Driven by the needs and rather high mortality rate of dwarven society, over a thousand years of evolution have left the height deficient race with a rather single minded approach to combat. Whilst the human and elven cultures treat warfare as a separate and rather unpleasant part of life, the dwarves long ago accepted that in essence, the dismantling of another individual is most efficient when viewed as just another engineering problem. A dwarf facing an enemy will look first for structural weaknesses, and after a brief assessment will decide where the most efficient use of force should be applied for a controlled demolition.
This is the theory. In practise, this assessment happens in the blink of an eye, and to any impartial observer the dwarf in question will merely swear loudly at the top of his lungs before hacking away at his opponent with the nearest object, sharp or otherwise.
Othtar’s mind was working overtime as he watched the metallic creature move. It wasn’t fast, but its arms moved with a seemingly unstoppable grace that merely brushed aside any dwarf unlucky enough to be in the way when it swung. The dwarven commander’s eyes swiftly darted between the general weak points of a humanoid. The kness, the elbows, the neck. All were marked with a number of scratches where the dwarves had been lucky enough to get in a couple of cheap swings, but there was no sign of significant damage.
Turning from the combat, he sprinted back to Kubluk who stood nervously alongside Teach and Servu.
“Any ideas?” he asked the academically minded Servu, after catching his breath.
The dwarf rapidly began making notes on a scroll that had miraculously appeared about his person.
“So,” he muttered, seemingly to himself. “We’ve already gather’d that the metal man’s hollow.”
Othtar listened, as the distant clang of a dwarven axe collaborated the statement, and nodded.
“But there’s no joints or moving parts to indicate any kind’ve mechanism?” Servu continued.
The small collection of dwarves nodded again.
The dwarf looked up after a few moments. “It seems we’re looking here at some kind of demonic possession, and from the container of bronze, I’d lean towards fire.”
Kubluk looked down at the combat, which unsettlingly seemed to be moving in the direction of the combat. “A fire demon?” he asked.
Othtar growled under his breath. “This stinks of Nganuz.”
Servu nodded. “I’ve ne’er read of another with the power to harness a fire demon.”
“Does this help us?” Othtar asked, as Kubluk ducked to avoid a dwarf hurtling past at around head height.
Servu made another couple of notes, and looked up with a smile on his face. “Pressure. Heat, plus an enclosed space, that metal man’s like a fire cracker, if we c’n only find a way to crack him open.”
Kubluk’s memory prodded him gently, attempting to attract his attention. The dwarf stood in thought, before a smile slowly spread over his face.
“Plump helmet,” he stated.
Othtar grinned. “Plump helmet.”
Servu nodded. “Aye, plump helmet.”
The commander reached into a nearby barrel and scooped out a small ceramic stein. He flicked open the lid and took a hearty swig from the container, letting out a mighty belch that surrounded him in a fine alcoholic haze.
“One for me,” he muttered, before breaking into a swift jog towards the closing golem. As he ran, he deliberately poured a small measure of the liquid onto the ground. “One for my ancestors.” His pace grew faster, and the ground blurred past his feet. Taking another brief swig from the jar, he spat a fine spray into the air. “One for the gods!” he yelled over the clamour of combat. Hurling himself into the throng, he danced up the pile of struggling dwarves like a staircase, and leapt up onto the shoulders of the statue. “And one for you, Nganuz!” he roared, smashing the container against the creatures eye socket.
The stench of alcohol filled the air, as a pint of triple distilled and highly unstable plump helmet brew flowed into the interior of the creature. Instantly, the colossus became motionless. Othtar dropped from its back, and broke into a run.
“Everybody might want to get back!” he roared.
As one, the force scattered for cover, diving behind rocks, shrubs, and apparently less important dwarves.
The bronze colossus shuddered. From within, the sound of bubbling and frothing could distinctly be heard. The creature groaned, not with distress, but with the sound of tortured metal as the bronze struggled to cope with the rapidly expanding pressure.
Servu glanced down at a couple of numbers on his scroll. “You might want to duck,” he commented to Kubluk, who hunkered down and pulled a nearby helmet over his head.
An instant later, the statue exploded. The sound of its detonation filled the valley with blinding light and a deafening roar. Shrapnel radiated outwards with deadly force, knifing into trees, the ground, and the occasional unlucky dwarf. Kubluk gulped as a particularly deadly looking shard flew past his head and embedded itself in the side of the wagon behind him.
The dwarves broke into a ragged cheer, shouting the name of their champion.
“Othtar! Othtar! Othtar!”
After a moment, the chant began to take on a more questioning tone.
“Othtar. Othtar? Othtar?!”
Kubluk scanned the valley floor. Of the commander, there was absolutely no sign, just scattered pieces of cloth and armour. The dwarf hung his head, and swore under his breath.
“I guess there’s nothing to do but mount up and move on,” he sighed.
“Before you do that,” the distant sound of Othtar boomed. “Would you mind getting me down from this tree?”
Author
Topic: The Captain's Log- Spiritwood (Read 61248 times)