((Strangely enough it was a bright yellow wound, but to the knee, so surprisingly it healed quickly. Apparently wounds to minor body parts can do that during non-season changes. So if you're stomach gets a yellow wound you don't have to have bed-rest necessarily.))
Late Winter 09
Kolok returned from his work, tired and weary. The cold of winter seemed so familiar to him again by now that the endless heat of Onol Lened was more like a distant memory in his many years of bitter cold. He stamped his feet on the hard alunite floor of the entryway, knocking off snow and ice that clung to his low leather boots. Heading down the stairs he admired the way the gradually increasing warmth matched the changing colors of stone as he approached his home.
There would be food waiting for him, hot if he wanted it, and drink as well, but he wanted neither at the moment. Ever since this morning his mind had been fixated on an idea, rapidly growing to consume his thoughts. The cult. The cultists worship of death still perplexed him some, and he hadn't taken the time to ask what it was they believed. That they abhorred undeath he knew. He'd spoken with Paulus about it as they passed the time outside or chatted while Paulus was on guard duty at the entrance. Kolok had an axe, a weapon of his own, but in these wilds it was easy to be outmatched when you wore no armor, and having Paulus within shouting distance was reassurance that should he spot undead he would have help cutting them down.
It seemed though that everyone here was fixated with death and somehow, that didn't seem proper to him, for dwarves that were alive and living to be so... morbid. His own worship had suffered but the idea that revolved in his mind might help persuade others to focus on life and living just a little more. At least enough to carve him his own room.
Ignoring the beckoning bed and slumber he wanted he headed instead to the carpenters workshop he sometimes used. Ragnar still dabbled here too and one of the cultists when bed, bins or barrels were needed. But it was time for him to work. It was time to turn the tide on the necromongers.
Carefully he gathered his materials, selecting the finest of highwood logs and bringing them to the workshop. Only the heartwood of the tree would be good enough, though how he knew that was beyond him. His aspect was as one gone fey as he gathered the material he needed. Rough clear zircon, as well as cut and a large block of unsmoothed mica, flecks glinting on the grey surface.
He didn't know how long it took him, days passed before his finest work was finished. And a much needed creation it was. The others had been lost to the undead of the underground lake. It was then he realized how tired he was and he headed straight to bed, in utter exhaustion, leaving behind the artifact that would provide life to those living.
Ishlumabir, called Nutromanced, a highwood bucket.
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Topic: Geshud Osod, the Fortress of Bones (Community/Story in Legendary Lands) (Read 101501 times)