpling in his mouth.

"Pa, Pa, yer should try tha' stew, it be glorious! Tastes o' da mushrooms
en herbs like Peg used ter make fer us!"

The whittling dwarf laughed softly to himself, stroking his luxurious beard
with a loving, wry smile as he watched his son nearly fall. Though the young
dwarf may have skidded to his knees, not a drop of the ale or food hit the ground.

"Bron, come 'ere. Ah gotta tell yer somethin' important", the older dwarf said,
putting away his whittling knife and block of wood. As the younger dwarf reached
his father, the older dwarf put his arm around the boy, pulling him close. The
discussion was one-sided, and vigorous, and a few times the boy looked near on the
verge of tears. But at those times the father would slow down, lower his voice,
and while you couldn't hear exactly what he was saying you heard the words
'Innocent' and 'Noble warriors', and occasionally 'Nordiach' and other dwarven
pantheon members. With one final mention of 'Knights of old' the old dwarf
kissed his boy on the forehead, ruffling his hair and tugging on the wisps of
a beard already growing on the boys chin before grabbing the mug of ale and bowl
or stew and motioning for the young boy to grab more of both with a loving smile.

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