The Long Hike (revised)

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Borin Drakkmurl
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The Long Hike (revised)

Post by Borin Drakkmurl » Sun Feb 11, 2018 5:03 pm

Understar Halls





A dwarf was not meant to feel claustrophobia. Tight tunnels, narrow passages and cramped, lightless rooms, these were all a part of life and, in fact, he did not mind them. He enjoyed the weight of the Mountain over his head, the quiet whispers of darkened halls and the warm embrace of carved Stone. Yet, it seemed that there was never enough room for him, no corner far enough where he could stay away, distant from all others.
Even if a dwarf should not, could not, feel claustrophobic, he could very well feel like he was taking too much space, breathing too much air and simply existing more than he should.

Such was Borin's predicament, as it had been his entire life. Sitting, alone, in the cramped mess hall of the miner's guild, he stared angrily at the polished spoon in his hand and, even through the distorted reflection, saw the strange black eyes and the clay-like skin that had never allowed a beard to grow.
In his mind, in his heart, he knew that these things did not matter, should not matter, but as was the case with so many other petty things, they did. To him and to others, since the day he was born and through every single year of his five decade-long life, it had mattered. The strange little thing, the weird child,the freak, the unwanted, the beardless pariah.

No more.

He stood up and left, paying little heed to the other tables where laughter and companionship ignored him just as well. His clan was not a large one and neither was their hold in that part of the Thunder Peaks,but there were riches there,and beauty as well. Descending through a series of mine shafts and long staircases, Borin made his way to the largest and most precious cavern in the
whole network, the place from which the Halls had taken their name, the Understar Lake.

A narrow corridor of smooth stone opened suddenly into a large, natural amphiteatre, its curved wall more than two hundred meters away and its stage filled with cold,still water. A single stalactite descended from the cave's ceiling, fourty meters above the water, and on its very tip a bright white light shone and its pulsating radiance bounced upon the black mirror below, filling the entire cavern with a pale blue aura.

Borin knelt by the shore of the lake, withdrew a sharp knife from his belt, and looked up at the Understar.

No more.


***



The sound of his name awoke him. "Erothknurl", Eyes of Stone, his real name, in true dwarven, not the one he had chosen for himself. With that name came conscience and with it came memory, sharp and painful and burning his skull with white-hot coldness. The lake, the light, the knife in his hands and its blade cutting into his eye socket, it all came rushing back to him like the jets of blood that had spurted from his face.

'You fainted." - Someone said, not far from where he now laid. Borin found it hard to focus his sight at first and the world seemed to have gone hazy, as if seen through a dirty window. It took him a few moments to adjust and to recognize the face of his father, sitting beside his bed. Long, braided and blond, his beard was fastened to his wide belt. He wore the long, embroidered robes of the merchant guild. His gaze fell heavy upon his son.

"Nearly bled to death too. You were lucky that they found you when they did." His voice was calm and even, as it had always been. Borin saw no sadness nor anger there, only the resignation of one who had come to terms with an unfortunate but permanent state of things. That pissed him off.

"I will be sure to thank them for their kindness when next we speak. Rather, when I speak and they pretend I am not there."

His father's reply was a silent stare. There were words there, things buried in shame and pride and left to suffocate until they could no longer be said. When he finally spoke, he did so as an herald or messenger would, standing up and with a hand over his braided beard.

"Things will not be better from now on. Only worse. Your mother has stricken you from the clan, and you can no longer carry the Drakkmurl name or arms. The guild will still have you, but you will be sent to work alone in the deeper shafts." - The elder dwarf paused. Not looking down at his son, his voice returned in a hoarse and tense whisper - " You will die down there. Loneliness will prey upon you, turn you into little more than a worm."

Borin watched,perplexed, as his father suddenly grabbed him by the collar. There was fury in his eyes. There was also the threat of tears.

"Don't surrender to it. Fight, damn you!"


His father let go of his clothes, turned, and left the room. Borin would never hear from him again.




***



It took him a week to fully recover. No one else came to visit and he was put in a small room, separate from all others in the infirmary. The priest would come in once a day to change his bandage and clean the wound but they barely spoke. Borin spent most of his time thinking, thinking furiously, driving himself into angry bursts of frustration, against his family, against his clan, against himself.
So when he was finally allowed to leave, it was as if his feet moved of their own accord, making a bee line to his family's manor.

Located in one of the largest caverns of the Understar Halls, Clan Drakkmurl's house had been dug out of its western wall. Its front was a stoic, rigid thing, all clear and perfect lines that formed columns and arches over a set of double iron doors. There stood a single guard by them, looking mostly bored and idle. He jumped to his feet the moment he spotted Borin approaching at a fast pace.

"Wait! Hold! You can't! Borin! Wai-"

The words were muffled by a quick punch to the nose and Borin stepped over his crumpled cousin. With a heavy push he opened the gates and stepped inside. It was quiet, as it always was, but it did not matter. He knew where to go. Half running up a corkscrew staircase, he ascended to the second level of the estate and into a long corridor with doors opening all along its sides, but there was a larger door at the end of the hallway, the clan's arms forged from iron embossed into it: A dragon's skull with a coin in each eye socket. This door Borin angrily pushed open as well, and entered into his mother's office.

It was a large room made small and cramped by many shelves, armoires, chests and closets. Maps and charts of underground cave systems hung from several walls and were placed on a few tables and desks. Books and scrolls were piled up everywhere. Behind the largest desk, a piece of furniture made of blackened, hardened and polished tinder-fungus, stood Narrvel Drakkmurl, his mother. She wore practical, almost manly clothing, the sleeves of her shirt pulled over her elbows. Gold and silver bracelets adorned her forearms and her thick, jet black hair was bundled up into a large pony tail, held together by a fine mithril chain. Strands of that hair fell over her face as she leaned over yet another map, sprawled open under her hands. Without looking up, and in a voice as smooth and cold as raw granite, she said:

" Say what you have to say, and then leave. I do not have time for this."

It took Borin a moment to steady himself. Not only was he winded, Narrvel's indifference had caught him off guard. He had expected her to shout, send for guards to carry him away. Worse yet, he could feel himself choke, well up with a rage far too emotional for her to see.

"Narrvel. Why? Why exile me from the clan? Whatever I did, I did to myself."

The dwarven woman laughed mirthlessly as she finally looked up at her son.

" You still do not understand, do you? So long as you had our name, everything, anything that you did would be reflected upon us. What you ARE would continue to be a stain on this clan. "
"What I am? You do not even know what it is that I am! No one does! You'd rather believe mysticism an- "
"I do know what you are not! You are no proper dwarf. I might've been the one who pushed you into the world, and I do curse that day, but you are no son of mine."

Borin felt as if had been struck a blow in the gut. Not only by the weight of the words, but due to the expression of pure disgust etched into his mother's face. This was no act, no mask put on to appease the opinions of the other clans. This was the truth. The real face of rejection.
He wanted to say something more, anything, but the words failed him. Instead he just stuttered noiselessly. Narrvel's disgust took the form of a sneer and she again focused on the map across her desk.

"Leave."


And so he did.

***


Months passed since he spoke or saw anyone else. His world had shrunk into a blur of rock, darkness and silence,broken only by the harsh crack of a pickaxe. Every day was the same as the last: Wake up, eat, hack away at a rock wall, drink and sleep.
His chamber was an alcove dug out of the rock wall, barely five feet wide and ten feet long, his bed a rock slab covered with a bedroll. Whatever he mined he placed on a cart at the entrance of the tunnel which then, by clever engineering and use of gravity, would roll away into the mines proper.

The first few days had not been so bad. The peace and quiet pleased him and, most of all, he was left to himself, without sideways glances and derisive stares. The Stone, at least, did not judge. Truthfully, the Stone felt like an old friend, a silent and reliable company that allowed him to feel at ease. Perhaps too much so.
He had taken to speaking to himself. Sometimes he would sing or read aloud. Other times, he would sit in complete darkness and do nothing. He listened to the emptiness, to the deep dark void of the mountain's heart and it was as if a fresh blanket was drawn over his brain. In that cold stillness he felt as if he was breathing along with the Stone, slowly inhaling and exhaling across the ages.

The problems began when the darkness started to whisper back.

At first they were distant sounds in his dreams, faint images that crawled, hazy, into his mind's eye. Then he started to hear them while he worked. Each strike of the pickaxe against the rock would echo across the tunnel and in those echoes there were words, calling in a language that he could not understand. Eventually he heard them at every waking hour,
like a wind constantly blowing into his skull, through his hard, clay-like skin and straight into his brain. The empty eye socket ached and itched and at times it felt as if the eye was still there, small, pitch black and glassy.
Whenever he touched the naked rock it felt as if he was touching a piece of himself, an extension of his own self that stretched and sprawled outwards forever.

Borin was losing his mind and he knew it.

He was lying in the middle of the tunnel, his back against the floor, his one eye staring at nothing. His father's warnings had come true. He would die there, groveling like a lunatic. At least, he would finally do something his mother would approve of. He could just imagine it, her smile, as they burned his corpse to ashes.

Never.

Anger fought back fear and he rose from the ground. Whatever meager possessions he had he stuffed in a small bag. Some food, some drink, clothes and a knife in his belt.
The way back to the upper halls was a long one but he made it with haste. There was no time for hesitation, not anymore. He was finally claiming some ownership over his own life.
Dirty, filthy and wild eyed, he made his way through mines,carved tunnels and large chambers, ignoring all that passed him by until, at last, he stood before the Out-Doors, the gates to the surface.
Borin had never crossed them before and now there they were, wide open, a giant window to a world of blinding light and howling wind, a rush of air like he had never heard before.

And in that wind he thought he heard a voice.
Past characters: Daedin Angthalion; Lurg Norgar; Urebriwyn; Ubaldo Ferraz; Erodash Uzdshak; Borin; Belchior Heliodoro; Orestes Fontebela

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Borin Drakkmurl
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Re: The Long Hike (revised)

Post by Borin Drakkmurl » Sun Feb 11, 2018 5:04 pm

The Thunder Peaks





The guards had let him out without trouble. It was as if he had never even been there and, for once, he was thankful for it. However, Borin did not make it very far. A few meters down the road he was forced to stop because he felt dizzy and sick. There was too much of...everything. Too much sky, too much light and air and yet too much emptiness as well, a lack of borders and boundaries that made his knees shake and his lungs tighten.
He sat on a boulder by the side of the road and tried to steady himself. The bandage over his missing eye itched like crazy and shivers ran down his spine. It took him several minutes to calm down, but he took the chance to observe his surroundings.

Below him, in what he guessed to be the South, the mountainside gave way to a mostly flat land that, close to to the horizon, dipped into a line of blue. To the north, in between craggy ridges and lower summits, he glimpsed a never ending green.
That sight stirred something within him, a small spark of electricity that spread all across his body and made him eager to get back on his feet and just...go, to start walking toward that alluring mirage and to stop at nothing until he reached it.
In his mind, Borin knew that he was letting childish wonderment best him, since the only trees he had ever seen were either dead or cut to pieces. Even if many miles away, that was the first forest he had ever laid eyes upon. Thus he took the trail that led northwest, his confidence boosted by the knowledge that, somewhere in that direction, also were the Dalelands.

Having rested both body and spirits, he walked at a good pace and, soon, he had left his home behind and out of sight without even noticing it. His eyes, or rather, his remaining eye, was fixed ahead, on the red-brown dirt path that snaked through the barren mountainside and into the lower hills.
A brief but shrill noise stopped him in his tracks.A heartbeat later he heard it again, closer, behind a rocky outcrop a handful of meters ahead. Another such sound replied to the first and, before Borin could react, a small fist-sized thing burst out from the ground, chirping and flapping its wings in a blur of motion. A bird!
Again, he had only ever seen one as a boy, and it had been a small and motionless thing, caged on the back of a merchant's wagon, tweeting half halfheartedly. Now, another had taken flight after the first, and then a third followed and, suddenly, the air exploded into a cloud of swirling black and a cacophony of shrieks and rustling feathers.
Mouth agape, perfectly still, he watched as the birds flew as one, dancing an improvised but smooth choreography against a sky of melted blues and purples. When, at last, the flock disappeared over a series of jagged peaks, he let out a breath he did not know he was holding. Along with it came a curse, for only then did he realize that it was almost night.

Not that the darkness itself scared him, but he knew fully well what sort of things crawled out of the caves and holes after sundown. So he decided to push on through the night, hoping to at least make it out of the Thunder Peaks before dawn.

The moon climbed over the horizon and perched itself above the mountains. Stars began to poke through the silky black mantle that covered the world. Were it not for his haste, Borin would have stopped to admire the sight. Were it not for his haste, he would have perhaps noticed the dark cloud-castles fast approaching form the North, and that the Thunder Peaks were about to show him why they had earned their tittle.

It began with brief gusts of wind, blowing harshly down the side of the mountain. Then those gusts merged into a single, continuous rush of air that howled, roared and whistled through every crack and fissure in the rocks. The icy rain came next, falling like sharp needles that stung with spite. With the rain came the world shattering thunder.

Soon enough, not even five hours since he had left his halls, Borin was squatting behind the largest boulder that he managed to find, hoping that the skies would not be torn asunder and come crashing down on his head.


***



It was still night when the rain finally stopped, even if the wind did not. Borin was drenched and exhausted but worse than that was the gnawing doubt that whispered behind his ears. What was he doing? Why in the Hells was he out there? Wouldn't it be better, safer, to turn back now while he still could? His tiny room carved from the naked rock, hundreds of meters below the mountain, seemed eerily inviting now, comfortable even. Risk free. Despite the loneliness, despite the threat of insanity and death, it was something that he knew. It was all that he knew.

The young dwarf was about to turn his back to the road when something caught his eye. Further up the path, some three hundred meters northward, grew a small patch of trees, nestled in between a handful of vertical rocks, each at least two meters tall and arranged in a semi circle. He wondered how he could've missed them before, for they could've provided much better shelter, but that was not what had caught his attention. Whenever a stronger gust of wind blew past the small grove and forced the trees to bend and sway, it revealed brief flickers of orange light, tempting light, that spoke of warmth, dry clothes and respite from the biting gale.

Despite his suspicions, no matter his awareness of the chance he was taking, Borin walked up the trail towards the trees, hoping against all odds to find help rather than death. What he encountered, however, was somehow neither.

He had heard no sound as he approached, no laughter, no rude voices nor the foul cursing of orcs and goblins, only the tired groaning and creaking of what he now saw were very old gray trees. It took him only a few minutes to pass through the scarred and battered pillars of bark and to walk into a small clearing, no more than three meters wide. On its eastern side, standing against one of the tall rocks, was a stone statue with a camp fire burning at its feet.

It was impossible to tell what or who the statue was supposed to depict, for its yellowed stone was worn and chewed by countless seasons. Weather and time had reduced it to a genderless, featureless thing, no more than a vague silhouette that now loomed a good meter taller than the dwarf. Though Borin searched, there were no runes nor writing anywhere, and no sign of whoever had lit the fire.
Not quite sure what else to do, he sat by the flames, his back against the sculpture, and waited for the return of the camp makers.

The wind kept blowing, but it seemed distant and harmless. It rained again a few times, but the trees, despite their age, seemed to catch most of it. The flames never ceased their dancing and, as minutes turned into hours, Borin found himself giving in to their embrace and warm licking kisses, caresses that eased his pains but weighted heavy upon his eyelids. He could feel his awareness slip away and, eventually, he decided that he did not care. It was alright. It was safe. It was warm and all was well.

He awoke mid-jump and mid-shouting. In half a heartbeat he was on his feet, just in time to see a rat scurry away into the bushes. The sun was nearly at its peak and he could see it clearly above in a cloudless sky. A cloudless, treeless sky.
His brain felt heavy and even insulted as he looked around. He was where he thought he should be, but the small thicket was gone and so were the tall rocks and the camp fire. All of it was gone as if it had never existed in the first place.

Borin thought about cursing, but did not dare it. Instead, he started walking up the trail that led north. Soon he was running, not daring to look back.


***



Hiking the mountain was hard work. He had not expected it to be easy, but he had also not imagined it to be that strenuous and frustrating either. Before departing Borin's mind had been filled with images of orcs and giants, with ambushes in the night and gruesome deaths. Now he was quickly realizing that danger took far more subtle forms. He had twisted his ankles three times already, his food was quickly disappearing, no matter how careful he was with it, and the terrain proved to be deceitful and treacherous even when there was a clear path to follow.

Despite all of this, he often caught himself smiling, for as the miles rolled on under his feet, he felt increasingly lighter, unbound and clear headed. There were also the countless tiny things that kept his spirits up: the unexpected fresh streams cascading down the mountain slopes, the sudden valleys hidden among snowy peaks or, simply, a fresh breeze after a sun-cooked afternoon.

Several days passed in this manner and from sunrise to sunset he walked without ever seeing another soul. Some nights he was kept awake by the sounds of paws on rock or by strange callings he did not recognize but, for the most part, exhaustion alone forced him into deep slumber.
Eventually he noticed that most summits of the Thunder Peaks were behind him and that ahead the mountainside descended increasingly faster in a succession of cliffs, precipices and steep inclines until, abruptly, it ended at the edge of a vast forest. With the right light Borin could even see the pearly reflections of a river amidst all the greenery and, at times, what he thought was chimney smoke.

So he pressed on, eager to put the mountains, and the last traces of his old life, far behind him. It took him another day to reach the final stretch of the Thunder Peaks and his excitement was cut short as he found himself staring down a perfect stone wall. It was half a kilometer in height and as tall or taller in any direction he could see safe for the east, where it slowly descended across several dozen miles.
There was, however, a narrow goat path that zigzagged its way down the wall to the flatter lands below.
Borin quickly realized he had only two choices: To either turn back and search for a safer route, which could take him days, or to risk the descent there and save himself a lot of time. A brief glance at his diminished rations and the near empty canteen made the decision a lot easier.

The sun had just begun its slow dive into the horizon when Borin started his own way down. During the first portion of the climb he had to glue himself against the stone wall, his heels barely fitting on the narrow trail. By the time the sky had started to turn crimson he was only halfway through, though he had managed to hit his stride by half crawling, half sliding down the sharper inclines. Finally, when the Sun was already behind the mountains and its last light struggled to keep the night away, Borin dropped heavily onto the floor, drenched in sweat and dust and his hands and knees and even his forehead were cut, scratched and bloody.
He did not bother standing up. Crawling to a niche on the rock wall, the battered dwarf was content with just breathing for a while until, without any struggle on his part, sleep overtook him.

Borin woke up to the not so distant whinnying of horses. Blinking against the glare of the sunrise he saw the silhouetted shapes of a dozen riders, ox carts and foot travelers, all heading east towards the edge of the forest, and his heart sank.
Through many miles and several days of hiking, he had forgotten the notion of meeting and dealing with other people and, now that he saw them, an old dread came crawling up to his gut, the sort of fear that made him want to vomit and stay as far away as he possibly could.

Except that now he couldn't. Not for long, anyway. So he stood up, swallowed dryly, and walked toward that distant road, not realizing that he had, at last, made it to the Dalelands.
Past characters: Daedin Angthalion; Lurg Norgar; Urebriwyn; Ubaldo Ferraz; Erodash Uzdshak; Borin; Belchior Heliodoro; Orestes Fontebela

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Re: The Long Hike (revised)

Post by Borin Drakkmurl » Sun Feb 11, 2018 5:05 pm

Highmoon





Borin was pleasantly surprised by how little attention people spared him on the road. There was nothing except the occasional glance and even a greeting or two. He had been walking the path for about half an hour and in that short amount of time he had seen a greater diversity of faces than ever before in his life. Most were humans, of course, of all shapes, sizes and colors, but he also saw several halflings and even a group of dwarves. These last ones were the only to actually stare at him openly, and their expressions bore nothing but surprise and disgust.
All of five of them were richly adorned and their full beards reached down to their belts. There were no insults nor threats, but they gave him a wide berth as their paths crossed. It was only when they were almost out of sight that they finally stopped glancing back over their shoulders.

Borin's shame and acute self-consciousness over the whole thing was short lived however, because soon after that he reached the small bridge that arched over a tributary of the Glaemril River, the Wineflow, and on the other margin rose the northern gate of Highmoon.
It was nearly noon and a steady stream of people kept coming and going out of it. Borin let himself get carried by the same current, marveling at the sounds and sights and smells of it all. The air was thick with novelty. There were strange words shouted by stranger voices, clothes and armors and heraldic symbols he had never seen before, clusters of heavily armed men and women with hard eyes and a palpable aura made of sweat, horse shit, spices, ale and perfume enveloped the whole of it.

Highmoon was not a large town but its position at the edge of the Dalelands made it a place where many either went through or stopped in to rest before resuming their travels. Most of the buildings were made of white stone and were one or two stories high, with a few temples and a couple of towers rising higher above them all.

Not quite sure how, Borin found that he was standing in front of a very large inn. It was a stone building two stories high with a roof of red tiles, and while he could not tell how deeply it stretched away from the main street, it was clear to the dwarf that it was a large structure. There was also a steady trickle of people entering and exiting its open wooden doors, accompanied by laughter and the promise of food. Just over the tall doorway hung a wooden sign and on it was painted a silver semi circle. His stomach grumbling, Borin eagerly made for the entrance.

A large hand appeared in front of his face, barring the way. It was only then that Borin noticed the large man leaning against the wall. He must've been middle aged, but he looked powerful even under the cover of the thick dark cloak that hung from his shoulders. His head was shaved clean and a reddish, two days worth of stubble adorned his weather beaten face.

" 'lo there, chief." His voice was surprisingly mellow and friendly. Despite that, Borin had to fight a quick surge of panic as, for some reason, all the Common he had learned at home evaporated from his mind. After a couple of dumb stutters, all that he managed was an inbred mixture of "hello" and its dwarven equivalent.
"Azlo."
"Azlo to you too, chief. What can I do for you?"
The man smiled an easy smile, but by now Borin had seen the heavy wooden club that hung from his belt, so he just pointed inside the inn.
"Rest. Food?"
"Ah, of course. But, sorry, chief!All tables are full now, you're gonna have to come back later."

An awkward silence followed as the bouncer and the dwarf watched several people entering and exiting the place in twos and threes.
The man broke the silence with a heavy sigh.

"Listen, chief, it ain't personal. We just can't risk letting people like you in." As he said this, he leaned down slightly and rubbed his near-beardless chin. "We ain't ignorant here. Also, now that I'm taking a better gander at you, you might want to go to a temple instead of a tavern, chief. There's something wrong with your eyes. The empty and the full one."

Borin's mind raced with a thousand different thoughts at once, an incoherent blur of insults, screams and violent impulses, all threatening to burn and explode straight out of his skull. All of it was doused by the realization that, by then, several nearby people were staring at him. His stomach heavy on his belly, the young dwarf turned his back on the tavern and hastily returned to the anonymity of the main street.

There he stood motionless for a while, clueless as to where to go or what to do.


***
Borin wandered aimlessly until nightfall. Torches and lanterns flickered into existence all over town and the streets, rather than going quiet, became even rowdier. The day trades were discretely but efficiently replaced by the the pleasures of the night. Suspicious stalls popped up in poorly lit alleyways, gambling dens opened their not so hidden doors and at the windows of brothels women and men with painted faces began peddling their trade.

Not at him, though. He felt himself a ghost, a figure of tattered clothes that floated in eerie silence through the streets, watching the world from the outside. Were it not for the people that bumped into him on occasion, and the painful hunger in his gut, he would have found easy to believe his own demise.


Exhausted and spent, unable to think properly and with a maddening itch crawling in his empty eye socket, the dwarf let himself slide against a nearby wall and sat down on the floor. Distant memories, pleasant ones, came uninvited into his mind. He remembered a time when he had had friends, when he was still young enough not to be wholly rejectable, just weird enough to be considered different. He felt again the warmth of his father's hands on his cheeks and, for half a second, he was safe once more, comforted by the one person who had always, always, been fair and good to him.

A kick to his legs and a loud curse woke him from his stupor. Someone had tripped on him and almost fallen, and were now shaking angry fists at his face. Hurriedly he stood up, muttering apologies, and took off again down the first path he saw.

As the peak of night approached, Borin turned a corner into a small plaza, a rough circle in between storehouses measuring no more than ten meters wide. A table had been set there and a handful of people crowded around it. Four dwarves, one of them a woman, and a human man, played a card game, drank from large mugs and laughed and cussed loudly. They were all clad in practical leather corsets and cuir vests, daggers and swords and clubs hung from their belts. None of the dwarves had beards.

The table fell suddenly quiet as they noticed Borin's one eyed gaze upon them. One of the dwarves raised his tankard at him. He had a light stubble starting to poke through his chin and odd black tattoos curling along his temples.

"Hello there, young kinsman! Why don't you join us?" - He flashed a smile that glittered with gold.

Borin's hunger and thirst spoke far louder than his wisdom. So he approached and sat down on an offered chair, in front of the tattooed host.
"Name's Lyrd. These are my partners, Vaster, Fyrd, Maron and Joseph. Care for a drink? What's your name?"
"Yes. Borin." He nodded to the others as the presentations were made. Joseph, the human, poured him some ale, which Borin drank with eager, large gulps.
"First time in town,Borin? It can be rough. We have all been there, eh lads?"
The others chuckled and smiled in agreement. None of them talked, but they all watched intently.
"Sorry if it's too blunt, Borin, but how long has it been since you were cast out?"
Lyrd rubbed his own beardless cheeks as he asked the question. Again the golden smile flashed in the night.
Borin imitated the gesture, feeling his smooth skin where not a pore showed a hint of hair growth. His remaining obsidian like eye stared hard at the other dwarf.
"All my life."
Lyrd grunted.
"That's shitty, lad. Paying for the mistakes of your parents. We don't judge here, though. In a way, you and us, we're in it together. The clan of the clanless." There were grunts and nods of agreement by the others.
"Good thing that you found us, Borin. We could always use an extra pair of hands. If you're interested in some work, something to pay for a roof and warm food, you could come work with us."

Borin took another large swig of ale. This should be a good thing. A helping hand when he needed it the most. But it all felt wrong.

"What manner of work?"

Lyrd's golden smirk was a greedy thing.

"Oh, well, you know. This and that. We're officially in the storage business. Renting space for merchandise. How those goods find their way into our warehouses...Well, let's say we can be very creative about that. We'd mostly need you to keep an eye on..."

Borin was no longer listening. In fact, even his sight seemed to be shrinking, a grim red flooding the corner of his eyes. His lungs had become a tight knot in his chest, a fire raged in his gut.

So this was to be his lot. This was what he had been sentenced to,for no foul deed of his own. For doing nothing but being born, for being as he was. A petty thief. Lowly scum. Filth. A worthless piece of shit.

Lyrd opened his arms, smiling a wide and glittery grin.

"So what say ye?"

A fist punched through the golden teeth.

There was movement and blood and a red blackness. A gauged eye, a broken arm, a stabbed liver. There was sharp pain and icy cutting. A knee kicked inward, a nose bitten off, a face impaled through a broken chair.
There was screaming and grunting and whimpering. A throat cut by a broken glass, ribs broken by the edge of a boot, a body slammed against the stone.

Borin heaved and coughed as he stood over the bodies. Snot and drool and blood ran down his face. A dagger stuck out of his back. He could not remember the last thirty seconds.
The man named Joseph spasmed at his feet, foamy blood bubbling through his nose. One of the dwarves moaned like a diseased cow.

Borin turned and ran.
Past characters: Daedin Angthalion; Lurg Norgar; Urebriwyn; Ubaldo Ferraz; Erodash Uzdshak; Borin; Belchior Heliodoro; Orestes Fontebela

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Borin Drakkmurl
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Re: The Long Hike (revised)

Post by Borin Drakkmurl » Sun Feb 11, 2018 5:06 pm

Myth Drannor





He did not know for how long he had run. He was only aware of buildings and cobbled streets giving way to packed dirt and green foliage. Still he kept running, not daring to look back, even if no one was giving chase. Finally the terrain itself forced him to stop as a river suddenly emerged from the surrounding forest and cut his path.
Exhausted and spent, Borin sat down on the wet grass, his chest heaving like forge bellows, the dagger on his shoulder blade grating against the bone, his bloodied knuckles aching and throbbing. Brief glimpses of violence, or screams and fearful eyes under his boots, burst through his mind like fireworks. He closed his eyes as hard as he could and pressed his fingers against them, trying to drown out the roaring madness that burned inside his skull.

Slowly, very slowly, it subsided and was replaced by the peaceful gurgle of running water. Borin opened his eyes to see the bright moonlight reflected on the mirror like flow of the river. Without putting any conscious thought into it he removed his bloodied clothing and walked, naked, into the stream.
The rush of icy cold that swallowed him was both a shock and a relief. His entire body tightened and then let go and, as he stood neck deep in the current, Borin felt his pains slowly wash away or go numb. With a grunt he pulled the dagger from his back and let it sink to the bottom. A swirling cloud of red surrounded him and he did nothing to stop it. Instead he watched as it poured out of him, got denser and was washed away by the river, in a continuous whirlpool of blood.

A thought crept into the still cold of his mind. What if he bled to death? What if he just let himself go, emptied of life force, and was then carried off by the water to a nameless grave?
It was tempting. A peaceful end to all of it. No more commiserating, no more self loathing. Only the gentle push of the freezing current.
Borin realized then that the bleeding had stopped. The sting in his shoulder blade had grown numb, as had his whole body. Apparently, not all of him was ready to give up just yet.
Grumbling he picked up his things and, holding them over his head, crossed the stream to the other side. He got dressed and without any real sense of where he was, put his back to the river and started walking.

The hike was easy at first but as the night wore on the undergrowth became increasingly thicker and he was often forced to pick his way or backtrack all together. As the hours went by the darkness receded and the woods were covered in bluish grays, the ooting of the owls replaced by the first chirps of waking finches.
When the very first rays of sunlight pierced through the canopy Borin froze in his tracks, for only then could he fully see his surroundings. Towering trees rose all around him, ancient maples whose tops reached over two hundred feet high, dwarfed only by the giant oaks that were easily over four hundred feet tall. The dawning sun lit the forest on fire as it kissed leaves of gold and red that stretched as far as the eye could see. Pillars of white light fell down to the forest floor through breaks in the foliage far above. With the heat a fine mist had begun to pour up from the wet soil and it curled slowly around the massive tree trunks, wisps of it drifting up to the sky, a deep exhale that welcomed the new day.
Borin's trance was interrupted by another surprise and it was all that he could do to stifle a gasp.

Huge antlers emerged from in between two trees, only teen feet away from the dwarf. A bull elk stepped into view without a sound, its hooves softly landing on the cushioned forest floor. It stopped when it spotted Borin but without a trace of fear in its demeanor. The creature was easily twice the dwarf's height and it just stared placidly at him,deep dark eyes meeting the one-eyed, stupefied gaze. After what seemed like an eternity it turned and continued on its way, fuzzy antlers painted gold by the sunlight, thick fur quickly fading into mist and foliage.

It took Borin a few more minutes to move again. He was not sure if he ought to feel scared or blessed, he was not even certain that what he had just witnessed was real.
Rather than following the elk, he turned to a portion of the woods that seemed to gently but surely slope upwards. It was not a hard climb, the only obstacle being, again, the thick vegetation and maze of roots.
Morning was already midway through when he approached the top of the tree covered mound. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky and the world had gone quiet. Only then did he realize just how high he had climbed. On what he guessed to be the north the mound fell abruptly into a sheer, rocky cliff, looming over the rest of the forest some 150 feet below. The green stretched as far as the horizon where only a sliver of blue hinted at another body of water. Borin's gaze never made it that far. Instead a chill ran down his spine as he stared at the blackened trees less than a mile from his position, and at the jagged ruins that jutted up from the burned tree tops.

Broken towers and holed walls, stone structures without roofs and toppled buildings scattered all over, everything permeated by swirling tendrils of blueish light that pulsed and grasped in agony. Winged figures flew from one ruined minaret to the other, harsh snarls broke the air and fires dotted the ravished forest. Borin swallowed dryly. He had heard tales of this place, stories that he had dismissed as fancy tales to scare children to bed.

Tales of the destroyed elven city of Myth Drannor.



***




Again he fled. 

Giving as wide a berth as he could to the ruined elven city, Borin tried to keep a northern bearing. There was no particular reason for this. He had no detailed plan of where to go or what to do, but he did have a feeling, a strange and faint tug somewhere within him that made North feel like the right way to go. 

Two days he walked in as much of a straight line as he managed to. The forest floor was less thick here, the large trees growing far apart enough to form long corridors of moss covered trunks, but there were hardly any distinct land marks. To the young dwarf's untrained eyes, even if he had walked in circles, he would never have been able to tell. Putting that nagging worry away, he did all that he could do: he walked. 
Small brooks and ponds gave him the water that he needed but, for the most part, he went without eating. Sometimes he would risk eating some of the berries he found growing in the bushes but most of them made him sick almost instantly. In desperation, he began searching under rocks and roots for grubs and insects and, when even those failed him, he resorted to chewing pieces of bark.

The second day faded into darkness but, rather than try and find a place to camp, Borin decided to push on for as long as he could. He had noticed that the forest was growing quieter and quieter as the afternoon and then evening went by. The many birds had all but disappeared and the squirrels had stopped their endless chattering. The forest itself felt heavy and still all around him and, more than once, he thought he was walking through a grim and ominous painting. 
By the time night fell in completely Borin was sweating and doing his best not to break into a run. At first he dismissed it all as fatigue and paranoia, until a gurgling, screeching howl pierced the tense silence. Something was prowling in the woods behind him and all that he could think of were the freakish figures he saw flying over the ruins of Myth Drannor. So worried was he about what might've been behind him that he never saw the red murderous eyes that watched him from the underbrush. 

In a blur of movement something burst through the vegetation and lept at the dwarf, pinning him to the floor with impossible force. Borin had only the time to raise his hands and keep hungry fangs from tearing his face off. The stench was hideous, a mixture of sulfur and death and rot, the creature's skin a green and thick leathery thing. 
Death was upon him, this he knew. Try as he might to keep the slobbering mouth away, razor sharp claws dug at his chest and it would be only a matter of time until he was overpowered and torn to pieces. 

Then an arrow pierced the demon's skull with a sharp crack. 

Chaos ensued. 

Other twisted figures lept from the shadows, howling and growling and cursing unholy war cries. A host of elves rushed in to meet them. Silver blades glowed with the moonlight, arrows flew by the dozens and many of the elves rode in mounted on massive elk. 
Blood flowed freely as the two forces met. 

Still pinned under the dead beast, Borin cussed darkly as he tried to free himself. All around him was a mess of feet and hooves and claws. He saw an elf gracefully behead a vulture-like demon, only to then be himself cut in two by the pincer-like hands of a four armed thing. Looking to the other side, he watched in disbelief as an elk-rider rushed by, the demon that was still pinned to the animal's antlers trying to kill the elf riding it.
Heart racing and panic-stricken, the dwarf heaved with all his might and finally managed to wriggle himself free. He quickly regretted it as he stood up and took in the full scale of what was happening. It was an all out battle with scores of combatants fighting among the trees in all directions. 

Borin was startled by a scream. Less than ten feet away from him, an elven woman was sprawled on the ground, her helmet knocked out of her head and her braided black hair was matted with blood. Time seemed to slow down as he saw her raise her arms in fear, cowering from the heavy armored figure closing in on her. As if struck by a bolt of lightning, all thought was burned away from the dwarf's mind, and all that was left was the red sea of anger. Before he even realized what he was doing, Borin had his knife in his hand, and was driving it into the lower back of the demonic warrior over and over again. 

The abyssal knight dropped to its knees and fell over dead, the knife stuck deep in its spine. With a guttural growl, Borin bent down to pick up the axe it had been holding. In doing so, his gaze met that of the elven warrior. She blinked at him in disbelief. Still riding the wave of desperate fury, Borin barely acknowledged it. Instead, holding the axe tight, he ran into what was certain death.


It was a night of blood and gore and foul deeds. It was only when the first light of dawn began to lightly wash away the stars that the fighting ended. The dead were scattered and sprawled all over the forest floor. Bodies were impaled to tree trunks, limbs hung from branches. Roots were stained with crimson and fuming black entrails. The demons were dead but so were many of the elves.
Borin sat against a tree, breathing hard, his body cut and bruised and hurt but intact. A headache burned inside his skull. He did not know how he had survived. 
Next to him sat the black braided elf, looking as bewildered and spent as he was. Standing up with a painful grunt, Borin asked in as simple Common as he could:

"Safety. Where?"

She stared at him with an odd expression, as if the sight of that weird looking dwarf, there of all places, was far stranger than the mayhem she had just gone through.
Wordlessly, she raised a hand and pointed, firmly, in a direction somewhere behind him.

Asking no questions, the bloodied axe still in his hand, Borin turned his back on the battlefield and resumed his hike.
Past characters: Daedin Angthalion; Lurg Norgar; Urebriwyn; Ubaldo Ferraz; Erodash Uzdshak; Borin; Belchior Heliodoro; Orestes Fontebela

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Borin Drakkmurl
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Re: The Long Hike (revised)

Post by Borin Drakkmurl » Sun Feb 11, 2018 5:07 pm

Voonlar






Evening was fast approaching by the time he broke through the edge of the forest and into an open field. No more than a couple kilometers ahead, he could see chimney smoke and the outlines of houses. In between Borin and the buildings were long stretches of neatly worked farms.

Exhausted and starving, the sight of chimney smoke alone made his lips wet and every bone in his body ached for the comfort of a fire. Soon he found a thin trail that led from the thick greenery toward the town, twisting and turning along the fences that marked private lands. 
He met no one along the way. The work on the fields was done for the day and only a cow or lone donkey dotted the landscape here and there. 

When at last the first of the houses became more than a blur in the distance he quickly caught the scent of cooked food, heavy with grease, crawling through the air and deep into his nostrils. Picking up the pace, the fatigue suddenly forgotten, he made a bee line toward the house. 
Perhaps due to the quickly diminishing light or his half-conscious state of mind, Borin only realized that there was someone sitting by the front porch when the man lept to his feet out of a rocking chair. He was an old, thin, rugged man, with a pipe hanging loosely from a mouth gaping in surprise. 

"Hoo- HOY! HOY HOY! Go away beast!" - A rusty pitchfork was in his hands and he shook it angrily at the dwarf.

Startled into a halt, Borin stared in dumb silence for a moment, while the man kept shouting and waving the pitchfork around. It was then that the feeling of leather pressed tight under his fingers reminded him of the dark, bloodied axe that he was still holding, and of the ugly mess he himself must've been in. Clothes torn and covered in mud and blood, his face bruised and cut and small and one eyed, creeping out of the mysterious Cormanthor and into these people's homes.

The door of the house opened and another, younger man came out to join what must've been his father. Further down the road, other doors were opening and voices were calling out, trying to figure out what was happening. 

With a grunt, Borin realized it was time for him to do what, apparently, he had quickly become best at: flee. Thus he turned his back on the farmer and sprinted back toward the forest. The shouting followed him for the first few minutes but, not wanting to risk going too far into the woods with night fast approaching, the chase was soon given up on. 
Feeling much the same, Borin kept running but in a wide curve, just at the border between the forest and the fields, until he felt he was far enough away from the habitations themselves. There, he climbed up a wooden fence and into a wide farm. 

By then the sun had set almost completely but still shed enough dying light to turn the sky into blues that faded into black. Under the cover of dusk Borin found, first, a water trough that even in the near dark he could tell was murky and thick with filth. Uncaring, he used it to first quench his thirst and then wash himself clean as much as possible. Dripping wet and cold to the bones, he snuck his way to the stables of the farm, which were dangerously close to the house proper. A couple of cows and a horse were kept there, each in its partition and, though they stirred a little as the dwarf entered, the beasts did not seem to frighten.

Murmuring a thanks at being lucky, for once, Borin crept to a corner where hay was bundled and stacked all the way to the roof. Carefully, he lifted some of the first bundles until a space big enough for his size was clear, entered and sat on it, and then returned the hay stacks to their original positions. 
Completely covered and engulfed in darkness, he took a long, deep breath and lied down on the itchy bedding. 

He was afraid.

Afraid that he would not wake up before the farmers, be caught and killed. 

Afraid that he would not be able to fall asleep. Little over a week had passed since he first entered the town of Highmoon but it now felt like that had happened years ago. In those short, panicked and ruthless days, he had done and seen things he could not have imagined possible. Things that now rushed behind his closed eyelids, things torn and dead. He had never fought anyone before. Not like that. He had never killed anything before. 

And now he was blood stained to the core. 


Despite all of this, Borin fell asleep in a matter of minutes, and as his mind slowly drifted away, as it hung at the edge of the chasm that comes before slumber, he thought that he heard a whisper. If there were words in it, he could not tell, but it blew into his mind like a soft breeze, a gentle reminder of something he ought to do. 

Before he could figure out just what that something was, exhaustion claimed him, and heavy and troubled sleep pushed everything else away.


***



Borin woke up with start. The hay bales he had used to hide himself in were displaced, letting the first glimpses of sunrise into his improvised den. He heard the hinges of the stable doors creak slightly. Holding his breath, he dared not move a muscle as he listened. Nothing else moved, nothing more stirred.
Fearfully, carefully, he pushed his way out of the shelter and down onto the ground. Dumbfounded, he saw there a leather backpack that seemed full to the brim. Opening it, Borin saw inside several layers of clothing, travel rations and two full canteens. It made no sense.
He looked around the stables again but saw nothing but the hay and the animals, idle and sleepy in their stalls. A sliver of gray-golden light poured into the wooden building through the partially open door and now Borin saw that there was a piece of paper pinned to its frame.
Written in simple, shaky common letters were the following words:

" Dwarves not welcome. Zhents rule. Go North. "

Without thinking, Borin pulled the paper down, pocketed it and then crouched out into the fields. There was chimney smoke curling up from many of the houses down in the village and faint, waking noises began to echo here and there. Looking vaguely North, past the edges of town, he could just make out a river and, beyond it, the looming shadows of mountains.
He stuffed some of the food in his mouth and began walking at a fast pace, East first, to try and contour the boundaries of the farms, before turning North. As he approached the same fence he had snuck through the previous night he noticed that there was a small scarecrow in the field that he had not seen before, some 50 feet away from him. Then he quickly realized that it was no scarecrow at all, as it smiled and waved lightly at him. It was a child, a young girl of perhaps 12, her dark hair dancing with the morning breeze. She wore simple, peasant clothes and just stood there, smiling nervously and waving goodbye at him.
Borin stared at her, motionless, for a few seconds. Then he pulled the paper out of his pocket and waved it lightly in the air. Her smile widened and she nodded. The dwarf let out a deep, shaky breath.

Questions raced through his brain and an overwhelming rush of emotions welled up in his chest. Months now he had been in the surface world and it had been nothing but struggle, nothing but sweat and blood and the promise of death. And now that girl, barely more than an infant, showed him unexpected kindness. For no reason that he could understand. Had his strange, rock-like eye not prevented it, the young dwarf would've likely cried.

Instead, he waved at her and then turned his back and kept walking.
Past characters: Daedin Angthalion; Lurg Norgar; Urebriwyn; Ubaldo Ferraz; Erodash Uzdshak; Borin; Belchior Heliodoro; Orestes Fontebela

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Borin Drakkmurl
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Re: The Long Hike (NOTES)

Post by Borin Drakkmurl » Sun Feb 11, 2018 5:17 pm

Apparently, a whole lot of people had read the story so far. Which is...both very surprising and flattering, and why I am writting this bit now.

The whole idea behind Borin's background story was for it to be a..travel journal / adventure of some kind, focusing on the wandering aspect of it while, at the same time, telling the tale of how Borin came to be who he was.

I fear, however, I've strayed way too far into regular adventuring tropes, while neglecting the actual exploration and sight seeing part of it. The story beats kind of asked for it, though, and no matter where I traced a path for Borin in Faerun's Map, (which is kind of fun to actualy look at and see the journey from place to place) he would always end up traveling through some weird and dangerous spots.

Having reached Voonlar, I think I more or less closed one chapter or chunk of the story, the very first impact and shock of wandering Surface side. Going forward (as slow as that might be, writting-wise), I intend to, and hope to, focus more on the actual survival, wandering, exploration and natury side of things.


What I revised of the current text (near 10000 words long now!) was mostly rewritting, or adding new chunks of text:

- Added text to the Understar Halls chapter, expanding a little bit on the family strife and the harshness of life as an outcast in the mines.

- Hardly touched the Thunder Peaks chapter. Rewrote some sentences that were just bad, for the most part.

- Added small bits to the Highmoon part.

- Added some more small bits to the Cormanthor chapter, while wrestling with the notion of just deleting it all together.

-Added some more, and finished, the Voonlar chapter.



All of this..is just another sign of just how weird Arelith is, and this game as a whole, since I still have this character running around in my head and making me want to write more about him. And thanks for all the kind words I've received about the story so far, too.
Past characters: Daedin Angthalion; Lurg Norgar; Urebriwyn; Ubaldo Ferraz; Erodash Uzdshak; Borin; Belchior Heliodoro; Orestes Fontebela

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