View Full Version : The Forgotten Fist
Ranger eased his way out of bed, tossing aside the warm blankets. The chill room quickly slipped through the sheets, sapping the warmth of the bed along with that of the just rising drow. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hands, peeling away the remnants of a good nights sleep. Dreams of the deamon Aerian had all but passed, mere fleeting glimpses forcing their way into the sanctum of his slumber under the guise of memories. He wished nothing more than to keep them, hold onto them tightly so he would never make the same mistake again. However, with each passing day leading further in the future, the past events were grown over. Like vines, each new memory made its own place, building on the foundation of history, leaving the old to wither and die.
He dawned his simple clothing, plain black pants, tight long sleeved white shirt, placed on his black leather jerkin, and light leather boots. For a prophet of the Thayne, a man with the command of the gods wills, he looked like little less than a simpleton craftsman. His worn, lithe hands slipped across the steel studs, remembering their use time and time again. A smile lit his face, and with it painted across his visage, he looked out the window.
The town was still slumbering, as it was every morning he woke. The sun had not yet risen, the mornings dew still clinging to the soft green grass. The lights that would flicker on in house after house would not rise for another hour, at the most, and in that time he would offer his prayers to the Thayne for their will to be done through him. While the darkness was overtaken by the light of a new day, he would give thanks for the plentiful harvest of lumber, the skilled craftsmen of the Red Hand and what they would accomplish during the day, and the knowledge that in the end everything would work out the way the will of the gods wanted.
He had long since accepted that he was but a pawn of the gods, a piece they moved to accomplish that which they required. His powers were directly descendant from that knowledge, and through devout morning prayer and dedication he had quickly harnessed their will into everyday use. Through the morning mist he could see the fields outside the town budding and ripening, his blessing over them having given the people an ample amount of food to store and survive on. He could see the roving soldiers of the Black Hand, quietly making their rounds, watching for any unseen threats or bold attacks from the Corone Empire.
Truly the Thayne had blessed the Red Hand.
However, the loss of the Fist had bothered the drow to no end. He had come to know the good graces of the clan through the hallowed halls, come to understand his path as a prophet while mining those ore streaked walls, and was given the opportunity to take up the profession that had founded the great strength of the clan. With the loss of their resources, he was left, like everyone else, with little more than a shadow of the former economic power once commanded. It was about time to regain that power, about time to venture into the halls of the draken lord Ithermoss and take back what was rightfully the property of the clan.
“If the Thayne will it,” he whispered as he sat down to pray, “then let it be so…”
{{Closed to RH members, an attempt to regain the Fist!}}
By the time the sun rose above the horizon, the small town was abuzz with activity. Ranger was one of many that took to work early, making sure the needs of the people were met and the craftsmen of the Red Hand were given whatever resources they needed to succeed. The smiling prophet greeted the half-slumbering people as he walked the wide dirt paths cut through the town. Small children, as fresh as the morning light, danced and played in the streets while their parents prepared for the new day. He stopped to talk to some, played with others, and offered each a blessed morning and a generous smile.
His goal was different that dawn though. He was not going to help set the foundation for a new house, or help build the walls. It was a day of recovering old ties, gathering the people for the further reestablishment of the old days. He would need others, warriors, gatherers, strong men and women to accompany him on the journey to Pandemonium’s Fist. The only news he had of the old mining grounds was that it had been taken over by a clan of dwarves. They had assumed the mineral rich grounds as their own, had begun making homes within the tunnels that Ithermoss and Ranger had created, and had grown wealthy in the Bazaar. The ore they provided was assisting the Corone Empire in their weapons and armor expansion, creating tools to fight against the Republic, Rangers, and Red Hand.
From the knowledge the drow remembered of past experiences with dwarven people, they could be very hard headed and stubborn. Uprooting them would not be easily done without a full scale conflict, and the group did not have the means or people to spread into a war with the dwarves as well as the Empire. The options were clear, either begin a guerilla war with the people in the hills and cut off their supply routes, barter with them to use the facilities that rightfully belonged to the Gol’Bron, or leave the town defenseless in an attempt to reclaim the mining rights.
Since the town could not be left defenseless, the matter was to be settled one of the two other ways, and neither looked extremely promising to the prophet. He sighed as he made his way to the meeting house, sending children as ambassadors to wake and assemble the members of the Red Hand that could be spared. Lorenor, Sorahn, Witchblade, and many others would be required to uproot the stout warriors if they could not simply convince them to abandon their riches.
“Dwarves are never easy to barter with,” he mused as he walked, letting his soft leather boots dance over the dew filled grass. “They will not easily leave their riches, and if they do not, they will force us into a grizzly embargo on their goods to Radasanth. With our town at the base of the mountains, they will be hard pressed to pass us with goods going to town or the Empire. Perhaps troops will be sent to end the embargo, perhaps not… either way I do not foresee this ending easily or quickly…”
Mutant_Lorenor
02-17-08, 06:03 PM
"No!"
There was no rest for the wicked. Agitated, frustrated, and utterly spent at the level of incompetence he was forced to deal with; Lorenor tossed a goblet off to the side. Hearing the crash against the wall the ghoul felt satisfied that he'd caused at least some destruction. Something had to give. There was a crowd of locales gathered before him. The head of the crowd was shaking his hands in a pleading sort of fashion, attempting to barter with the bastard child and gain his good graces. Lorenor tried to calm down for the sakes that all of these people were extended family.
Watching the situation with great interest; the three Golems, in their disguised forms, recorded the events as they proceeded. It was a matter that was taken care of daily for the historical records dealing with Lorenor. Lorenor was a figure that was deeply important to the Golems of Dressed Fished Town. In past incarnations of his vessel; the monster turned anti-hero saved the Golems several different times in their history earning the title of a Paladin in their culture.
Thusly; the ghoul was revered in their numbers as a hero. The sad truth was that Lorenor couldn't remember any of his past lives. Others were required to dictate the ghoul's history to him. There was still much he didn't know about his own past. Lorenor looked at the person speaking to him with an expression of harshness across his face. It was twisted with the negative emotions he was currently feeling. Glowing purple energy flowed from the eye sockets of the ghoul to light up the room in its ethereal light. The light gave the ghoul a mysterious halo of energy. Lorenor was much shorter than the rest of the people around him; probably the shortest adult in the room.
He had long dreadlocks that ended at his shoulders; with a few stray, thick strands that rested on his chest. His locks were animated as he moved in the shouting fest. The argument started approximately an hour ago. There were those who moved about at night and worked strictly at night just like the ghoul. Though Lorenor preferred to work at all hours of the day. He only rested when exhaustion rose its ugly head. Had it his way; the ghoul would never stop working on the progress that his hometown desperately needed to make. He looked at the man before him; a tall, heavy set individual with brown tightly cropped hair, matching brown eyes, and a heavy set forehead that was well defined. The ghoul kept clenching and opening his fists at what he was just hearing. "So let me get this straight. You stopped work cause of a matter as simple as a bandit raiding party? Where was our security? Why didn't you call the Black Hand to figure it out? Or me for that matter?"
"Sir Lorenor, it happened too quickly. We were well into Concordia trying to obtain wood for our supplies when it happened. Their numbers were great; well over twenty fully trained men. They were bandits. They knew how to hit us though and we lost several good men. It's becoming increasingly more dangerous lately with our reputation as enemies of the Empire spreading like wild fire."
Lorenor listened. He still couldn't believe what he was hearing. He cursed in the native demonic tongues and allowed the word to linger int he air for a long moment. Lorenor's chest rose and fell with frustration. He was looking at the crowd for a long moment trying to come up with an ample response considering his fowl mood. Just when matters couldn't get any worse for the ghoul..."Sir Lorenor, Sir Lorenor! It is a summons from Master Nailo. You are needed at the Meeting Hall." A child burst into the smith shop of the Red Hand's town. Lorenor was prepared to curse mightily when he saw the child and heard the message. "Tch. You three. Come with me. We shall take up this matter with Ranger Nailo. If you have tactical information on those bandits we can resolve this problem by nightfall." Lorenor said. The man he was speaking to nodded. There were two others who witnessed the events of the previous day and followed Lorenor to the Meeting Hall. The kid walked alongside the ghoul skipping like a child would. "You're coming along as well little one?" The ghoul asked.
"I want to see the proceedings. I like hearing Ranger talk about the Thaynes."
"That's good to know."
Lorenor left the Golems at the shop. They could take care of the business at hand whilst Lorenor was away. The ghoul walked towards the Meeting Hall keeping an eye on the road ahead. When Ranger Nailo summoned; Lorenor answered. Lorenor's will was the will of N'Jal after all. The ghoul opened the doors of the Meeting Hall and the group of people he arrived with all entered the building. He arrived and took a seat at the meeting hall. The people gathered with him were wise to do the same. The child sat near Lorenor staring at him with an intent gaze.
Sorahn woke slowly. He blinked, eyes squinting at the sun which streamed in his bedroom window; its brightness and warmth biding him to awaken and prepare for the tasks of the day. It was a pleasant contrast to his uneasy night’s sleep. As was often the case recently, his mind was not at rest, and his dreams were plagued with visions of failure.
It was a known fact that the Gol’Bron, known to Sorahn by its true name: the Red Hand, was not faring well. The current totalitarian Corone government had declared the group enemies of the state and since then the problems had only escalated. They found friends among the rebels; those that wished to fight against the injustice of the Viceroys, but many others feared them, and thus distanced themselves from the Red Hand’s town as well as its goods.
This, combined with the fact that raids were increasing, weighed heavily on the clan, and thus on Sorahn. With the loss of Ithermoss, the group lost their former home: the fortress known as Pandemonium’s Fist. Also lost was their fearsome and powerful reputation, leaving the few remaining loyal members to struggle to maintain the clan. What was left was a mere shadow that could only hint at the legendary clan of years past. Still, struggle they did, and they were making progress. The town was growing against all odds.
Sorahn turned on his side to see Rehnahlia lying next to him, sleeping peacefully. Her chest rose and fell with her slow, steady breath. Her red hair fell around her chaotically, and Sorahn carefully reached over to brush it slightly so he could see her face. These troubles and problems couldn’t mar her beauty. Nor did she bear any marks of manual labor. Sorahn refused to let her take up a trade, insisting that he could provide for both of them himself, as was customary for Ranoans. Instead she spent most of her time getting to know the townsfolk, taking up hobbies such as art, and providing invaluable council to Sorahn. She was very bright, and he found her advice most helpful when things required another perspective.
He carefully slid out from under the furs, trying not to wake her. He stretched and let out a deep yawn, trying to shake off the weariness of his restless sleep. He pulled on his tattered black pants, and fastened the several belts he had around his waist. Attaching the bone harness he wore on his shoulder, he walked out the door.
He stepped into the street with an air of power. Not the kind of controlling power like the Viceroys of Corone, but the power of a leader who could lead his clan to greatness. His tribal tattoos and muscle definition, along with his horns and tail, gave him a fearsome look. It was a power similar to that of the great Ithermoss. Though Sorahn could never hope to fill the shoes of the draken lord, he strove to be as close as possible.
Of course, despite how he looked, he didn’t feel powerful. The group under his command struggled on a daily basis to maintain any reputation, all while clinging to a slowly receding memory of power and glory. No, he felt like the worst leader in Althanas, and he was sure many of his men felt the same way, though most didn’t show it. He was thankful they at least let him maintain his dignity as leader by sparing him a public condemnation.
His overwhelming incompetence ate at him from the inside like a plague. As much as his closest friends tried to reassure him that he was not a failure, no one could deny that save for the construction of the town, he had yet to do anything worthwhile for the advancement of the clan. What only compounded his misery and feelings of worthlessness was the fact that this was the second time the group had failed under his command. It was he who led the clan to ruin in the first place, and now that Ranger had resurrected it, he was driving it back into the ground yet again. Ithermoss himself had reassured him that it was not his fault the first time; that it was simply the clan’s due course, but Sorahn couldn’t believe even his great teacher in this matter.
However, despite all of this, no one could claim that he was not devoted to the clan. He was nothing if not loyal to the Red Hand, and he held a deep desire to see it improve, and even if he wasn’t accomplishing this goal, he would keep trying until his dying day. Perhaps it was this drive alone that was keeping a mutiny at bay. Maybe the clan still believed in him after all, sensing his deep rooted purposeful nature.
I promise you, as long as I have breath, I will serve this clan to the best of my ability.
“Lord Sorahn!”
He was pulled from his introspective moment by a shrill child’s voice. He looked down to see a little boy, his face already covered in dirt from the morning’s adventures. Sorahn smiled warmly. “What is it lad?” He responded as he squatted down.
The boy suddenly appeared shy. He was probably intimidated by Sorahn and only just now realized it. “Um… Sir Nailo… he called a meeting in the meeting hall… and um… and he sent me to get you.”
Sorahn stood, still smiling. “Well then I shall come at once.” The boy smiled and ran off as quickly as he had come. Sorahn walked toward the meeting hall, longing for the simplicity of the life of a child: never worrying about providing for their family or having to fight to defend what they believe in. The boy gave him a renewed sense of purpose. It was the boy he was fighting for. It was his future Sorahn was protecting.
With that thought on his mind, he stepped into the meeting hall, eager to hear if Ranger had perhaps found some way to improve the futures of these children.
Tenki stood at the center of the excavation site. Resting on the far edge of the Gol'Bron settlement, the site was more a side project for the the workers of the town. Who seemed to dig at the site when they weren't already working on other construction projects or their trades. As dawn broke, the bits of light found their way past the trees and over the mountains to illuminate the area. The gate was huge compared to a person, perhaps the size of a two to three story building. The only reason it didn't stand out was the fact it had fallen into disrepair over the years, and has fallen into a hillside over the years. The very hillside the Gol'Bron workforce occasionally worked to expose once more. Despite it's age and shape, the gate had been known to spring to life every great once in a while, only to close just as unexpectedly moments later. The gate was covered in long forgotten runes that seemed to have no pattern or reason. Tenki has found the location often quiet, which served his purpose of having space to write and design with only himself around while allowing him to break the monotony of working out of his bedroom in the blacksmith building overseen by his friend Lorenor.
This morning had been different however. This morning, towards the end of his usual-as-of-late pattern of sleeping in the morning and being up form late afternoon to dawn he'd ended up coming to the site and sitting on one of the large stones strewn about the area. No real goal in mind, just sitting and staring intently at the ruins, his mind trying to wrap around the sight he was taking in. He hadn't seen this gate activate himself, but as an investigator for the TSAB, he was pretty sure what it looked like. Spacial distortions tended to share properties when alike. So if you've seen one short range teleporter, you've likely seen them all. But the different ways races managed to pull the safe effect off was as varied and the species themselves. In any case, Tenki found himself alone, looking over the relic. He stood up and pulled his duster a little tighter to his body, the cool morning managing to get under his coat just a little. He walked over the the stone facing, reaching out and running his right hand along part of it. The stone was smooth and clean, but if that was due to years of weathering or fine workmanship was hard to tell at this point. Tenki brought his fingers over to one of the engravings, where here following the grooves with his hand, his eyes closed tightly as he visualized it in his mind, trying to connect it to something, anything he may have seen before. Despite it being an unfamiliar style, he felt he'd seen it before. Something a while back, but he just couldn't place it. For some reason the fact he felt so disturbed him. But he still liked the site simply for it's serenity and solace it granted him.
As Tenki backed away, he saw a small child heading down the path to the site, going slowly and carrying himself as if he was looking for a lost toy. Curious, Tenki waited as the child grew closer and closer to him before the child finally seemed to recognize Tenki while he recognized the child as a small boy about about 6 or 7 years old. Wide-eyed and energetic, the child ran the rest of the distance down the path before finally reaching the clearing. Barely taking the time to catch a breath or two the child spoke up. "You're Mr. Tenki, right?" Tenki smiled at the lad. "I sure am. Did someone send you out here looking for me?" The lad gave a big nod and grinned ear to ear before replying. "Mr. Nailo sent me to find you and ask you to come to the...uhm.... meeting hall. He says it's important." Tenki reached his hand out to the child. "I'm afraid I'm not as knowledgeable on this town as I should be, can you show me where that is?" The child smiled even larger, if that was possible, showing his eagerness to be of use to the group which built the town. "Sure thing, it's not too hard to find really, this way." The boy turned and started walking down the path the connected the clearing that housed the gate to the rest of the town, with Tenki a few steps behind.
As they began to weave amongst the other early risers of the town, the boy slowed down, until he was beside Tenki, where he began to talk once more. "So, is it true?" Tenki gave the boy an odd look. "I'm sorry, but is what true?" "That your talk to yourself a lot. And even use a different voice." Tenki couldn't help but let out a loud laugh off of that remark, the boy, to his credit, continued to just glance form the street to keep his bearings, to Tenki and back again. "Nah, it's not true. It's just not what it seems to most people." The boy continued to glance back and forth quizzically for more of answer. "That is, it's not just me talking, but form a distance it's be hard to realize it." "But then who is it?" The boy interjected. Tenki pointed up at the pendant in the shape of a split arrowhead around his neck. "My partner." The child's face became one of disbelief for a moment. "Luin, you'd best be polite and say hello." There was a slight pause before the Device responded. "Greetings. Are you well young one?" The boy's eyes lit up at this and took all his attention. So much so that Tenki had to reach over and pull the boy to the side just before he would have walked into a cart hauling some low grade metals into town. The lad regained his senses and began leading the way once more, his curiosity peaked. Tenki couldn't help be be amused at the lad's reaction, be managed to stifle another laugh at the child's expense.
"This is it, Mister." The boy finally announced outside a long, but otherwise nondescript building. Probably able to hold 20-30 people at a time inside it's walls. Tenki fathomed it was a building designed more so for the Gol'Bron leaders and higher ups than as a townwide meeting center, which would probably be held in the town square anyways, he mused to himself. Tenki opened the door and began to walk in as he felt a tug on his duster. Turning, he saw his young guide holding tightly to the back of his duster. Tenki leaned down to the boy as the child spoke once more. "Does it do any other tricks?" Tenki reached up and patted the child's head lightly. "Oh Luin does all sorts of fancy tricks. Come find another time and I'll show you some, okay?" The child nodded and turned away from the building, presumedly to get back to whatever it was he had been up to before recruited to find him. Standing up and stepping inside, Tenki noticed both Sorahn and Lorenor already inside and patiently awaiting the rest. Tenki made his way over to where the others were and sat down close by, noting another of the messenger children sitting next to Lorenor himself.
The prophet was not smiling as possible plans flooded his mind. His platinum eyes danced back and forth along the ground, as if looking at plans laid before him and written on papers. Over and over he attempted to believe in the goodness of the dwarven people and in their understanding of the rights the Gol’Bron had to the Fist. Being of elven decent, no matter how much he had seen and gone through in the past, was never a good place to begin when dealing with the mountain dwellers. Despite being originally of Alerar, and accustomed to the Kachuk dwarves, it was near impossible to see any good will coming from the short race.
Stout warriors, they would undoubtedly defend their stolen hold to the last man. Even if it could be proven that the Red Hand had once held the hold, and that the claims to the rich ore veins were rightfully those of Ranger and his companions, the greedy little fingers were going to have to be pried off. So much hassle over something so minute in meaning… to the Red Hand it was almost a place of hallowed ground, the beginnings of their rich and powerful past. To the dwarves it was little more than a way to absorb from the land the riches that had been dubiously forgotten in the plight and crumbling of the Red Hands infrastructure after the disappearance of Ithermoss.
The quiet halls of the common room slowly filled, and with them the curious tones of the numerous people filtering in. Though the group was mostly humans, those that ran it was a mix of interesting characters. From drow, to some feline like creature, to a ghoul of N’jal, the Gol’Bron was certainly not a discriminating clan. The prophet was pleased to see the faces of those he had known for years, since he was a fledgling within the ranks of the Red Hand.
“If you would all please be at rest,” he said as he mounted the small platform. No podium stood before him to preach to the masses from, it was just him and them. He liked the personal feel the clan had, and that it was not easy to identify the leadership from the common man. “There is an issue that I have called you all here to identify and attempt to alleviate. In our times of glory, under the leadership of Lord Ithermoss, we once held the mountains, had the ore from the mines to spur our movements and fill our coffers, and an outpost from which to sell our wares. As the older members know, it was the home of our beloved founder, Pandemonium’s Fist.”
“We have reestablished pieces and parts of what we have lost in the past, rebuilt our foundations, and they are stronger now than ever before. However, it is time to take back the power and prestige that we assumed so long ago.”
“The Corone Empire threatens us on our doorsteps. It is a fact I do not take lightly. In the past we were able to relinquish the debilitating hold the Bazaar of Radasanth held on the workers who imported the raw goods. We were able to create an embargo on their goods, cut off the merchants, and draw the price for our raw materials up. In this time, and throughout the war, we held back and pushed aside the united forces of Corone. Now they are split, and in their time of turmoil they focus on the Gol’Bron. Why? Because they fear us.”
“We were not to be trifled with, and we need this power over them again. In order to survive the fight they threaten us with we are going to be required to regain the wealth we had, and the ore we need. The Fist has been overrun, according to speculations and rumors, by a greedy clan of dwarven people. In their eagerness to take over the ore rich grounds, they have forgotten those that have the rightful claim to the mines, the Red Hand.”
“I propose that we regain the mines, regain the ore for our own use and sale. The embargo we once held has long since been lifted, but the Bazaar still fears us and the price of our ore is still high. However, these dwarven people are bypassing our town and taking their sales and the ore that belongs to us to our enemies, to Radasanth and the Empire for their use against us. In regaining the mines we regain our pride, our wealth, and our power, while effectively cutting off from our enemies the natural resources they rely on.”
“What say you? I cannot stand alone in this, and if it is to be a long mission, I will partake in it. I know that others feel the same way, will the same as I do, and with the blessing of the Thayne we can do what we must…”
Mutant_Lorenor
02-21-08, 12:12 AM
Ranger, the prophet, was an incredibly motivational speaker. He had to be; his profession required the will and passage of the word of the Thayne. The ghoul knew that his friend had an uphill battle. There were those who accepted the Thayne willingly and freely, assimilating well into the ranks of the Gol'Bron. The ghoul was one of the rebels. Lorenor; a being born of necromantic energies; was an anomaly. Born a mutated Spider Magi freak show; the ghoul had the markings of one who worshiped and followed the forgotten Thayne-N'Jal.
N'Jal was a destroying and corruptive energy that manifested itself from the original siring. Evil and dark in all of its forms; N'Jal took on the physical manifestation of a spider. Her children became tentatively known as Spider Magi and were the Children of N'Jal. Lorenor was one of these fowl creatures currently working within the Gol'Bron as an Agent of N'Jal. A warrior for the Black Hand; the Spider Magi pup was still manifesting his powers. Searching for the secret teachings of N'Jal. Biding his time in the darkness. Weak now; but one day regaining the powers that were rightfully his.
Lorenor sat in his seat. He felt discomfort just laying around waiting for his turn to speak. However; he had gret respect for Ranger Nailo. The two had fought side by side during their excursion into the Spider Magi tunnels that lurked right on the property of the Gol'bron's town. Lorenor and Rangers moved into the depths of the tunnels and found a Spider Magi Queen lurking within the tunnels. There they gathered some interesting information and the ghoul obtained the second of the three books of N'Jal. Three parts of a text that formed the Necronomicon.
Listening to the words spoken by Ranger Nailo, the ghoul sighed. Another problem; another day. We don't have the man power for this. The ghoul placed his hand on the table in frustration and turned to look at his mentor and friend. Narrowing his eyes; the dim glow flowing from his eye sockets seemed to lighten for a moment. The energy that flowed from where eyeballs should have been was a purple ethereal glow. The ghoul was an interesting specimen. He was probably the shortest adult male in the room standing at roughly five feet. He had an athletic build for an undead. His head was crowned with a series of intricate locking black dreadlocks that flowed down to his mid back region. The ghoul wore all black. A leather jacket, a black shirt, and matching black pants. His shirt was made of the material known as Vlince as was his cloak, ordained with the markings of the Red Hand. The ghoul had a serious expression on his face. He eyed the men that he showed up with.
"Ranger. I hate to be the bearer of bad news; but this project couldn't have come at a worse time!" The ghoul slammed his right hand on the table; it was a steel masterwork clockwork device augmented with the mysterious powers of the aegis. "Raids continue everyday. We're attacked by bandits and those bastard agents from the Corone Empire. The Empire is just itching for a chance to crush us into nothingness. But you can be damned well be sure I'll send every one of those bastards to Hell before I let them send me to my maker!" Lorenor spoke in an angry tone; uncaring if there were children present. He would be heard. Lorenor looked in the general direction of Lord Sorahn and Tenki; nodding at both of the newcomers. Then he returned his attention to Ranger; standing up. "Our work force was just recently attacked by bandits. They are getting more brazen by the day. We are living in a lawless town and have to reign in our criminal elements to police ourselves. I am all for the idea of regaining the Fist, but at what cost? What loss of the already depleted work force? We don't have the man power to pull this off! I say if we're going into the mountains we have to use a small tactical force and flush those disgusting Dwarves out of our land!" Lorenor slammed his metallic fist against the thick liviol table in front of him.
He waited for a response from the rest of the gathered senior Red Hand members.
Sorahn sat in silence, reclined slightly in his chair, listening intently to what was being said. He stroked the hair on his chin while his tail swished idly behind him. Without a word, the gears in his mind began turning, producing possibilities, and their consequences. He continued to listen carefully, wanting to hear all other opinions and weigh them before stating his own opinion. However Lorenor’s fiercely spoken words fell ill upon his ears. He glanced down to the small child watching Lorenor, wide eyed, and his lip curled slightly.
“That’s enough, Lorenor.” He said very calmly. They were, as he could recall, the first unfriendly words he’d ever spoken to the ghoul, but he would not stand for disorder amongst those who were supposed to represent the clan as leaders.
He slowly stood and placed his hands on the heavy liviol table. “I kindly ask that all who were not summoned here to leave.” He said calmly, but firmly. This was a matter for his council. The townsfolk, especially the children, shouldn’t be involved.
The people reluctantly began making their way out, giving off general gestures of irritation and resentment. Some even gave Sorahn dirty looks, but the look on his own face assured them that this was not up for debate. There were times when a leader must make unpopular decisions, and he wasn’t afraid to make them.
After a few moments the room had cleared, leaving only a handful. Sorahn stood stooped over the table, resting on his hands, staring into the deep wood grain while he gathered his thoughts.
“Ever since I discovered those mines were overrun with dwarves, I desperately sought a way to get them back. The thought of some lucky squatters living in the sacred halls of Pandemonium’s Fist, sapping her rich minerals and selling them to our enemy makes my blood boil.
“It’s true, though, that the raids and imperial oppression have made times quite difficult. But this is precisely why we need the Fist back. It is a fortress which can protect us while we mount our defense.
“First, we must attempt to negotiate with them. The thought of trying to barter back something that’s rightfully ours sickens me, but it is our best option to save our manpower. Sadly, I highly doubt this will get us anywhere, as from what I can tell, dwarves are a stubborn people, but it must be tried. Failing that, we’ll need to assemble a small team to approach the mountain tactically. I’m sure that between Ranger and I, there’s far more knowledge of the tunnels of the Fist than the dwarves have. We can cut off their supply lines and force surrender. This is our only option if we want to maintain progress in the town.
“What say you?”
Lorenor was an emphatic being, filled with vigor and a zeal that was matched only by very few. His dedication was unfettered by his timing though, leaving him aloof and apart from most of the gathered of the Red Hand. True the threats of the Corone Empire were slowly slipping into the forefront of all thoughts, but that was no excuse to forget the past of the clan. Though, what disconcerted the drow the most were the claims of lawlessness within the town that was just recently created. Dissent was not to be the foundation of the Red Hand; lawlessness was not going to rule where a sense of pride and peace needed to reside. Ranger willed for nothing more than the reestablishment of the amazing power the clan once held, but it seemed other matters might be more pressing.
“Sorahn, dear leader, your wise words belay both my own fears and regrets. I have no doubt that the dwarves of the mountains will not agree to leave.” The prophet sighed as he stepped away from the pedestal and sat on the lip of the dais. His hands slipped through his platinum hair and he held his head as if in a state of despair. “There are other issues that seem to be at stake, however. If lawlessness abides within this town, than we are demanded to still it before the chaos buds in the wake of a broken foundation. We cannot ignore this concern. What to do about it is still a question that we must consider.
“A tactical force, as Lorenor has taken to calling it, is going to be absolutely necessary in order to remove the obstinate forces. I do believe that we should leave behind a select few people to make sure that order is maintained here though. To gain one hold and to lose another is counterproductive.” The prophet let a careful smile find his worn and haggard face. “Sorahn, I would ask you to travel with me in order to enter the hallowed halls and expunge the indignant foe that waits within. I know of no others that know the tunnels as well as we do, and would not be willing to put the lives of others at risk so frivolously.”
Slowly the prophet rose and walked to the ghoul. His curious scent was almost forgotten from the time the prophet had spent near him. He was a follower of N’jal, the darkness’ quickly rising pawn. His power was budding and almost disconcerting to one who followed any other path of the Thayne. To the drow, though, he was a friend within arm’s reach and a worry if outside of sight. “Dear brother,” he said politely as he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. The frail form beneath the outer clothing reminded Ranger just who and what the man was. The thoughts were shrugged off though, there were other issues to be more concerned about than the loyalty of one of the most faithful members of the Red Hand. “I would request that you keep with you a small force of those you know and trust those; that are the utmost loyal to the clan. Within this group you shall lead; and with this group you shall bring war to those that taunt and harrow against us. Bring to bear the power of the Red Hand, and with this allowance I would request you take from them which are rightfully ours.
“A caravan of goods is undoubtedly moving from the Fist to Radasanth from time to time. Under the guise of peaceful traders the dwarven people in allegiance with the Empire are moving ore for use against our clan. Our ore, being used and wielded against us. Let this transgression not go unexcused or forgotten… we must retain what is ours, at whatever cost necessary. I would will that for the sake of our pride and prestige that you take back what is ours and keep it here, in our town. Their supply lines are ones that we created, lines of trade that we established. Cut their ties with the town, but keep on your guard for the Empire will surely come to give aide to their underhanded allies. For this I would say keep to the shadows and do not surrender anything. The more dwarven people you can draw from OUR hold the better the advantage will be for those of us attempting to return it to our own hand.
“Your other obligation to the clan will be to keep what order we have, protect the town, and restore order where necessary. I do not want to return to a town in flames, or a riot ripping through the righteous. Let it not be so.
“As for myself and Sorahn, we shall take another who knows the caverns of Pandemonium’s Fist as well as we do –if any yet exists in our clan— and negotiate, in whatever means necessary, to regain what we have lost. Do you see this plan as fitting, dear leader?”
The ultimate decision as to how the ‘negotiation’ with the dwarves would be conducted would be up to the Ranoan leader. His leadership was granted by the powerful Ithermoss before he departed, and Ranger respected that passing above all. But, since he and Sorahn together were by far the oldest and wisest of the members currently under the clan, he felt it was necessary to add his own say whenever the chance arose.
((Let’s get this moving again. Any current members of the RH are still allowed to jump in if they haven’t already… and those that already have, it would be appreciated if you would post as much as time would allow.))
Sorahn bent over the table again, resting his weight on his hands and staring deep into the red wood as if searching for a solution among the swirling lines of wood grain. He listened intently to what Ranger had to say. As his most trusted advisor, Sorahn valued the Drow’s opinion above all others.
He was slow to respond as the thoughts swirled in his head like a brewing storm. He was finding it difficult to restrain his anger at the entire situation. He kept picturing filthy, underhanded dwarves running around the sacred halls of Pandemonium’s Fist that the great Ithermoss himself carved out with his bare hands.
“No.” He said finally, looking up to Ranger. “These dwarves will not willingly give up their ill-gotten home. If we walk up and offer a trade, they will know what we seek and we will lose our element of surprise. A deal would be the easiest solution, but their inevitable decline will hinder our subsequent attack.
“However, your plan is sound.” Sorahn said as he walked toward the front of the room. “Lorenor will remain behind and maintain the town and our troops, while you and I take back the Fist by force.”
He looked Ranger straight in the eye. “Friend, none know the Fist like we do except Ithermoss himself. We can take the dwarves ourselves. Let us cleanse the sacred halls of Pandemonium’s Fist of this blight that has infected them.”
Sorahn grinned. “We must prepare! We will attack by the dark of night, and by morning, the Fist shall return to the hands that wrought her!”
So it was proclaimed by the leader of the Red Hand, so it was to be done. Ranger nodded silently in agreement. Sorahn was enthusiastic and ready, more so than the drow had seen him in a long time. The raids of soldiers, the loss of the fist and subsequent demoralizing trade between the underhanded dwarven people and the Empire must have taken its toll on the tribal man. The prophets hands slid across the platform beneath him, the fresh wood smoothed as if cut and sanded that day. It was for the development of the two, for the oldest and most long standing clan that he would reclaim what was rightfully theirs.
“Then the matter is settled. For the greater unity of the Red Hand and for the people that make this gathering great, we shall strike a blow the usurpers will not see coming.” The drow slammed his fist on the soft wood and smiled a wicked grin. There was a time for peace and practicing trade, there was a time to honor and worship the gods, and there was a time when bloodshed and war were called for. It was time for the mantle of the tradesman and prophet to fall and the rebirth of the warrior familiar with the scent of blood. “We have concluded with this meeting, the orders have been given, let return to our respective tasks. There is always much to do, and the day is yet young.”
“Sorahn,” he continued, “I suggest we start on our way as soon as we are prepared. The journey to Pandemonium’s Fist is nearly a day from here, if we go through the forests instead of around them. The trade routes to Radasanth will stay with the road all the way around the forests at the foot of the mountain, so we should be free of conflict that way as well. I will go and pack light, and we can meet at the edge of town as soon we are ready.”
He stood and hurried out of the door and opened it. As the people ushered out he waited. He was the first one in the meeting hall, having been the one to call for it, but as the Second he would be the next to last person out. No matter what the haste of the mission required, it was a symbol of both authority as well as humility. Nobody left after the leaders, but the leaders did that also to show others that they come first.
~*~
The sun was barely at its apex, nearly halfway through the daylight hours which were growing longer and longer as the summer season neared its peak. Golden rays stretched lazily across all that the Red Hand called theirs, a full forty acres of land which at one point had been the drows own holding. He smiled with the thought of what he had helped create, what he had given and what joy it had brought. Without the land the clan would have been without a place to settle and grow again from, the former stronghold of the draken lord having been overrun in the times of apathy. “The Thayne have truly blessed our endeavors.”
He let his hands fall to the ends of the two blades that rested in their sheath’s, nonchalantly waiting for the clan leader as he leaned against the last building in a row of houses and merchants shops. Behind the walls the thriving and growing economy was taking place. Once the soul of the Red Hand, it had taken to being pushed to the background as they wrestled with the ebb and flow of politics that seemed to be overrunning the island nation. The Corone Empire was in a heated struggle with the Corone Republic in the stalemate civil war, leaving the Empire to focus on disbanding and destroying the clan… a clan which once went to war with the government and local trade sanctions.
It was true; Sorahn had grown quite weary of the constant conflict and tumultuous existence his beloved clan had fallen into. But this was his opportunity to do something about it; to fight back. He had the opportunity to take back Pandemonium’s Fist and regain the clan’s former glory. And he would take it by his blade; the one thing he found he could truly rely on.
He stepped into his cottage to find his mate, Rehnahlia, preparing lunch. She glanced up from what she was doing and grinned. “What was that meeting about?” she said, returning her attention to the bread she was slicing.
“We are going to take back the Fist.” Sorahn responded simply.
She looked back at him and smiled. “That’s wonderful! I thought it was overrun with dwarves.”
“It is.”
Her face began to sink as she realized just what Sorahn was talking about. When she finally spoke, her tone was much lower. “When do you leave?”
“Now.” Sorahn struggled to maintain his warrior reserve. He hated seeing Rehnahlia upset, and she usually worried whenever he left for battle. But he knew that she trusted him to do what he had to do.
Rehnahlia hesitated for a moment then turned back to the kitchen. “Well the Fist is nearly a day’s walk from here, so you will need something to eat. I’ll prepare a sack for you with some bread and meat.”
She set about briskly gathering things in the kitchen, but Sorahn grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. He ran his fingers through her soft, red hair, and then kissed her. “I’ll be back soon.” He said as reassuringly as he could.
She smiled. “I know.” she said and kissed him again. “Shenesath nehmahres mehnlah.”
He set out with a small sack of food and a jug of water hanging from his belt. He didn’t want to carry a heavy pack, despite Rehnahlia insisting that he needed more. He chuckled as he realized that all of this would be meaningless if they could simply ride on his black dragon, Nyris. Unfortunately, a flying dragon might attract a bit more attention than they wanted, so they were relegated to walking.
Finally, he met up with Ranger at the end of a row of houses. “Well, my friend, we should get moving. We have some ground to cover.”
He turned and followed the drow’s gaze toward the town. Watching it bustle with activity always inspired him, despite all its problems. This was why they would fight.
Ranger let his head rest against the warm wood of the craftsman’s hut, closing his eyes with a smile lighting his face. The warm sun was just one reason the drow’s skin felt like it was tingling. Crops would be springing up soon, the early harvest would bring in a bountiful wealth that the prophet could only hope would cover the costs of the godforsaken war that was going to undoubtedly be coming soon. Craftsmen would be finishing their expertly created wares for the use of the clan, a boon that would be useful beyond measure. The only thing that remained was the question of the Fist, the clan’s main source of quickly supplied ore for the blacksmiths and town. Without control of the stronghold they would lose all ability to quickly supply the troops that were flooding to the Red Hands call. “Let our path be true and straight, bring us not into a valley of darkness. I plea with you, Thayne that watch and guide our every movement, that you deliver unto us the promise of not only wealth but power as well that you have so long provided.”
The prayer was lifted through the air even as the quiet steps of Sorahn drew closer. With the smile still on his face, belaying peacefulness despite his worried heart, the drow looked at the man. A creature of fur and ferocity, Sorahn was nothing like what the drow of Alerar would have accepted. He was not pure, was not something altogether perfect. Ranger had long since left behind the worldly views of his heritage, long since put aside the squabbles over race and superiority and accepted all man, woman, and child equal. It was a difficult belief to follow, but as a prophet the faith that he held dear was beyond question.
“Shall we be off?” the prophet asked as his leader arrived. The man had a constant state of authority about him that made the drow proud to be under his command. Though he was the Second, a position that he could have only dreamed of years prior, he felt like an equal. Ithermoss has commanded respect with every step, Sorahn held the same feeling around him but in an entirely different way. When the draken lord had established the clan it had been under different circumstances, and with him gone the new leadership was under the constant struggle of holding their own but creating a state of equality among members. “If we hurry we can be there by nightfall and begin as soon as we arrive.”
Without waiting for the response the drow started towards the forests to the south, heading towards the direction of Pandemonium’s Fist. Like a needle of a compass he felt the pull of the place he had called home for so long, felt the need to return. Southeast, it was the direction that he would begin traveling, and as they got closer he would rely on Sorahn’s own knowledge along with his own to help further perfect their course.
Soon the sun-lit, blue sky was covered by a canopy of green as they entered the dense forest. The air was cool and fresh, and Sorahn could feel the vibrancy of life amongst the thick vegetation.
He felt very nostalgic as he walked through the woods. It was this same forest where he once would come and gather ingredients for his latest alchemy projects; a trade which he unfortunately hadn’t practiced in quite some time. He found himself busy enough simply dealing with the everyday task of leading a clan in constant strife. Adding to that, he also had to tend a small garden and occasionally hunt and fish just to survive.
But for the first time in a long time, he felt truly excited about what lay ahead for the Red Hand. He was confident that with Ranger at his side, they could reclaim Pandemonium’s Fist and with it, take back a small piece of the glory the clan once had. Visions of conquering the land of Corone and freeing her people from tyranny filled his mind. He knew that the Red Hand had the power to shake the very foundations of Althanas itself, and that it would happen very soon.
Sorahn turned to his drow companion. He felt like he should say something, but none needed to be spoken. Their relationship was one of mutual respect. Both had been with the Red Hand since the beginning, and perhaps the only two still in the clan that had the privilege of knowing the great Ithermoss. Ranger was a great ally to have and Sorahn never doubted his decision to appoint the drow as his second.
As they continued to hike, his anticipation only grew. He was completely driven by the thought that before the sun rose tomorrow, the Fist would once again be theirs.
The afternoon sun’s harsh rays barely drifted through the thick canopy of deciduous trees, the emerald light that filtered through was peaceful and soft. Years of living on the large Corone Island had made the dark elven prophet become accustomed to the humidity and heavy sun, almost comfortable despite his dark skin. He inhaled slowly and let the humid air fill his lungs, exhaling slowly as he placed a hand on a firm young tree. The bark brushed his calloused hands, the feeling of the natural world almost lost to the worn hands of the harsh economy. It had been too long since time had granted him a pass, since the strife that engulfed the island and his clan was pushed aside for a chance to bask in the beauty of the world around him. Even as he touched the tree, felt a bush brush against his black trousers, and untangled his foot from a thorny bush he smiled.
It was not a smile that would linger forever though, for the mission before himself and Sorahn was one that would bring them into the heart of conflict once again. They were not to be free of the stress that plagued Corone for long, and the revelry of the forests and the emerald glow was one that would surely fade the closer they came to Pandemonium’s Fist. Until the proximity of their interest was once again forced upon them, his breaths would remain long and deliberate, and his mind would be left to solace.
“What is it you expect to encounter as we grow closer to our stronghold? Do you expect to meet resistance before we come upon the Fist? Or will the dwarves be held up in their stolen fortress?” Ranger pondered the questions aloud, half-rhetorical questions with no true expectation of answers. “We both know the mines as well as Ithermoss himself once did, Sorahn. We both know the tunnels and labyrinth like pathways that line the depths of the Fist. I fear, though, that the dwarves will have mined further, deeper, and without heed to safety or stability. They are well known for their greed and reckless nature.
“If we are to enter, I suppose we should go through one of the minor outlets, if they are still available for use. We can slip around the open entrance, maneuver our ways through the inside, and force the haughty thieves from their ill-begotten place of power. Should they have built carelessly the tunnels can be easily collapsed on them, lowering the resistance that we may encounter. Once we regain Pandemonium’s Fist we will be able to rebuild the fallen tunnels if we chose or simply leave them shut for years to come.”
The prophet was not normally a vicious, devious person. His face was contorted with grief at having to so casually craft a means of destroying others. He shook his head, his silver locks brushing his cheeks and falling to his shoulders. “I hate to sound so cold, so ruthless, but the usurping race that has consumed our hold and in turn supplied our enemies is a group of people who should expect little quarter. Should we find their leadership, dismantle their structure from the top down, we could perhaps spare some and employ them. I am unsure if all of those involved are working for the good of the Corone Empire, if there are even a few that would turn tail and run, or change their allegiances and follow us we should take that as opposed to their demise.”
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