=Events as they occurred, 8th of Slate, 1063=In the distance, Zirilzuntîr looked much smaller than Onul Zanegtad expected it to. With all that the King had claimed was occurring here, Onul expected a great bustling of dwarves and soldiers to be heading toward them even now. As it were, the citizens of this large smelting operation had much better things to do than walk out and greet their new lord where he stood waiting half a mile away. Onul was pleased that these folk placed less value on the nobility than the dwarves back home, but she would have been more grateful for some relief and some answers to the nagging questions that came from the wooden cart.
Twin blue flags held aloft by copper poles attached to the traveling cart fluttered in the strong northeast winds as Alath Keluthmik let out a groan of disapproval. “We have waited two hours! Where is my fanfare and servants to carry my bags?!” The tax collector Litast rolled his eyes and sunk into the side of the cart as if he had been hammered in the stomach. Onul afforded herself a light smirk at the Baron’s expense, but nothing more. The question had been raised five or six times, never mind that the baron hadn’t carried so much as a pebble the entire trip. That burden laid on the cart and its horses.
Mistem Etaslokum, the Baron’s “consort”, as it were, kept brushing her hair out with a jeweled comb that was worth more than a year’s salary to Onul. Her whining was just as bad as his. “It’s too hot here. Why did the King send us to look after such an awfully hot place? It’s making my hair poofy…”
Onul spoke for the first time in hours, her voice calm but stern as she bent down to pick up an object from the rocky earth. “Because the war has come here, Madame Etaslokum. The greenskins are putting pressure on all of the outlying villages. Even this…hot…one.” She held up an old goblin skull, pierced through the brain by a plain copper bolt. The consort hid her face. Pathetic wench…
“Don’t forget the taxes, Onul.” The aging timid Tax Collector piped up, scanning the rocky outcropping for shadows. “The king needs every bit of coin that the kingdom can spare… Soldiers are getting harder to come by and we all know what makes soldiers out of farmers!”
“Money.” Grinned the Baron, wringing his hands and for the first time forgetting about the long wait at the peak of the cliffs overlooking Zirilzuntîr. “Sweet gold and platinum! When there are smelters there’s coin and I… I mean the king… Intends to get his hands into it!” For a moment, the Baron stared aimlessly at the rear ends of the two horses who chewed noisily, still roped to the wagon. Onul thought for the moment that she had earned a little peace and quiet, but it was soon interrupted.
“I declare this place to be a Barony! Zirilzuntîr, as it is called, will report now to me and me alone! Now, if no on will come out to greet us, we must continue on foot to the party that surely awaits us! Onul! Get the servants to carry my things! Onward, now!”
Onul sighed and gripped her hammer tightly. She would likely need to use it more than she hoped in the coming years.
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Topic: Zirilzuntîr - FireAnvil - The Forge of war (Community Fo (Read 18617 times)