Migrant, Mountaineer, Warrior... Dwarf.

[Twisted-Indoctrine]

Rulinar's journey had ended. He was in Sundren and establishing himself readily. Rumours of a frontier land filled with danger and opportunity were not untrue. He'd a wide base on which to stand, prospecting, tracking, athletics, metal work, and fighting were all skills of his. While he'd mastery of none his resourcefulness was already proving useful for a life of adventure here. The Golden Convoy caravan had hired him on as a guard long ago on a roadside stop in The Vast. He'd taken to working as a farrier there for sometime, he kept to himself and no one came to know much about the dwarf working in the primitive barn side forge there. He was not likely to have been missed, save perhaps by the inn keep to whom he paid his dues with regularity and whose business was brought custom by way of the convenience a farrier offered there on the road.

Still, he'd left and signed on and now arrived. Immediately setting about arming himself and hunting local bandits, goblins, and sewer dwellers with fervour. He'd done well for himself in the few days, it would seem to outsiders. He'd signed on with Blackwood for the time being.

On the inside though he hoped to find the dwarves of Whurest, if they still lived, and petition their chief for membership. Truth be told while he bore them no innate hostility, miraculously, he didn't much favour the company of humans by and large. His life was a long one already, by their standards, and in it most of his encounters with humans had been hostile. The life and promise of quick riches seemed too acceptable to them, too often he'd found they were bandits, thieves, and killers. Granted he frequented the roads, mountains, and wilderness most oft where such men found solace from the law, it changed little. That so many were so willing to forsake their own people spoke volumes of them in his eyes. Good men and women were rare and valuable company, though he tired of such quickly.

Nevertheless this was their land by and large. Save that rumours of an old expedition still survived here persisted. He couldn't help but wonder, and finding the answers would suit his wanderlust, and if he found them, his search for a new home after the failing of his last.

Time and the gods would spin his fate, he knew, but pray by Marthammor the roads are safe and the weather fair did he. And, he swore in exchange, for to do his best not to judge men too harshly on the actions of some.

[Twisted-Indoctrine]

The warmth of the legion camp bonfire chased the dampness out of is clothes; Sundren's geography lent itself well to rain, Rulinar had observed. They had done well for themselves, these humans. His knowledge of the lands history was still sketchy to him at best, something of a diviner and so forth. Whatever the case, the land was rich and fertile for surface cropping as the spine of the world, which bordered the northern reaches of Sundren, seemed to trap the warm north bound winds carried by the currents in the seas south of the land. An oasis of warmth and rain here, so close but for geography to not being possible, beyond on the plateaus, ridges and valleys of the spine was naught for miles but a frigid barren expanse of arctic desert and alpine waste.

The Legions were large and, to their credit, extraordinarily professional by appearances. Well armed and decidedly lacking or possibly even devoid of conscripts. This spoke well of the lands governing – a land without conscription yet ample military force suggests a populace that believes its land is worthy enough to protect of its own accord. Enough that some men and women had answered the call to the vocation of arms. A grand and fascinating achievement – civilization that is.

Still it was a frontier land, vast stretches of wilderness beyond the relatively stable heartland teemed with savage humanoid tribes all clashing and mingling amongst each other and threatening the peace. It was a land where people of a stout nature could brave and live or die fighting to explore for enterprise, community, or any number of other causes. Somewhere out there could lay any number of wonders – ruins older than Sundren's current people's seemed to dot its landscapes here and there conjuring up wonder in Rulinar's mind as to whom might in so distant a past this people have been.

For now though, resting by the fire was the best cause he could commit himself to. The viridale beyond this small outpost crawled with beasts. The tired look of many of the soldiers here spoke volumes of the conditions here. Most had no doubt taken to sleeping during the day and holding vigil at night by necessity if not by choice. It was not hard to see why, the gnolls while active during the day seemed primarily nocturnal. The forest was a cacophony of their unusual yowls, calls, and seemingly eery laughter. Ever so occasionally the ghostly yellow orbs of their eyes danced in the gloom, catching moon or starlight just right.

Still they held their distance – the brightly lit camp and fortified bunker were ample defence against them and they knew it. The soldiers had the upper hand here and even the odd adventurer to aid them. Savage they may be, but not fools were gnolls. Easier pickings to feed their hunger lay all about. No few goblins and maybe even the odd orc or ogre probably fell that night to feed the ravenous dog men.

Serving with Blackwood had its advantages. Rulinar was largely free to roam about as he pleased in pursuit of enterprise, not bound by duty and post as these soldiers were. Most of its membership was human and by and large unpredictable. Still there was some sense of brotherhood among them and Rulinar, quiet as he ever was about such things, did favour that aspect at least. And more Exigo was rumoured to have contact with Whurest – the clan of dwarves reputed to cling to survival in the spine. Some of the veterans spoke a little of them, but they knew little of the specifics, unsurprising. As much as Rulinar agreed co-operation and better understanding was necessary for the survival of all dwarf kind he knew some secrets and cultural doings would always be, and were best to be, kept private.

The town of Aquor, once the base of the spine's pass, had not long enough ago been brutally and savagely sacked by orcs. Travel into the spine and beyond has been severely retarded by the event. Rulinar wondered how weathered the Whurest dwarves beyond, and of the miners, entrepreneurs, and other workers of Exigo who were guests of the clanholme. He'd work to collect bounties on some of the gnolls come daylight. He needed equipment, provisions, and more if he was to brave the passes as they were and investigate the clan for himself.

“Too much thinking, by Marthammor. Time for sleep, howling be damned,” Rulinar muttered, as he forced himself down for a few hours rest. It would be a long morrow.