Chronicle of the Thurid Clan as recorded by the pen of Frios

[kojibear]

Thanks for reading it Koji! Sorry it is so darn long-winded.

All good Job mine is a bit of an epic too! More and more I say!

[ashmie]

Cool. Nice one.

[YellowStreak]

Nice work Job!

[job]

Thanks for the responses, guys. I really appreciate them.

I hope this next chapter doesn't bore you with its length. Trying to give a crack at conversation, but apparently I don't know anything about brevity.

[job]

As we came about the bend in a highway, the sight of a fresh barrow could be spotted. The clumped earth lay piled on the north side of the highway, bathing in the sunlight of the afternoon. It reminded me of all the numberless dolmens that dot the passes among the World's End and Grey mountains where our great ancestors battled and died. Each and every last one of them ever remind me of the ancient glories of our folk, but this one was fresh and the earth bare. Yet, already the names inscribed upon the stones faded into our history like the ink upon this page.

Laying across from the barrow, a deep, wide trench lay dug along the southern bank. The sudden wind gusted and blew the white ashes up and across the road. Below these ashes scorched bones and skulls of scores of beasts sat revealed.

-------------

My companions and I rode about one final bend, the highway opened to a glenn cutting across the Kharnos Forest. The bottom of the green vale was dotted with woad, scarlet, crimson, olive, mithrel and gold. Three great long tables stretched across the clearing, decked with roast mutton, pies, pitchers of beer warming in the sunlight, large tarts and flanked by numerous dwarf beards with laughing, stuffed mouths.

I pushed the mount up to the edge of the festivities and dismounted from my pony. The spring equinox had passed and the throng celebrated the growing days. My companions did the same and soon fell in with their old mates from Blainin. I worked my way through the dwarves and old faces. Some were bandaged about their limbs. One old face laughed despite the ale dribbling through the gash across his jaw and sinking into half of the remaining beard. Further apart was heavily muscular Bor Beastbane. The slayer sat with his shoulder bandaged from a wound suffered while capturing a beastman and their banner. The captured beastman's bellowing could be heard from time to time through the laughter and the merriment. There were many merry faces. Surprisingly I was also met with elves in green and olive livery mixing amongst our throng.

Resting at the crest of a fold was the high table. Sitting there in the place of honor was tall Talonverial, his white, silvery hair caught the spring wind. He no longer wore the chains that bound him in the dungeons under Blainin. He was restored to his dignity, sitting above the crowds of merry dwarfs and elves.

The Argyle stood before the table, serving the lordly elf. He was wearing clean green garbs, a rare sight for the ranger. At the moment, he passed a chalice to a raven haired elf-maiden standing below him. She took it and drank deeply, but not once did she take her playful eyes off the ranger.

"Many thanks, Sir Ironfoot. " spoke Vanyiel, kinsband leader of gladeriders. They styled themselves as the "Mane of the Wind". She finished the cup and returned it to Argyle. "There has been nothing so satisfying to my tongue in many long months. When my riders heard there were open casks of dwarven ale, we made haste to this spot. Surely you know how difficult it is to find a taste of good ale these days between the borders of Athel Loren and the shores of the Black Gulf?"

Argyle returned a generous smile. " 'Tis only a small kindness we can return to those that ride to us in trouble. We Thurids don't forget who our friends are. Fill your cup to the top any time you make drink in my company."

She smiled, "Then I see your style is well proven." She laughed and delighted as she accepted a second cup from the dwarf known as 'Elf-friend'.

The Lord Talonverial watched the two, his face displaying a slight moue. "Vanyiel, your smile is ever pleasing to those you deign to face. I hear your bow slew several beasts and you led your band skillfully without loss in battle. Yet, I wonder why does my kinsman share a cup with the dwarf that led a host to destroy a dryad host not far from this ground?"

Vanyiel gazed at the high born. Her smile never wavered and grew ever brilliant as she watched him. "I never forget who are the friends of the forest, my great uncle. My riders race to the those friends and we don't decline their favors, either."

"I hear you now ride with the host of Anaereth now. I saw that great host march past this vale. If I am not mistaken it now marches deep south along the banks of the Lodestone, but I find you and your riders in the rear, racing to dwarven cups as well as dwarven battles."

The smile remained defiant. "A good warrior knows the taste of joys as well as hardships," she cooly retorted.

"A warrior thirsts for glory, and it is never tasted by those that indulge in other joys," chastised the high born Lord. "I know not one of my daughters rests while their tasks lay before them."

Vanyiel's smile did not wain before her uncle's reprimand, yet we could sense the hurt and retreat in her heart. Argyle rushed to interpose himself, "Enjoy the ale while it is in our cups friends. We should not speak of bitter things or quarrel while we do drink. I've seen far too many sad things when men, dwarves and elves are drunk. Let's be merry, my guests. "

He looked about. At that moment, Argyle found myself among the dwarves at the base of the hill and hollered, "By the glory of Grimnir and the mercy of Valaya, if it isn't a more timely historian! Honor the ancestors because here is a good dwarf when I need one. Please come forward, Frois, because I want you to tell us of our brethren who marched south. Please, make a good tale of it."

----------

The steel bars no longer kept the Elf Lord but now caged the captured wargor. It raged at the predicament, less the bars that confined it than the torturous nips and bites from the fiendish faeries that it shared its captivity. The creature gave a sweet rank oder of dung and sweat, and the faeries were just as loath to share their captivity with the chaotic abomination as it with them.

"I've had enough of this creature," said Argyle in disgust. "For a month we've held it in captivity and fed it bloody meat and hay as it craves, but the creature says not a sensible word. It brays incessantly, breaking the rest of the camp. No one can reason with it and I am near fed up with the creature." He motioned for us to return to his tent with his shoulder.

The rangers had spent the greater part of the winter in the forest so the tents were now large canopied long houses. We entered Argyle's crowded hut. The beastman banner and other prizes could be seen stacked by the door. We made way through the candle-lit interior to Argyle's quarters.

"I can't free it. It is evil and the elves would hate it. I can't put it to death. That would be ignoble. I must feed it so long it is my captive, but I won't honor it like I can honor Talonverial. And there is no parlaying with it as I can respectfully parlay with an elf," Argyle pined his dilemma. He sat down on simple stool and reclined against the wall. He gave me a tired look and asked, "What would you have me do?"

I honestly thought, but I could not respond I told him. He grunted and leaned to pick up his pipe. He carefully packed it and passed the leaf to me. It was nice simple weed from the Moot. No sooner then we had light the pipes than Gloi of the Pinehelms entered and took a seat next to the camp table. He took out his pipe too and began packing the dried leaf into his metal pipe.

Gloi smiled and asked, "So, Frois, I know you have travelled far from the south. Tell us what messmates from Blainin are doing in the south."

I told him what I knew, of the march south, of the battle at Tusville, the devastation of the lands in marshes, the ork menace. "Now the Fimurssons build a camp about the town. They've called in dwarves from all about. Many Oakenhelms have arrived from the western hills and out of Tilea. Where dwarves don't answer the brothers, Theodrik and Kragg take men into their ranks, knights and men-at-arms who've bristled at being under the greenskin foot. There are orks all about, milling in the swamps and menacing the lands. Vile men, too. Men who serve the Chaos gods and murderous, piratical types. It is a very unsound and inharmonious spring in the south."

The smoke meandered about the cramped quarters for awhile. I looked over a few maps on the camp table while I smoked. They were of far eastern places, Barak Varr, the far eastern World's End.

"What of Blainin Hall? How is our Balin?" Gloi asked between a couple of drafts from the pipe.

I looked up from the maps. "Oh, I paid the Lord a visit on the way here. When I arrived the hall was dark and cold. Much, or rather, most of warmth has fled with the the throng out on campaign. A few servants remain there to tend to Balin, but our Lord remains ever further from life. I hate to think, but his body and beard seem to have grown even more lacquered with a purple veneer."

The three of us remained quiet for a few anxious moments. Argyle broke his quiet. "Well, we have not forgotten him, and we remain determined in our quest to free him. I hope the Elves can help us."

There were camp rumors Argyle was sharing deep and privy conversations with the elf lord Talonverial, but no one knew about the contents of those long conversations. I added, "Igori remains at Blainin. He is brooding in his cell and when he appeared in the mead hall, he was wroth. He protested the throng abandoning Blainin defenseless. He cursed the Theodrik and Kragg as conniving for the lordship. He curses you Argyle, for having raced off as a glory-seeker. He wanted the host returned to the realm."

Argyle said nothing for awhile. He just studied my face and finally said, "The lad has a point about the hall being defenseless."

Gloi spat and cursed, "Forget the craven thane. He is not meant for command. He fled twice in battle as I recall. What does he know of stratagems? The Blackcarl is a shadow of his uncle, the true Blackbeard. "

Argyle waited to finish his pipe, allowing time for the leaf to burn and thoughts to move. He tapped his pipe out in a broken half-helm and then swept off any ash from his beard with his hand. Once fully prepared he looked at us and spoke, "I guess it is time I be honest about some things. I pulled our rangers away from Blainin Hall with no intention of warring with elves and beasts over this stretch of forest. I mean to parlay with the elves of Aldrad. We will want peace on our eastern ranges. I also want our Lord freed soon. I do worry the Fimurssons are not without thoughts of the lordship. Theodrik may not connive or devise plans, but I don't put it past his younger brother. Somewhere there is a way to free Lord Balin and free our clan of the shadow of civil war."

I was a little startled Argyle spoke so frank. The thought of war within our ranks had not crossed my mind.

"Burk has passed word to me once more from Dvalinn. Wherever the Runelord wanders, he has bade me to travel far east with the rangers. He knows something I hope that will drive our clan from harder times, " Argyle spoke. He now turned to me and commanded, "Frois, it is time you give us a history lesson. Tell us everything you know of the tale of Lord Olin, and of Olin's bane."

[kojibear]

Great stuff Job! I know you were a bit worried about your dialogue in the last part of the story, but I really enjoyed the dialogue! I think the character interactions are the most interesting!

I will read it more slowly after dinner and then try and get on to my own fluff!!!

[The Underdweller]

Very entertaining, Job! I wonder how long the Elves will be able to put up with the terrible table manners of the stunties

[job]

Funny you mention table manners. It was exactly one issue crossing Talonverial's mind in the side story between Koji and I.

Thanks for reading it. I'm greatly relieved to hear your enjoyed it. Of course, I look forward to both of your next additions to your fluff.

[job]

( Ah, I hate to run this but I'm sitting on a chapter for the story since June and although it is convoluted and torturous I'm just going with it because it is holding up things! Take a deep breath Ctrl+V)


The long column snaked up into the mountains before and behind us. Far below in the depth of the deep vale, the bellowing complaints of pack animals could be heard along with the barking of dwarves shouting warnings and herding the heavily-laden animals upwards and onwards. Far above, among the soaring heights of the snowy peaks, the glint of steel could be seen off the blades and armor of the Companions in the vanguard.

"King Olin's treasure was a maid
A daughter lovely and fair
Smiths and Warriors honor paid
To view a dwarvan maid so rare
As lovely as gold lit by hearth fire "
...

The young sonorous beardling sang between breaths as he lugged and tugged the culivern over mountain path. With every deep rut the cannon stopped and the true Thurid blooded, black-bearded engineer would yell "Heave" along with a cluster of curses. The singing would stop immediately and the groans commenced.

At the moment there was a thump, and the engineer warmed up again, "Push you squirmy, stunted jack-a-ninnies. My grandfather dragged a great cannon three times this caliber over the Edge the World peaks during the siege of Greyhorn. It shames me that my kin can barely push a demi-culivern over these gentle ridges my pappy would have called nuggets. HEAVE!" The crew crushed the air out of their lungs and squeezed beads of sweat out of their head, arms and legs as they exerted themselves. The gun rocked out of the rut and rolled again upwards and onwards. 

The red-faced engineer cursed again, "We are lost and headed for disaster by a silly spell of love a dwarf has for an elf-maid. Unbelievable! Who heard of such a ridiculous farce in the annuals of the ancients!" He looked up and saw me watching. As the cannon passed the engineer muttered shamefully "May Valaya protect us from this folly."

Dark Frimur came to the King's Hold
Bearing a majestic royal band.
Glowing hot with freshly forged gold
Frimur lay it 'n the King's hand
His own eyes upon fair Brynhildr
Quickening his dark desire.
...

-----

During the nights the throng camped along the roads. The dwarves grumbled of sore backs and feet. There was only half rations of ale to settle their stomachs and put fire into their scant cheer.

During those chilly mountain nights, the elves emerged from the woods in the twilight and visited our fires. Hands fingered axes and maces uneasily until the elves produced wine sacks. Then with caution the dwarves drank until the wine disspelled the fears and worked mirth into our new company. Old foes were soon telling stories of old glories. The dwarves cheered the feats of Ulther One-hand, retelling his now very familiar feat in the breach of Tusville this past winter, and the elves on their part praised their champion, Calanan. A debate began to rage about the crowd whether slaying a gorgon or a giant was the greater feat. Yet, even in the height of laughter and farcical debate, the elvish and Dwarven eyes watched each other with reservations.

Everywhere about these lands, the woods that clung to the foothills and hugged the banks of the creeks were full of dark hostile feelings. Our trespass was unwarranted by the trees and the aura of hatred about the them kept our foragers near and gathering sticks on the hills and clearings. High on the ridges above our camps the faint silhouettes of riders could be made out from time to time. We acknowledged the understanding that not every elf came out to offer us wine at night, and we remained vigilant to the terrors within the forests.

-----

One evening, the tired column worked its way down into a steep valley. A roadside inn glowed at the bottom overflowing with voices and dwarves. I walked into the enclosed garden cramped with muttering, exhausted and drunken dwarves. Another tired patron pushed through the door and the sign 'High Cask" could be made out.

Stepping through the entrance into the room boiling with sound I saw scores of dwarves in the company of wood elves and curious menfolk.

A group of worn but reveling dwarves were singing,

Toodle Dee was a naughty elf,
From a Toodle Dum Dee Dale,
But he went down down down
Under rock and stone
To find himself some ale!

Toodle Dee was a lost wee elf
With a face so pinched and pale
And he did moan moan moan
Through black and bone
To find himself some ale!

Toodle Dee gave a Tee Hee Hee,
At the end of this here tale,
But I did frown frown frown
At the froth and foam
When Toodle found me ale!

In their cheer the dwarves became lost in their refrains and soon were singing of Toodle Dim Daw and a Tim Tam Dwaddle, but they were unrelenting and the song continued in a jumble. The elves in the room looked less amused.

 The menfolk undoubtedly had never seen such a host of dwarves, and more so in a drinking competition with a group of elves. Warriors and miners sat in line across from their opponents.  When they drank they forced their necks and gullets to quaf and swallow. Many looked pale beyond good health but they stubbornly held their line. The tankards were stacked in piles before them and the barmaids kept fresh ones arriving from the cellar. The Longbeards kept bellowing encouragements to the teetering contestants. The elves quietly drank from their tankards maintaining aloof smiles on their lips. Their eyes kept a certain fancy and equally disdain for their ale room foes.

"It is time you retire, master dwarves. A good opponent admits defeat and rests when knows he is defeated," urged the leader among the elves to his intransigent opponents. 

The dwarves grew redder, at least the ones who had not been laid low. The voices went up in the throng of dwarves, "Is that provocation, elf? Do you think we would retire from any field before a pointy ear?" The voice was from stubborn Giford who fought with a hammer. "The last place a dwarf leaves before an elf is an ale house!"

There was a roar of approval among the crowd of dwarves, but the smiles of the elves remained frozen upon their faces. "I can not prevail to drive you from the table with words, so my company are inclined to leave before we grow tired and this game dangerous," the elf gave their resignation.

The dwarves cracked smiles and cheered loudly. Gifford could not resist to strike at the retreat of the elves, "Ah, my mess mates, you hear the poor discomfort of the elves. I am sorry they have to break off from this contest for the want for soft bassinets when the hour of their bedtime approaches." The elves were noble, and their kin-leader never offered a hint of being needled. He bowed.

 "The tavern belongs to the victors." the elf conceded and turned to the door. His kin-folk followed him to the door.

"Another glorious victory for Lord Balin and our clan! This shall be long remembered and recounted in Blainin Hall," Gifford roared absurdly amongst a drunken revelry of dwarves.

-------

Late that evening, as the tavern fell into deeper shadows and snores of exhausted dwarves, the same sonorous voice of the beardling could be heard quietly murmuring the lyrics:

King Olin's treasure was a maid
A daughter lovely and fair...

------

"Kaboom!" the young engineer with soot covered grin mimmed. The mountain shook a moment after and the rolling crash of rock and liquified earth could be heard rumbling into the chasm below.

For a week our engineers hacked and blasted a path into the towering peaks. As they forced our passage, those of us idle and forced to wait wrapped ourselves the best we could to fend off the fierce winds that raced down from the heavens above. We felt little separating us from the infinite now, a very discomforting thought to a dwarf.

Immediately engineers and miners began to clear the debris, slush and mud from the path. As a passage was cleared, the runesmiths made their way to the front. They hammered for hours on the wall of rock that was only bounded by the skies above. It presented itself as a limit to any passage over the mountains. The smiths worked for hours, hammering at times and tapping at other moments as they discussed and worked out the right weight and angle to ignite the ancient runework in the rock.

We grew cold as the shadow of the far ridges and peaks worked their way up the slope below and the skies began to become rosy. With our minds fretting the thought of a night on the mountainside, the ancient magic suddenly woke the rock which came to life. It parted before us yawning open as a mouth and jaw does without mechanical motion. It was rock made flesh. The Path of King Dandarin was open.

The ancient passage is a long held secret of the runesmith guild and the old clans. Some say the passage was touched with elf magic in the strife filled days of the Chaos Wars. Torches were lit and the rangers entered wearily. It is known to dwarves that long sealed caverns may hold long forgotten fears. Dwarves are all too familiar with this heeding.

Finally a call came forth declaring the passage clear. The column threw on their sacks and burdens and we plunged into the mouth of the passage and into the heart of the mountain. The long barrel vaulted passage was chiseled out of the basalt core of the mountains. The walls are simple and plain, but sturdy beyond measure so even the slow groaning and buckling of the peaks has yet to hamper its course. All along the passage, the route is marked by the messages of other travelers, some in the runes of ancient Kwarhim. I stopped in my journey to record a few noteworthy to our clan's history.

"Brantwin Avilasson passed here in company with thirty holdmen of the King Raginmund. We go to join the host gathering in hopes of relieving the siege of Karak Izor from the hosts of Chaos. May these words survive to be read in better times."

"The host of King Olin passed here to deliver the Hold at Hardrock from siege. Brynhildr has disappeared and some treason is feared. We march expecting the worse. Fortunately we also expect to rendezvous among the Karenka hills with a party that marches up from Barak Varr. The trespasses on the honor of our clan and King's honor by our enemies shall be avenged."

"Fimur Raimundsson traveled here with his two sons. We make for the East to find some unknown and new fortune. Exiled by an unworthy lord, may the ancients know of the wrongs done against me and my sons. May Balin, son of Oesir, be cursed and his name damned."

I wrote our own inscription beside the others.

"Frois, son of Froi, chronicler in the time of Balin Thurid, son of Oesir, Lord of Balin Hall marched past here in the company of Argyle the Ironfoot, captain of the rangers. We march east into hostile lands in search of redemption, glory and to free our Lord of his curse. May we find what was lost by King Olin and restore crown and Kingdom to the Thurid name."

The water trickled with our steps and the path finally began to slope downward. Our steps became less difficult and we began our descent into the eastern lands.

[job]

(Break in record.)

Chronicler's note: Here the we have lost records pertaining to the events between the former spring and the following winter.

I have included various anecdotes that shed light on events in other area, such as the War in the South and the Bay of Rats.

Ulther One-hand, Giantslayer

Over and over the world twirled. Muck and mud hither and tither, spiraling into a deep black mouth that swallowed up existence at it's center.

Then darkness.

Then the feel of hard coarse rock on his back that pitched to and fro. The sky was barely lit like evenings after a storm or as from those tales of the Days of Chaos extolled in his childhood.

He felt dazed and confused. The rolling and pitching of the world made him sick, but there seemed to be no relief. And the restraints about his body panicked him. Then the bird first appeared.

It was a raptor of one sort or another, the sort that circled the mountain holds of yore. He would see it descending from the clouds cawing and shrieking. Immediately he knew it was descending onto him and he began to struggle against the ropes and chains about his arms and legs, but nothing availed him.

The black bird would get closer and it shrieked ever louder, "Shriiiiiii!!!! SHRIIIIIIII! UUUlther!!! ShrEeeee!!! Ulther!"

It landed on his chest. The talons digging into his chest. Then it bent over and began to peck at his eye and the bloody wound across his head. 

"Aagghh, OOOOOOFFFFFF!" Ulther screamed at the bird.

His eyes opened to a damp wooden ceiling that creaked and a stunned mohawked dwarf. The world stank, reeking of a sickening scent of rat urine and feces, and possibly worse it didn't stop pitching. He suddenly had to throw up.

Ulther One-hand tried to roll over, but the rusty chains refused him any freedom and his vomit poured onto his beard. He was sad and furious as he retched over and over. He remembered how proud he was of his fine braids and the fine strands that draped to his waist. Even one handed he had combed it to a rich perfection. Now it sprawled over his throat and chest in a soggy mass of seawater and vomit.

"Wha, huh?" He craned his head back and forth as much as possible taking in his bewildering surroundings. Only then did he notice the open mouth of the shocked dwarf. His fury focused on his room's only companion. "Why am I here? Where am I?"

The dwarf didn't respond or recover for another moment as the floor pitched once more to the left and then to the right. The sound of scratches and squeals could be heard above. Finally the younger dwarf seemed to finally regain his senses. His mouth closed.

"We are in a hold of a Skaven galley, Ulther. We are captives," he mournfully answered. He picked up the rag on the floor and approached. "The rest of our number are chained above serving the oars, but we two are too injured for that."

Ulther felt a sudden shock of pain, worse than the sting and burning from his head wound. In his daze he realized one of his eyes was likely blind, but this seemed inconsequential in comparison to the shock of his true predicament. The shame boiled from his chest in a wave of heat at the word "captive". Wasn't he a proud Giantslayer? Now a captive and slave?

"No," he tried to shake the painful feeling. "No, no. Didn't we win the battle?"

 The younger slayer grinned briefly and collapsed next to Ulther. His fingers on his left were mangled and clipped. Great stripes of black and purple bruises gave a pattern to the left side of his body from head to toe. Ulther recognized him finally. It was Harold Grundson. How many fires and battles had they shared now? It was good to see he had survived. The shame of being a captive was more bearable if brave Harold shared it with him.

"Oh, yes, we were winning," he pined.

It began to rush back in his memory, the pounding rage, the squealing of the Skaven and the buck of the axe in his hand.

"I slew at least one rat ogre and we had them on the rout," Ulther recalled confusedly.

"Oh, yes," Harold mournfully agreed. "We beat them and chased them down that small dirt road, hacking at their numbers as they took to their ships. We must have forgotten our discipline because before I knew it a giant wheel fell on our flank and crushed a good number of us. Fili, Kaz, Clinton. All of them were crushed and suffocated. The two of us were found in the spokes."

The ship rolled and plunged down again. Water dripped through the gaps in the deck above. It stank of rats.

"Where are we headed?" Ulther grumbled to break the sound of the wind and squeals.

Harold shook his head. "Somewhere south by what the others tell me. But it makes no difference. We have lost the shore of the Black Bay and now beyond the reach of Theodrick. Moreover we are shamed, having broken our vows to die in battle. There is no pride in being a captive."

Ulther didn't like the way the young dwarf's mood was taking him. He refused to think this shame couldn't be lifted. Wasn't he the dwarf that had slain a Giant at the breach of Tusville? Wasn't he the slayer raised and hailed as Giantslayer? Had a loss of a single hand stopped him? He was incredulous to the idea he would trapped by this predicament.

"Don't believe once, young one, that our tale ends here. There will be a day, mark my words, I revenge myself of this villainous lot that dares keep me bound in this wretched stinking hulk. I'll have my satisfaction before the end of days!" The fuming Ulther foamed at his mouth and spittle settled on his beard. The sudden violence and passion in his heart began to make him feel light headed.

Harold nodded acceptingly of his elder and dutifully raised the cloth in his good hand. "Well then I should set about mending you."

The young dwarf dabbed the cut in the Giantslayer's forehead and face. Ulther spasmed in the chains and hollered. He was soon lost again below a dark sky waiting for the raptor to descend.

"SHRIIIIIIII!!! SHRIIIIIIII!!!" it rhythmically cried.