An attempt at one about a unique perspective, a caravan guard.
Or do you guys prefer fortresses?
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The grass blew in the wind, hooves trotting nearby. The horses were weary, but winter would set in soon and a life or death situation is decided- would they make it or not? Every year the same journey was made, and every year the civilization of Kingsground collapsed further in on itself, the journey grew ever more treacherous. The border forts were collapsing to hordes of cowardly but bloodthirsty goblins that poured over into the heartland, where many innocent outposts fell prey. The only normal things considered worse than the goblins were the undead from the necromancers- it did not matter weather or not the fight was lost, the bodies without souls would fight to the very last bone was broken, and every muscle torn. Even the normally friendly human kingdoms of the south were besieging several large fortresses on the border, not to occupy them but instead to seize the wealth within. The only safe side for Kingsground was to the East, where Ironforge sat proudly in a volcano. However, it's king was arbitrary and had forgotten even the slightest notion of dwarvern brotherhood, tradition, or law. While old alliances called for their aid, they were only responded nominally, promising arms and armies but never sending them. Rumor had been told, however, that he was willing to make a deal with the devil and slay for the mountainhome, if only so the king could sit on the two thrones and have two crowns resting on his head, even if he sat on the crackling bones of his dwarvern brethren.
The sky was as gloomy as the situation of the kingdom seemed- it was windy and the sun was blocked out, casting everything into an eerie shadow when it should have been a bright noon. Slowly the caravan moved forward, seven guards and one cart pulling across the land in the name of the collapsing realm. The possibility of death was very high, but these men were well trained in the art of war, every one of their swords stained with the blood of their foes. But while these men had much experience, it seemed as if even their own shadows were too afraid to follow them into the fray, but nonetheless they carried on.
Besides the seven guards and one cart several other goods were with them. In order of greatest to least important they had horses, lumber, booze, food, weapons, a few pieces of unrefined ore, and a broker. In reality their job was supposed to be to trade for a profit, but quickly the king changed it from quick profit to sustaining the border at any cost. They were told to trade for anything, even a load of bad crafts. A thousand bad trinkets were hardly worth a single masterpiece one, and art was certainly a thing of quality, not quantity. But nonetheless, they always pretended that they needed those crafts, and the soap, and the cheese that these fortresses felt the need to make. The sale of those objects were vital to the fortress economy, and in extension the economy of the entire kingdom. They sent swords and shields and crossbows and picks out to these border forts, trying to sustain Dukes on every side from collapsing. But the dukes would use these arms against everyone but their own liege and their own vassals, trying to swallow up each others already digested lands.
The king had the perspective that the dukes really only understood the political intrigue at their level. Each one would stab at their brothers for even the slightest gain in wealth, not realizing that it was either a powerful brother at the border or the goblins at their own borders. The king was right of course, but Alas! If only the king knew that he only had the political viewpoint of Kingsground, but not of all Dwarvern brotherhood as the king believed he did. If the king really was as politically intelligent as he claimed, or even empathetic enough to accuse his eastern neighbor of potential betrayal, could he not realize that he would have helped out his northern and western brothers so that this situation would have never occurred? But alas, the sin of greed had made the dwarvern nations into a line of dominoes, the first one has tipped and therefore the rest must follow. Kingsground was the next in line but not the last.
The fight against the inevitable was pointless, some would say, but nonetheless they fought as if it would make some sort of difference. This is why now, in the eternal gloom they faced, the seven caravan guards armed themselves upon seeing a few goblins that had managed to sneak past the mountains, possibly through a cave and out of a dwarvern settlement. It didn't matter where the guards had come from. What mattered was that they were here now, and that these goods could be stolen. The broker sounded the horn ceremoniously as the brave seven stood their ground against the small party.
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Topic: The Age of Myth: Goldenhold (A DF Novel Length Story) (Read 115765 times)