Drumheller through another's eyes

Out of Character:

This serves as a continuation of what I started in the Character Creation thread. It serves not only to illustrate Drumheller and a major supporting character, but also serves to further demonstrate aspects of my writing style for interested parties to determine to what extent they would like to write with me in the future and what they are likely to expect. I hope you enjoy.

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Second Stride in Settyu 1815
Jarn’A’Shartak (IronFist Clan Holding)
The Rebuilt Keep
Drumheller’s quarters
An hour before dawn

Waiting.
At times it is absolutely necessary to be patient and still, to let come what will come, without striving to meddle or hurry it along. That was what she was doing now, waiting. She did not mind, for the time had given her the opportunity to peruse the three chambers – all of which were practically the size of Manor kitchen pantries – that comprised the quarters of one Drumheller Ironfist, who was her quarry, although it was hard to think of him in those terms.

The bond wanted her to think of him in those terms; her mind however, did not. Her mind was winning the battle of course, it usually did, but occasionally the idea of Drumheller as a kind of opponent did slip into her musings from time to time. He was an opponent after a fashion, she wanted to learn his secrets, and he wanted to keep those secrets from her. She wanted to learn all his plans, and he wanted to keep her in the dark.

If she were Drumheller, then she wouldn’t want her to know either.

He would be arriving shortly, of that she was certain, as this would be the first place he would go after arriving with the caravan he was traveling with and serving as a scout for. A part of her wondered, not for the first time, what he was saving the coin he was acquiring for. Perhaps she would add that to the list of topics to strive and obtain answers to.

Even though she had gained entry to his quarters, or what passed for lodgings, as to call them quarters was an absurdity that she wouldn’t entertain further, her perusal had not gained her much more insight into the half-orc of whom she was so intrigued by. Those elements that had gleamed only serving to reinforce what she already knew. What was worse, what she had truly gained from this survey were more questions. A mountain of questions.

He had expected someone would slip in here and acted accordingly.

It had been a simple pair of locks that served as the only confessions to security that had been put on the place. Well made, but simple, and it hadn’t taken her long to pick them. Still, that door was the only way in or out, as far as she knew, although she suspected that Drumheller had set up a system by which he’d know if someone had entered what past as his domain in his absence. He had made those locks, and the door, and practically every item in the three chambers she had scanned. The water closet – a kind of outhouse with a chain for dumping out the used chamber pot and a pump for gaining water was quite ingenious, even though there were similar chambers scattered rounds the whole of the keep. His doing, the entire rebuilt structure was his doing, and her bond holder got the credit.

That annoyed her.

She stopped idly toying with the ink quill in her hands, and turned her eyes once again to the sheep skin map that hung on the wall behind the room’s lone stylishly carved desk. She had spent nearly half a candlemark looking at that desk, and the stacks of neatly ordered papers on it. She had idly rubbed her fingers over the river hued blue mica, with its swirls of green granite, while skimming the ledger – at least she was pretty sure it was a ledger, all the pages were full of numbers and brief notations, & items – but all of it was in a code. Every scrap of it was in a language that she did not yet understand.
Even the symbols seemed strange to her half the time.

Perusing the desks eight drawers hadn’t helped either – each of which was made of dark cherry wood and pine, with their outermost cunningly wrought to look like waterfalls, and the brass handles in the shape of fishes set dead center so that one grasped their bodies to open the drawer – had revealed nothing useful either.

The map was no better, the locations she mostly knew, although there were a handful that she did not, and they had various shaped and varying hued pins in them. For instance the thickly wooded half-moon strip of turf called Bar’Talack’s Split, near Bloody Tusk Hill, had a brown colored pin with an octagon at the end. The caves of Kushakk had a sea green pin, with the end in the shape of a triangle. They had significance, they marked something, and she knew this. The “what” they represented, now that was the mystery.

She wanted to know. She always wanted to know.


She heard him before she saw him; the faint slide step that was his normal stride, being quiet enough that only one with better than average hearing would have detected it.

There could be no doubt that Drumheller knew that she was there. He could no doubt smell her before he opened the door to a room that made a monk’s sell seem large. Her gaze once again was greeted with the distinctive features that were part and parcel of the half-orc named Drumheller, when he opened the chamber’s door, marched in, placed his pack on a shelf, and turned to put his hands on the back of the room’s lone chair.

These distinctive elements were: First, the packs were travel hardened, having seen plenty of wear, but still in excellent condition. The quiver's utilitarian aspect, in stark contrast to many she’d seen, declared the seriousness of the owner to the art of archery more than any award or medal could. The pack was done up ranger fashion, the bed roll down tight, but well clear of the straps to the top flap. You could still easily remove the pack’s contents, while leaving the bedroll where it was. A canteen was strapped to the left side, right underneath a small metal case; a small shovel being strapped to the right.

Second, there were the clothes; the hand that was resting on the back of the chair was clad in a leather glove, with tightly packed metal studs, which would protect its wearer from minor injuries. The index and middle fingers had the leather of the glove removed, and were replaced by coverings made of silk. That was common among highly practiced bowmen, as it made it easier for them to shoot their weapons more precisely and with greater rapidity. A studded leather jerkin covered by a tanned colored canvas in the style called “water proofer” was thrown over a simple tunic, the leaf green coloration of which was only noticeable, as the sleeves of the water proofer were removed. This outer garment seemed a bit too large for the lad, as it ended at his knees.

The studded leather trousers he wore were the same coloration as the water proofer and covered with the same canvas material, with more than enough pockets to store all a healer’s paraphernalia and still have pockets to spare. The oak brown boots he wore, designed to grant good purchase on differing turf no matter the weather, looked like they had been custom fitted.

That was an expense most did without, to their detriment often enough.

Two bandoleers of pouches crisscrossed his tightly muscled chest and stomach, nestling snugly against a belt with more pouches. A single edged long knife almost as long as a short sword and almost as thick as an ax hung from that belt in a straight draw seats. A bow was hooked upon his back, along with a two handed hammerax, each of which could be removed without disturbing ax or bow or quiver. A studded leather vail covered his face, save his eyes and a patch of oakish colored skin around them. A dented and scorched mark half-helm made of simple iron sat atop his head, which like the iron studs, were painted to better serve as camouflage.

He was of a decent height for his age; he was already as tall as some men and he was far from finishing his growth. He had just started to begin filling out too, which was good. He had been too gaunt as a youth, which made it easier for other orclings to beat him bloody. He never complained about that either, but then again she’d never heard him complain about much of anything.

There was something wrong about his eyes, she mused, not for the first time. She had noticed it the first time they met, and she noted it now. They were a brilliant indigo. A purplish blue that would make any jewel envy. They shone like gems, like all the light in the room, and there wasn’t much, were captured, amplified, and reflected in the half-breed’s orbs. At times they were like this, while at others they were like a jar of purple ink that someone mistakenly left outside all night in the midst of winter and that had frozen solid. There was something almost crystalline about them at those times. Still at others the purple seemed to leak into some unknown place and all that were left there was the light blue of dirty snow. That look had truly made her anxious, for it, of all his looks, was the one that was most unreadable.

There was more too, perhaps the most important of which was the lack of emotion that was always there. When she looked into his eyes all she saw was dead, lifeless, soulless intent. Orcs were nearly always easy to read, either as a consequence of an overabundance of facial muscles, or as a result of poor emotive control, she couldn’t say. Still she had prided herself on her ability to always read other beings, her job, no; her life often depended on it. Still looking at this one right that moment she might have been looking at a corpse. It worried her.

The sudden realization that all the affect displayed before, the smile that never reached his eyes, the rich vocal inflections, were all a mask that covered the lifelessness that he carried around somewhere deep inside. The only feelings, the only true ones that Drumheller had displayed, and naturally felt, were a deep abiding sense of obligation and an even deeper abiding sense of shame. She didn’t understand either, and she didn’t think she ever would.

What was more she had been charged with making sure that the breaking - no, the attempted breaking, as nothing that Gothmog and Curznack could have devised would have broken this one, did not turn fatal. The fact that he never begged them to stop, the fact that he never even screamed, hadn’t made matters easier for her or him. She was an Erinyes, she shouldn’t be feeling this way, she shouldn’t be showing any concern for this lad, but she was.

It came to her then, as sudden as a flash of lightening.

The eyes were of the aged that had thought too much and seen more still. Of a wise sage that had spent hours meditating on weighty subjects and had not liked the conclusions reached.

They didn’t belong.

No lad his age should have those kinds of eyes, surrounded by thought wrinkles and worry lines and crow’s feet to make him look to be five and fifty, instead of his actual age of two and ten. Still with the vail up she could not see his face. She had seen it oft enough to know what was there, both before and after the fire… the fire that had been magically started… the fire that had been magically instigated by an incubus… the fire purposefully initiated by her half-brother… the fire made of shadow that would have claimed her life, if this half-orc hadn’t intervened.

She owed him, and she knew it, and she was the kind of devil that paid her debts.

I will find a way to repay you Drumheller Ironfist.

place holder She heard him before she saw him; the faint slide step that was his normal stride, being quiet enough that only one with better than average hearing would have detected it.

There could be no doubt that Drumheller knew that she was there. He could no doubt smell her before he opened the door to a room that made a monk’s sell seem large. Her gaze once again was greeted with the distinctive features that were part and parcel of the half-orc named Drumheller, when he opened the chamber’s door, marched in, placed his pack on a shelf, and turned to put his hands on the back of the room’s lone chair.

These distinctive elements were: First, the packs were travel hardened, having seen plenty of wear, but still in excellent condition. The quiver's utilitarian aspect, in stark contrast to many she’d seen, declared the seriousness of the owner to the art of archery more than any award or medal could. The pack was done up ranger fashion, the bed roll down tight, but well clear of the straps to the top flap. You could still easily remove the pack’s contents, while leaving the bedroll where it was. A canteen was strapped to the left side, right underneath a small metal case; a small shovel being strapped to the right.

Second, there were the clothes; the hand that was resting on the back of the chair was clad in a leather glove, with tightly packed metal studs, which would protect its wearer from minor injuries. The index and middle fingers had the leather of the glove removed, and were replaced by coverings made of silk. That was common among highly practiced bowmen, as it made it easier for them to shoot their weapons more precisely and with greater rapidity. A studded leather jerkin covered by a tanned colored canvas in the style called “water proofer” was thrown over a simple tunic, the leaf green coloration of which was only noticeable, as the sleeves of the water proofer were removed. This outer garment seemed a bit too large for the lad, as it ended at his knees.

The studded leather trousers he wore were the same coloration as the water proofer and covered with the same canvas material, with more than enough pockets to store all a healer’s paraphernalia and still have pockets to spare. The oak brown boots he wore, designed to grant good purchase on differing turf no matter the weather, looked like they had been custom fitted.

That was an expense most did without, to their detriment often enough.

Two bandoleers of pouches crisscrossed his tightly muscled chest and stomach, nestling snugly against a belt with more pouches. A single edged long knife almost as long as a short sword and almost as thick as an ax hung from that belt in a straight draw seats. A bow was hooked upon his back, along with a two handed hammerax, each of which could be removed without disturbing ax or bow or quiver. A studded leather vail covered his face, save his eyes and a patch of oakish colored skin around them. A dented and scorched mark half-helm made of simple iron sat atop his head, which like the iron studs, were painted to better serve as camouflage.

He was of a decent height for his age; he was already as tall as some men and he was far from finishing his growth. He had just started to begin filling out too, which was good. He had been too gaunt as a youth, which made it easier for other orclings to beat him bloody. He never complained about that either, but then again she’d never heard him complain about much of anything.

There was something wrong about his eyes, she mused, not for the first time. She had noticed it the first time they met, and she noted it now. They were a brilliant indigo. A purplish blue that would make any jewel envy. They shone like gems, like all the light in the room, and there wasn’t much, were captured, amplified, and reflected in the half-breed’s orbs. At times they were like this, while at others they were like a jar of purple ink that someone mistakenly left outside all night in the midst of winter and that had frozen solid. There was something almost crystalline about them at those times. Still at others the purple seemed to leak into some unknown place and all that were left there was the light blue of dirty snow. That look had truly made her anxious, for it, of all his looks, was the one that was most unreadable.

There was more too, perhaps the most important of which was the lack of emotion that was always there. When she looked into his eyes all she saw was dead, lifeless, soulless intent. Orcs were nearly always easy to read, either as a consequence of an overabundance of facial muscles, or as a result of poor emotive control, she couldn’t say. Still she had prided herself on her ability to always read other beings, her job, no; her life often depended on it. Still looking at this one right that moment she might have been looking at a corpse. It worried her.

The sudden realization that all the affect displayed before, the smile that never reached his eyes, the rich vocal inflections, were all a mask that covered the lifelessness that he carried around somewhere deep inside. The only feelings, the only true ones that Drumheller had displayed, and naturally felt, were a deep abiding sense of obligation and an even deeper abiding sense of shame. She didn’t understand either, and she didn’t think she ever would.

place holder

To think that an orc, a half-orc rather, was actually concerned about her well-being. It was so anomalous that it was as humorous as it was charming. This one was such a unique unification of atypical characteristics that would probably baffle anyone as to their birth. She sometimes wished she had been given the opportunity to observe his formative days, to understand how much of his current nature, was the consequence of parental guidance and what was innate. She liked to think that much of his disposition was innate. More as she could not discern for the life of her, what aspects of parental guidance could cause the formation of such distinctive attributes.

“I am well Drumheller Ironfist, I thank you for asking.”

A bold deception, but she noted that at least her face and voice revealed little to hint at the lie. The way she looked away at the diagrams and notes arrayed on the table she was leaning up against might have told him something however. That was to say nothing regarding the other miniscule cues that might give her away. This one was most perceptive after all, too perceptive and in many ways smarter than what was good for him.

She did not really believe this last, it was just that she was… conflicted. He oft made her feel conflicted, her sister as well, but Charinida responded to her internal agitations with passion and lust.

She found him alluring as well truth be told, but her sister’s desire was rooted in part from the fact that Drumheller seemed to rebuff all her advances, an unusual occurrence for an unattached male whom her sister had taken interest in. She was as bad as a Succubus sometimes. As for her own internal polemics, she was divided between finding many of Drumheller’s qualities highly enthralling, while the other side was appalled the she found a lad young enough to be her grandson’s grandson desirable. Yet, and yet… he had many striking characteristics: he was erudite…polished…diligent in his duties… he was still a lad! The other half of her mind declared internally in ringing tones. It did not matter that in Orcish society he would be a man grown in two years, Gods help him, as her sister would really be after him then, to her at least he was still just a lad.
A glance of sunset hued eyes in the half-breed’s direction informed her that he was still looking at her with those analytical orbs of his and she was painfully aware that once again some small sign had escaped her to inform the half-orc of her emotional state. He turned away then and moved back to the shelf where he had laid down his pack not even a full minute before.

“It was most kind of you to start a fire in my absence. Still, I know that you are a woman with many responsibilities, so time is short for you. Please state your needs and I shall do my best to oblige them if at all possible.”

He stated in his usual harmonious, but equally neutral manner, as he began to remove several waxed sealed jars from out of his pack. She spied jars containing Caraway Seed, those hard, brown seeds which were part of the parsley family. There was a jar of whole Cardamom, Papery pod and dark brown seeds of a plant of the ginger family. There was also a jar containing Arthajari, what the orcs called Uka’zhtatuin, a hard blackish seed that looked like it contained dozens of tiny tear drops and was part of the Ajkkahamonie family. The seed, she knew, grew into a small golden tuber with a number of useful healing properties. There were others too besides, but she was no longer looking at them or him, as her gaze had once again returned to the desk and the papers in their neat piles upon it. At the parchments that stood sentry – their immaculate rows occupying sundried spaces in wooden trays with timber dividers – and at the metal wrack that contained a myriad of scroll tubes equally deftly arranged, there silent forms awaiting their master’s use.

All mute to her.

Rather she was deaf to their messages. She heard him breaking the wax seals and opening the jars that he had taken from out of his pack, followed by the occasional clink of jars and the light scrape of a container being removed from off the shelf that took up nearly the entire wall behind her. She still didn’t turn around, indeed, she waited for several moments after he began to pour various contents of one jar into another, with precise practiced perfunctory motions; as he matched like with like. She needed the silence to collect her wits and the time to successfully slaughter the butterflies in her stomach. Having accomplished this, and schooling her face to absolute serenity, she turned and spoke,

“I enjoy the presence of your company, and thought I would await your coming.”

Not entirely an untruth, merely a half-truth, which was safer, as Drumheller seemed to have an ability to smell out deception like a hound smelled out rabbits.

And I wanted to think of a means to repay you Drumheller Ironfist.

“I am glad you are not angry that I entered without your permission.” She continued, after a brief pause, “nor that you are annoyed with my perusing of your things.”
“You did not see anything worth seeing,” was his succinct retort, as he continued at his labor with steady diligence, “and after all, I know that you had no choice in the matter.”

Now, that pulled her up as short as though he had just wrapped her up in a knotted plow line made of spider silk. How could he know that? How could he know that? By N'jal tainted teats how could he know that!

“Pardon?”

If she went for indignation, then he would know he had her, meaning she might have a chance if she went for confusion. He couldn’t be certain on this, he just couldn’t. So, she would act like she had no clue what he was talking about. If she worked it right, labored at bafflement over his words, she might be able to use famed perplexity as a lever to make him think his assumptions were wrong.

“I lost no bets Master Ironfist I will have you know.”

She was pleased with the smile that blossomed on her face, at the merriment that danced in her eyes, at the hint of laughter that bubbled in her lilting lyrical utterance. She was delighted in the swiftness of the entire affect; to make it all seemed sincere. She let her left hand slide to her hip as she moved to place herself more in his peripheral vision, Her short heeled boots making a light clicking sound as she moved from alabaster tiles to mother-of-Perl marble and back to alabaster, putting her on his left side, and her back to a large Applewood tri-doored cabinet, which contained a myriad of tools, and whose front held a lovely image of a pond complete with ducks and trees and even water lilies. At least she was pretty sure they were water lilies, she could not be absolutely certain however. He was as skilled with paint and brush, as he was with hammer & arbor’s knife, she momentarily mused offhandedly. She was so close that he could have reached out and touched her, if he wanted to. Of course he wouldn’t.

“Would you have preferred that I lost a bet Drum, so you could sweep in and perches my freedom?”

She let just a hint of coquettishness slip into her voice at this, just a little teasing between friends. She hoped they were friends, why else would he have saved her then. She felt that the question consumed her whenever she was around the half-breed, always, always,

Why?

“I never said anything about debts or betting Mistress Calimar…”

“Oh Drum why can you not just call me Irae?” she interrupted, her voice holding more pleading in it than she would have liked, she disliked the touch of petulance even more. “As you wish Mistress Irae.” His unruffled reply at her interruption, his unwavering tranquility of speech, had resurrected the butterflies in her stomach.

”No, Drumheller Ironfist…”

The utterance held a militaristic intonation, an ironclad inflection that was at once authoritative & dominating, such as that used by a Captain Commander… well, at least a High Commander. It was perhaps a bit harsher than what the situation called for, but his response had angered her just a trifle. No, at that moment she was more than a little irritated. Truly it did not help that her stomach was a roiling mass, a churning inferno to rival any blacksmith’s furnace. Sometimes she could not tell if he was purposefully trying to irritate her, or if he was just obtuse relating to certain matters. Of course, she was at times guilty of forgetting his actual age. How much of the current issue was part of his actual age, and how much was due to… other things? Part of the problem was not entirely Drumheller’s fault; part of the problem was her bond master, the very bond master she wanted to keep Drumheller from knowing about. Didn’t she?

“I mean is that you should call me Irae, just Irae, when we are alone.”

She had striven for a euphonious effect to her Enunciation – a honeyed communication that was at once dulcet, and yet firm – an assertion of desired actions that was maternal in its aspect. She was rather pleased with the consequence; she felt that she had come rather close to the mark. She didn’t expect Drumheller to see her in that light, no, but what she did hope for was that he would perceive her in the role of an older sister. A role she was perfectly comfortable with. If adding an orcish half-breed to the list of younger siblings who whom she was responsible for, was what was needed to gain this one’s confidence, then so be it.

He paused in his pouring to regard her, with both eyes, and at that moment she felt as though she was naked before him. Not so much unclothed – that would not have disconcerted her – but rather that he could see her innermost thoughts, or at least gain some hint of them.
The feeling was unreasonable, she tried to assure herself; this lad was no psychic to scan her thoughts. Still her sister Charinida had said the same more than once, and she was beginning to doubt the certainty that he was nothing more than an extremely perceptive half-orc.

To her credit she held that gaze, even though she wanted, Gods above how she wanted to glance away. Eye-to-eye contact merely made the sensation of utter openness she felt at that moment all the worse. Still she didn’t look away, and in the scant moments – in truth it couldn’t have been more than a mere three grains of sand in an hourglass in passing- even if it felt like a small eternity, she remained perfectly still. Outwardly as tranquil as an undisturbed pond, inside she was as disturbed as a jug onboard a ship in the midst of an autumn tempest.

“As you wish Irae.”

That was all. As you wish. No other outward alteration in bodily mannerisms, no variation in pitch or tempo, and no adjustment in facial movements of any kind, nothing at all to indicate any transformation in relational dynamics had taken place. Nothing. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that. She was not entirely certain that she had gained any more trust from the lad than she had before she started.

How much was that exactly?

She had not the slightest notion. Gods help her she was torn. Wavering between her duty to her bond master and to a lad that she wanted to aid and ally with. A lad, if she was absolutely truthful to herself she was in love with. The character of that love she could no more classify or clarify, than she was able to explain how the sun rose. Still she was quite certain that no matter how much a part of her railed against her for it, she was in love with Drumheller Ironfist; one of the few beings outside of the Cold Lands that had shown her any genuine kindness. Compassion that she had done nothing to deserve. Indeed, naught one action of hers in relation to this lad, and she had spent a good bit of time trying to find one, could be deemed responsible – or even half answerable – for explaining the benevolence he had lavished on both her and her sister since meeting them.

I shall come up with a means to repay you Drumheller Ironfist. I shall! But how?
Drumheller had gone back to pouring the contents of another jar into another container, as if the whole conversation had never happened. She glanced away then and looked at everything and nothing

She looked at the chair that sat perpendicular to the desk, with its rounded oak arms and pine cushioned back and seat – the smoothness to the interlocking wood, the levelness to the rounded shape of arms and slightly curved legs and support bars – making one think that the wood simply grew that way; she looked at the mirrored stand lamp at the wall that stood opposite the cabinet which she was standing in front of, and at the heavy alabaster chest that stood to the right of that stand lamp, whose sides looked as though a million tiny tear drops had been carved into them; she stared at the paneled flor, the interlocking alternating colored panels – making her think of nothing so much as a chess board –she felt like nothing so much as a piece moved at the whims of others. The sounds of seeds being poured into another container seemed leagues away. Inwardly she was a storm of indecision. How could she find a way to recompense him, when she was sent to betray his confidence?

Once again Drumheller saved her.

“If we are to be friends Irae,” she was inwardly glad that he was finally calling her by her name, without the honorific, even if she wasn’t entirely sure she liked where the conversation was headed, “we should not strive to deceive one another. There will be matters in which we cannot speak openly on, secrets which we will be unable to share, but on those matters we shall be silent, no more. Do you not agree?”

“Oh most completely Drum.”

She had managed to work some friendly cheer into her words, but inside the tossing of her stomach made her think it was the innards of a volcano, instead of the fleshy bowels & viscera of a demoness.

“Most excellent.”