The Events of the 26th of Galena, 1064The Goblin in Black fled across the Desert, and the Marksdwarf followed.
This expansive, nearly endless wastes were the greatest of all the deserts in The Known World, and it was this infinite plane of heat and sand that their histories and legends were based. This far west the sands were a ruddy red, the rock of dead, ancient volcanoes crushed over the years into the fine powder swirling and dancing on the light gusts of wind. But out farther east, where the Marksman had been traveling from, the sands were black as jet, terribly bright as they reflected the harsh sun into the eyes of those that attempted to cross.
The Marksdwarf reached down to pull his water skin from his belt, fingers brushing over the small notches along it's edge. He began marking the days of travel with his knife long ago, but after a hundred, lining nearly the full front half of the leather strip, he gave up. How long he'd been traveling since then? It was unknown, but his place was neither slack nor harried, his well-worn boots trudging through the sands, endlessly.
He's been following the Goblin in Black for what felt an eternity, though the years he'd spent in search were not to be trivialized. This had long passed from the realms of Revenge, and Rage. No man spends untold days in the desolate wastes, unsure when water and food may come to him, for actions as base as revenge. No, obsession could be seen in his eyes, and deep behind it, a very stubborn pride.
Lifting the water skin and tilting his head back to get a small mouthful out, a glint of light caught his blue bombardiers eyes. Lowering the water skin slightly he squinted, and could just barely make out in the distance the tip of a spire rising from behind a cliff. The skin was lifted, and even with the sight of civilization he kept conservation in mind. He took a single swallow before clipping it to the notched belt again. Small clouds were kicked up once more, the Marksdwarf on the move.
***
"Hail, Townsfolk. Pray thee lower this bridge, I seek rest, and succor."
Rice and Istrath stared down at him from the battlements, the formers arms full of stone, the latter holding blueprints for the recent additions. "What did he say?" Rice asked, perplexed. "Is he speaking the Common Tongue?"
"Look at the beard on him," Istrath said, frowning over his blueprints. "He's one of our kind, I guess, but..."
'Ho, Townsfolk!" The voice from below rang out again, strong and unhurried. "I pray thee, lower the bridge."
Istrath shrugged, quickly looking back at his notepad. Rice cursed, blushing as it slipped out his lips, and set his stones down, lazily making his way down from the gate tower steps to the lever. The bridge trundled down, and the Stranger stepped across the threshold and into the courtyard. He met the Lead Stoneworker, and did the most curious of bows, extending his left foot forward, heel resting on the ground, toes up, and bowed low over the extended leg.
"Thankee, Sai. Long days, and pleasant nights," He said, standing.
"Y...eah. And to you, too, sir," Rice said slowly, taken aback. He scratched at his beard, looking over his shoulder for the Dwarves that must be hiding, laughing at him - who was under that great beard and worn black hat? Who had they gotten to play this joke...
"I'm Rolland Dayschain, and I have need of water, and food. I won't take much, just enough of dried goods to fill my satchel, and my skin, if'n it please ya'."
His brow knit together as he he fully took in the sight of the courtyard. Of the naked, vomit cover children hauling armor and corpses to the cliff. Of the Demons rotting in the sun. Of, in the distance, a figure wearing a great coat and curious mask even in all this heat, Dwarves scattering from her path. Reaching into his pouch, Rolland pulled paper and dried pigtail and deftly rolled it closed.
"Perhaps," He said, and a strike of flint and tinder lit the end. He exhaled. "You could take use of a Boltslinger, in exchange for a hot meal, and a feather bed."