My first days as an overseer, forgive me if I narrate, I can't get over it.
"'Alright, ye be our bulwark against that filth' the king says to me. 'Gotta protect the trade routes' he says, and with a grin and a wave of hand I was sent away with six others like me.
We travelled miles upon miles of scorching desert and frozen tundra. Through overgrown forests where even the elves get lost and through blasted ruins of cities long forgotten. We crossed dry over the deepest of rivers and wet crossing the widest of brooks, all to make it by the end of blasted winter, when the goblins sleep and rest their tortured souls.
Aye, it was wonderful, we parked the wagon atop a grassy hill where we could survey the countryside and all its splendor. We could see the dark fortifications of the goblin tower in the horizon and the pikes bearing their trophies stuck all around the perimeter. That night we planned the construction of our bastion and shared our stories about our past work life before we were drafted into this expedition. I was just a novice axedwarf and a fisherman, they made me the leader.
So with my gear and armor (all in copper as was tradition), we gathered around the wagon and started picking up our gear, Urist was testing his pick by swinging it against the rough ground, grinning and muttering to himself with every thud while the others were enjoying their newfound friendships, rambling more and more about how they liked wood and leather. I decided to scout out our area and maybe go fishing after that. Peering over the cliffside [to correct what we saw earlier, we did land upon a tall hill, just that one side fell off steeply to a river below, filled with sturgeon and leeches and other aquatic abominations] I was greeted by about six or seven layers of earth. Thick, brilliant clusters of gems sparkled on the rocky cliff face and I knew then what I wanted to go for first. Nevermind fish, there was where our wealth lay.
But to my horror, as I was trudging down the grassy hill, I caught sight of about two packs of badgers, maybe nine or so in one, striped and such. I did say horror as they were no ordinary badger that got its head in a tumble by just seeing ya. It was big. No, bigger than one of the Big People in their pathetic wooden cities. I slowly backed away to warn the others and grab my axe but in my haste [for I *was* just a novice], my boot collided with a pointy obsidian boulder and I fell over. My armor protecting my backside but making a screeching noise as it scraped off the side.
The head badger (for its head was bigger than mine) turned two dark eyes at me and I learned the meaning of fear as it approached. Damn be goblins who shout their warcries and sack our forts, at least they had the mercy to announce themselves. I got to my feet and started yelling in the dwarven tongue but it was too late. The beast turned to my comrade who was busy felling some highwood trees nearby, completely oblivious to them as she relished chopping every single branch.
For Tosid, it was horrible to be able to do nothing but watch your own friend die. I hoped for a quick death, but they say time slows down when bad things do happen. Her merry tune was interrupted by tooth and claw, sinking into her axe-arm and nearly tearing it off. Her high-pitched scream alerted the others, who also looked on in horror as they ripped her limb from bloody limb, her battle axe lying useless at what were now stumps of feet.
We were six now, Kol managed to get our work horses together as a distraction but it proved futile in the end. Also, it was a sad loss of meat. They charged -- or maybe tried to evade the fiends, and felled two of those beasts by trampling over them in haste. But as some of my kinsmen congratulated Kol on his plan, we realized that the giant badgers were on their way, away from us until they were attacked. We stood in unison, paralyzed by fear as they worked together to bring down our first horse, then the second after biting out the throat of the former. It was finished in seconds and we thought us safe, but their rage must've given them keener senses than one should normally have, as they began their trudge uphill.
I felt sweat fall from my scalp down to my beard as I gripped the leather hilt of my axe, this was how battle felt like, no more light tapping and pretend battles in those sparring rooms back in the Mountainhome, this was where we earned our honor and maybe our doom. In glorious battle.
But it is time, I fear, for this elder's tongue to lie still and a draught of ale to warm my bones. What? You wish the story to continue? I have no doubt you foresee great bloodshed of the kind you all love hearing. And I shall not lie, we fought valiantly and shed blood, covering the earth and grass red with fur and flesh. Terrible it was, to see many a brother die in combat against an animal, with only what nature has provided as weapons. But it is not for me to speak of it. I can hear your sighs and see many of you look away in disgust, a few of you even threaten to burn me by the purging blood of the Great Mother! But look to the Loremasters, keepers of legend and of every dwarven name fallen in battle. Do they seek to end my existence for such a lousy display of history? Not so! For even now they turn away and pretend to admire our Great Hall, not even to meet my gaze.
But, to satisfy those who seek answers, this alone I shall say. For that one dwarf who knew exactly what to do, who held a weapon imbued with the pride of its forger and clan and who led the first seven did fight: until his arms grew weary of blood loss and his legs buckled under strain by his dented armor, he fought from the rising of the sun until the setting of the moon, axe in hand and shield in the other. He fought and watched as his kinsmen were torn to shreds under the fury of Father Nature himself, he fought until his hands could not carry his pride and honor. He fought until the last beast lay dead with his axe buried deep in its thick skull. The symbol of the Diamond Depths engraved on the hilt shining against the rays of the moon.
Then, by an unknown force, a ghost borne of the angry dead maybe or just the animal spirit, givings its sweet regard, the dead beast swung a ragged paw and caught him unawares in the plate. He toppled off the edge as his hands let loose their grasp on his axe, his screams echoing through the valley. Not of his fate though, nor of his fear of drowning in the turbid rivers of the Torrents of Lashing, but that he could not -- rephrase; he did not avenge those he vowed to defend. His duty as a militia man and dignity as a leader fell with him into the cold waters below, where it drowned alongside his honor and its corpse, bloated and cold, drifted into the sea."
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Topic: Dwarven horror stories (Read 8922 times)