Rock Eaters, we are not!

[Ordu Bloodhammer]

Excerpt from the journal of Ferden Aransun “Bloodhammer”:

I can find no solace in my homeland as of late. The victory was won, the enemy defeated, but the curse lingers like a festering war wound. The magnificent halls of my home press down on me, as if they know what I bear and they don’t want me walking them anymore. It pains me to abandon my home, my kin, but it pains even more to stay. So I shall go. It is yet another price I have to pay. Perhaps in distance I shall find ease.

“Lucky bastards. Lucky ignorant bastards.”

Ordu Bloodhammer stood on the prow of the Rumbler, a Xanthian steamboat that slowly floated towards a vacant pier, with a dash of envy touching his hardened heart. It was the insouciance that struck first, an almost nonchalant behavior of the folk that went hither and thither, doing their everyday business and living their everyday lives as if they didn’t have a worry in the world. Fishermen patched their nets and counted the daily catch, sailors climbed the ropes and jested in their foul language, hawkers offered their wares and bartered with the customers who sauntered away under a burning sun. And this was a land that was supposed to be at war. A war that “tore Corone asunder”, according to the reports. The tall folk had obviously grown weak as of late. If this was what war looked like, Ordu certainly wouldn’t mind having such warfare in his homeland every day of the week.

But there was a different kind of war back in Xanthia, the kind that covered his dwarven kin with darkness more and more each day. The ancient enemy of his kind, Brhom the Plaguebearer, had risen again after centuries of being dormant in his tomb. His resolve was greater than ever, his undead troops a legion. The dwarves were doing their best to hold their ground, but they seemed to be losing the footing more and more each day. A black tide was upon them and as steadfast as they were, it was only a matter of time and perseverance before they were swept away. It had seemed like a lost battle until a solution dropped into Ordu’s lap.

Gereth Viscath, a mysterious envoy of an even more mysterious employer, came offering the location of the Hammer of Fate, the weapon that once already defeated the vicious Brhom. The Hammer had been wielded by none other than Ferden, the founder of the Bloodhammer clan, whose strike supposedly sent Brhom to his grave once before. But it was all hearsay and myth, wives tales and bedside stories. Nobody truly knew what had happened between Brhom and his dwarven enemies on that day. Needless to say, Ordu was suspicious of this benevolent and uncannily auspicious offer. For all he knew, Gereth could’ve been on a mission from Brhom himself, trying to make him abandon his post and leave the capital of Zohor undefended. But the old diplomat had a remedy for such mistrust, a tome written in Xanthian runes that turned out to be the journal of Ferden Bloodhammer, the last known wielder of the Hammer of Fate. It spoke of many things that had been veiled by mystery, but most importantly it spoke of the location of the fabled weapon. And that was enough for Ordu to disobey his father’s orders and leave Zohor. If there was a chance, however inconceivable, that this war could end with the strike of the Hammer, he decided that he would gladly suffer his father’s scolding for it.

Corone was the realm designated by Ferden’s journal, a land that the legendary dwarven hero described as a land of tolerance and freedom and prosperity. And peace that had finally brought solace to his battle-weary soul. Little seemed to change since that, sans the peace part. People looked at the strange floating contraption with intrigued eyes, pointing their fingers at the puffing chimneys that stood where sails should’ve been. A couple of sailors even offered a greeting from one of the three-mast barges that seemed to be getting ready for departure. Of all the lands in all of Althanas, Corone was probably the only one where a dwarf could walk without feeling like an utter outcast. Ordu almost liked that. He understood why Ferden wrote of Corone with such ardor uncanny for a dwarf.

“Hey, you got some guns for sale?” somebody shouted from the docks, most likely a merchant out to make some easy money, buying the merchandise for cheap on the docks and selling it for a fortune up in the local Bazaar. Ordu refused to dignify the query with an answer. They were Xanthians, not some Kachuck renegades and traitors that sold their shoddy craftsmanship to the highest bidder.

The CHUGA-CHUGA-CHUGA! of the machinery below the deck went dead as the Rambler neared the wooden pier, leaving the vessel to smoothly dock against it. The twin golden chimneys still smoldered when stocky Ordu descended down the mechanical set of stairs that stretched from the flank of his ship, the handle of his axe bobbing over his right shoulder as he walked. His personal guard, heavily armored Harn Ironfoot and Tegun Oldstaff, made a move to follow, but Ordu’s heavy gauntlet stopped them.

“Nay, stay with the boat. This land may seem friendly, but there is bound to be as many thieves as there are greeters. I’ll hire some of the local mercenaries.” The only response he got from the duo of dwarves was a dull thud of the butt end of their axes.

***

The response to the notice he posted in several places in Serenti didn’t attract as many fitting mercenaries as he had initially expected. It was written in three different languages: ancient dwarven (though it was a fool’s hope that there would be a Xanthian around here looking for employment), common dwarven and tradespeak, and still he had trouble finding the kind that didn’t look like they were either backstabbers or cravens. Perhaps the reward wasn’t enough. He didn’t know what the exchange rate was in these lands, but a hundred golden Xanthian ducats couldn’t be valued less than the Coronian ones.

Still, he decided to sit and wait for another day. There was good ale to be found in the Pearly Gates Inn... Well, decent ale anyways. Not nearly as strong and bitter as the one back in Zohor, but it went down smoothly enough without bloating his belly or his bladder too much. Not to mention that the bedding, however simple and shoddy it was, still beat the bunks on board of the Rumbler. So Ordu Bloodhammer sat in the common room of the inn yet another day, sipping on his ale, whetting his axe and occasionally stroking his beard with thoughts of foolhardiness passing through his head. Because what else then foolhardy was a dwarf that traveled a thousand miles from his home just because some stranger offered him a trump card in the game of war?

[Mutant_Lorenor]

It was all controlled by fate. The Thaynehood played the individual pieces of the chessboard with the skill of a maestro. Each individual piece made choices in accordance to the rules that the Thaynes set before them. The board was laid bare and the grand scheme of things revealed. The Thaynes were amongst them all. Many considered the Thaynes to be false gods when in fact, the deities revealed themselves to even the most blind of followers. No other cult in Althanas' history rose to power faster than that of the Gol'Bron. The Cult of Thaynes. A dedicated following of members worshiped the old gods and grew in secrecy. Where other guilds like the House of Sora and Sine Nomine flaunted their greater numbers in useless pursuits, the Gol'Bron steadily gained power. One amongst them was a follower of the Goddess N'Jal. One amongst them a member of the fold known as the Spider Magi. A keeper of the ancient ways, Lord Lorenor V'halkulus ascended to power in Salvar. There, people fought amongst one another for the scraps nobles threw at them. Constant warfare amongst the various fiefdoms and factions left Salvar in a ripe state for utter chaos.

There were outsiders like Lord Lorenor who took advantage of the turmoil and profited greatly. Already accumulating a fiefdom of his own in Salvar, Y'hanz Zaar, the Lord stepped off a nearby boat. He took a direct passage to Corone after the recent events in Knife's Edge (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=8720). The voyage took a few weeks from Salvar, but he made it back home to Corone without incident. Stepping off the boat, Lorenor noticed a vessel heralding from a strange land he never heard of before. Dock hands whispered the word Xanthia from their lips after a few skillfully placed gold pieces were placed in the right hands. Lorenor looked up at the afternoon sun, the sky littered with a few clouds. He was still instinctively wearing his thick hides from Salvar. Only when he felt the heat gradually increasing, did Lorenor think to remove the heavy coat. It was a typical autumn day in Corone with the wind touched quite a bit with Salvar's cold. Lorenor liked the cold despite its contrast from the blasting heat of Haidia's volcanic caverns.

Holding the heavy furs in his arms for a moment, he decided to place the coat in his travel packs for later retrieval on a return trip to Salvar. It was a message from his fellows of the Gol'Bron that lead him back to Corone or he'd otherwise be tending to one of many millions of errands that needed taking care of in his newly acquired fiefdom. He offered up the fiefdom to the service of the Gol'Bron, but it was basically his trouble to deal with since he was the lord of the fiefdom. Him and Sorahn Un' Ronahmeh. His silent bootfalls traveled across the plank and onto the busy dock city of Serenti's harbor. Waves crashed against the dock beneath them and Lorenor could sense the vast activity within the area. Looking towards the direction of the advanced looking steamboat, the ghoul thought about Golem technology. In a way, the steamboat represented advanced technology and a new dawn that was approaching with the second age of darkness. The cleverness of men would herald into the new future. The Salvarn Lord shifted his stance a bit as he saw several passenger descend from the steamboat onto the dock. One of them was a strong looking Dwarf.

Was the lad from Kachuk? Or a Dwarf from the Salvarn Dwarven territories East of the Shakolov. But naye, the lad didn't wear any thick hides to suggest Salvarn heritage Considering his next move, Lorenor walked forward and onto the dock. Groups of people descended upon the obvious nobleman with the precision of parasites. Wearing the clothing of a lord, Vlince, made it difficult to be as a shadow. The ghoul wasn't so used to the attention his position demanded. His Vlince cloak was emblazoned with the symbols of the Red Hand, a closed fist carrying a dagger. His cloak swished about his form as he walked. Lorenor pondered following the Dwarf for a moment, but an errand from Salvar needed to be completed first. Thankfully, the parcel happened to be heading towards someone who ironically lived in Serenti. Lorenor decided that was the most important of matters to take care of first. Politely ignoring the merchants and beggars, the ghoulish lord went to deliver the package so that his errand was completed.

**********************

A few days later, Lorenor stepped out of the employment office. His well dressed demeanor got a lot of stares from the various individuals within the stately building that day. The building was made of white marble. The document he was looking at was written in trade speak and translated into the common tongue. Lorenor had yet to learn the intricacies of trade speak, but he made it a point to one day learn it. The employer was a Dwarf named Ordu Bloodhammer who was spotted all around Serenti looking for sell swords for a job. Curiosity swayed Lorenor's heart and an insatiable drive for adventure. Lorenor stepped into the Inn and asked a waitress about the job. She pointed out Ordu Bloodhammer sitting by himself and drinking whatever he was drinking. The lord walked over to the Dwarf's table. It seemed like several others were inquiring about the job at hand but they weren't catching the Dwarf's interest. Lorenor approached until he was about a few paces away. Then, the bastard lowered his hood. The top of his head was crowned with a complex series of dreadlocks, his hair black. His eye sockets were deeply inset and a deep purple glow flowed from the center of the sockets where eyeballs should be. Lorenor had a scar that went down the middle of his face. No nose, no tongue, no ears. He was a truly awful apparition to behold. However, his bravery was a sight to behold.

The ghoul was well dressed and clearly possessed an air of power and authority about himself. He also wore the signs of experience. His eyes seemed to narrow just a bit, his face adjusting with the movement. The horrible scar ran to the top of his throat. Lorenor spoke in a deep, raspy voice that seemed to fill the air and resonate from some supernatural source. Was it telepathy? Nobody knew. "I'm here to ask about a job. I might be interested in offering you my sword if the reward is worth it." Lorenor said casually. He adjusted his own body once more. He was already developing quite the arsenal. "My name is Lorenor V'halkulus." The lord of ghouls said.

[Ranger]

The words of the Thayne touched the prophet’s thoughts, drifting as they never had before. The gods will touched his soul, his mind, spurred his very steps and each and every action. He was no longer a singular person, but an avatar of the Thayne’s will. It was their will that had moved him to the small town of Serenity, off the Corone coastline. Something was calling him; his thoughts overwhelmed by those of the Draconus the Ancient. From the depths of his imprisonment in the Antifirmament the god was pushing him.

However, what was the purpose of the quiet town of the Serenity? Draconus was the god of personal strength, a being of extreme constitution despite the deterioration of his meta-physical form in the afterlife. The town before the drow was tranquil; the war that tore through Corone was not affecting the fishing port, not touching the minds of the people. Despite the threat that the civil war had present to the once stable island of Corone, it was not in the town. Ranger could only assume that someone within the town was requiring something, needed something that the Reptilian god supported.

“Good noon to you,” the words that met the sharp ears of the drow made him smile. At one time he held a firm disgust for the race of humans, especially those of Corone. However, time had given him insight into their race, a look into the pure bliss they assumed and the dynamic versatility they commanded. They were not static like the drow of Alerar; they were easy to forgive, easy to forget grudges. “What can I do for you this afternoon Master…?”

The man was obviously a local watchman, by his garb and presence. He wore a suit of boiled leather, studded with steel as the old jerkin the drow once wore was. Banded metal ran the length of his arms, and wrapped around his legs like scaled plate. It was thin though, a testament to the danger that was present in the town. At his side he carried a thick sword breaker, the old leather handle dry and cracking with the lack of upkeep or oil. His face was ruff, his eyes soft, and his hair ragged.

“Nailo, Prophet Nailo.” His response was brisk, but not meant to be rude. The man before him smiled. His eyes held a genuine happiness, a peace that those of Radasanth had lost with the fruition of the budding violence. He was young though, no older than thirty years, almost halfway through life as the drow had come to know from the curt lifespan of the humans. The platinum eyes of the prophet never left the caramel eyes of the man. “I am on a personal undertaking, ventured to your port town for reasons unknown, but at the will of the Thayne. I would request a suggestion on a place to stay; my business will become evident soon.”

“A prophet?” the man questioned. His eyes fell across the worn common traveling clothes that the drow wore. Ranger was far from an outstanding individual. His shirt was a worn tan color, his pants black, and his boots were worn leather though well maintained. Ranger’s prophetic title did not fit with his choice of appearance. “Well then, we are blessed by the Thayne to have you here. I pray your pilgrimage to our town does not bring anything… war like with it.”

When did the mentioning of the great lords of Althanas begin to bring the fear of death and demise with it? The issue made the face of the drow twist in confusion, but he did not dwell on it, nor request an answer from the man. “Do not worry about the war of Corone being brought to this place, or the wills of the Thayne bringing about the upheaval of your quiet town. There will be nothing like that following in my wake this day.”

“Good good,” the smile returned and with it the good will of the guard. “Then you would be quite interested in the establishment known as the Pearly Gates Inn. It’s a simple little place on the other side of town, about five minutes towards the docks. You won’t be able to miss it… though the strange steam ship at the docks may distract you in the distance. We’re not sure what it is, or where it’s from, but there’s a funny little dwarf—“ The man looked at the prophet, smirking and shaking his head. “Getting side tracked. Sorry. That inn should serve you well while you wait on your task.”

With a parting thank you, and a firm handshake the drow left the guardsman. He had been very helpful. Though, with his assistance, questions had come up. What were the people’s thoughts on the Thayne, the gods the prophet had dedicated himself to? What was the ship? Was it something so rare that a shallow conversation had been trailed off to its presence? Ranger let the thoughts, especially those of the creators of Althanas, roll through his mind and answered himself as he made his way to the inn.

[Ordu Bloodhammer]

Folk came and folk were denied by the dwarf that was growing increasingly grumpy with each new face he met. He didn’t have time for endless interviews with green cubs and conniving knaves and every other piece of dirt from the bottom of the Corone barrel. Each day he spent idly here was a day wasted, a day that could’ve been used in a battle against Brhom and his horde. For all Ordu knew, by now his brothers and his father could’ve fallen and Zohor was overrun with the wretched demons. And he had no home to return to, no home to defend. But such thoughts led to naught but despair and doubt and he needed neither right now. What he did need was a smoke, a couple of whiffs of good Ender leaf to remedy the tension.

Fishing out the pipe from the left breast pocket of his tunic, Ordu was about to reach for the right one and the tobacco pouch within when another figure presented itself and made it clear that there would be no tension relieving at this point. With skin sickly gray, a face no mother could love and a blank set of radiant eyes, there was little doubt in Ordu’s mind that an undead stood before him. He knew the appearance of his ancient foe, knew the foul reek of death that followed the wretches around. The fancy clothing didn’t matter. The apparent intelligence of this particular demon didn’t matter. It could clothe itself in gold and jewels and speak as eloquent as the sweet-tongued elves for all Ordu cared, but that wouldn’t change the fact that it was an abomination, brethren to those that ravaged his home. The only job he was about to get was to serve as a sheath for the Cracked Moon.

“ACCURSED DEMON!” Ordu growled an exclamation as he jumped to his feet. His heavy boot kicked at the shoddy table, toppling it and creating a temporary barricade between himself and his enemy. It gave the enraged dwarf enough time to fetch his axe from the floorboards below and brandish it with both of his hands. He didn’t like Corone that much anymore. If there was so much liberty and leniency in this land that even the undead could walk the streets unchallenged, then the folk here weren’t only soft but downright foolish.

The common stir within the tavern came to a rapid halt at Ordu’s display, conversations and inebriation taking a temporary pause to observe what seemed like an inevitable clash. It was a usual occurrence, a free show that you got if you stayed in any one taproom long enough. The only one who watched the dwarf and his adversary with concern in his eyes was the barkeep. The heavyset man with a round, amiable face seemed far too young to be the actual proprietor of the establishment, but he was still torn between risking his neck to try stopping the fight and keeping his nose out of it and hoping for minimal damage. The way the fiery dwarf began, however, there was little chance for the latter.

“You and your pathetic ilk are a plague on the land!” Ordu shouted, his fingers, his hands, his arms, his legs all itching to propel him forward and end the unlife of the creature. Of all the enemies that the dwarves of Xanthia fought, the undead were the most hated, the vilest, the one enemy that even surpassed the infamous aversion towards the elves. Here in Corone they seemed more civilized, but it was just shades of gray. They were all vermin, and like vermin, they should be exterminated. “I shall send you to your righteous grave!”

The words were a herald of the attack to come. Ordu moved forward and swung his axe low, smashing the overturned table to its essential components with little difficulty. Splintered wood exploded in nearly every direction, forcing the onlookers to shield their eyes and making room for the charging dwarf that came at the Lorenor creature with every iota of power he had within his body. The cracked blade of the battleaxe swooshed through the air as Ordu leapt forward, a bit sluggish due to sheer size of the weapon, but deadly precise. He was dead set on cleaving the demon diagonally from shoulder to hip.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

As Ordu began his sudden, psychotic ranting, Lorenor sighed. He simply listened intently to the racial rantings of the stout lad. Thinking that the man was all talk for the briefest of moment, Lorenor spied the reaction of fellows in the tavern. Facial expressions etched with fear observed the dynamic interactions of the duo. It was to be expected. Many races of Althanas had no tolerance for the Undead. Understandably so, many of his ilk lacked the intelligence and mental capacity to formulate proper thoughts. Lorenor saw the mighty war ax that Ordu wielded. He quickly ascertained the quality and material of the ax thanks to his studies with the Golems.

Shining steel reflected the dimly lit tavern's ambiance. Lorenor could see his own reflection in the ax as he studied the fine dwarven manufacturing of such a piece. An apprentice blacksmith himself, Lorenor admired the craftsmanship of the Dwarves for a moment. Then, turned his purple gaze back towards Ordu as he revealed his intentions to make a quick enemy of Lorenor. Foolish. He never bothered drawing any of his weapons. He instead, readied himself in a relaxed, calm combative position. Smiling casually at his opponent, the bastard never allowed his face to reveal any emotional states he might currently be feeling.

Instead, he prepared to take the Dwarf with their legendary fighting skills dead on. No fear was in his movement, only the focus of a veteran crafter of war. Every aspect of the Salvarn lord's movements would strike an observer as fluid and masterful. Not a single motion was wasted, it was all centered and his hands were ready to be wielded as adept martial weapons. Ordu's rant did not sway Lorenor one bit. He simply felt that the lad's reactions were foolish, the ghoul was a superior opponent and the stubborn Dwarf rushed him blindly.

The plan came into fruition quickly. N'Jal and the Endless guided Lorenor's movements swiftly and lead him to this potential job with the Dwarf. Instead of a job, he found another battle waiting for him. The Thaynes moved with their great wisdom guiding all to an unknown conclusion. As a servant of N'Jal, Lorenor wanted to spread the knowledge of the cult of the Spider Magi to the populace. He wanted to show power through darkness. And then the attack came. Preparing the device that the Golems awarded him so many moons ago, Lorenor could feel the power of the weapon coursing through his arm. The wand-like device moved to its activation position as the kinetic charge prepared itself. Ordu ran towards Lorenor in a blind, uncontrollable rage. The ghoul felt pity for the Dwarf. Lorenor wanted to help the Dwarf out to complete his mission, and his reaction was the thanks he got? Pitiful indeed. Lorenor knew that not all the Dwarves were stubborn and rash like this specimen was. The Dwarves of Kachuk and the ones living in Salvar were actually a hospitable lot. At least, more so than this fellow seemed to be.

Lorenor felt the charge of his weapon vibrating across his arm as the kinetic energy was focused and prepared. When Ordu charged and prepared his attack, Lorenor reacted with the grace and power of a typhoon. Naye, a stampede. A surge of colorful energy flowed from the tip of his wand-like device. With the kinetic energy of a steel sword, Lorenor released the burst of force and felt it quickly cover the distance between his position and that of his attacker. Feeling the burst of power surge forward, the ghoul was propelled backwards due to recoil. Wearing a grin on his facial visage now, the sound of a crackling burst of thunder suddenly filled the air of the tavern itself. The air rippled with the kinetic force of his plasma gun. The tip of his weapon glowed with a white hot glow resembling a million suns. Lorenor was pushed back a few paces and crashed against a few chairs. He quickly collected himself and viewed the results of his carnage and attack. The ghoul remained quiet the entire time, he was already planning his next move. He would bite the Dwarf if he absolutely had to.

[Ranger]

The town was quiet, and put the mind of the prophet at ease as he walked through its peaceful streets. Overhead the sun was high, but not harsh. The breeze that drifted off the ocean brought with it a refreshingly cool burst that slid effortlessly through his worn travel garb. A sweet scent of salt water drifted with it, washing over the sharp features of the drow. He did notice, though, that none within the town were of any heritage beyond human, making him stand out amongst the small crowds of people. Perhaps it was split differently; perhaps there was a section with only elves, and others for different races. Whatever the case was, he was greeted with smiles and nods as he walked.

The serenity of Serenti was shattered though, almost within minutes of the prophet entering the city. Perhaps his wake was cursed to be filled with budding conflicts; perhaps the guard had been correct in his assumption. Whatever the case, the prophet was in the direct path of a screaming woman. Her skirts were floating around her lower legs as she dashed through the streets. Her haphazard and uncaring rush was only overlooked because of her piercing scream. Wide eyes met the drows as she ran directly towards him.

“The inn! There is a problem at the inn! A demon and a dwarf! Guards, guards!”

His destination was under attack? Or there were patrons in combat? Ranger could not tell which, but his legs began a swift stride before he realized what he was doing. The drow and the woman crossed and for half a second their eyes locked. Her mouth was half open, an issued word broken and forgot in that momentary gaze. The prophet’s own eyes were locked with hers, and in that moment he felt the present of Draconus’ will overtake him.

It was not her, but what was taking place at the inn that he was called to be part of. It was the ‘demon and the dwarf’ that were his destination. As if he knew the entire time where he was supposed to go, what he was supposed to do, he rushed past her and let her anguished cry linger in the backdrop. Before a minute had passed his sprint had put him far enough away from the woman that only the muted echoes of her screams found his sharp sense of hearing, easily out weighed by the report of his boots on cobblestone. He moved as quickly as he could, more gracefully than any human could hope to ever move.

Within minutes he was on the other side of Serenti, having woven through the crowds of people within the streets and those waiting outside the Pearly Gates Inn easily. His hands dropped to his sides, clutching the twin elven blades with him, the only weapons he had at his command. The door was thrust aside, and the moment he entered his eyes adjusted from the bright natural light outside to the ambiance of the tavern.

The red-orange glow gave him a picture of destruction, awe, and fear. The eyes of the patrons shot to him and his dramatic entrance, but quickly regarded him with disinterest. He was no guard of the watch, no warrior to watch join the destruction of the inn. Though it seemed the two were already intertwined in their own personal conflict, disregarding the personal property of the inn or the patrons.

A shattered table was strewn across the hardwood floors, pieces of its once stable form were but splinters. The heavy axe in the hands of the stalwart dwarven warrior had proven its devastating power. There was no blood, yet, but the prophet had little doubt that the red haired devil would not spill his opponents if the contest…

“Lorenor?” Ranger’s eyes widened, his voice hollow, his surprise streaked across his face. The man on the other side of the dwarven warrior was the ghoul that the drow had befriended, a fellow member of the Gol’Bron. He was the only outright follower of the Dark Mother, the prophet’s only other follower of the cursed deity N’jal. His purpose in Serenti was unknown to Ranger, nor was his presence. However, he knew instantly that the ‘demon’ the woman had been screaming about was the ghoulish child, and the dwarf on the other side of him was the one that Draconus had willed him find.

“Stop this fruitless combat!” His voice boomed, bounded from wall to wall despite the crowd of people that surrounded the two at a comfortable distance. He stepped forward and raised both hands open and fingers splayed. On the ends of his fingers the powers of the Thayne formed, two flat surfaces of shadow and light mingling together. Without waiting for a response from combatants, friend or stranger, he lowered his hands and formed a heavy wall before each. “Dwarven warrior, you have caused enough harm to this establishment. Lorenor, remove your threat or I will turn this shield to light.”

There was no question in his tone, it was no threat, it was a promise. There was much more power that he could command, much more that he could summon in a split second. He could subdue the ghoul with the light, and toss the stout warrior aside without a hint of compassion for either…

[Ordu Bloodhammer]

Ordu Bloodhammer picked himself up from the rubble and spat in disgust. Before his attack even had a chance to connect with the dead flesh and bone, his undead foe countered with some sort of foul magic that sent them both reeling backwards and crashing through more of the inn’s furnishings. This creature that called itself Lorenor was obviously strong, possibly as strong as Brhom’s lich commanders that had been the death of many of Ordu’s kinsmen. It would take more than a swing of an axe to take it down. With Harn and Tegun he’d have little trouble dispatching the demon to the hells that waited him, but his Blood Guard was back on the ship. No, he’d have to solve this sticky situation himself.

And then the elf made an appearance.

Meddling into issues that were none of his concern like his kind always did, the dark elf positioned himself between Ordu and his enemy, demanding a truce. He had an aura of a domination, what with his commanding voice, determinate posture and fluid elegance of his movements. The only detail that separated him from the archetype of the fair folk was his attire which wasn’t nearly as tacky as expected. Everything else seemed to be spot on, though, including the habitual tolerance. How else to explain the fact that he was obviously familiar with Lorenor’s nature and decided not to side with Ordu?

To support his words, the newcomer summoned what looked like a pair of energy barriers, effectively separating the dwarf and the undead. Elves and their magics... Ordu would’ve spat again, but he was all out of saliva. Instead he toed the backrest of a smashed chair towards the white-haired diplomat, making it shatter against the barrier. It was enough to attract the elf’s full attention.

“Keep your nose out of this, elf!” Ordu demanded with almost a snarl. He had no love for the pointy-eared folk, and he had even less love for pointy-eared folk that sided with the undead. The legendary wisdom of the elves seemed to be lost on this particular individual. “How much of a fool do you have to be to side with that creature?”

Quite a fool indeed, it seemed, for the words Ordu spoke seemed to do nothing to diminish his determination. He’d have to cut his way through the magician to get to the walking corpse, the dwarf realized. The blatant power of both was disregarded by his rash, rigid thinking. The fact that he would most likely die in an attempt to bring down Lorenor and his ally didn’t even register. When the blood is hot, the mind is quelled, and Ordu’s blood was at boiling point.

It probably would’ve exploded as well, producing another growling rant and another blind charge, if another party didn’t make an appearance, serving as somewhat of a cold shower. The front doors of the Pearly Gates Inn opened with slam that made the adjacent walls shudder hard enough for a candle to fall out of it sconce, introducing a heavily armored soldier and a pack of lookalikes. They all wore the emblem that could be seen on flags on every garrison and barracks in the city; that of the Corone Empire. They were the city watch or some equivalent of it, and they entered with their weapons at the ready, intent to put an end to the commotion that seemed to spill out in the streets. Their leader, a stringent sergeant with broad shoulders and a two-handed sword, made the introductions.

“In the name of the Corone Empire and the town of Serenti, I demand to know what’s going here! Who’s responsible for this mess?” His eyes scanned the interior, easily singling out the trio that stood out like three black beads in a series of the white ones. An elf, a man and a dwarf... No wonder the common room looked like a battlefield.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

The bastard child observed the situation unfolding before him. His cloak swishing about him with every movement, emblazoned with the symbols of the Red Hand. Patrons not involved with the melee quickly made their way out of the Pearly Gates Inn. Crushed furniture was now rapidly starting to accumulate as it was clear that this was no simple bar room brawl. Old racial hatreds became obvious now. The bar's bouncers prepared themselves for the civil dispute to get out of hand. One of them made the mistake of approaching Lorenor and placing his hand upon the Salvarn Lord's shoulder.

"Sir, lower your stance. You've caused enough damage already. We can testify that the Dwarf attacked you first." The bouncer said.

"Tch. Lack of competence." Lorenor began. "Very well then, I shall lower my guard..." Lorenor began and then matters became worse.

Guards from the local district came in great numbers. Lorenor could see the flesh bags radiating sanguine life force from within. The guards' leader demanded to know what the hell was going on. And before that, Lorenor was shocked to see the appearance of a fellow Red Hand leader; Ranger Nailo. The ghoul was prepared to greet the fellow, when suddenly threats were ushered and the situation became exceedingly worse. Nailo took a neutral stance in the situation and threatened Lorenor with his bane; the light. And the ghoul had no doubt in his mind that the Prophet could back up his threat with action. When it became clear that the Dwarf intended to fight Lorenor's hand went right to one of his Damascus longswords. He was developing quite the practical arsenal now. When the bouncer saw Lorenor move the lad's face became deeply concerned. "Sir please, we can work this out before anymore blood is spilt." Lorenor shook his head. "Tell that to the damned Dwarf. I was just here inquiring about a job damn it all!"

The ghoul was in a loose combat stance and prepared to do battle. When suddenly the leader of the guards recognized the symbol on Lorenor's Vlince cloak. "Oh Gods be bastards! Its the accursed Red Hand! The man wears the symbols of the Red Hand!" And to make matters worse, one of them recognized Ranger Nailo. "Sir! That's Ranger Nailo! The man is wanted from the events of the Bazaar War!" The guards drew their weapons. This was a dispute that would only end with bloodshed. "Arrest those men! There is a bounty on the members of the Red Hand set by the Corone Empire!"

Lorenor heard those words and knew that there would be no negotiation now.

These people were the enemies of the Red Hand and they represented the troubled Corone Empire. Damn it all to the Antifirmanent! "Sorry Ranger. I intend to fight. You can do as you please my old friend." He told the prophet and drew Senchen's Longsword, the ring of damascus filling the air. It was clear that Lorenor wasn't going to go down without a fight. The ghoul observed the numbers of armed guards, they ranged in the double digits and steadily increased. It seemed an impossible fight, made further dark by the presence of the mad Dwarf.

The ghoul suddenly regretted leaving his personal sanctuary in Salvar. He would kill all of these fools himself if he could. With the finely crafted sword in his hand, Lorenor prepared for imminent combat. The guards of Serenti would prove to be an adequate challenge against the ghoul. The situation was clear; the members of the Red Hand would have to fight against the very bastards of the Corone Empire itself. In order for the Red Hand to thrive, Lorenor would have to rise above this situation. Make an escape of some sort. He shot a glance at the Dwarf to see what that idiot was up to and then turned his gaze back to the guards. Lorenor looked at his pet, Figment, and noticed that his familiar was about; hiding in the shadows. Mentally calling his pet, the familiar moved towards Lorenor's location resting at his master's feet.

Lorenor called the battlecry.

"Long live the Red Hand!" And the rallying shout had an unexpected effect. Some of the individual patrons of the bar that chose to observe the battle taking place started talking amongst themselves. It seemed that a few of them were former Red Hand members themselves, and recognized Ranger Nailo, as well as the symbol on the Salvarn lord's cloak. Drawing weapons, five fully trained humans of various sizes and stature rallied to the cause of the Red Hand. And a rebellion was suddenly on their hands. The guards stared in confusion as the men began to walk to assist the demon.

"Sir we have a rebellion on our hands. What do we do?"

"Our orders are clear. Kill them all." The guard Captain said with a cruel edge in his voice. All of the guards drew their weapons and began to walk towards Lorenor and the amassing populace...

[Ranger]

Ranger’s eyes adjusted to the dimly lit tavern as soon as he had entered. He could see the fear stricken faced, some looking at him curiously, others with eyes flitting from dwarf to ghoul, waiting to see the next move from both. But there would be none; the drow would make sure of it. The scene that the two had caused would assuredly be enough already, and the prophet was already overly cautious in the main towns of the island nation. Corone was at war with itself, split between factions threatening the peace of the people. One, however, the Corone Empire, was engaged in an outright war against the old clan of the Red Hand.

To draw the eyes of the people was to draw the ire of the Empire. The prophet was on a mission for the Thayne, not in the mood to war with the faction. If the woman had found a guardsman, they would be summoned shortly. Better to blend in quickly, attempt to leave the tavern with Lorenor without being spotted, and the dwarven warrior for whom the will of Draconus willed. The red-haired, four foot terror was hardly willing to stand down though.

“I am anything but a fool, sir dwarf.” The tone of the drow was borderline condescending, not a hint of compassion for the smaller man, and no tolerance of his blind disgust. “This being, Lorenor, is a companion of mine. We belong to the Gol’Bron,” a hush descended at the name, once hidden it was the accepted name of the infamous Red Hand. Ranger cursed his words after they were issued; such a needless draw of attention, issuing the wanted name. His platinum eyes moved across those standing people behind the dwarf, testing for those willing to step up and attempt to collect the bounty on his head. “And the will of Draconus the Ancient has brought me to this place, to you. I am not sure what you have in store, but the Thayne’s will requires me to offer my assistance to you.”

Instead of an answer from the red headed man, the door was thrown aside. In the silence that had descended it was a deafening noise. The calls that came were disturbing. The Corone Empire, the cried of the Red Hand, the drows own name being attached to a tone normally reserved for the most sinister of criminals. Sighing, and taking action almost immediately, the prophet withdrew the walls of shifting shadows and turned to the guards at the door.

To his utter surprise, the call of the Red Hand was raised as men charged forwards. They shrugged through the crowd, weapons in hand, worn faces prepared for an assault on the government they all feared. Ranger was between the warring ghoul and the sudden charge, surprised by the men, yet relieved by their courage. The group would have plenty of problems making it to wherever the dwarven man’s mission took them, but the Thayne had blessed their path and protected their lives with a gift of fellow Gol’Bron.

“You,” the prophet said to one of the five men. His eyes turned to the silver orbs that had fallen on him, and as if Ranger had always been the leader of the Red Hand, the man waited for a command. “Move the men away, keep them from joining the Empire. We have enough of an issue on our hands. And if that dwarf decides to engage Lorenor again, keep him out of the combat as well, but do not injure him.”

With his commands spoken he turned towards the men, their weapons drawn, the captain’s face drawn. Ranger, the infamous follower of the Red Hand, a man who had helped destroy the fragile infrastructure of the Bazaar was a wanted man. The price on his head could fund the livelihood of any of the denizens of the tavern. Instead of fearing an uprising of the men present, he turned towards the men before him and summoned the shadowed light of his power. He would not be the first to strike, but he would be assured to be the final.

[Ordu Bloodhammer]

The turn of events was so auspicious that Ordu couldn’t stifle a chuckle that made his weathered, bearded face look almost jubilant. The demon and the elf were apparently members of something called the Red Hand, and whatever it was, it obviously got on the hate list of the local government. How else to explain the uncanny fact that the guards completely disregarded him, the instigator of the ruckus, and turned their attention to the Red Handers and the fistful of their allies? There was gain to be had from all of this, the dwarf knew. When the bedlam commenced, it should be quite easy to blindside the abomination and slay it like the beast it was.

Only it turned out to be everything but easy. From the moment the commanding sergeant swung his greatsword at one of the warriors that sided with the elf and his dead buddy, chaos of such magnitude erupted that one could scarcely recognize friend from foe. The city watch fought the Red Hand. The Red Hand fought the bouncers. The bouncers fought the city watch. And Ordu fought everybody. Sitting on the outer edge of a conflict didn’t work here. There were no neutrals anymore, no innocent bystanders. Whoever was still beneath the thatched roof of the Pearly Gates Inn was a combatant and was treated as such, and whoever didn’t side with you was against you. Metal clattered against metal, wood was being splintered at every step, screams of anguish were released from the mouths of the defeated. It was an aria quite familiar to Ordu.

His axe joined in, added a heavy beat to the deadly instrumental. One of the bouncers was the first to face him, all three hundred pounds of him. The rotund man with dim, nitwitted eyes came at the dwarf with a sluggish overhead attack of his broadsword, aiming to crush the inferior combatant with brutish power of his soggy muscles. When his blade was met by the top edge of the axe and stopped halfway to Ordu’s face, an expression of surprise made him look even dumber. The dwarf didn’t wait for the man to find his wits and repeat the procedure with enhanced might. A twist of his wrist snatched the blade away from the meaty fingers of his assailant, opening him up for a strike with the flat side of the heavy axe that knocked the man over the bar and into a stack of ale mugs.

A pair of Red Hand members stood against him next. Following the orders of the elven ranger, the warriors seemed content to remain on the defensive, keeping a heavy oaken table between them and the dwarf. Ordu didn’t play defense, didn’t know how to. His first step landed on a chair, the second one on the table surface and by the third one his axe was swatting away a sword, making room for a kick in the chest that sent the man sailing into one of the guards. Which turned out to be not the smartest possible move. The city watch, predominantly occupied with Lorenor beast, the ranger and the hefty bounties on their head, now turned their eyes to a dwarven threat as well. Four of them detached from the squad, cutting down the Red Hander and cornering Ordu Bloodhammer. And unlike his previous two foes, these boys didn’t pussyfoot.

“Warchief!” a voice came from nowhere, fighting its way through the racket. “Warchief, strike twice if you’re there!”

Ordu knew that voice. Instead of slashing at his foes, his axe struck flatly against the wooden wall twice, clanging like a discordant bell. And just when everybody thought nothing good could come out of all the noise, a piece of black metal sliced cleanly through the outer wall diagonally. When it came the second time, forming a crude ‘X’, it heralded the crashing introduction of Tegun Oldstaff and his Darkstar axe. The veteran dwarf was clad in heavy, golden armor, the lengthy braids of his graying blonde hair swinging around his ancient-looking face with every motion he did.

“What’s the plan, chief?” he asked, his sudden entrance buying several seconds of repose. Ordu didn’t have much time to think and didn’t need much time either. When outnumbered, use the terrain to your advantage.

“Bring down the house,” the fiery dwarf replied, and both sniggered at the words. Working in tandem was how Xanthians were trained to fight, back to back with their friends and face to face with their enemy. Against such sync the guards had little chance. When one struck, the other defended. When one was under pressure, the other countered. When one created an opening, the other executed. They worked like a well oiled machine, the silver and black of their axes dancing and parrying and blocking and knocking people aside. They chopped down one of the supporting beams with ease, charged past a pair of bouncers to tear down the other which made the roof moan and the walls to shudder. It took only one more to topple this building as if it was made of cards and sticks. Tegun took care of it with a throwing axe. The projectile failed to go through the beam cleanly, but it wedged itself deep enough to make the wooden support crack under the pressure of the construction above. By the time the beam crumbled down, bringing the roof down after it, the pair of dwarves made an exit through the improvised door that Tegun made moments ago.

“Let’s get away from here,” Ordu said to his comrade, shouldering his axe while the house behind still cracked and caved in onto itself, raising quite a cloud of dust. “There’s no help to found from these death lovers.”

[Ranger]

[Posting again as requested]

The man who had been issued orders hastily made his way towards the back of the conflict, keeping a firm eye on the men in the tavern, and hasty glances on the dwarven warrior. Protect the undead? It was not a command he had expected. The prophet had long hated the ghoulish people of Haidia, as far back as any of the older members of the Red Hand could remember. But instead of declaring war against the undead figure, he had called for his defense. Without question the men charged, despite their concerns, blades clashing and cries tearing through the once peaceful inn.

A bouncer jumped towards Ranger, club mid-swing. His broad shoulders were flat, his body drawn to full height, and yet the prophet hardly gave him half a second to react. A heavy handed swing towards the drow’s head met with a quick flash of shadows, effectively stopping the blow. The man’s sudden halt brought a twist of confusion to his face, which was quickly removed with a sudden burst from the shadowed shield. The darkness formed into a ball and streaked away, smashing into the center of his forehead.

Ranger sighed, fighting was not something he enjoyed, or willed, not anymore. He was not the bloodthirsty drow warrior he had once been, and being forced into the meaningless conflict was irritating. However, duty called and he would not stand by and watch the Corone Empire tear into the good name of the Gol’Bron. “Get out!” the prophet cried as the first beam was split. Within a minute the others were broken, the final small axe lodging deep into the support, sending a large crack through the wood. “Get everyone out; I don’t care if you have to kill the guards to do so…”

Shadows enwrapped the beam, holding it steady for as long as it would take for the denizens of the tavern to escape. People began flooding through the combat, arms wrapping around outstretched arms, pulling the weapons out of the way. They fled through the front doors, the backdoors, windows, and the newly created hole in the wall. When the platinum eyes of the drow were satisfied by the number of non-combatants that had escaped he released his hold and let the fracture split further. The walls quaked, the roof bowed inwards, and before it could all fall the prophet rushed through the hole in the wall.

“Dwarf,” he cried after the pair of short, hairy men. “Hold! We have business yet to discuss. Lord Draconus has willed for me to assist you, and my companion Lorenor is hardly your opponent in this task. We have both been pulled here, by the will of the Thayne, and if he is not dead beneath your insensible destruction you will need our help.”

[Mutant_Lorenor]

Not even Serenti was safe from the ravages of the Civil War. Coming to its very doorstep; the Dwarves triggered an inevitable conflict between the Red Hand and the local government. Soldiers of Serenti made their way into the tavern; pushing through the crowd and attempting to arrest anybody involved in the melee. There were those who attempted to escape through windows, side doors and generally whatever other escape route they could make for themselves. They wanted no parts of the conflict. The terrifying truth though was that the Civil War was alive and well.

"They are over there!"

"No, I've spotted them!"

"Hold it together men!"

Shouts of confusion. The orders given to the soldiers by the guard Captain were chaotic at best. Soldiers attempted to fight anybody that got in their way as citizen became combatant. A soft chant suddenly rose through those who were brave enough to fight against the Serenti soldiers. "Remember Gisela! Remember Gisela!" The chanting motivated those who would fight and soon; casualties from each side began to rise. But where was Lorenor? The ghoul took the front of the advanced attacking party; fighting bravely against the Serenti Soldiers.

They were outlaws now. An outlaw star. The government of Corone; turned Empire, sought the Red Hand's capture and the bastard child would not allow that to happen. He would fight with every trick that the demonic spawnling could muster. Several soldiers fell down in groups thanks to the powers of the dark summoned from the obsidian ring at his command. It was a gift from the Wood Elves of Concordia given to him many moons prior. A burst of darkness shuddered through the air as the bodies flew backwards; many of them dead from the shocking impact of the archaic weapon. Lorenor was silent as the people rallied around him. He gave hand signals common to the Red Hand's dialect to command the units under his control.

For a moment; things seemed like they were going well. Lorenor kept the Serenti soldiers at bay; and his men, like a phalanx, worked to dispatch those that fell. Though in the panic; there were those inexperienced few that were quickly dispatched by blade from either side. With the line of skirmish drawn; the Red Hand worked quickly to destroy the members of the Serenti outfit that kept approaching. Lorenor knew they needed to secure the capture of the guard captain. So working quickly to ensure such an act took place; Lorenor eyed the guard captain. Even as the man stared back at him with his blue eyes. The ghoul kept his already blood stained damascus sword in hand. Their armors of plynt and steel; all though masterwork in quality, were no match for the bite of the damascus sword. Lorenor had many tricks he could employ up his sleeve. Recently acquired in an adventure; were the artifacts of a Necromancer from Salvar. The Necromancer's name was Argus Lightfeather. Lorenor had a moment to think about that adventure before the fighting resumed back to normal. There was a momentary pause as the building suddenly shuddered under its own weight.

Lorenor's advanced sensory array felt the stress that the building was in and detected imminent danger. Turning his attention quickly towards the general direction of that son of bitch Dwarf; Lorenor saw that the short creature was no longer alone. There were three of the trouble starters now. Lorenor cursed his luck but saw what was happening before it became too serious.

"Red Hand, make an exit!"

Shooting another blast from his plasma discharge gun; Lorenor had just one more bolt left and it was charging. Several of the guards fell to their deaths as the darkness worked its archaic powers upon them. The shock of coming into contact with the raw power made the guards have heart attacks and other or hit heavy objects that caused broken spines to occur. Lorenor grinned at the chaos he was causing. He pondered getting another shot off at the Dwarves; but they were out of range. They would have to wait. Hearing Ranger's orders the ghoul took his crossbow and quickly loaded it. Several units saw what he was doing and protected the ghoul whilst he loaded his weapon. Those that weren't busy fighting were quickly making their way out of the falling apart tavern. Lorenor noticed the final axe flying just in time to take careful aim with his crossbow and launch a bolt through the nearest window. Success! The ghoul found himself holding his breath even as the bolt crashed through the window creating a ready escape route. Lorenor signaled for his men to get the hell out of there.

Quickly making their way towards the window; the soldiers of the Red Hand were making their hasty escape. Soldiers of Serenti were barging into the room just as the pillars began to fall. Lorenor wouldn't have a chance to escape on his own. A crowd quickly rushed through the windows forcing their way out. Boots kicked the remaining windows in followed by escaping citizens fleeing for their lives. Lorenor panicked as he attempted to find his escape route. After launching the bolt he placed his crossbow back on his belt and attempted to dive towards the bar. He was still holding his sword in his hand the entire time he worked deftly to launch the bolt. Just as he prepared to move towards the bar, he felt a rough hand quickly grab at his wrist!

The ghoul hissed, turning his head towards the source of the grab. It was the guard captain himself. "You're coming with me!" He said as he placed some sort of a binding mechanism on Lorenor's wrist and attached the other half to himself. The fiend! "Tch! I think not good sir!" Lorenor cursed out as he prepared to resist the capture attempt. "He's resisting arrest--what the fuck!?" The guard captain looked around just as the tavern was beginning to sink around them. "You idiot; now look at what you did!" Lorenor sent a quick fist of his aegis bracer to the man's jaw. A moment later; the guard captain was knocked out and served as nothing more than extra dead weight.

Working quickly to cut the bindings; it was already too late. The ceiling began to collapse on its own weight. Saw dust, sound, chaos, a thick cloud of debris fell into the large room as ceiling fell. Lorenor was already moving towards the bar; diving over it. The ghoul was in mid air by the time the debris came falling down. Shouts of panic and chaos filled the ghouls senses as the bar came crashing down...

***********************************

About an hour later people were digging through the remains of the tavern looking for survivors and trying to assess the level of casualties. There were Serenti guardsmen attempting to figure out what a young and zealous captain was attempting to do in the first place. "You heard it was a demon and some dwarf that started all of this?" One of the guards said as they shifted through the rubble. "Man this was supposed to be my weekend off."

"Cut the chatter and get to work you two there are still survivors..."

"Look sir! I found the Captain."

They dug through the rubble and searched for the captain's body. The building still stood but there was much devastation within the structure itself and it was hard to navigate inside with all the debris. They were busy pulling the building further apart in an attempt to get to the survivors. Meanwhile, Lorenor coughed on instinct as he hid behind and under the bar. A piece of a wood plank caught the ghoul through his left arm, through the elbow, rendering it completely useless. Lorenor pulled the plank out and tossed it to the side as he moved the rest of the debris and garbage aside. Looking towards the readily available source of bodies at his disposal; the ghoul prepared himself to spawn other ghouls. He knew the routine already. When in doubt; do what you know. The ghoul began to channel the powers of the necklace at his disposal. All he needed was one...

[Ordu Bloodhammer]

((Seeing as you decided to stay under the ruins for almost an hour, Lorenor, you’ll have to rendezvous with us in a couple of posts because I figure neither Ordu nor Ranger can afford to stick around for so long.))

The elf went at it again, playing the mediator and insisting that they were only there to help. Ordu didn’t buy it any more then he did when Lorenor had walked up to him with the nonchalance of a normal person, asking for a job. In fact, Ranger’s words seemed even more unbelievable for he spoke of things completely unrelated to the posted flyer, of some Thaynes and some lords and the will that guided him to the inn. It was all crock, a shade drawn over some secret agenda, and the dwarf wasn’t buying it. Dusting off the sediment from his shoulders and picking out a chunk of wood from his beard, Ordu responded with unchanged hostility.

“I know not of this Draconus lordling, elf, but his intentions are quite clear to me if he has the likes of you serving him.” There was no holding back with the dwarf, not an ounce of finesse or consideration in his words. He was a tough customer, always have been, unafraid to voice - and unable to stifle - the first thing that crossed the mind that seldom had more than one track of thought at a time. It made people either love or hate him. Most opted for the latter. Ordu didn’t care a fig. Life wasn’t a popularity contest, not in Xanthia it wasn’t. Being soft and benign and indulging and all that emotional crap got you killed faster than an arrow. Only the hard survived in the dark south. Only the tough.

The half-collapsed inn bitched and moaned beside them, wailing like a mortally wounded behemoth as the debris was settling down. Dusty faces of those that got out in time were around them, heaving and staring with bulging eyes at the near death they evaded. Such realization made most scurry away from the site as fast as their wobbly legs could carry them. Bolder ones who weren’t so shaken by the experience started working on clearing the debris, shouting for help. If any hostiles managed to escape the crash, none seemed ready to pick up the sword against the dwarfs and the elf. But Ordu knew this repose was just temporary. Tearing a house down was bound to attract some major attention. The local authorities would scarcely come unprepared twice. They needed to get away from the public’s eye before it pointed them out and reported to the Watch.

“I have no business with you,” the dwarf dismissed the long-eared ranger. “Be gone!”

He was about to turn around and walk away, but a firm hand on the shoulder stopped him. The ancient blue eyes of Tegun Oldstaff were peering at him beneath eyebrows as fat as caterpillars, offering but a glimpse into centuries that passed by them. They said that this dwarf had seen it all, life and death, love and hate, allies and enemies, blood and sweat and tears and every other misery that world had to offer. But more importantly, those eyes spoke of wisdom that the younger dwarf seemed to lack.

“Maybe you should reconsider that, warchief. The fairy knows how to handle himself in a fight. And we need to start the search soon. Or have you forgotten about Bhrom?” The question was spoken bluntly, but there was some subtle acrimony to it, the kind that elders always seem to have when they reprimand the young. And despite his considerable age, Ordu was still a relatively young dwarf while Tegun had seen centuries come and pass. The youngest of the Bloodhammer clan was just another warcheif to whom he sworn fealty.

“I have not forgotten,” was the reply, almost spat out as Ordu’s eyes went from those of his loyal protector to the uncanny silvers of the elf. “But have you forgotten about his undead companion?”

“Nay. But from what I’ve seen, he’s not of the mindless kind from back home.”

“He’s still a demon, Tegun!” Raising his voice only made him look even more as a child under those hardened eyes of the graying dwarf. There was solidity to be found on that leathered face, the patient kind that could wait a while for the rage of blood to pass and let in a drop of wisdom. “Fine,” Ordu gave up in the end. “You can come, elf, but your friend stays where he belongs, buried with the other corpses. Now let us leave before another batch of soldiers arrive. We move east.”

[Ranger]

The tirade that the prophet expected from the hot headed younger dwarf came without as much as a hint of hesitation. Ranger dusted his simple clothes, knocking of the remnants of the tavern from his white blouse and leather jerkin. Shaking his head to let the dull gray filth fall from his silver hair, he looked back to the small warrior. His dull red beard was long, thick, with speckles of hoary coloration that suggested the tavern more than age. The prophet guessed his age at about two hundred years, but his experience with the race had long since been left behind.

“Hot headed little twit,” the drow thought with a touch of influence by the humans of the Red Hand. He closed to them, throwing the hood of his worn green coat over his head as to avoid any further complications with the Empire. “Where does he come from though? How has he not heard of the Thayne or Draconus the Ancient? I believed he was the only commonality between the different clans of dwarves…”

“He’s no demon, undead and character exhibiting the traits of darkness he is… but he is no demon to loath.” The prophet was put off by the hatred that was felt towards the other member of the Gol’Bron. He too had been uneasy around Lorenor at first, seeing him as nothing more than a decaying ghoul. But he had proved his loyalty time and time again, and though the trust between the prophet and the man had been built it was still troublesome at times. “And if he has been buried beneath that tavern it is as much his fault for not escaping as it is yours for the senseless destruction.”

Carefully the drow danced around his words. He would not belay the anger that he felt towards the violence and the rage of the little man. However, Ranger felt something akin to regret towards the loss of the ghoul, and a slight disgust for the unwarranted bigotry of the dwarf. The prophet had once been in his place, had let the budding hatred build for years, and had in turn been given little more than harsh treatment by all. The ‘warchief’ seemed to be following the same path.

“Draconus is the common god of the dwarven people, one of the original seven that created the world, the Thayne. I am a prophet of each of the seven, Ranger Nailo, their will comes to me and I follow what I am given. I was led to you and your companion, sent to assist you in whatever endeavor you have planned.” The prophet began his graceful stride behind the dwarven warrior and his elderly companion, pulling his hood closer. It would be a strange enough sight if he was identified as an elf, traveling with two dwarves, but to be identified as the second in command of the Gol’Bron would lead to further disaster. “Out of ease for the coming travels, what are the names you go by? And if you would not mind, what is the task you have at hand?”

Ranger easily avoided mentioning the Gol’Bron and how following the will of the ancient Thayne would bring favor to the clan. If the dwarf was not familiar with the Thayne, or any of the specifics of the religion, he would undoubtedly not know of the clan. But it was better to be safe and do what would bring blessings to Ranger and those that lived and worked for the Red Hand.

[Mutant_Lorenor]

This being the first time that Lorenor used his necromantic powers in such a way, the ghoul was careful. He rubbed his newly acquired necklace, examining each groove with delicate touches from his aegis bracer. The Salvarn lord was careful to rub every inch of the pendant and the necklace. He went into a mantra as he was instructed what to do by the endless. The will of the endless was the will of the dark goddess, N'Jal. Still wrapped around his person, the endless made it difficult for the ghoul to be spotted in the already darkened area of the bar.

Chunks of the ceiling hung over the ruined bar in a weird semi-forty five degree angle. It was sending debris down to the floor that made Lorenor's skin crawl and would sting his eyes if he only he had any. Moving around the remains of the crushed bar was a constricted affair. He had very little space available to him. He looked further up the bar for a moment and saw that there was a crawl space located there if he needed to get out, but for now, he allowed himself to remain as a rat in a cage. Witnesses would dictate how it was the fault of the dwarves that the heroic ghoul was attacked in the first place.

Finding the right combination of the symbols on his newly acquired pendant was a strange task. He was working with the words that the endless sent him, as well as the powerful connection that the necklace had to Argus. He knew that the pendant was a treasured object to the late Necromancer. His face was full of concentration as he muttered the words over and over. As he was instructed to. His own blood was coalescing into the embroidered art of the necklace. It was a fantastic relic really. Full of power and mystery, a mystery that the ghoul would one day unravel.

At one point, after his blood touched the right combination of the now glowing symbols, he felt a surge of power. There was a disconnect from the typical normality that Lorenor felt and a rush to his senses. It was almost like blacking out completely and it caused the ghoul to feel completely uneasy for but a moment. He trusted the will of the endless and knew that it would protect him. Nearby, he could feel the guardianship of the secondary endless at his feet. The little guy was ever watchful for sentries of the empire to possess. And another ally for Lorenor's ever growing army of the undead.

Sometime in the near future, Lorenor could have developed an army that rivaled that of Xem'Zund's own forces. His battles in Salvar refined his skill as did his training in the Dajas Pagoda. He finally felt the pull of power that the endless whispered to him he would feel. This being the first time he actually used the necklace, he had to be careful. The ritual was subtle and required a readily available source of body. As he originally understood it, Lorenor thought that the necklace summoned up an undead from some other plane.

Nay. Unfortunately, the thing could not simply conjure undead. A readily available supply of bodies needed to be within reach. And Lorenor had one at his disposal with the stupid dwarfs' recent actions. Yes. The fool. He granted me power over Serenti. I will scrap my way out if need be. The ghoul felt the bodies of the dead all around him. They were the victims of the dwarfs' ignorance, crying out for revenge. All that Lorenor needed was one. And he found one. It was nearby. Feeling the pull towards the body, Lorenor continued to concentrate on the ancient process. Argus had used the power of the necklace so many times that the memories were readily accessible by the endless. He'd come to depend on the necklace to grow his personal power.

Now, Lorenor would do the same. As he felt the power of the necklace take a hold, the once dead body started to stir. Energy was transfered from the necklace and used Lorenor as a medium to reanimate the dead. After a few moments of this process, the eyes of the creature re-opened once more. The ghoul felt thoughts of the creature pass through his mind. Command words, desire for orders, other thoughts of that nature. Lorenor closed his eye sockets and thought about what he wanted the ghoul to do. "To war."

Lorenor commanded.

And his war against Serenti began.