Description
An old and wizened dwarf about 4 feet tall is here.
He is of a very dark complexion, the results of a mix of ale, sweat and grime
A receding hairline marks his massive forehead which is out of all proportion
to the rest of his face. His features can barely be made out under the
numerous scars which cover his visage, and patches of skin that are left
unharmed are heavily wrinkled and tough and leathery because of exposure to
the elements. He is still a formidable looking adversary but some careful
observation reveals the weight of time has taken its toll. An exhaustion born
of long toil is visible on his face which hints at some fraility and some of
the armor of dwarven make does not fit him as well over his slightly wasted
limbs. In spite of this, the dwarf still appears to be eager to punch down
the younger warriors, confident of his enhanced reactions. You observe his
armor further...
Role
All in the name.
Added Tue Feb 6 06:59:05 2007 at level 51:
Years and years now it has been, weaving through the blades and slipping into
battle stances. I no longer remember how many have fallen at my hands. All
the blood on the battlefield, the pleas of the slaughtered magi and the
warcries of my villagers blur together into one hazy vision. a vision which
when I look back upon twists into itself to reveal an enormous skull covered
hutin the centre of which, upon a massive shield, is placed the mortal
remains of a veteran villager. Several times now as the blades graze past me
in the battle, I have received visions of a bellowing forge overflowing with
the dull yellow of molten metal. The final quenching beckons.
Over the years many have asked me. Am I too foolish to know my own name? Why
when my speech is so lucid, do I refer to myself as 'dwarf'. I have kept
silent all through the queries, until now.
Drakgrak Roken was the name of my father. A name which sent shivers through
faraway orcish camps. A name which floated before its bearer within enemy
ranks, to destroy morale, to cause desertions, to win battles before they
were fought. I was named after him.
The drink sent my father into decline. His name though was forever enshrined
as a legend of the dwarven cause. You would think bearing such a famous name
would be a blessing. It was not.
When I was comissioned into the order, after going through the requisite
drills, it was because of my name. When I was commended for bravery for
saving the master dwarf of the order, it was because of my name. When I was
honoured for never having taken a furlough in the twenty years I was in the
order, it was because of my name.
I gave up my name.
I was to be a common dwarf until I had achieved resilence beyond the reaches
of most mortals. I was to be a common dwarf until the lords of the village
felt it fitting to declare their trust in me. I was to be a common dwarf
until I had achieved enough to make the name of Roken known throughout the
lands.
This has been achieved. I can safely take my name again.
But legends are forever known by the names on their shields and their feats
on the battlefields. And to the village and enemies alike, I am 'dwarf', a
defender of the village.
The Drillmaster
Added Mon Jan 22 08:10:34 2007 at level 51:
From a recruit in the order of Roken to the drillmaster of the village had
been a long and eventful journey for Drakgrak. His youth had been spent in
edefending the village from outsiders and now as he matured he was
responsible for defending the village from transgressions within. He had
known all along that additional responsibility would be his to bear and
accordingly had trained himself for such, and hence the transistion from a
villager to the drillmaster went smoothly.
The rites discovered within him a new spirit he had never known he possessed.
Though the opponents were his own kin, the battles were fought with ferocity,
sense of purpose and most importantly, a lot of pride. Wielding those weapons
with the weight of time within them and indulging in a timeless tradition of
barbaric ferocity, the rites marked the day when Drakgrak felt the hold of
the mountain spirits loosen upon him and the spirit of the village flow into
him. Till then he was a villager following certain commandments because they
needed to be obeyed, after the rites he felt himself the embodiment of those
commandments, the guardian of the tablet and a seeker of the pillar of
legends. It was no longer sufficient to mount a good defense of the village
or to fight on in adverse circumstances, it became his to ensure that the
village as a whole excelled. Personal goals were set aside as the dwarf and
the village became one.
The conduct of his enemies did not affect him as much now. He had seen too
much of the war to mull upon their actions and he recognized the inherent
weakness of most of the magi who chose to fight the village in numbers
alongside their unfortunate lackeys. Instead he decided to concentrate on
fighting his enemies with honour, relinquish his right to forfeit their armor
and to find respect for the village within the enemy ranks. He decided to
seek honour and pride in his every blow and resolved to expect the same from
the other villagers. He would do his utmost to aid his kinsmen if they
slipped, set them tasks to redeem themselves and aid them in every way
possible for the completion of such tasks for the uplifting of every villager
was his goal. But he was prepared to expel them as well if they proved
unequal to what was expected of them by the leaders and lords of the village.
And yet deep within him he carried the visions of his childhood when his
world was at peace and the mountain spirits whispered and the lord of the
earth slumbered and more than once he found himself wondering if the great
god would be pleased with his efforts.
Rumours
Added Thu Dec 21 21:19:08 2006 at level 51:
A grassy stretch of land stretches before you. Behind you is the base of an
enormous granite studded mountain, towering up into the sky. The horizon on
the remaining three side is covered with undulating rows of mountains.
Straight ahead of you is a grassy hilltop, the base of which serves to divide
the grassy stretch into two, the hilltop being the visible edge of a
crestline of mountain ridges. From the left side of the hilltop, further up
the grassy stretch, you begin to faintly hear voices floating in but they are
too indistinct to make out. You stride forward towards the hilltop to make
out the source of the voices. Within a hundred yards of the hilltop you
recognize it as the drunken voices of some military unit, marching to their
destination. Within moments you can see the sources of the voices as well, as
they stride into view on short stumpy legs. Dwarves!
** A BRIGHT FLASH OF LIGHT **
Drakgrak struggled to keep up with the veterans of the order. They had just
finished a particularly vicious raid which however, had been highly
succesful. The magi had somehow been warned about the raid and had taken
precautions. Which included moats, breastworks, slaver orcs and fearsome
wolves. And one of the death magi had generously applied some sort of plague
mold to the teeth of those wolves. The losses had been few, but those who had
been lost had gone in a horrifyingly painful haze. Drakgrak had witnessed it
while the veterans were busy fighting, elders he had looked up to, brave men
who had once bathed him, rotting away to the plague. He was shaken by the
experience. This was his first raid, and though these were not the first
cadavers he had seen, he was chilled to his bones. He was at the very back of
the unit now. He decided he would have to march faster to keep up. And that
is when he heard it.
A rhythmic series of dull sounds, of hooves crunching into green grass. It
sounded like... Orcish mounts! He ducked instinctively as a large shape
sailed over his head and landed in the middle of the unit. And like a
hailstorm one after the other, the orcs launched themselves on the
unsuspecting dwarves who were caught in a prepared ambush with the orcs
behind them and an enormous granite studded mountain ahead of them.
** A BRIGHT FLASH OF LIGHT **
You watch a party of dwarves stride into view on the grassy stretch. They
look to be returning from a raid, and from the heads that are strung to their
pikes it looks like orcs were involved. You take in their armor with
interest, good strong dwarven make. You look at the warriors armed to the
teeth. At the sight of the daggers, and the pikes, and the axes, and the
swords, you can not help but smile. A commotion above the hilltop draws your
attention. An orc riding his mount sails off the grasstop and launches
himself on the unit, only for his mount to be speared through the stomach and
he through his crotch, as a veteran dwarf swivels in alarm and then calmly
sends his pike through the intruder. Another orc sails through and the same
dwarf calmly unclips his axe and finds the forehead of the orc. The rest of
the dwarves defend as the orcs assault them, the dwarves with slower reflexes
falling first.... You wade into the battle with calm, measured steps....
** A BRIGHT FLASH OF LIGHT **
Drakgrak watches in
In the village
Added Wed Dec 6 06:53:15 2006 at level 50:
Long years in the village it has been for Drakgrak now. Long, mostly lonely
years.
He sought the wider front, thinking he would ride out behind the front lines
of fierce battles and aid them as they smashed into magi strongholds, just
like the anti-magic army of old. On the contrary, he found himself at the
front lines of smaller skirmishes fighting multiple hidden foes of every
order(some fought him over his heritage), just like the master dwarf has
warned him.
As his lonesome journey in unfamiliar terrain progressed, he realized that
his former teachings would need to be adapted to this new front. As such he
shelved the one unique teaching that the master dwarf had granted him because
of his assosciation with the macalla, and making no mention of this fact he
chose to learn from the macalla the art of striking down hidden foes into the
ground. It would prove useful in fighting both the outlanders who swarmed
over him, and the other hidden foes, he reckoned.
His fighting style changed, and he no longer considered twice about charging
in after magi in the likeness of his berserker brothers, for he alone was
left to wage the war on most ocassions so far. He found himself
uncomfortable, but gradually began finding his feet and the victories started
coming in. But he felt no joy, as the absence of the commander from the front
weighed on his heart heavily, and though he respected the commander and would
entertain no challenges to his authority he felt bitter everytime he barely
escaped through sundry ambushes, managing to leave a corpse or two in his
wake, or when the outlanders would challenge the giant when he lay gasping
for his breath inside the village, poisonous spores sprouting in his lungs.
Honour was not vital to Drakgrak. It was a commandment that needed to be
obeyed however. After the umpteenth fight against heavy odds followed by
attacks on the giant wherein he was powerless to do much, his impotency in
such situations made him resolve to show as much honour as he was shown.
Honourable fights were reserved for a few deserving ones, and yet most of his
victories came at his hands alone. He had no qualms about crushing down the
others against odds, for he knew every enemy that escaped alive from his
clutches would hinder a succesful defense of the village. The dead bother no
one.
He could take assaults upon himself. But assaults upon his friends, allies,
the village made him turn red with fury, true to his heritage. The cowardice
of most of these assaults provided him with the fire needed to march onwards.
During these desperate times he was reminded of his past nightmares in the
mountains near Roken, as his brethren had fallen to the plague, beyond remedy
of their best poultices.
The elders of the village, he observed, were for the most part competent. He
could fight as well as them, and in some cases better. Of these, a veteran
bard of the village named Yean provided him with useful insights and aid, and
he began to respect him for his contribution. If at all the rites were held
in his lifetime, he knew Yean would be honoured with additional
responsibilities. And with this thought came the realization that he ought to
be ready for additional responsibilities himself too. And he set about
preparing himself for it by walking around with the vi
History
Added Sat Nov 4 02:37:11 2006 at level 27:
My memories are filled of battle scenes, the dust of the melee is the breath
of my nostrils, my mind can think of no other images save the hundreds of
near shaves with death, the glint of the axe blade as it sliches through my
eye lashes, the glory which will gild my sepulchre. I am young and yet it
feels like I have fought a hundred thousand battles and there are as many yet
to be fought.
Other memories are faint. I never knew my mother, and I had no other
siblings. My father had been a fierce warrior once but had since been turned
into a drunkard, fit only to charge at empty casks of ale, always lost in the
fog of drink, subsisting on the charity afforded to him by the village in
appreciation of his sterling services. I do not know what weakened him. But
his conduct turned me from the ale. I no longer worship the drink.
Other memories flood in. Of long moonlit trails winding down the mountains,
while I sat safe in my brave fathers' lap, before the drink had ruined him.
He would ask me to close my eyes and hear the mountain spirits talking
amongst themselves. I would close my eyes and serenity would flood through
me. I could hear the ancient lord of the earth slumbering peacefully, his
breath resonating in the winds which rushed through the valleys. And I would
feel so happy the tears would come to my eyes and he would look down upon me,
concern flooding through his countenance.
He taught me to worship the earth which provided so much for us. To put it
above all and to tend to it, for it would tend to us. He taught me to be
patient like the earth, at the same time to store its immense power within me
and to unleash it should the need arise.
I know why the lord wrecked his wrath upon the village. He was wrathful that
the dwarves allowed the mana to defile him. To steal from him an essence that
was rightly his. We should not have let it happen and yet we did. The taint
had blinded us.
He was angry we suffered the taint in merriment. The taint that would awaken
his beloved children from their eternal slumber while they rested peacefully
in his arms, that would torment his eternal mountains and the impregnable
valleys, that would defile the images of those who had been cast in his
mould.
Those hellish days when the order purged the mountains are still with me.
Staunching unstaunchable wounds, purging the disease, watching the brave ones
embrace the lord with their mouths wracked with sores and the poison.
The village needed the services of the veterans. And they rushed to the order
to enlist. All save one.
My father told me this. Win at all costs. With honour if necessary, but win
all the same. The enemy must know no quarter. Not an inch of ground, of this
good earth to stake claim to. Drive them from the lands. Purge them and those
that stand with them by not standing with you. An all encompassing victory
which leaves space for only one thought. That the foremost warriors of Thera
have taken it upon themselves to return the mana to the heavens. And to do
whatever is necessary to reinforce this. Be it slitting the throat of their
children to their eyes. This is a hard war and there is only one path to
victory, that of victory. He told me this before he slept. Swayed into the
eternal slumber where he will need no drink to drown his pain, safe in the
The Order.
Added Fri Nov 3 20:54:30 2006 at level 25:
The order came about as a result of a freak accident.
In the quiet dwarven town of Roken, there once arrived a petty conjurer. He
was full of tricks to keep the dwarves gasping, pulling out pebbles from his
ears and flames from his hat.Within two days of his arrival he had staked a
patch of land in the centre of the market and there he began his biggest
trick yet. Eight runes marked out a crude circle which was splattered with
blood. The conjurer started his conjurations and a crowd surrounded him to
witness this arcane display. For two days the conjuration went on, with no
result, and the crowds soon thinned. They thought him a mad man. On the
stroke on twelve on the fifth night a brilliant shaft of light illuminated
the village. Every soul awoke from slumber and barely had they time to look
at their kin than a deafening rumble cracked through the mountain side,
resonating in the valleys.
The dwarves flocked to the market square, by the force of habit more than
anything else, and what they saw shook the ale out of them.
A towering (comparitively) being made of stone stood in the circle. With the
conjurer prostrate on his knees, grinning maniacally. He stood up uttering
yells that would put most orcs to shame claiming the creature to be his
creation, claiming himself to be god for having the power to create. The
dwarves were dumbfounded by the spectacle and little knew what to do.
The lightning which struck the circle had completely obliterated one of the
guardian runes, a fact which escaped the attention of the gathering, but not
of the elemental. It lurched forward, leaving a twenty feet gaping hole in
the earth in its wake. The dwarves screamed in terror and fled as fast as
their little legs would carry them while the brave watchmen rushed to defend
their village. The elemental cared little for the weapons hurled at him,
lurching drunkenly about and indiscriminately smashing huts and crushing
people underfoot, the conjurer, his master being amongst the first to be
crushed. It then mercifully set off away from the village towards the
impenetrable valleys to be never seen again hence.
Within a full moon night of that incident, three massive earthquakes
struck, obliterating the town. "Nordiach is angry.", whispered the
dwarves. The order was born. Dedicated to preserving the purity of dwarven
kin. To defend their towns from the taint. To ensure that they performed the
tasks they were meant to do. To tend to the lord of the earth. Rather than
delve into the mana. For to do that was to invoke his ire.
Drakgrak was one of the defenders of the order, until he left it because of
its selfish policies, when the whole of Thera was under siege from the taint
and its defenders. And it is rumoured the master dwarf taught him to use
things which most could barely grasp.
The Defender
Added Thu Nov 2 01:51:01 2006 at level 8:
Illegal name, try another.
Name: ssive granite table in a
stonepanelled dark room arranging the weapon racks by the meek light of dusk.
A sullen, bloodied dwarf advances and places a blood flecked whip besides
several other weapons in a weapons rack.
"Master ... "
After several moments during which the dwarf stands motionless the old dwarf
raises his head and nods.
"Drakgrak, ahh yes. Fine job ye did of the warlord. I will see to it
that the order gives yer a furlough ... "
"Be leaving ... "
"After yer furlough, yer needs ter take care of a small party..."
"The order nuh be doin enuf. The rift..."
"Alright, ye may have a two week leave. I will convince the others."
"Tis' quenched here."
The old dwarf ponders for a moment and then stares hard at Drakgrak who fixes
his beady eyes upon the master.
The master sighs and nods.
"Ye should know what ye are up against. Even among the warder hordes do not
make the mistake of always seeking yer enemy and among yer allies do not make
the mistake of seeking yer friends. The drow might help ye and the elf be the
harbinger of destruction. Carry with ye what yer have learnt of what I have
taught, only, ter yer and yer instincts for they alone will sustain ye.For
yer beliefs yer natural allies shall abandon ye and if ye choose to ally with
citizens who walk the other side yer heart will betray ye and hence ye shall
not ally with them. The war is such that ye shall at most times have to work
without the remembrance of the mountain spirits for if ye strengthen yerself
with their aid ye might weaken and the enemy strengthened. None save those
who reside within the village are allies and even amongst them the enemy
might lurk, ye need defend it. Ye are up against a faceless formless homeless
enemy likely to turn up where ye least expect it. Ye are on yer own now.
Leave."
The sullen dwarf turns back to the door but hesitates, turns back and
places something on the table before quickly exiting. The frail old
master dwarf leans forward and at the sight of the floating rock on the table
before him, turns pale and leans heavily back into his chair.
Arrival
Added Thu Nov 2 01:30:02 2006 at level 8:
"Here dwarf, you seem to have walked a long way, this swig ought to do you good eh."
"Hrmm."
"That will be five cop."
"Vintage from the cellar. Tanks go for twenty and five, eh."
"Hrmm."
"Oi Mon! Get us a vintage tanker for this dwarf here, an make it good."
"You won't find a better one in these parts ... you don't seem to be of these parts, eh?"
"No."
"Say, I got a few customers up there in akan, the regular types eh, they sent you?"
"Akan?"
"Come come now, yo jest surely."
"No."
"Oi Mon! Hurry up. So who are ya eh, lad."
"They call me Drakgrak."
"They who eh, who names ya Dharnarok ... ahh here is the tank."
"Another time."