Post by Milo Brightmane on Nov 26, 2019 12:26:03 GMT
The wind hurled itself against the mountain spitefully, stabbing at it from a sky as grey and icy as the mountain itself. Through the storm came a rare caravan, pushing through the weather as it savaged them with blasts of knife-sharp cold. Many would prefer the possible danger of attack in the Underdark to the sure threat of ignobly freezing to death on the surface, but there were always a few who persevered. As the caravan moved steadily onward, a chasm revealed itself before them, and after some shouted words back and forth, eventually a drawbridge descended out of the blowing ice. As they crossed, a break in the wind revealed the tips of two great towers on either side of the mountain, ringed and lined with upward curving spikes, and between them a great chimney from which thick black smoke belched, and then was gone, covered again by the storm. Before them stood two iron doors, each fifty feet high, flanked by two statues of stern, broad figures with thickly plaited beards and riveted helmets. The gates opened, and the caravan finally entered into Citadel Adbar, last and greatest remnant of old Delzoun.
Inside, their precious cargo was unloaded – dignitaries from Castle Hartwick, situated further North than even Adbar. Humans with long moustaches, for the most part, but also a figure of great height despite its stoop. A broad nose merged into a grey-furred face, surrounded by a mane of white hair. A firbolg of the Far North. The dignitaries were met by representatives of the Royal Council, dwarves in the finest steel mail, weighed down with the official weapons of their office, who led them down twisting tunnels and winding corridors towards the Council Chambers. As they walked through the smoky passages they passed a door, strong yet unremarkable save for the inlaid image of an anvil. In the office beyond, an argument was taking place in rapid Dwarvish.
“It is absolutely out of the question! Gallivanting away into the west... I thought you had more sense than this, Milo!” An older dwarf, grey staining his brown beard knotted into three thick braids, gestured at the other in the room, a tall dwarf by their standards, his unbraided beard the colour of the spessartine garnets that sometimes revealed themselves in the mines. This second dwarf still wore the thick leather apron he had been wearing during his shift before he had approached Hendak Trueforger, overseer of the Foundry, with his request to leave.
Milo tried entreating with Hendak, “Elder, it’s not as if I want to go! Adbarrim is my home. I wish to die here some day and be returned to the mountain among my ancestors. But I have to follow the path Moradin has laid out for me.”
“Do not bring Moradin into this!” Hendak warned, pointing at Milo. “The All Father does not speak to lowly smiths, even ones as talented as you. He speaks to the High Priests on matters of great importance for all of Adbar. He is not concerned with directing the lives of individual dwarves!”
Milo turned to the other dwarf in the room, older, white haired. “Athron, you saw! Tell him about the flames, and the voice.”
Athron Ironfist, Masterwright, Milo’s supervisor and old friend, looked uneasy from his chair. He cleared his voice, and shifted in his seat. “The flames did move strangely.” Milo smiled, but his face dropped as Athron continued, “but there could be any number of reasons for that. Air pockets or impurities in the coal. Back draft down the chimney perhaps, the storm outside has been great these past weeks. And if there was a voice I was too far to hear it.” He saw Milo’s look of betrayal briefly before rumbling “Sorry lad. I can’t say what I didn’t see.”
Hendak moved to Milo’s side, and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re a fine smith. You’ll be a Masterwright some day. Perhaps you’ll even be Overseer. But these are dark times. This last war with the orcs has left our defences thin. Many of your colleagues in the Foundry have been pulled away to serve in the Iron Guard, but I argued personally for you to remain. The Foundry can’t afford to lose someone with your skills.” He looked into Milo’s pale green eyes, like the deep lakes beneath the Icespires. “We all have a duty to Adbar. Do not let Abbathor into your heart. We can ill afford for Adbarrans to start thinking themselves adventurers.”
When Milo did not respond, Hendak patted him on the arm. “Good man. Now, it’s been a long day. Head to the food hall then get rested. We’ll need you back on tomorrow, working on the gifts for the Hartsvale delegation.”
****
On the way down to the food hall, Milo turned on Athron. “I thought you’d have my back in there old man. You know no one can leave right now without official permission; I needed Hendak to believe me. How can I follow Moradin’s word when I’m trapped in here?”
They continued in silence for a short while before Athron said quietly “They would never have believed you. What you describe just doesn’t happen. You know the songs and stories of our ancestors. It has never happened, not like this. I know it.” He paused before continuing, “But I also know you. You are not given to flights of fancy. You are solid and dependable. That’s why we need you here. But if you must go, then I will help.”
Milo turned to his old friend, eyes shining. “Truly?” “Yes,” came the reply, “but you must prepare. You will not get past the Caravan Door by any force or trickery. But there is another way – a secret tunnel that will take you to Citadel Felbarr. And for this, you will require a disguise. Be one of the Sonnlinor, in their mail and silvered helms. Forge these, and a weapon, for the tunnel is not often used, and none know what may lurk down there these days. From Felbarr you will be free to reach... what is the place called again?”
“Moradin called it ‘Kantas’,” said Milo. “But Athron, the Sonnlinor? I can’t pretend to be one of them! I don’t have the training, I was never an acolyte, I’m not of the right family!” “Bah!” exclaimed Athron. “So don’t pretend. Does Moradin himself not speak to you? Are you not a cleric of the Soul Forger?”
Milo seemed lost in thought for a few seconds before saying, with purpose, “Yes. I suppose I am.”
Inside, their precious cargo was unloaded – dignitaries from Castle Hartwick, situated further North than even Adbar. Humans with long moustaches, for the most part, but also a figure of great height despite its stoop. A broad nose merged into a grey-furred face, surrounded by a mane of white hair. A firbolg of the Far North. The dignitaries were met by representatives of the Royal Council, dwarves in the finest steel mail, weighed down with the official weapons of their office, who led them down twisting tunnels and winding corridors towards the Council Chambers. As they walked through the smoky passages they passed a door, strong yet unremarkable save for the inlaid image of an anvil. In the office beyond, an argument was taking place in rapid Dwarvish.
“It is absolutely out of the question! Gallivanting away into the west... I thought you had more sense than this, Milo!” An older dwarf, grey staining his brown beard knotted into three thick braids, gestured at the other in the room, a tall dwarf by their standards, his unbraided beard the colour of the spessartine garnets that sometimes revealed themselves in the mines. This second dwarf still wore the thick leather apron he had been wearing during his shift before he had approached Hendak Trueforger, overseer of the Foundry, with his request to leave.
Milo tried entreating with Hendak, “Elder, it’s not as if I want to go! Adbarrim is my home. I wish to die here some day and be returned to the mountain among my ancestors. But I have to follow the path Moradin has laid out for me.”
“Do not bring Moradin into this!” Hendak warned, pointing at Milo. “The All Father does not speak to lowly smiths, even ones as talented as you. He speaks to the High Priests on matters of great importance for all of Adbar. He is not concerned with directing the lives of individual dwarves!”
Milo turned to the other dwarf in the room, older, white haired. “Athron, you saw! Tell him about the flames, and the voice.”
Athron Ironfist, Masterwright, Milo’s supervisor and old friend, looked uneasy from his chair. He cleared his voice, and shifted in his seat. “The flames did move strangely.” Milo smiled, but his face dropped as Athron continued, “but there could be any number of reasons for that. Air pockets or impurities in the coal. Back draft down the chimney perhaps, the storm outside has been great these past weeks. And if there was a voice I was too far to hear it.” He saw Milo’s look of betrayal briefly before rumbling “Sorry lad. I can’t say what I didn’t see.”
Hendak moved to Milo’s side, and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re a fine smith. You’ll be a Masterwright some day. Perhaps you’ll even be Overseer. But these are dark times. This last war with the orcs has left our defences thin. Many of your colleagues in the Foundry have been pulled away to serve in the Iron Guard, but I argued personally for you to remain. The Foundry can’t afford to lose someone with your skills.” He looked into Milo’s pale green eyes, like the deep lakes beneath the Icespires. “We all have a duty to Adbar. Do not let Abbathor into your heart. We can ill afford for Adbarrans to start thinking themselves adventurers.”
When Milo did not respond, Hendak patted him on the arm. “Good man. Now, it’s been a long day. Head to the food hall then get rested. We’ll need you back on tomorrow, working on the gifts for the Hartsvale delegation.”
****
On the way down to the food hall, Milo turned on Athron. “I thought you’d have my back in there old man. You know no one can leave right now without official permission; I needed Hendak to believe me. How can I follow Moradin’s word when I’m trapped in here?”
They continued in silence for a short while before Athron said quietly “They would never have believed you. What you describe just doesn’t happen. You know the songs and stories of our ancestors. It has never happened, not like this. I know it.” He paused before continuing, “But I also know you. You are not given to flights of fancy. You are solid and dependable. That’s why we need you here. But if you must go, then I will help.”
Milo turned to his old friend, eyes shining. “Truly?” “Yes,” came the reply, “but you must prepare. You will not get past the Caravan Door by any force or trickery. But there is another way – a secret tunnel that will take you to Citadel Felbarr. And for this, you will require a disguise. Be one of the Sonnlinor, in their mail and silvered helms. Forge these, and a weapon, for the tunnel is not often used, and none know what may lurk down there these days. From Felbarr you will be free to reach... what is the place called again?”
“Moradin called it ‘Kantas’,” said Milo. “But Athron, the Sonnlinor? I can’t pretend to be one of them! I don’t have the training, I was never an acolyte, I’m not of the right family!” “Bah!” exclaimed Athron. “So don’t pretend. Does Moradin himself not speak to you? Are you not a cleric of the Soul Forger?”
Milo seemed lost in thought for a few seconds before saying, with purpose, “Yes. I suppose I am.”
