Chapter I: Dawning of Dwarves

This is an introductory part of the story.

 

 

Chapter I

 

 

 

 

Dawning of Dwarves

 

 

 

 

          

          It had been quite an afternoon for the many, many dwarves of Crotz’ Cryn. Merely hours after the dwarves had awakened, did they receive news of battle marked for the next day. It was expected, obviously, that it was to be of the orcs. Their disgusting, futile bodies could not stand up to the might of the noble dwarf. All expected a quick battle, and to be home even before supper. Preparations were being made for their great battle. For you see, for dwarves it was always a tradition to prepare. If one did not prepare, one can never succeed. This was one of the many philosophies the dwarves swore by; because, of course, these dwarves would soon find themselves at war.

          Within the armory, the vast quantities of dwarf warriors were suiting up and shining the precious metals of their armors and weapons. As they prepared for war, they all laughed together. It was generally a happy time, because war was always something the dwarves could endure and was worthy and well worth the wait. All of the men were in the hall, preparing for battle. This was usually done so by much drinking, and much celebration. Not much preparing even actually occurred. They made sure their armor and weapons were able to cope with the unknown of battle, and they brought in the alcohol.

          All of the dwarves laughed and talked merrily. Sounds of loud clanging and clashing metal shouts clamored. Many similar shouts were called as the proud dwarves of Crotz’ Cryn celebrated. Not all were entirely kind words but, you can’t blame a dwarf for wanting to crush an enemy in his palm. These were, after all, mountain dwarves.

          Great laughter and the feeling of eternal merriness were beginning to fill the hall entirely. Many dwarves discussed battle tactics and options; others discussed strange scenarios in which they found themselves in.  One dwarf spoke of a time when he found himself in the mist of a gorgon.

           “It had hideous eyes, it’s skin grey and charred. Of course, I killed the beast before my very eyes, but, you know, it put up a fight.” He boasted. He went on to describe some incredibly ridiculous battle occurrences. The fellow dwarves he spoke to chuckled at him behind his back.

           Glass clinking and even more clanging hung high and echoed loudly in the hall. A few mellow, happy drunken dwarves sang in mockery of a victory battle.

           “The women of Lore” they sang. This was an ancient song, bested upon them by the gods. Perhaps it was not such a great idea to mock such an inspirational song. But these dwarves had had a lot to drink. Therefore the gods spared them wrath and gave them pity. Dwarven bards looked at them disdainfully, as if to mock them for making a predicament out of an elder song from the gods.

           “Let us drink for the occasion!” cried a particularly round dwarf. Unsurprisingly, a large empty beer mug was grasped preposterously in his fat fist.

           “Aye!” replied another. His beard was wet with beer, and raising his mug high, he began to sing the sacred song, cheered by jeering drunken companions, as the first dwarf poured more drinks.

                           

                            Oh, but a dwarf, is to know.

                            Of the beautiful women of lore!

                            For the sacred and bountiful beauty--

                            Of the bloody, maniacal w***e!

 

           The group of fat dwarves laughed hysterically, finding much sincerity at the dwarf’s sudden addition to the ancient song. Of course, the bards still gazed over angrily. The dwarves flasks hit one another as whiskey splattered the rocky floor. The two dwarves put their arms around each other. They sang together in sing-song unison, as the rest drank merrily, laughing for the cause.  

           There was a particularly old dwarf, by the name of Rimm Broos. He was not quite as old as dwarves could become, but Rimm was indeed an old dwarf. He was after all, 298 years old. For you see, long ago, only years after Crotz’ Cryn’s foundation, Rimm was recognized widely. He was a great warrior and killed so many creatures in his days. His eyes had seen the most vicious anfvile creatures on all of Angeous.  Their existence- and even the sighting of one- were extremely rare. These horrid creatures bore not a single drop of good in their strange veins underneath their blue skin. They were intelligent enough to know innocent from evil, unlike the rather unintelligent troll. They preferred to live deep within the planet of Angeous, where demons and heinous beings were trapped to the boundaries of hell. None would ever find themselves there.

           The only thing Rimm cared of was to fight. He had grown in age over the years, but in spirit, the old dwarf was the same young person. He was a proud dwarf, a proud one indeed, and the thing he cherished the most was his battle axe. Rimm would go no where without it, even though he resided in the safely protected Dwarf mountains of Crotz’ Cryn.

           Yet, somehow, through all that, Rimm was still conscious about fighting. He was tainted by the prospect of war. During old Rimm’s time as a young sinewy dwarf, he would have jumped at the chance of war. He would have leaped even to killing an inferior mouse. He had been respected widely by many young fighters growing up. Over the years, Rimm began to lose his respect from the others. The children who were told stories of his great adventures were now adults and they grew on to tell their children of the once great warrior, now an old fool.

           He wanted the feeling back. He wanted it all back. The old dwarf could recall a time, many years ago. He knew war was not all it was meant to show for. It was advertised as a great thing.

           “Called to serve your great King Buyopi! Serve your duty and be a hero!” Rimm remembered it like he had the very first time.

 

 

Young Rimm looked around nervously. He was anxious before a battle. Everyone was—that’s what he assumed. He remembered his many battles before this—it would be the same as all the others. He would return a hero untouched, unknown by the eyes of the enemy. He would return victorious.

The troops marched downward into a forest, green and lively with life. All watched as the enemy marched from far off. It would not be long until this organized line would be moved and corrupted into the chaos of war. Yes, that was the massive effect it could have. The young dwarf would not know that half of his friends would not make it. That half of his loyalties would not make it. That war was a terrible thing.

It did turn to chaos. Beasts everywhere, young dwarves, the first timers, fought for control of even their own weapons. They were afraid to look up, afraid to realize that this was not the plan. Many tall ogres swung blindly, some striking dwarf, some striking fellow ogre. The young warrior Rimm fought long and endlessly, unhopefully, willingly, knowing he would die soon if help did not arrive.  Rimm’s good friend Seevis looked at him assuring, that every one was to be fine. Rimm’s face sank, terror, fear, turmoil, all sulking in his expression. Seevis moved behind quickly—but too late. The ogre swung left and right, up down, the dwarf’s muscular body was tossed around relentlessly. His scream was muffled by only one thing- death itself. Blood was enough to make Rimm sicken, but not only that, anger. He fought the ogre with a vengeance so strong for a new timer that others stopped to watch and were killed.

One by one, the great massive figures froze and crumpled. His great steel axe had been made proudly with care long ago, with his father. The young dwarf bent down for a moment to tend to a wounded dwarf. Many leaves crumpled and the ground shook. Rimm froze, too terrified to look over at the large creature about to attack. He turned to stare at a gigantic ogre! It’s size was huge compared to average. His weapon was a large broken, battered club. The wood was creased, sloppily slapped together with nails, not even hammered in completely. This, though, made its weapon all the more lethal. It seemed to tempt him. With a swift swing, the blurred image of the putrid wooden club was the last thing the young dwarf had remembered.

 

        Rimm touched his rough hand to the long scar indented on the dwarf’s aged face. He shivered.

 

* * * * * *

 

                                  

           “Alright, then!” Thunderbuff yelled. He was sick of his son, Smashy’s raves. Smashy was a very young dwarf, and, as that night was to be the preparations, of course the young dwarf had begged to go. Smashy would not stop begging until he would let him go; Thunderbuff knew. This of course, merely annoyed the older dwarf. Thunderbuff was indeed a strict guardian. Smashy was to grow up a proud dwarf. Ever since the process of weaning had completed, Smashy had been told this over and over again. The young dwarf was young, but 18 years was plenty enough time to teach someone’s mind to adapt. Thunderbuff had taken an oath to correctly teach this child the proper ways of dwarf.

           You see, previously, he had taken much slack in raising Smashy’s older half brother Gil, (Smashy was not Thunderbuff’s real son), and Gil was now a cocky, overconfident buffoon. Thunderbuff had cut the child slack and decided to show him fun. This time, he would not make the same mistake twice. As if to make up for a lost dwarf, (In potential, for that matter) Thunderbuff had become a hardened, stiff, and strict guardian.

           This, though, had had the opposite effect. 18 years of demanding and ordering the child to do this, or forcing him to train for that, had caused Smashy to grow up a loud-mouthed, nosey and yet, idealistic child.

           Smashy had always longed to battle! Therefore, when the young dwarf heard of the great battle at dawn, he had to jump at the chance. Thunderbuff had raised him to think highly of war and battle, and this, at least for Thunderbuff, was a success. Unfortunately, Smashy was overzealous at battle, and was clumsy with a weapon. This was why Thunderbuff had hesitated when the young dwarf requested a great battle axe. So, instead, Smashy received a simple wooden hammer. Smashy did not mind this at all, for he still possessed his innocence.

           Smashy did not notice a lot of things, and was quick to forget. The young dwarf was rather gullible! But, when trouble did arrive, which it did, he was also quick thinking. So when he knew of something he wanted, the young dwarf did not hesitate to persist.

           “You would have let brother go.” He pouted. All of the men where in the great hall, preparing and getting ready for war. Smashy longed to go for he knew many would tell tales of war or perhaps stories of gnomes or Halflings. The young dwarf had found much interest in these creatures for he had never heard such strange names, other than where he had originally found them in some books. But what interested the dwarf most of all were the humans. Their strange personalities! The woman had no hair on their face. Most found this revolting but Smashy, being of humble and innocent curiosity, found it interesting. Some men had beards, but some cut them off. Smashy could not even imagine a dwarf with no beard, even though he was so young that his dwarf body had not even matured enough to grow facial hair.

           Thunderbuff groaned. He did not want Smashy to go to the preparations. He knew what went on there, and it was not what Smashy had thought it to be. Smashy was convinced they took it all seriously— that they prepared, that they cared. He did not realize that they would prepare for as little time as possible, and then have a good time. They would drink themselves out of it, so that no one could even understand them. He sighed. He would have to let the young dwarf go, for Smashy could experience the ways of his soon-to-be lifestyle.

           “You’re brother is not here!” Thunderbuff reasoned. Sweat glistened from his brow. “You know that he is in Cleandra, the great high elf city of studies! There he resides, studying in ancient history, at the academy for-“

           “-‘For many years to come, as a great dwarf your brother aspires to be’”. Smashy finished, mocking Thunderbuff’s tone terribly. This statement was obviously well rehearsed, as Smashy had heard it recited many times within their small, dwarven cave. It was not much of a home, but it was enough so that the two, father and son, were well kept. Smashy rolled his eyes, for he knew that his brother was not very intelligent at all. He figured that the only thing his oaf of a brother would aspire to do, was aspire to perspire. He giggled at that thought, for he remembered the times when he was young— before Gil left to the academy, that is— that the dwarf rarely bathed. He could vaguely remember breathing heavily and the deep thought of,
“Good heavens, this dwarf smells like rotting corpses!”

           “Alright then!” Thunderbuff yelled, giving in to Smashy’s stubbornness. He knew it was not a smart thing to do, for it would likely come back to bite him in the rump. But he ignored that for now. He simply sighed and looked to his soft, leathery reclining boots— it was after all, time for rest.

           “You may go.” He muttered stubbornly, hoping that maybe his young son would not hear him, and that he had given up his hope entirely and would go to his sleeping quarters, and drift off to sleep. But sure enough, much to Thunderbuff’s disappointment, Smashy’s face lit up completely. He squealed like that of a high pitched female and scaled the room in circles singing a tale of happiness. Thunderbuff rolled his eyes and groaned once more, putting his face in his long, thin hands. Where did I go wrong? He thought disdainfully. He put down his hands and shattered the face of the truthfully caring dwarf. He turned to a hard stern expression, as not to discern the young dwarf. He threw out his hand and grabbed Smashy by the armor. He pulled him back close to his head.                 

           “Aboslutely no alcohol!” He warned in a fierce, hushed whisper. He did not want the young dwarf to experience the sweet, sweet pleasure that was beer. Ale, the swift aroma of the liquid, fresh from the barrel: he did not want the young dwarf to go down that road, not quite yet. Smashy gulped and Thunderbuff continued. “Be careful what you say and who you speak to. You do not want to anger a drunken dwarf warlord.” Smashy’s eyes widened in deep amazement and fascination. He nodded, and the dwarf scrambled off to his quarters, (Once Gil’s) and began frantically to pack his things. He did so as fast as his short dwarf body could handle, for he was all ready ten minutes or so late. He was soon ready to leave, and not long after, arrived at the Hall.

 

Author's Note

the original first chapter was broken down into two chapters.