Drumheller
08-04-15, 10:27 PM
(Book III Chapter II Beauty in the Ice)
Aktaha’s Spine
Third stride in Snâwdrûs, 1815 C.P.
After Dusk
On some level he couldn’t help but think about the past, given what he was about to do. This moment seeming to be ably facilitated by the expected course of thought that naturally flowed back through all the other scouting actions, and there were many, that young Drumheller Ironfist had engaged in. Those experiences fit snuggly to form the interlocking gestalt that shaped him. Still there was one element that made this singular event different from all the others experienced previously, this time he was dealing with a stranger. The fact that he could not be certain of the person to whom he was going to be leading, combined with the universal expectation nothing goes as planned, and the degree to which others can adapt being in part due to the wellness of planning in the first place. Still he knew all the anxiety in the world wouldn’t alter anything now, it was past the time for altering the plan. It was past the time really for being concerned about it. It was past the time when daylight bleeds toward dusk; past the time when the sun takes his curtain call setting the atmospheric backdrop ablaze with color –oranges, pearly pinks, vibrant purples – all manner of ocular enticements to serve as his finale. This action serving as that most grand introduction for which it is known, and as always on cue, the moon lifted its crown of stunning gold above the horizon, lifted straight out of filigreed, light-intoxicated clouds that lay on the skyline in attendant veils. Thus, as the sun was setting in a simultaneous congruent withdrawal and the ocean of snow beneath the rock and cave outcropping on which he stood turned to brilliant ‘fire’ in a quiet duel of gold, the new gold of moon astonishing and ascendant, he depleted gold of sunset extinguishing itself in the long westward slide in the old dance of days.
All of that was in the past.
Overhead the pale stars were sliding into their places. The whispering of the wind across the rocks was almost hushed. All about him it was still and shadowy and silent, as the Father of the Earth, and the Mother of the Firmament Eternal, waited with bated breaths, in anticipation for the beginnings of the first scene of a new action in the play of life.
Aktaha’s Spine Was a series of outcroppings that stood three days out from the Trail of Silent Runners, so named for the series of outcroppings and small caves that spread out in a line for a quarter of a mile east to west. As for the Trail of Silent Runners, so named for the message runners that used it and were the most common individual to be found on the trail, was one of the northernmost routes that lead between the Orcs of the Iron Jaws and the Ironfists clans. This particular trail also connected with the Way of the Fallen Star, which served as a byway between several towns belonging to the nation of Andvall. His client was going to be coming from that route, he well knew. Initially traveling with a caravan, and eventually separating with them to travel to this spot. His client, a being named Ioder, would be following the advice of an innkeeper, an informant of Drumheller, named Jamus Firestone. All Drumheller knew about this Ioder was that he needed a guide across the far north; a job that the young orc could easily fulfil. This Ioder would be told how to find the trail from off the road, and given a rough approximation of where Drumheller would be. The last piece of instruction this Ioder was given was “find the music.”
Unhooking the lowest pair of metal rings that bound vail to helmet, Drumheller removed a set of goat pipes from his pack and began to play a mournful dirge.
The defile that stretched below him ran about fifty five feet, and while its entrance was so narrow that only one man could enter at a time, it opened up into a bowl about a yard in. In the middle of the bowl, another bowl had been dug and a fire lit. This he had down to signal to this Ioder that this was the right spot. Drumheller himself would not be seen, nor would any flying predators perceive him either. The shallow depression in which he crouched was ideal for allowing him to glimpse anyone that entered into the defile, without being spotted, and the smell of burning pine and dried dung would fowl the noses of any animal that might be seeking for prey. The shape of the bowl would also confuse the ear of anyone trying to trace the music back to its source, making it an ideal position in which to wait.
On he played letting out both sharps to his C letting it flow into the DA of the notes that followed; the melody full of longing and regret.
Aktaha’s Spine
Third stride in Snâwdrûs, 1815 C.P.
After Dusk
On some level he couldn’t help but think about the past, given what he was about to do. This moment seeming to be ably facilitated by the expected course of thought that naturally flowed back through all the other scouting actions, and there were many, that young Drumheller Ironfist had engaged in. Those experiences fit snuggly to form the interlocking gestalt that shaped him. Still there was one element that made this singular event different from all the others experienced previously, this time he was dealing with a stranger. The fact that he could not be certain of the person to whom he was going to be leading, combined with the universal expectation nothing goes as planned, and the degree to which others can adapt being in part due to the wellness of planning in the first place. Still he knew all the anxiety in the world wouldn’t alter anything now, it was past the time for altering the plan. It was past the time really for being concerned about it. It was past the time when daylight bleeds toward dusk; past the time when the sun takes his curtain call setting the atmospheric backdrop ablaze with color –oranges, pearly pinks, vibrant purples – all manner of ocular enticements to serve as his finale. This action serving as that most grand introduction for which it is known, and as always on cue, the moon lifted its crown of stunning gold above the horizon, lifted straight out of filigreed, light-intoxicated clouds that lay on the skyline in attendant veils. Thus, as the sun was setting in a simultaneous congruent withdrawal and the ocean of snow beneath the rock and cave outcropping on which he stood turned to brilliant ‘fire’ in a quiet duel of gold, the new gold of moon astonishing and ascendant, he depleted gold of sunset extinguishing itself in the long westward slide in the old dance of days.
All of that was in the past.
Overhead the pale stars were sliding into their places. The whispering of the wind across the rocks was almost hushed. All about him it was still and shadowy and silent, as the Father of the Earth, and the Mother of the Firmament Eternal, waited with bated breaths, in anticipation for the beginnings of the first scene of a new action in the play of life.
Aktaha’s Spine Was a series of outcroppings that stood three days out from the Trail of Silent Runners, so named for the series of outcroppings and small caves that spread out in a line for a quarter of a mile east to west. As for the Trail of Silent Runners, so named for the message runners that used it and were the most common individual to be found on the trail, was one of the northernmost routes that lead between the Orcs of the Iron Jaws and the Ironfists clans. This particular trail also connected with the Way of the Fallen Star, which served as a byway between several towns belonging to the nation of Andvall. His client was going to be coming from that route, he well knew. Initially traveling with a caravan, and eventually separating with them to travel to this spot. His client, a being named Ioder, would be following the advice of an innkeeper, an informant of Drumheller, named Jamus Firestone. All Drumheller knew about this Ioder was that he needed a guide across the far north; a job that the young orc could easily fulfil. This Ioder would be told how to find the trail from off the road, and given a rough approximation of where Drumheller would be. The last piece of instruction this Ioder was given was “find the music.”
Unhooking the lowest pair of metal rings that bound vail to helmet, Drumheller removed a set of goat pipes from his pack and began to play a mournful dirge.
The defile that stretched below him ran about fifty five feet, and while its entrance was so narrow that only one man could enter at a time, it opened up into a bowl about a yard in. In the middle of the bowl, another bowl had been dug and a fire lit. This he had down to signal to this Ioder that this was the right spot. Drumheller himself would not be seen, nor would any flying predators perceive him either. The shallow depression in which he crouched was ideal for allowing him to glimpse anyone that entered into the defile, without being spotted, and the smell of burning pine and dried dung would fowl the noses of any animal that might be seeking for prey. The shape of the bowl would also confuse the ear of anyone trying to trace the music back to its source, making it an ideal position in which to wait.
On he played letting out both sharps to his C letting it flow into the DA of the notes that followed; the melody full of longing and regret.