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(Apologies from Wolfshield who knocked this page up, didn't have much time so it's as basic as it gets! Sorry!) This is a story told by three different writers, the players of ORZ or
Inquisition, Wolfshield and Gimli. It is meant as a long story in which
we bury hate. Hate is something that is not suited for a game. "I shall not have that said of me!" The six foot four leader of the Gimli clan had decided to pay a visit to the front. His run in with Methodt, now safely locked in the deepest dungeon, had left him wondering. His advisors told him it was best to inspect the front, also because the guests that night may have their doubts. The front with the bards was gritty to say the least. There had been some advance, though it came at a price. The earth shook at every blast delivered by the spells of the warlocks, there were bards locked in mortal combat against dwarven warriors and the penetrating stench of corpses corroded the nose. The momentum in the war was lost and the officers - at least those that remained - knew it. The army group was low on supplies, but it was morale that was lowest. Erroll Boartrasher was nervous that morning. Already he had received word from the Halls of Stone that Christiaan himself would come and inspect the front. He had not heard anything about Methodt, but assumed he was perhaps too tired to be able to deliver the message himself. He had done his job well, though. Perhaps there would finally be more support, perhaps even hunters to seek out the snipers. Still, Erroll was nervous - the snipers were a liability, he himself was glad to be alive. Snipers could kill an officer from far away, clean, unseen, and unheard. He had seen his superiors fall and he had seen those of lower rank fall. Erroll was nervous; he knew the safety of Christiaan would be his responsibility. He knew his own men had had bragging talk of how they would show the six foot four dwarf that had sent them to this front. Erroll was nervous. There was a whistling sound and a large explosion. A dwarven charge quickly ended the lives of a group of bards entrenched on a hill. Erroll finally saw the group of dwarves arrive. Could they have been more foolish! The advisors, the bodyguards, the dwarf himself, all were clad in red robes, the dwarven leader wearing his favourite helmet. They looked like the Inquisition; they could simply have not picked a more visible outfit. They still had three hundred yards to walk to the camp. A bang was heard. The alarmed crowd moved like a red dot to the fortress, where Erroll saluted them in. Quickly he dug up uniforms for the dwarfs, the green ones that would not look so bright. For the leader, he had no uniform that would fit, but a large green cloak would provide the same camouflage. Christiaan wanted to inspect the troops. He even wanted to move through the trenches. He did not notice the burly dwarf spitting at him in the background, nor did he pay much mind to the suspicious looks of the warriors. He waded his way through the mud, not noticing the starved faces of the people dug in. Much to everyone's surprise, he stopped at a warrior that had been badly wounded. The soldier was trembling from cold and blood loss. The six foot four dwarf took his cloak and laid it over the wounded warrior. A distant voice... "Hey!" A bang was heard. One of the advisors fell, dead. Chaos, pandemonium struck but before anyone could do something. Another bang, hitting another advisor? They say in the end the six foot four dwarf looked the gunner straight into the eye. The dwarf's favourite helmet then fell six feet and four inches down to the mud, having a small hole in it.
What was that in the distance? A star? Something was tugging at his consciousness,
the more it pulled the larger the star became. His attention now focused
on the rapidly expanding orange globe as it rushed toward him or was he
hurtling toward it? The speed at which it closed was exhilarating but
fear clutched at him as he realized it was no star but an incoming gigantic
fireball. Powerless to escape, it engulfed him, sending him hurtling back
into the void. Gone was the floating feeling only to be replaced by rampant pain. With
that pain came memory. Fragments of feeling and snap shots of vision flitted
in an out of view of his mind's eye. His mother, his first warhound, Rolf,
the time he fell face first into that muddy puddle in front of Brunhilda.
The images began to rapidly interchange until they blurred into a mess
of confusion threatening to tear his mind from its moorings with its onslaught
of myriad emotions until one face began to coalesce. As it took form an
overwhelming eruption of fury swept the pain from his body, "Eothan,"
he heard himself croak before darkness once again embraced him. But the ghost would not go away. Throwing himself back into his soft mattress he petulantly tossed his sheets to one side and over the edge of the bed. Staring up at the ceiling he noted its rough-hewn finish that helped his room resemble the inside of a cave. Turning his head to rest his cheek against the thick pillow he watched the flames of the campfire dance around the logs fueling it. Sitting up again he pouted and scratched the side of his head, ruffling his scruffy hair. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and let his toes play with plush animal fur pelts that adorned his floor. He smiled sardonically to himself at their authentic feel. This "cave" was a fake. The ceiling and stonewalls were sculpted, painted plaster. The fire gas fed and logs fireproofed. Even the rugs were synthetic. But Eothan was no fake, oh no; he was rightful leader of the Clan, even though some now whispered poison in the galleries to the contrary. They'd meet the same fate as Randwulf if they became more of a threat. Lowering himself into his bed again he closed his eyes and saw his father's
face. A feeling of warmth spread through his body. No, nobody, not even
a ghost, was going to take his clan from him while he still had breath
in his body even if he had to kill them all. Formulating the words in his mind for the 100th time he barely noticed his journey to the chambers. The two guards delayed the opening of the gold gilded doors just long enough to annoy him. More lackeys. But he was late and he could always take the matter up with them on the way out. Dominating the room was the rectangular white marble table of the council with the Great She Wolf's gold embossed image at its centre. He looked to the head of the table and saw Eothan staring at him wearing a disarming smile. "Come in, come in, my friend," The Clanlord indicated the only vacant seat at the table, "sit Theodric, we were just about to start without you!" Theodric took his seat and smiled weakly. By the Great She Wolf how he hated that man! As Eothan began the proceedings Theodric took the opportunity to see
if anymore faces on the council had changed. No. But why would they? All
members, save him, were utterly loyal to the new administration, most
related in some way to their leader. The Clan was guided by nothing but
a monarchy now. At least in Randwulf's time, though he had the deciding
vote, he listened to reason or to the majority and rule fairly. A council
member could make a difference then. Theodric felt the anger start to
bubble inside him. "You seem distant Theodric, is not our victory
a great day for the clan?" Theodric looked to his subconscious and
retrieved the probable subject. "A great day? The Eldar and our valiant
warriors against the technically inferior Blight and Sparhawk?" He
saw Eothan's smile falter and a feeling of pleasure welled up inside him. "You know what I am trying to say!" Theodric rose to his feet and his voice rose with him, "The clan has become nothing more than a family business. The Heimdall family produces all titans now. It harvests all Biomass. It controls all trade. And those not of Heimdall lineage, what role do they perform now? They die for your family at the controls of your products! We are just another resource for you!" Still seated, Eothan leant back in his chair, strangely he seemed to
have calmed down, "There is honour in death on the battlefield. You
yourself preach that!" "Leopald," barked Eothan, "Put your weapon away. This is the council chambers not the local tavern!" The young man opened his mouth but thought better of saying anything, instead fixing Theodric with an evil look while thumbing the off switch on the saw. "Your lackeys do not frighten me Eothan and know this. The Clan grows tired of this dictatorship. You have weakened the clan more so than Randw-the traitor Randwulf ever did," Theodric narrowly avoided naming the former leader without preceding it with the word "traitor", a transgression punishable by immediate execution. "Enemies queue at our borders or hide amongst other enemies. If you do not forge new links with others then our clan will fall and our blood will be on your hands! Know that I speak for the other major families in this clan! Your ineptitude and nepotism will not be tolerated for much longer." Eothan remained silent for a moment as if considering his words. "You show me great disrespect Theodric with your words. The clan has a short memory. It was I who delivered you from the hands of the Stompers. It was-" A beeping noise issued from his wrist organiser and he glanced down, a predatory grin creeping onto his face, "um, yes, it was I who negotiated our way to the most feared alliance in the sphere. I could not have foreseen the events to follow." Eothan then stood up and placed both his hands upon the table. "Go tell the disloyal clansmen that any form of rebellion will result in brutal suppression. The clan must live by my tenets now." Theodric had said his piece and was more than happy to leave these cronies, "You are playing a dangerous game Eothan," he said simply as he headed for the double doors. "As have you Theodric," the Clanlord called after him. Theodric didn't even break his stride as he flung open one of the doors sending a guard sprawling. He considered the possibilities as he made his way back to the shuttle. By the time he had engaged the autopilot and the mech was pulling away from WolfHolme he had already made up his mind. There would be civil war once he told the other members of Eothan's stubborn stance. From out of the blue came the sound of the klaxon followed by the female computer warning voice "Computers unable to maintain integrity. Good Bye!" Theodric only had enough time to glance at the control console before the explosion rent the titan apart. From a portal window in Wolfholme, Eothan watched the shuttle flare up
and smiled. Turning away he looked at the weasel faced technician, "You
made it look like an accident right?" The man nodded his head. "Good,
be gone but I will have further need of you Loki." The dripping water stopped for a moment and a damp cloth was gingerly daubed around his mouth. "You move, that is good, Wolfman!" A gentle but gravely voice said. "W-harrumph," He cleared his throat and realised he was able to breath through his nose but his nostrils felt tighter than usual, "Why is it so dark?" His mouth felt swollen or nearly closed shut and his voice seemed different, wheezier. There was a prolonged pause before the same soft voice spoke, "I
am afraid you were horribly injured. Your The shock of the statement almost made him laugh. Tactful indeed. "Then where am I? And what of my men?" "You are in the halls of the Dwarves and your men are no more. You have only been saved so that Christiaan of Gimli may deal with you as he sees fit. Death would be too quick and too easy." "And you are my jailer?" "Nay, a prisoner, like you, though better looking." Randwulf couldn't help but laugh at the voice that he assumed belonged to a dwarf. "What did you do?" "I'm not a great speaker, so the story of how I came to be imprisoned
within this dungeon in the belly of the mountain the dwarfs love so much
might be boring to you. "It would certainly be better to listen to your story than to stare into the void," Randwulf said. Immediately the voice in the dark started singing in a language long forgotten, fine in sound and well in rhyme. The words he spoke have been translated, though the rhyme has sadly been lost: "The stream of beer was plentiful, with kegs spilling with beer and emptied as fast as they could be filled. The usually 'quiet' atmosphere in Gimli's halls had been transformed in yet another amorphous feasting horde, stuffing themselves with fat, dripping red meat, roasted on the great fire that was burning in the Halls of Stone's central fireplace. The servants ran across the mass, bringing heavy dishes covered with freshly baked bread, colourful salads and the tastiest pieces of wild beasts a dwarf, at least a drunken one, can imagine. The more female servants (one never knows with the dwarfs) offered more than just their spices... Christiaan, the six foot four dwarf of clan Gimli, undisputed leader of the dwarfs, sat upon the large throne that once belonged to Gimli himself. The throne matched the huge dwarf in sheer size, with the dwarf in it having a nose as red as the rubies the throne was covered with. Sitting, however, may have been a title that was not entirely worthy of the dwarf anymore. The slouching dwarf had fat dripping from his chin onto his ornate gown, a piece of tailoring again featuring the dwarf's favourite stones. The dwarf's right hand clutched a nearly emptied keg of beer. The dwarf's face stared idly into the keg, back at his own reflection. The dwarf's mouth then ended the initial fright the reflection had caused by quaffing the remaining pint. "Gimme beer! Mooah Beer! Izs Beer I needzzss!" A hurried servant ran in with a more beer, the sort meant for six foot tall dwarfs, stronger than the already strong dwarven ale, brewed to the ancient recipe, a secret one. A thick stream filled the keg with foaming beer. The sudden change of weight upset the dwarvish coordination, and promptly toppled him off his throne. Having arrived at the floor, his eyes first noticed the moist environment his butt was in, though it must have been him that was the source. Looking at the keg, he noticed there was not a drop spilled. He noticed his throne again, and pulled himself up. That exact moment, the wooden doors creaked open, revealing a dwarf, much smaller than the huge one ascending the throne. Sweating he stood in the opening, breathing heavily, the dust on his clothes a telltale mark of the long trip he made. Upon seeing the parting mass, he took a step back... Let's introduce the new dwarf: Methodt Elfhunter. His name stems from his grandfather, who used to fight the Dark Elves in times long past. Compared to Christiaan, he was a mere dwarf, but then again, he WAS a dwarf. And he surely was no weakling, having fought in the wars against the Beastmasters and more recently in the war against the Bards. He was a messenger, bringing the latest news on Mercator's troops, who shoot awfully far - and accurate too. Not a normal messenger but the commander himself who had arrived to ask explanation for the miserable conditions the lack of support the dwarves in the field had to live with.... The sight of the clan leader wiping the putrid muck off his queer gown, made Methodt forget the message he had sent himself to deliver but remember the harsh circumstances during the Beastmaster's war. Back there, the lack of food making your stomach hurt while trying to fight the hordes the Beastmaster had sent upon their lines and then after the ordered attack walking through knee deep mud while all kind of projectiles were thrown at them, seeing his fellow comrades fall around him...that was what he remembered of the war and that was something completely different than the orgy he was seeing here? "You filthy swine! Have you no dignity! Your own people get themselves killed, first at the hand of the hordes of the Beastmasters, then by the Bards, and the snipers they bring. And you? You sit and drink and roll in your own dirt like the pig you are! You used to be a dwarf, a brave and valiant one. Now look at you, look at what you've become; A faerie, a bulbous fat monster, sending his own men to Nowheresville for the sake of his own personal crusades. Do you know the hells of the wars you're having us fight? The hunger we face, the lack of support, the snipers that pop up from nowhere and shoot our best men, only to disappear in the night?" "Aaww, Hbuubbuuguuuhhhraargh.. Git him..." The voice stopped and silence filled the dungeon again. A small ray of light reflected against the eyes of Methodt the dwarf, his eyes filled with tears of anger and rage. After that it was dark again... Despite not understanding the meaning, the tone of the song saddened Randwulf's heart though he did not know why. "A mournful tune stranger, what is its meaning?" He listened to the translation and found he had become angry himself. He had to calm himself for a minute before he decided to ask the question he most wanted the answer to, "I am sorry to hear that but can you tell me, did my clan survive the surprise attack?" "What surprise attack?" Randwulf paused. Eothan had sent the distress call to his group. WolfHolme had been caught when on the march and was about to be destroyed. He had asked Randwulf to avenge the death of the Hall by any and all means available. A dreadful possibility entered his mind, "Your clan never caught WolfHolme did it?" "No, not to my knowledge, though you made a good job of surprising The Halls of Christiaan." Randwulf put his good arm up to his face and buried a cheek in his good hand. "That scheming viper, he has made a fool out of me!" Randwulf was impressed though; Eothan had disposed of his main political rival by getting the rival to dispose of himself! Obviously the new leader had clouded the reason for his actions. He shook his head, no doubt I look like a traitorous viper myself! Randwulf needed to set them straight, avenge his reputation and his fallen loyal troops! Considering he was locked in a cell with a broken body the task looked hopeless but he would at least try. "Please Dwarf, I'm sorry, but I know not your name." "I am Methodt, Randwulf." Randwulf pushed out his hand in the direction of the voice and felt the others strong grip, "Now I urge you, tell me what has happened since my injury?" And the two began to talk. Part Three: The Election The dwarven realm was mourning. Christiaan the great dwarf would never rise again, and already the discussion over who would be the next leader had begun. The council was assembled in the Halls of Stone, and the building saw visitors from every corner of the realm, curious, with the one question on their mind. Outside, a storm, a howling wind raging past the towers, the rain pouring down, though inside none of that. The fireplace was heated with oakwood. The clan leader in better times, the audacious Gimli, spoke up. "My dear dwarfs. We, the dwarven elders, have been shocked by the
loss of Christiaan, bringer of many wars and seeder of feuds..." "Only one," Gimli continued, "of you was brave enough,
though, to raise a voice against Christiaan's hateful ways. He believed
in good and evil, in the values that he was taught when he was still too
young to carry a real axe and had a wooden one instead. Who is this dwarf?" "Let Methodt step forward from the crowd! You have been chosen to
lead the clan to glory once more.." Five minutes later the guard returned, bringing three individuals with him. Only two of them were able to walk, the third he carried. They were the never broken Methodt and the singer in the dungeon, whose songs of jest were sung, even more now Christiaan was gone, in the bars far away from where the six-foot four dwarf once stood. The third was carried by the guard, more dead than alive. Randwulf was starved, tortured, burnt. Gimli was the first who spoke to the now guilty-feeling crowd. "Get a doctor! Get some seats! Get a cook to make these people a decent meal!" A few dwarfs started running around and after a short while the food was ready. And it was good food, though Randwulf was unable to eat for himself, and had to be fed by a waitress. The onlookers got their share of sandwiches with thick slab of roast meat and -of course - beer. Gimli spoke again. "I will introduce to you these three people that have risen from
the dungeon, and who may be revered as heroes: Methodt Elfhunter, Gnarl
Hammerdrum and a third stranger, whose name I do not know." "Indeed he is." A loud murmur again rose from the crowd. This time, they didn't stop at the calls for silence from the guard. Methodt held his hands over his head and made a short gesture asking for silence. It wasn't the size of the dwarf that made the crowd go silent - it was something else. Old Gimli smiled, sat back in his chair and gestured the servant to fill his keg. He indeed was the leader of the Wolf's clan, he was indeed the one attempting to kill old Gimli here, but hold your judgements. Gimli hasn't died. The Wolf's attempt failed thanks to the *plaything*, the gift of our friends that go where no dwarf has ever been. Many of you will remember the Wolf's leader as a strong person, broad shouldered with shining eyes. Now look at him, broken, scarred and powerless. Instruments of torture and his burning mech left their burnmarks all over him and even the hand, so important to us, has been branded. How, I ask you, will he be able to enjoy his beer? A keg fell and shattered on the floor. Silence was again disturbed by murmur. It was clear Methodt had spoken the right words, though he hadn't finished yet. No beer, however horrible, might be bearable for a dwarf. But look at this man, mutilated as he is? Would not death have been a punishment that suited the dwarfs better? Randwulf lived through all this in the dark dungeons under the halls of stone. He's had his punishment! Everyone agreed, and over a wave of sound Methodt approached Randwulf,
picked him up, seat and all, and placed him near his own. The next day, or was that week, when the sun rose there was a startling moment. Methodt, as well as Randwulf, were nowhere to be seen. The people panicked, and a search began. The two were found in the cartography room, the room holding the old parchments with maps of the realm, some of which were originally hand-painted by the Mercator themselves. Randwulf and Methodt were overlooking a large map of the Wolf realm. Randwulf had decided to go back home. Part four: The return A low beeping noise interrupted Eothan's intimate chat with one of his more "willing" female group commanders on duty at the weapon tech facility. "Consider yourself relieved, Brunhilda, and report here immediately!" He cut her off before she could return the obvious innuendo. "Yes?" He asked sharply. "My liege, grave news." |