The Cliffdweller
03-15-09, 02:58 AM
((This is not really set in Raiaera -- rather, it's set in Kilya Gorge, technically part of Raiaera, but much closer to being in the dwarven territories that lie in the hub of mountains between Raiaera, Salvar, and Alerar.))
Azzakhan awoke with a start, his body drenched in a cold sweat. The dream had come back, the hand closing around his neck slowly, a dagger in his back, and his pathetic attempts at a struggle causing it to prick deeper, ever deeper. Rolling over and putting his feet firmly on the ground, he shook his shaggy head and murmured softly, trying to talk himself awake.
He could tell that dawn was almost broken by the general quality of the air, which lacked the chill, silky darkness of a starlit night under a new moon. And so there was no point in going back to sleep, for in another half-watch he would be awoken anyway as the sun mounted the westernmost hills with a corona of glory. Dawn-break in the gorge was always like that, the cliffs sheltering them from light until at last it toppled onto them like a tree falling the wrong way, hewn to its core with the carelessness of a child. That is, when the sun dawned; the clouds in the valley were always thick.
Slipping into his boots, he yawned and crossed the small room in the small adjoining space reserved by the Orriklugar for their Sojourners. Sliding out of his nightshirt, he quickly put on his undershirt, a thin wool sweater, and the boiled leather jerkin that served both as his work uniform and a sort of rough protection from the forest beasts that might occasionally accost even the most cautious of lumberjacks. Tossing a few faggots onto the fire, he reached for the poker and shifted them around, blowing softly to help last night's still-glowing embers set into them. In no time the fire was crackling again, and a pot of water drawn from the well outside was starting to bubble.
As the pot began to hiss, he poured it slowly across the tea leaves in a earthen-brown mug. They lived a simple life in Kharad-Kuruk, but they did have their comforts. Several types of crops could be grown in the terraces hewn into the sides of the cliffs, and the Orriklugar were known throughout the village for their tea, which grew heartily in a garden tended by the Orriklugar women with great care.
Suddenly, there came an urgent knock on the door. Azzakhan was puzzled at this. It was not quite time for Garuk to come get him for the day's labor. A loud voice boomed across the divide, speaking in Karukaddian, the strange orc-dwarf hybrid language spoken only within the town, and only when no strangers would hear it. "Are you awake? Dress quickly, we need to go."
Clutching his mug crossly, as if someone was preparing to try to take it from him, he walked to the door. Flinging it open, he saw Garuk, the eldest son of the Orriklugars, who had finished his own Sojourn some years ago and was now living again, as was custom, with his parents. "What is it, Garuk?"
"The beacon at the village square has been lit; something is up. A swift runner from the farmstead to the south of here also arrived shortly before the beacon flared, to say that there was commotion in the Councilhouse and the southern guardstations were aflutter with activity. But you know what the beacon means. Come on!"
He did know what the beacon meant. He set his mug down on the table, angrily. Tea was his morning ritual, and here he was having to toss away a full cup. With a surly shrug he picked up his axe from beside the door, shouldered it with a surly shrug, looked Garuk in the eye, and scowled.
"Then let's get going," he said with a sour face, "and this had better be important. An invasion, or something like it."
Garuk merely nodded, the orc's face never once betraying what he was thinking -- that it was important, and that the Elders wouldn't have lit the beacon if it wasn't.
Azzakhan awoke with a start, his body drenched in a cold sweat. The dream had come back, the hand closing around his neck slowly, a dagger in his back, and his pathetic attempts at a struggle causing it to prick deeper, ever deeper. Rolling over and putting his feet firmly on the ground, he shook his shaggy head and murmured softly, trying to talk himself awake.
He could tell that dawn was almost broken by the general quality of the air, which lacked the chill, silky darkness of a starlit night under a new moon. And so there was no point in going back to sleep, for in another half-watch he would be awoken anyway as the sun mounted the westernmost hills with a corona of glory. Dawn-break in the gorge was always like that, the cliffs sheltering them from light until at last it toppled onto them like a tree falling the wrong way, hewn to its core with the carelessness of a child. That is, when the sun dawned; the clouds in the valley were always thick.
Slipping into his boots, he yawned and crossed the small room in the small adjoining space reserved by the Orriklugar for their Sojourners. Sliding out of his nightshirt, he quickly put on his undershirt, a thin wool sweater, and the boiled leather jerkin that served both as his work uniform and a sort of rough protection from the forest beasts that might occasionally accost even the most cautious of lumberjacks. Tossing a few faggots onto the fire, he reached for the poker and shifted them around, blowing softly to help last night's still-glowing embers set into them. In no time the fire was crackling again, and a pot of water drawn from the well outside was starting to bubble.
As the pot began to hiss, he poured it slowly across the tea leaves in a earthen-brown mug. They lived a simple life in Kharad-Kuruk, but they did have their comforts. Several types of crops could be grown in the terraces hewn into the sides of the cliffs, and the Orriklugar were known throughout the village for their tea, which grew heartily in a garden tended by the Orriklugar women with great care.
Suddenly, there came an urgent knock on the door. Azzakhan was puzzled at this. It was not quite time for Garuk to come get him for the day's labor. A loud voice boomed across the divide, speaking in Karukaddian, the strange orc-dwarf hybrid language spoken only within the town, and only when no strangers would hear it. "Are you awake? Dress quickly, we need to go."
Clutching his mug crossly, as if someone was preparing to try to take it from him, he walked to the door. Flinging it open, he saw Garuk, the eldest son of the Orriklugars, who had finished his own Sojourn some years ago and was now living again, as was custom, with his parents. "What is it, Garuk?"
"The beacon at the village square has been lit; something is up. A swift runner from the farmstead to the south of here also arrived shortly before the beacon flared, to say that there was commotion in the Councilhouse and the southern guardstations were aflutter with activity. But you know what the beacon means. Come on!"
He did know what the beacon meant. He set his mug down on the table, angrily. Tea was his morning ritual, and here he was having to toss away a full cup. With a surly shrug he picked up his axe from beside the door, shouldered it with a surly shrug, looked Garuk in the eye, and scowled.
"Then let's get going," he said with a sour face, "and this had better be important. An invasion, or something like it."
Garuk merely nodded, the orc's face never once betraying what he was thinking -- that it was important, and that the Elders wouldn't have lit the beacon if it wasn't.