stormray73
New member
The long-awaited time has come. My bard application:
Thrak
The sun shined down upon the head of the dwarf Thrak. He grunted into his copious beard and squinted. He didn’t like the sun, preferring instead the dark halls of the city of Dwarodelf, deep in the Morannorian Mountains, that stretched from north to south, creating a natural divide in the heart of Ardruidor. He hefted his backpack, full of odds and ends, and with a clink and a rattle as the various axes, knives, hammers, and the mail of his armour all collided in a harmonious mingling of metal-on-metal clashes. The sun was beginning to set, and Thrak knew what preyed on travelers upon the Old King Road at night. He quickened his pace, and as many know, dwarves can, when their minds are set upon it, move very quickly across terrain. Shortly before nightfall, Thrak came to the part of the road that went through a narrow ravine, the most notorious part of the Old King Road. In the days of yore, when men had not been weak, the dwarves more trusting, and the goblins too scared to climb out of their cesspits, travelers would stay in the ravine because its high walls protected them well from the elements. Not anymore. The goblins now raided more and more frequently, and fewer and fewer of the good folks lived in the land west of the mountains. Slowly he rolled everything out along the ground, keeping his various weapons close at hand, he shivered mightily. There was to be no fire tonight. Closer to his home, where the goblins still fear to tread, he might have been willing to light one, but, not trusting the ravine, and knowing, as you probably do what goblins can do.
Ashnaark
The goblin chief growled with pleasure beneath his breath, then glared up at the bright full moon, and around at his mingled troops. He was as most goblins are. Short, but taller than dwarves by about 5 inches, narrow in body and legs, with long gangly-looking arms, ending in clever fingers and claws, which hang down, nearly to the ground. But goblins, for all their narrowness, they are strong and wiry, and have a superb ability of seeing well in the dark. Shuffling his feet he drew his sword and gesticulated to his troops that had gathered near him that they should now move into position. The attack was to be on a small village of courageous peasants, which had moved into the region for the fertile land, which had not been farmed for an age. They had not heeded the warnings of those whom had seen others leave on the same quest, and for that, Ashnaark was grateful. Now, with the harvest over, and the peasants now happy to kick their feet up, they were ripe for a reminder that men could never stand against the might of the goblin. With a silent, downward swing of his scimitar, he initiated the attack. The village sat on the edge of the plain, near the foothills of the Morannorian Mountains, but it was far north of the road to the dwarf’s kingdom. The goblins silently slunk over the small parapet that encircled the village, and then, the fun began. With deafening howls that could have woken the dead, the goblins started to slaughter. Ashnaark moved with lightning speed with 5 of his men to secure the target, the granary of the village. The fighting went on, men spilled out into the streets, clad in naught but night gowns wielding axes and swords. Ashnaark began to smirk at the petty resistance, which soon turned to utter amazement as the men rallied and began to cut down the raiders. With a yell, he and his guard joined the fray, cutting down one man with a quick thrust to the back, but now, the others were aware of him, and some turned and began to engage his guard. Ashnaark had received a small wound to the thigh, a lucky stroke by one of the defenders, but it was painful, and as his guard fought he stepped back to view that battle. It was then that he realized what had happened. The village was not of men. The houses were short and squat, the defenders themselves short, with long beards, broad chests and sholders and short, thick legs firmly planted in the earth. They were dwarves. With a cried command the chief rallied his troops back outside the city, and they fled, with Ashnaark cursing under his breath, into the night.
Thrak
Thrak woke up in the silent dark before morning. There was smoke upon the air, and far away, he could hear the clash and clank of weapons and armour. He immediately packed up his meager sleeping materials, and within thirty seconds, a sleeping bag had joined a bedroll in his backpack. He continued his travels to the outpost village of Wutenlant was going well. As one of the servants of the king, he was tasked with monthly trips to the outlying holds of the dwarves. This particular settlement was one of the main suppliers of food for the main city of Dwarodelf, and as he judged by the smoke and clamour, it was under attack by the goblins. In ages long before, but dimly remembered, the goblins, under their dark lord Marakorthon, had once held in strength, the caves of the Morannorian Mountains, but it was the homeland of the dwarves, and in those long years ago, the entire race of the dwarves rallied in a massive campaign, and drove out the orcish pestilence. They never forgave the stone folks for the defeat of the slaughter of their lord. Now they attempted small forays into the lands of the dwarves, and of hardy men that attempted to live here, so far away from their strongholds in the east and south. Hurrying along the road, all fear of ambush forgotten, he entered the chasm, and moving swiftly along, reached the other side with no more injury than a scraped knee, which he received when he fell into a patch of prickly briar. He was met at the gates of the city by 50 of the armed dwarves. Thrak halted, panting, and, after some recovery, spoke to the guard quickly “I am Thrak, son of Thron, servant of King Thrandin, Lord of the Mountains, I wish to speak with Lord Oroth of Wutenlant.” The guards lowered their weapons and the captain spake solemnly “The Lord Oroth was grievously wounded in the battle with the goblins.” This statement was followed by a pungent oath, and all the guard spat upon the dirt. Thrak grumbled into his beard and not for the first time cursed the goblins. With a sigh, he followed the guards to the citadel of the town where he payed the kings last respects to the mighty lord of Wutenlant. As he knelt grasping the hand of Oroth, he swore he would make the goblins pay for the invasion of his land. As he returned towards the Morranorian Mountains and Dwarodelf. The war awaited.
Thrak
The sun shined down upon the head of the dwarf Thrak. He grunted into his copious beard and squinted. He didn’t like the sun, preferring instead the dark halls of the city of Dwarodelf, deep in the Morannorian Mountains, that stretched from north to south, creating a natural divide in the heart of Ardruidor. He hefted his backpack, full of odds and ends, and with a clink and a rattle as the various axes, knives, hammers, and the mail of his armour all collided in a harmonious mingling of metal-on-metal clashes. The sun was beginning to set, and Thrak knew what preyed on travelers upon the Old King Road at night. He quickened his pace, and as many know, dwarves can, when their minds are set upon it, move very quickly across terrain. Shortly before nightfall, Thrak came to the part of the road that went through a narrow ravine, the most notorious part of the Old King Road. In the days of yore, when men had not been weak, the dwarves more trusting, and the goblins too scared to climb out of their cesspits, travelers would stay in the ravine because its high walls protected them well from the elements. Not anymore. The goblins now raided more and more frequently, and fewer and fewer of the good folks lived in the land west of the mountains. Slowly he rolled everything out along the ground, keeping his various weapons close at hand, he shivered mightily. There was to be no fire tonight. Closer to his home, where the goblins still fear to tread, he might have been willing to light one, but, not trusting the ravine, and knowing, as you probably do what goblins can do.
Ashnaark
The goblin chief growled with pleasure beneath his breath, then glared up at the bright full moon, and around at his mingled troops. He was as most goblins are. Short, but taller than dwarves by about 5 inches, narrow in body and legs, with long gangly-looking arms, ending in clever fingers and claws, which hang down, nearly to the ground. But goblins, for all their narrowness, they are strong and wiry, and have a superb ability of seeing well in the dark. Shuffling his feet he drew his sword and gesticulated to his troops that had gathered near him that they should now move into position. The attack was to be on a small village of courageous peasants, which had moved into the region for the fertile land, which had not been farmed for an age. They had not heeded the warnings of those whom had seen others leave on the same quest, and for that, Ashnaark was grateful. Now, with the harvest over, and the peasants now happy to kick their feet up, they were ripe for a reminder that men could never stand against the might of the goblin. With a silent, downward swing of his scimitar, he initiated the attack. The village sat on the edge of the plain, near the foothills of the Morannorian Mountains, but it was far north of the road to the dwarf’s kingdom. The goblins silently slunk over the small parapet that encircled the village, and then, the fun began. With deafening howls that could have woken the dead, the goblins started to slaughter. Ashnaark moved with lightning speed with 5 of his men to secure the target, the granary of the village. The fighting went on, men spilled out into the streets, clad in naught but night gowns wielding axes and swords. Ashnaark began to smirk at the petty resistance, which soon turned to utter amazement as the men rallied and began to cut down the raiders. With a yell, he and his guard joined the fray, cutting down one man with a quick thrust to the back, but now, the others were aware of him, and some turned and began to engage his guard. Ashnaark had received a small wound to the thigh, a lucky stroke by one of the defenders, but it was painful, and as his guard fought he stepped back to view that battle. It was then that he realized what had happened. The village was not of men. The houses were short and squat, the defenders themselves short, with long beards, broad chests and sholders and short, thick legs firmly planted in the earth. They were dwarves. With a cried command the chief rallied his troops back outside the city, and they fled, with Ashnaark cursing under his breath, into the night.
Thrak
Thrak woke up in the silent dark before morning. There was smoke upon the air, and far away, he could hear the clash and clank of weapons and armour. He immediately packed up his meager sleeping materials, and within thirty seconds, a sleeping bag had joined a bedroll in his backpack. He continued his travels to the outpost village of Wutenlant was going well. As one of the servants of the king, he was tasked with monthly trips to the outlying holds of the dwarves. This particular settlement was one of the main suppliers of food for the main city of Dwarodelf, and as he judged by the smoke and clamour, it was under attack by the goblins. In ages long before, but dimly remembered, the goblins, under their dark lord Marakorthon, had once held in strength, the caves of the Morannorian Mountains, but it was the homeland of the dwarves, and in those long years ago, the entire race of the dwarves rallied in a massive campaign, and drove out the orcish pestilence. They never forgave the stone folks for the defeat of the slaughter of their lord. Now they attempted small forays into the lands of the dwarves, and of hardy men that attempted to live here, so far away from their strongholds in the east and south. Hurrying along the road, all fear of ambush forgotten, he entered the chasm, and moving swiftly along, reached the other side with no more injury than a scraped knee, which he received when he fell into a patch of prickly briar. He was met at the gates of the city by 50 of the armed dwarves. Thrak halted, panting, and, after some recovery, spoke to the guard quickly “I am Thrak, son of Thron, servant of King Thrandin, Lord of the Mountains, I wish to speak with Lord Oroth of Wutenlant.” The guards lowered their weapons and the captain spake solemnly “The Lord Oroth was grievously wounded in the battle with the goblins.” This statement was followed by a pungent oath, and all the guard spat upon the dirt. Thrak grumbled into his beard and not for the first time cursed the goblins. With a sigh, he followed the guards to the citadel of the town where he payed the kings last respects to the mighty lord of Wutenlant. As he knelt grasping the hand of Oroth, he swore he would make the goblins pay for the invasion of his land. As he returned towards the Morranorian Mountains and Dwarodelf. The war awaited.
