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Entry the First:
Enter the Newcomer, Enter the Wanderer The Prelude
Thurgilblub's agonized wail was drowned out by the wet canvas like tearing sound and crunching noise of the dwarf's great sword as it cleft his torso, already having been separated from his legs in a previous murderous assault, in twain vertically spilling his hearts blood and bile all over his comrades who died not long after his own sight failed him and he found himself meeting whatever fate awaited him in death. The dwarf for his part carried on without a second thought, vocations are a funny thing and while what he does might be brutal, disgusting, and suggestive of blood lust inflamed madness... Actually there's no real flip side to the truth.
The dwarf in question, one Durmot Grimstarn, is a study in contrasts like most followers of Haela Brightaxe. A warrior through and through, those outside of the know wouldn't be unjustified in calling he and his ilk brutal killing machines whose only redeemable factor is that they array themselves against foes of dwarves and their allied peoples. Men, Dwarves, and Elves of the north however know the necessity of such beings, as the lands are brutal full of savagery that very occasionally is best met head on. And so enter he, young now and perhaps doomed not to reach any position of note so many of his kind die in the travails that assault them whatever his fate it is not yet known.
Here is what is.
Durmot's travels have brought him far to this point, born and raised in his clans holdings hidden away in the Earthfast mountains fare to the south east his path to reach Sundren brought him well and truly far by manner of caravan. He does not and would not speak much of his clan or his childhood but predictably of Haela's followers it can be surmised he did not quite fit with the social norms of his people. Not exiled or ostracized such dwarven men that become battle ragers do so mostly without input it's less a choice they make than a calling they find themselves attracted to, not unlike many faithful clerics, monks, or paladins might describe. This was his fate.
From a young age he was a reckless scrapper, never a cruel assailant but always in fisticuffs with others his age. He was something of a wild child. His elders hoped it was a passing phase, as in truth it often is, and assigned him to apprentice under a forge worker. To say it had the desired effect would be a lie, but to say it failed would be too drastic. Under his master he learned the value of control, carefully measured blows, and even professionalism. Also he was just so damned strong now most people just didn't want to get involved in fighting him anymore. Good for the clan, but perhaps not for Durmot. The forge fire is a passion of his but the fray was his first love. He petitioned and was later accepted into the ranks of the local militia under the sponsorship of his forge master there was more he could have taught the boy but his heart wasn't in it and the master could see his journeyman was not ready to settle down into a life of labour.
Durmot learned to fight with weapons and move in armour quickly and easily, most dwarves find the martial bent easy to slip into. For most it's a necessity as dwarven communities are often in far flung regions far from the reliable reach of reinforcements from neighbouring communities (or indeed unwilling to breach the secrecy of their location). For Durmot this was self discovery. He took to the lessons of the battle masters with rarely seen enthusiasm and his great strength earned him respect among his peers quickly. He never devoted himself to any one specific weapon, a choice some criticized whilst others lauded. That said he favoured the field weapons, great swords and axes, warmaces and mauls, halberds and glaives it mattered little for if he could hold it he could maim with it.
He spent some ten years there, the last years of his adolescence learning the trade of a warrior, but always the wanderlust. He was introduced to the outside world on orienteering and mountain survival lessons involved in his militia training and he found the open sky and stunning mountain vistas more exhilarating than overwhelming as most dwarves might. It wasn't long before he would pester the clan archivists with questions of the outside world in his free time.
In time he felt compelled to leave. He was visited in a dream. He found himself in a field without features, alone. Then appeared the pike standing alone in the centre of his mind's eye. It turned on its own and then levitated above the ground and its head pointed north and west, he knew it to be so in his heart even without reference for direction in this dream scape. He awoke confused and in a sweat without understanding. On the instruction of his father and mother he explained his dream to the cleric of Clangeddin, for the dream featured an implement of war and it was his domain.
The conversation was probing and tense but not hostile. In the end the Alaghar conferred with the local priest of Moradin. They came to consensus that his dream was a divine vision, albeit a vague one. He had a destiny of some sort to the North-West. He could embrace it or let it lie. Predictably of dwarves he petitioned the right to accept it, whatever it was; to go and meet his fate whatever it may be. His decision was sponsored by the priests of Clangedin and Moradin before the council and he was given leave to leave the fortress keep on the condition that he never reveal its name or location. He agreed.
In the passing hours of his final days the Alaghar visited him with a tome and a suit of worn but effective banded mail.
The armor will keep you safe, Gods willing, and the book will save you from ignorance, for it is our belief it was the Godess Haela Brightaxe that has shown you this brief favour. Learn of her from its pages as you travel, Durmot. Listen you well to travellers tales, like the Finder-or-Trails hers and his both are more known in the north to which you set. Take from the armoury a weapon of your choosing and be gone to meet your fate.
That was near a year and half a continent away. A long road tested him to this point, he has met many in his travels usually serving as a guard on a caravan or another. Now in Sundren the true journey begins.
This is what is known.
Enter the Newcomer, Enter the Wanderer The Prelude
Thurgilblub's agonized wail was drowned out by the wet canvas like tearing sound and crunching noise of the dwarf's great sword as it cleft his torso, already having been separated from his legs in a previous murderous assault, in twain vertically spilling his hearts blood and bile all over his comrades who died not long after his own sight failed him and he found himself meeting whatever fate awaited him in death. The dwarf for his part carried on without a second thought, vocations are a funny thing and while what he does might be brutal, disgusting, and suggestive of blood lust inflamed madness... Actually there's no real flip side to the truth.
The dwarf in question, one Durmot Grimstarn, is a study in contrasts like most followers of Haela Brightaxe. A warrior through and through, those outside of the know wouldn't be unjustified in calling he and his ilk brutal killing machines whose only redeemable factor is that they array themselves against foes of dwarves and their allied peoples. Men, Dwarves, and Elves of the north however know the necessity of such beings, as the lands are brutal full of savagery that very occasionally is best met head on. And so enter he, young now and perhaps doomed not to reach any position of note so many of his kind die in the travails that assault them whatever his fate it is not yet known.
Here is what is.
Durmot's travels have brought him far to this point, born and raised in his clans holdings hidden away in the Earthfast mountains fare to the south east his path to reach Sundren brought him well and truly far by manner of caravan. He does not and would not speak much of his clan or his childhood but predictably of Haela's followers it can be surmised he did not quite fit with the social norms of his people. Not exiled or ostracized such dwarven men that become battle ragers do so mostly without input it's less a choice they make than a calling they find themselves attracted to, not unlike many faithful clerics, monks, or paladins might describe. This was his fate.
From a young age he was a reckless scrapper, never a cruel assailant but always in fisticuffs with others his age. He was something of a wild child. His elders hoped it was a passing phase, as in truth it often is, and assigned him to apprentice under a forge worker. To say it had the desired effect would be a lie, but to say it failed would be too drastic. Under his master he learned the value of control, carefully measured blows, and even professionalism. Also he was just so damned strong now most people just didn't want to get involved in fighting him anymore. Good for the clan, but perhaps not for Durmot. The forge fire is a passion of his but the fray was his first love. He petitioned and was later accepted into the ranks of the local militia under the sponsorship of his forge master there was more he could have taught the boy but his heart wasn't in it and the master could see his journeyman was not ready to settle down into a life of labour.
Durmot learned to fight with weapons and move in armour quickly and easily, most dwarves find the martial bent easy to slip into. For most it's a necessity as dwarven communities are often in far flung regions far from the reliable reach of reinforcements from neighbouring communities (or indeed unwilling to breach the secrecy of their location). For Durmot this was self discovery. He took to the lessons of the battle masters with rarely seen enthusiasm and his great strength earned him respect among his peers quickly. He never devoted himself to any one specific weapon, a choice some criticized whilst others lauded. That said he favoured the field weapons, great swords and axes, warmaces and mauls, halberds and glaives it mattered little for if he could hold it he could maim with it.
He spent some ten years there, the last years of his adolescence learning the trade of a warrior, but always the wanderlust. He was introduced to the outside world on orienteering and mountain survival lessons involved in his militia training and he found the open sky and stunning mountain vistas more exhilarating than overwhelming as most dwarves might. It wasn't long before he would pester the clan archivists with questions of the outside world in his free time.
In time he felt compelled to leave. He was visited in a dream. He found himself in a field without features, alone. Then appeared the pike standing alone in the centre of his mind's eye. It turned on its own and then levitated above the ground and its head pointed north and west, he knew it to be so in his heart even without reference for direction in this dream scape. He awoke confused and in a sweat without understanding. On the instruction of his father and mother he explained his dream to the cleric of Clangeddin, for the dream featured an implement of war and it was his domain.
The conversation was probing and tense but not hostile. In the end the Alaghar conferred with the local priest of Moradin. They came to consensus that his dream was a divine vision, albeit a vague one. He had a destiny of some sort to the North-West. He could embrace it or let it lie. Predictably of dwarves he petitioned the right to accept it, whatever it was; to go and meet his fate whatever it may be. His decision was sponsored by the priests of Clangedin and Moradin before the council and he was given leave to leave the fortress keep on the condition that he never reveal its name or location. He agreed.
In the passing hours of his final days the Alaghar visited him with a tome and a suit of worn but effective banded mail.
The armor will keep you safe, Gods willing, and the book will save you from ignorance, for it is our belief it was the Godess Haela Brightaxe that has shown you this brief favour. Learn of her from its pages as you travel, Durmot. Listen you well to travellers tales, like the Finder-or-Trails hers and his both are more known in the north to which you set. Take from the armoury a weapon of your choosing and be gone to meet your fate.
That was near a year and half a continent away. A long road tested him to this point, he has met many in his travels usually serving as a guard on a caravan or another. Now in Sundren the true journey begins.
This is what is known.