I'm pretty damned rusty on the writing front. Unspoilered because nobody said it had to be. Bootpaint obviously doesn't exist in-game, but is located somewhere (relatively speaking,) close to Clobbermountains, but off the beaten path compared to the in-game places.
Bootpaint was a healthy village, centred around a deep-running set of gold and copper mines. The population, of roughly 200, had received little word of wars or the goings on of the world. Much of it was built above ground, mainly so that the humans who often purchased large amounts of copper would feel comfortable, and because the village dwarves never felt they needed a mountain between them and the wilderness. The 20-strong militia had kept the lands clear of wolves and other predators and the Army kept the worse things at bay.
But as of late, patrols from the army had begun to pass by. Platoons of dwarves patrolling the land for beasts, banshees, and "other things." One morning, a battered and dying dwarf stumbled into the village. His mail was split in places, helmeted dented, shield cracked and near falling to pieces, and his axe blade chipped beyond semblance of usefulness. He bled profusely from wounds in his lower body and shield arm.
The closest at hand to see the dwarf was a mine foreman. He rushed over to the wounded soldier, and asked what had happened.
"What on earth did this?" The Foreman asked in total shock of the dwarf's injuries.
The injured soldier leaned on the miner for support, and told him weakly that "They're coming... Ambushed... All gone..."
"Who?" The other dwarf asked, becoming frightened. "Who is coming?"
The soldier could only say "Them." And gesturing behind him. The Foreman dragged him to the inn (which often served the village as it's hospital. Unfortunately, as he reached lay the soldier down in a backroom cot, he found the dwarf had died, and it was only now that he realized he had trailed blood all the way from the edge of town.
It wasn't long before most of the town was gathered at the inn, trying to figure out who exactly "them" were. His wounds, they had concluded, would have taken the likes of human or goblin greatswords and war axes to inflict.
One of the last to arrive however, was an old dwarf. He had what appeared to be many long scars on the left side of his face, and was blind in that eye. He bore a set of steel mail and leather scale, with a heavy iron helm decorated with yak bone inlays of crossed swords and a skull with a chip in it on the front.
The old dwarf had no name as far as anyone knew. He was long and gray in beard, and his armor showed numerous signs of hastily done patch-job, with leather sewn to the mail in places it had been pierced or broken while the back of his helm had an iron plate riveted to it (likely to hide a hole that had been more or less hammed to shape with the plate.) On his hip hung a bronze blade in a sheath decorated with the bones of what he called "foul horrors," while around his neck were misshapen teeth on a copper chain. The bones on his blade-cover, nevermind the tooth necklace, unnerved most of the population, leading some to believe he might have been raised by goblins or maybe humans.
This dwarf, with battered armor, was simply called "The Captain." Nobody knew how old he was, or where had come from. Just that he had come from "another part of the Reaches. Just come to see how things were," roughly 40 years ago, when Bootpaint was founded.
Outside, the militia had already mustered on his orders.
"Let me see the body." The old soldier said, shoving past the small crowd still in the tavern.
He looked it over, lifted and shifted mail aside. After a few moments inspecting the deep gashes and what looked to the unlearned like wounded inflicted by arrows that had been yanked free, he went into the front part of the inn.
"Where's Mayor Kib?" He asked aloud.
"Right here Captain, what is it?" The Mayor announced as she wormed her way through the other folk.
The Captain grabbed her and spoke quietly. "Woodcutting axes, picks. Bring several. Grab whatever food and drink the civilians can, and get them into the mines. Have a mason block the entry."
"Er, Captain, you'll have to expl-" Kib started, when The Captain cut her off.
"No, I don't. Get the people to safety. Bring a time piece and compass, and leave at least one pick. If the militia doesn't come for you within a day, make north for the Homelands through the caves." He let go of her and promptly walked away, once again pushing his way out.
The Captain stepped off the Inn's porch and was now amid his small force.
The militia was clad in a uniform set of leather scale body armor, and bronze mail, with iron helmets bearing a similar symbol. Some bore axes and hammers, 4 carried crossbows and well-made copper bolts, and one dwarf even carried a human-made iron flail, but most carried a sword of iron or steel at their hip. Most were fairly young compared to their leader, the youngest no older than 15, while the oldest was only in their 30s. They had grown up listening to The Captain's war stories, about battles against banshees and goblins. The had seen him strike down countless bears and wolves alone, and it was only a few months ago did they finally work up the nerve to join him in protecting their home.
"Orders sir?" His Sergeant asked, giving him a quick nod.
The Captain just grunted and asked "Where'd that soldier come from?"
A younger militadwarf pointed to the west part of the village. "Thatways Cap."
The Old dwarf grunted and started heading that way. Without a word, the militia followed.
It didn't take long for them to hear the bustle and see a trickle of dwarves going into the mines with barrels of food and an assortment of boxes and tools, likely to make temporary or permanent shelter, and to defend themselves from the likes of trolls and giant olms.
As they passed beyond the edge of the village, things became strangely quite, save for the soft rattle of chain armor and the crunch of leaves and other forest litter.
They kept marching, the militiadwarves muttering amongst themselves about where the animals were. And soon, the began finding signs of a battle: A shattered sword, an axe buried in a tree with its handle snapped, a crumpled helm, ample disturbed foliage, bolts lodged in trees, what appeared to be severed limbs belonging to something that might've been burnt. And then they hit the brook.
Roughly thirty dwarves were found, dead, amid a great tangle of equipment from their camp, blood, and severed remains. There was an equal number of burnt husks, and teeth, good gods the teeth! There were also strange lumps of black rock, possibly obsidian, laying beside some particularly mangled husks.
"Mes umid obur dimol..." The Captain said, raising a hand to halt the militia. They oft spoke the old tongue in the field, to help confuse anyone who might be listening that wasn't friend to them. The militia drew their weapons, a collective rasp of 9 swords being drawn was akin to a strange hissing chorus. The relatively inexperienced militia tried to hide their fear, but the scene left all but the bravest among them shaking.
Then,
they appeared. 11 in all, most injured. Some were riddled with crossbow bolts, 5 were missing one or both hands, or one or both arms, and one had dragged itself out of the treeline, lacking legs and trailing its intestines.
"Nom erlin!" Gasped one solider. His sentiment was shared by all but The Captain.
Spawn.
The only charred, be-clawed abomination that still had all its limbs was an impressive sight, almost as tall as a human, with a bolt lodged in its head and chest. It pointed at the Captain as he drew his battered bronze blade with a gnarled claw. To the younger warriors' collective horror, it spoke. In the old tongue.
In a horridly strangled, hissing voice, it said "Zanorrit, fotthor momuz!" Why had it called The Captain "Heartcutter?"
If one were to look closely at the bone runes set in the fuller of his sword, on could see it plainly. It was not The Captain's name, but his sword's. However, to the Spawn, it may as well have been his name. He calmly replied "Nay, momuz." The meaning to a dwarf was clear: This forest would not be his tomb, but the spawn's.
The spawn screeched, and its minions replied in kind. It then spoke again, further scaring the young dwarves.
"Gedor amur mes! Shaketh meng usal!" With that, it charged.
The Captain braced himself, and took in a deep breath, reversing the hold on Heartcutter. The spawn closed the gap, but before it know what had happened, it had bounced off his shield, and he was stomping vigorously on the creature's chest and maw. It snapped shut on the dwarf's leg, but to it's utter horror, it failed to penetrate his bronze-plated boots! The Captain raised his sword, and brought it down on the snapping creature's hand-claw as it threw it up to try and break the old soldier's ribs, pinning it to the beast's neck as he paralyzed it with the blow.
A twist, pull, and another strike, and the Spawn was dead, it's heart shattered in its chest.
The other Spawn seemed hesitant now. They had clearly expected their leader to mode the clearing with this old and gray dirt man.
Pulling his boot and sword free, he pointed at the confused monsters, sword first.
"Savot emen tol ellest! Umom mes rash!"
The militia gripped their weapons, some even smiling as they heard the ancient language spoken.
"Ellest! Semor!?" The Captain shouted.
"Semor!" The militia replied in unison!
"Lisid! Umom mes, ontak tol umid." The Captain bellowed in response. At the first word, the militia charged, and the Spawn did so in kind, screeching incoherently. Except the legless one. it couldn't make noise through its own guts.
The Captain lead the charge, shield first, into the horde. Rafum willing, they would claim victory with little loss of dwarven life.
Have shitty story, starring a Blademaster by the simple designate of "The Captain." I like the idea of dwarven soldiers using their native/old language on patrol and during small battles, hence the use here. And yes, I had to skim over. I'll leave the outcome to you guys until I feel like it/you guys want a follow up. And hell, I even characterized the Spawn some!
"Mes umid obur dimol..."
Creatures of the fallen hero lurk here...
"Nom erlin!"
Gods [High] above!
"Zanorrit, fotthor momuz!"
Heartcutter, this forest will be your crypt!
"Nay, momuz."
Nay, it will be your crypt.
"Gedor amur mes! Shaketh meng usal!"
Evil dirt creature! The Torrid Lash will crumble!
"Savot emen tol ellest! Umom mes rash!"
Stand strong mountain kin! Even the dark creatures can die!
"Ellest! Semor!?"
Kin [Brothers! Union!? [Are you with me!?]
Semor!
[We are with you!]
"Lisid! Umom mes, ontak tol umid."
Clash [Charge!] Dark creatures, the arms of the mountains are [Fall] upon you!
Fun fact, Rafum means Coincidence in dwarven. I'm also open to theories on The Captain.
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Topic: (34.11 Succession) Clobbermountains -- The End(?) (Read 401384 times)