((This one's a big one... but it's a whole new quest for you. Too much time on my hands.))
You hear the low wail of the camp watch's horn, signalling a disturbance near the camp. You know it couldn't be the demons- winter is settling in around these parts; the passes you've just come back from are probably close to choked by now, and word won't have gotten back to High Command yet. Your men have left your own pass similarly choked due to their familiarity with the area and unlikely appearance of recruits from the shackled South. Whatever's going on, it's either coming from the skies or the deep- you look up, and the skies are clear- only the indigenous birds and that strange white-speckled black owl flying high.
No indication of harm from the skies... so the ground contains the disturbance. A conscript with the white leathers of the Watch, bleached for camouflage against the snowy peaks, rushes to your small gathering, out of breath. "Lords! A growing break has appeared in the cliffside on the west edge of the gorge! We're not sure the origin, but we fear the worst, and your assistance is requested. I'll take you there!"
You ready your equipment and follow the slight man, barely more than a boy- but he has the eyes of an old man- this boy has earned his manhood through the scars of war; loved ones must be dead, probably burned before his very eyes- horrors killed by his hands, friends slaughtered by his side... You shudder after looking into his eyes, horrified by the hollow depth contained within those eyes. Eyes of a fellow resigned to death, but whose life has barely begun....
As you approach the west end of camp, you see what the conscript was speaking of- a great hole is beginning to form in the cliff; as you watch another pair start to form beside the first.
Even as you watch the holes grow, solid stone seeming to simply reshape itself as clay from the power, forming massive arches from the side of the cliff, Von'Salor rushes by your side and lets out a great, relieved sigh. "Ah, I recognize this magic- it feels familiar... AH! The Dwarves have found us! But... their mountainhomes are far from this place... they must be in dire straits to send several stoneshapers this way, and this far. They might just be able to help us as we help them, though... We could use some... permanent... fortifications. I'm afraid our palisade won't stand up to demonic strength."
Reassured with Von'Salor's appearance and subsequent identification of the Dwarven peoples, you stroll closer to the arches, sheathing your weapons and loosening your armor straps for comfort.
Before long, there are three massive arches- each standing three men tall and wide enough to house a full-sized wagon, more ornate than a nobleman's home- the outer ones are squared off, the sides of which are made of two great stone hammers and the top consisting of an anvil shaped from the natural stone. The middle gate is just as impressive, forming a great representation of a dwarven warrior's helm, complete with great horns coming slightly out from the cliffside of different rock- not the standard gray of the surrounding stone, but black and glassy, as obsidian. Behind each of the gates stretches a perfectly smooth tunnel and a trio of short, gray-robed figures, hunched in exaustion with unkempt beards. You surmise that they have been travelling for days without a good chance of rest- the Dwarves take great pride in their beards, and the fact that these haven't kept theirs properly groomed is a sign that something horrible must have driven them to travel with great speed and little rest.
From the middle gate comes a grand sight- riding high upon the back of his great gilded landshark, a dwarf in a breastplate shining gold like the sun, inset with a star sapphire whose light comes from within it. The edges of his plated cuirass are set with the flat gray of solid steel, beautiful as well as functional. His helm, as well as the rest of his armor, is made to mirror his obviously magical mail- but they don't have quite the same gleam, the same air of command from them. His platinum cape hangs heavy from his shoulders, which stoop ever so slightly from the long journey he must have taken. His beard is, however, perfectly groomed in a great nine-stranded braid- either a testament to his dedication or a perk of a riding animal; either way, it shows that his rank is nothing to be fooled with, that he holds great pride and title within the Clans.
He approaches, and speaks in a low, booming echo, "Hail, and well met- I am Nedrab Kenemeel, Father of Clan Kenemeel, Golden General of the Golaan Mountainhomes, and leader of the Dwarven People." The proud dwarf's voice breaks... his tone becomes... shallow. He's beginning to beg- "I have come to beg your aid in the fight against the Demon presence- our home stands proud, but our men begin to waver- even with our great forge fires burning bright and our miners bringing in more iron than ever, our supply of good bolts and replacement parts for our great ballistae are wavering; the homes will fall before this menace if we don't break the seige. Our stoneshapers are exhausting themselves to near death at the battlements repairing the structure for the next wave of bombardment... Please, we beg you... Can you help us? Will you save the Dwarven Kingdom?" Near the end, the proud dwarf's head hangs low- he's begging and he knows it. The situation must be dire, to force a dwarf- and one of the proudest at that- to plead to outsiders for aid? To swallow his dignity and grovel at your feet? Outrageous!
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Topic: [Pathfinder] After the Rifting (ACTIVE)(3/5, Accepting players) (Read 23396 times)