16th Timber
Amidst the ruins of a shattered civilization, a flame yet dwells. There strength and glory reside, the bracers of our mind set, of our spirit. None can take it, none can quench it. Like a mighty river of flowing ire and bravery, it is a molten rock ever present in our minds. One that occasionally explodes in a kaleidoscope of colours, ranging from brilliant gold to peaceful blue. All have this possibility, this gem inside them. Only a few ever reveal it, experience its brilliance first hand. Highmax is one, an exceptional one. He mastered the art of controlling this inner force long ago. Apiks is another, his memories of the Elder days and the First Necrothreat reinforced by this power. For all others, this ability manifests itself as a mood of sorts. Dorisdorf is one such.
It happened quickly. One minute he sat at his station, churning out crafts in the bowels of the earth, the next he was standing up, every muscle in his body straining. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and ran in small rivulets down his cheeks. As quick as a dart, he dashed off, screaming for materials. He came back to his workshop, a mechanics shop near the forges, and began to beat, the hammer falling steadily. From his shop came a coruscating river of sparks, and shouts fell and powerful, imbued with the ancient power of the Forumites, rang forth, echoing, bouncing with frenzied speed in that hollowed cavern beneath the earth.
To pounding of the fire smiths,
In depths which held the ancient light,
There Dorisdorf began his craft
Beneath the mountain’s height.
He smote the ore and lit the forge,
His arms were strong, his hammer fell
Amidst the fiery hail of flame
In caverns deep beneath the fell.
His eyes in darkness lit with light,
And in the dark a wondrous sight
To him was shown, and him alone,
Sat down his hammer in the night.
He wandered long in eldritch halls,
And went through hill and Elder door.
He saw there coal in veins of pitch.
Amazed, he whispered “Nokzam Othor!”
Then hewn from rock was darkling vein
And carried was its precious load
To shop above the magma sea
Where imps abide in molten hold.
Long spent he inside his shop,
And long was heard his mighty roar,
Until the day the forger stopped
And left that place for evermore.
An engineer was he when all was done,
He set aside his hammer’s weight,
But in his eyes there gleamed with light
A hope, a hunger none could sate.
And yet he walks our hallowed halls,
In Necrothreat he dwells today,
And legends spring about his work,
His crafts recalled in song and lay.
6th Moonstone
Dorisdorf yet raved in the darkest depths of the world. The walls, like rock and earthen curtains, swept by me with such speed that I barely noticed them. It had struck again, that plague which laid low our greatest warriors, which put even me under the thumb of Armok, that terrible entity which all curse in their darkest moments and most cursed of days. Blood fiend. Vampire. An evil which feasts upon blood for the glory of Armok, but which is also undead. Unswervingly loyal to the blood god, and yet with a tie to Ur…none can say what they will do, how they will do it. The corridor petered out and became a one-man tunnel, ending in a bedroom. The Bane of IronTomato struck here for the second time. I entered through a door ripped and hewn by supernatural strength, deep gouges marred the surface as if a clawed beast had ripped at it in an animalistic fashion. Stepping through this warped door frame, I stood in shock. The walls here were far from nondescript. The blood was spattered upon them in large wheels, spraying up to the ceiling seven feet above. It was as if someone had taken joy in bathing the room red. I recall shuddering and, remembering my own experience with the blood-fiends, believing that this was very well possible. It was at his moment the shadows struck, a moment of confusion within my mind as I sought to block out the room…and the body.
From the blood drenched floor and crimson hued walls they came, a tide of unquenchable darkness which seemed to stretch back into the most unfathomable depths of my mind. I fell into a sticky puddle, hands smeared red in front, the tightened, whitened knuckles showing through like bones. Like death itself. Armok never ceases to torment me. Never. His will bends towards me at all times, seeking, seeking to drag me under and suffocate me in fetid swamps of darkness. But I will not drown! Let the blood god play his tricks! Let the very mountain shake with his fury! I am a FORUMITE! At the last my body trembled, spasming in the blood and torn body parts. I rejected him that day. I fought of the shadow. But it took will. A lot of will. Even to this day, I remember how I had huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth, images of bloodsucking beasts dancing in front of my vision until they began to fade….fade into the depths of my mind, where I kept them, mastered them and beat them. I won, and only occasionally do I see that wall of midnight before me, only at certain times such as the darkness of the moon do I feel cold, sliding hands reaching down my back. And I know that somewhere Armok still waits for me, and he has an eternity. I only have this life, but I shall make it a life that will make the very gods weep rivers of blood!
On the same day, as I stumbled, blood crazed and shaken, covered in the tattered remnants of clothing that I had torn in my horror and grief, we got a new mechanic to replace the old. I smiled a crimson grin, the white of my teeth shining through. The Light has a strange humour, does it not? I laughed, a touch of hysteria entering my tone, then walked to my chambers amidst the sound of people chanting an celebrating. “All hail Dorisdorf! Legend of his craft! May his life long be held in the chronicles of time!”
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The next update
should be more interesting. And Dorisdorf has the best possible surname a Forumite/Dwarf could
ever get. Constuctbeard? It sums up a race!
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Topic: Necrothreat II - A Fort Cursed by the Gods! (Read 472242 times)